Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  Unfortunately, the happy days were numbered, when Caroline decided three was a crowd, and that I was the unlucky spare.

  Extremely cunning, she easily manipulated him into thinking that she was as sweet as pie and I was a nuisance that he needed to get rid of.

  Talk about an ego dint. I thought I’d never function again. Eva Brennan certainly had a ring to it. Or so I thought.

  I was devastated at losing a possible husband. Though I think I was equally pained because I let her win. I felt like I had failed. And that is something I hate to do. Effortlessly she took her prize after provoking me into being such a frenzied nag. And he walked off into the distance with HER!

  Now here we stood, face to face, neither one of us daring to flinch first.

  She still looked as hard as I remembered her. Her peroxide hair and her ever-present dark roots to match her black eyeliner. She was rough when she wanted to be, but she didn’t scare me. I had booze on my side.

  I was going to brazen out this staring match. After all, I’d had a bad day, and I needed to muster up some confidence before depression kicked in.

  After what seemed like a week, Lisa, Maddie and Anna fell through the main door, singing and bumping into unsuspecting pedestrians on the way.

  ‘Hey Eva, I was just filling in Anna on Daveybaby’s spillage,’ shouted Maddie, before realizing that Caroline was standing in front of me.

  Now, I’m not one to back down from a confrontation, but even I gasped when I saw Maddie stepping forward, as she was bolstered with the same amount of grog as me. For a second I thought she was going to start a tirade of abuse, but instead she gave Caroline the silent treatment and brushed past her to the mirror.

  ‘You look fabulous tonight, Eva,’ mused Maddie, doing her best to ignore Caroline. ‘Do you know that?’ she continued. ‘You look absolutely fabulous.’

  Clearly intimidated by our numbers, Caroline lowered her head in submission and just ran straight out the door. Probably just as well, otherwise our mugs could end up on the back page of some gossip newspaper in some Cheryl Tweedy style brawl. So we just avoided the tag lines ‘Showbiz hack gives a Higgins a diggins!’ or, ‘Model gone Mad-die’.

  The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. I vaguely remember boring some bloke who knocked half of his pint over me, telling him I was a woman on the edge, and the incensed face of the taxi man who had to shake me awake when we arrived at an address fairly similar to mine.

  Thankfully, after much pleading he did drop me at my place, but despite the € 8 tip he sped off as soon as I hit the path instead of waiting for me to get inside my door like he’d promised.

  Sunday lunchtime I awoke to the sound of my own brain thumping. The distant beat of next door’s stereo blasting out Fat Boy Slim was almost soothing compared to my internal drum.

  The glass of water beside my bed was coated with a layer of dust, but I still drank it to the bottom. Consuming stale two-day-old water was better than having none.

  My body needed fluid.

  It also needed another ten hours’ sleep.

  As I lay in bed, memories of the previous day’s events came flooding back.

  My mischievous snog with the creepy David Barron exposed. Ouch. This is going to come back and bite me, big time. Without doubt I’ve created myself seriously bad karma with this situation.

  What if his wife finds out? Christ, that’s all I need. Barron was so not worth the bother.

  Kissing a married man is something I said I’d never do. I’m not religious, but it’s still a cardinal sin even in the unwritten atheist’s book. In moments such as these I wish I were Catholic, just so I could say a few Hail Marys or whatever and have my soul cleansed and my sins forgiven. If only it could be that easy.

  ‘You’re such a naughty girl,’ he told me, undressing me with his eyes. ‘You’re very naughty and very sexxxy.’

  ‘And what else?’ I asked him, thinking I was oh, so seductive.

  ‘You’re mine,’ he replied. ‘Mine, all mine for the night.’

  He hit the nail on the head. I should have heard alarm bells ringing there and then, because he spoke the truth. Just for the night, that’s all he wanted me for, like I was some disposable object. One use only, not needed ever again.

  How could I have been so indiscreet? Well, I suppose alcohol was a major factor. That and sheer loneliness and frustration. He made me feel like I had butterflies in my belly; well, at least until it all went pear-shaped.

  But of course, for all my lectures to Maddie and Lisa, I’m the one who messes up and breaks the rules with an attached bloke. And not just any bloke: I had to tangle with a fella with a public profile.

  He may not be an A-list celebrity, but this guy is forever in the Sunday papers and glossy mags with or without his glamorous missus. A circulated e-mail is bound to make column inches in the gossipmongers’ pages. Let’s hope he has his celebrity solicitor Alfred whatshisname on speed-dial to get the story quashed.

  Then again, what am I worried about? I’m single. I wasn’t the one who did the chasing with classic cheesy lines like ‘I love your work. It’s edgy, young, and very much of the moment. Dubliners View could really benefit from a vibrant talent like yours.’

  Desperate for a few compliments I sadly believed his bull.

  Just then I noticed next door’s blaring out ‘Stupid Girls’ by Pink. Why is it that music always seems to fit your mood? A stupid girl was exactly how I felt.

  Yes, Eva Valentine, ace showbiz hack, was soon to be rebranded a marriage-wrecker. Forget all my years of cutting-edge interviews with celebrities and politicians, forget the features I’d written on Romanian orphanages, or the time I’d spent in Calcutta doing aid work, I was surely destined to become known as the Whore from the Sewer.

  I’ve got a feeling Mr Barron was my worst mistake of the year. It’s just depressing, it’s only January and it’ll probably haunt me for at least the next twelve months.

  So much for my New Year’s resolution, I must be a good girl.

  Men might enjoy playing with bad girls like me. But they only ever marry the annoyingly sweet ones.

  Maybe Barron’s wife is just as painful as Lisa’s sister Joy? Maybe that’s why he was playing offside with me? Or maybe he’s just a serial cheat like half the married men in Dublin.

  A shiver went down my spine as I remembered my confrontation with Caroline Higgins. Oh God. Will that woman just ever disappear? She’s like a bad smell that won’t go away. She so brings out my worst emotions.

  Minutes passed which seemed like hours. I contemplated getting up and then thought better of it. I thought about reaching to the floor to retrieve the TV remote which had got flung there on my tumble on to the bed, but my body couldn’t manage the stretch.

  Right now I needed a cure. I needed two Solpadeine and the giant Tupperware stash of homemade ice-cream which I prep for special hangover days like these.

  I discovered the recipe not so long ago, on one of those highly informative satellite cookery programmes. The pitch was ‘How to make luxury brown bread ice-cream for a tenth of the price of shop-bought brands’. I fell in love instantly. I was wooed by the fact that it contained a healthy dose of Bacardi, on top of lashings of double cream and as much castor and icing sugar as you can get your hands on. Simply toast some breadcrumbs with the castor sugar, mix it all together – and Bob’s somebody’s uncle.

  I personally think it’s been my sweetest romance yet. After much soul-searching, head-pounding and tummy-rumbling from the thought of my scrummy yummy feast, I finally raised myself from the bed with my head gently tilted to the right, trying to ease the pain of the ascent. Before I stumble to the bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror, I notice a far from holy shroud on my pillow, and decide a bucket of tea is needed before I brave such a scary vision.

  Still obviously smashed I trip over my prized Canal Street Gucci handbag on the way to the door, and kick out its matching purse and my pink crystal encrusted mobile phone.r />
  What a relief.

  I’ve spent many a Sunday afternoon ringing the phone company trying to get my number temporarily blocked, and fretting because I can’t even remember my own mother’s mobile phone number.

  Undoubtedly numbed by the alcohol in my system, I sit in my cold tiled kitchen in just half the clothes I had worn the night before.

  Marinated in that bloke’s beer and my own boozy sweat which will continue to seep out till I fully detox at some point tomorrow, I hesitantly scan my mobile for evidence of drunken misbehaviour. Right enough, I’d reason to fear.

  Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.30a.m.… ‘I ahte you!’

  Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.32a.m.… ‘Whoos man did U rob 2nite?’

  Sent: KEVIN BABY. 2.34a.m.… ‘I hate hate hate ure bitch mate …’

  Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.40a.m.… ‘U make me sic.’

  Cringe. Cringe.

  Starting to sober up I check my inbox, dreading what I might find.

  Surprisingly there’s no angry reply from Kevin; well, not yet. And nothing from Miss Caroline either. I’m sure the sly cow is still plotting some evil comeback. Or maybe I give her too much credit.

  Instead there’s a lonely text from an unknown number saying, ‘We’ve got to talk.’

  After some simple detective work I hacked straight into the voice mail.

  I winced in pain: ‘You have reached the voice mail service of David Barron. Please leave a message after the tone.’

  No thanks. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.

  As I discover the milk in my fridge is two days out of date, the landline phone rings and ‘Maddie Home’ flashes up.

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  ‘Jeez, yes. Why?’

  ‘Your worst nightmare has come true.’

  ‘What, George Clooney has decided he wants to marry an Irish woman and that woman is you.’

  ‘You’re obviously still drunk. Eva, you’ve made the papers—’

  ‘Shit. Connected with Barron? Is there a picture of me?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Vain. They’ve used the pictures.’

  ‘Oh, God no. Not the CCTV pix?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘All of them bar the Star … Are you OK?’

  ‘My mother is going to kill me.’

  ‘Well it’s not exactly the most complimentary, hon. You have been described as a social climbing wannabe It girl.’

  ‘Is that the worst?’

  ‘Eh, no, there’s mention that you’re a thrill-seeking tart and the possibility that it’s been a long-standing affair.’

  ‘That’s completely untrue.’

  ‘I think you should go out and buy them yourself. Have you heard from anyone else yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. I better call the family before they call me. What am I going to do? Do you think it’ll die down by the time I go to work tomorrow?’

  ‘Ha! Fat chance, I’d say. You’ll have to ride the storm. What’s your boss going to say? He’s best mates with Barron, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, golf buddies. Not looking forward to seeing him. I’m sure he’ll blame me for the whole thing. Right, I gotta go. Wish me luck.’

  Resembling an extra from a bad spy movie, I crept into my local newsagent’s, complete with oversized floppy hat and dark glasses on a mission to perform a quick snatch and grab of all the Sunday papers.

  Apart from the fact that I was hiding from the shame of being the new Christine Keeler on the block, I was still sporting panda eyes from last night’s make-up overkill.

  As if picking flowers, I grabbed a bunch of red tops and some broadsheets and headed straight for the till, head down.

  Sneaking a peek I let out a silent scream as I got smacked in the face by the size of the photographs on the first of the back page gossip columns.

  It was sort of a fussy haze, but very recognizably yours truly in several grab-shots with the love rat.

  ‘Eva Rises Barron’s Stairway To Heaven’ read the headline.

  ‘Barron burrows after CCTV scandal.’ ‘Reputed publisher David Barron’s marriage has hit the skids after a raunchy clinch was captured on hidden camera.’

  ‘Today Barron is said to be in crisis talks with his wife of seven years Annette Barron, after he was embarrassingly caught making an X-rated film.’

  After being snapped in an erotic embrace with writer Eva Valentine, Barron has issued an official statement.

  It is with great remorse that I apologize for the embarrassment I have caused my wife and our families.

  I feel that I have been a victim of a smear campaign, and that this young woman targeted me and wants to destroy my good name.

  I realize I have been irresponsible, but believe I have been set up for financial gain.

  I hope the public will respect my family’s privacy at this vulnerable time.

  Stunned, I handed over my money for the equatorial rain forest under my arm, and left the shop. I stood outside trying to deal with the magnitude of the situation, until the harsh elements of this January day drove me home.

  Somewhat bedraggled I sat back down at my caffeine-stained kitchen table, with a convenience breakfast of tea, a Double Decker and a KitKat.

  I simply didn’t have the energy to turn the grill on. As if swotting for an exam I spread the papers across the table, but not before carelessly swiping some old breadcrumbs on the floor. As I placed my mobile neatly beside my tea, for easy access, I realized I had left it on silent. I had lots of missed calls. There were five calls from a private number, and the rest of the messages were from Anna, Lisa and Parker.

  Beep … ‘Hey girlfriend, it’s Anna here.’

  ‘Brazen Barron beds busty brunette, eh? Can’t believe they call you busty. I’m only jokin’ with ya.’

  ‘Talk about sex, lies and videotape. Ha! Apparently his wife has kicked him out of the house. I was talking to a friend of mine who goes to the gym with her best mate, and she says she’s devastated.’

  ‘I can’t believe it made so many papers, you bitch.’

  ‘Call me; I wanna hear all the gories.’

  ‘Oh, my pal Gavin says he thinks you’re hot. He says if you want to record a sequel, he’s your stud. He wants to be your Martini man, any time, any place, anywhere.’

  ‘Call me now. I need to hear everything.’

  Beep … ‘Eva, its Lisa. OH MY GOD. You must be a wreck. Fuck! What are you going to do? I can’t believe the weed tried to blame you. He has a cheek.’

  ‘Mother thought it was a hoot. She says she wants to take you for lunch at the Four Seasons. Says she wants to show off her celebrity pal to all her golfing buddies.’

  ‘Hope you’re OK.’

  ‘Ring me.’

  Beep … ‘Hey busty, Parker here. You’re scandalous. I love it.’

  ‘I presume it’s all a pack of lies, don’t let them get you down. Half of this town just wishes they were described as a “Toy Girl Temptress”.’

  ‘Jeez, that Barron guy could publish my affair any day of the week. I’m getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it.’

  ‘Love you. Call me.’

  It was three o’clock and still no word from the folks. I had to bite the bullet and call them.

  ‘Mum … have you seen any of the papers?’

  ‘Yes, your father brought them in an hour ago after your gran rang in a distressed state.’

  ‘… Do you hate me?’

  ‘We’re very disappointed in you, Eva, very disappointed.’

  ‘But they’re all lies, Mum. The papers are basically saying that I’m one of these kiss ’n’ tell tarts. I’m not, I swear.’

  ‘Eva, your father and I are very hurt right now. You’ve brought a lot of shame on the family name.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? We don’t exactly have a name to begin with.’

  ‘Don’t take that tone of voice with me,
young lady. You’ve caused enough problems already. I don’t know how I’ll be able to hold my head up at Weight Watchers this week. And your father had promised to paint the pillars out the front today, but of course that plan got scrapped. He couldn’t stand the sympathy from all the neighbours.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, it was a shock to me too, you know.’

  ‘There’s nothing really to say here. Your father and I are too upset to talk to you. I think we should let the dust settle for a bit. We don’t want to say anything we don’t mean. Eva, we’ll talk again.’

  ‘But Mum …’

  ‘Eva, I said, we’ll talk again.’

  Decidedly subdued, I crept through the doors of So Now magazine.

  My usual entrance speech was along the lines of ‘SO NOW I’ve arrived, let the work begin’, or ‘SO NOW how are the great unwashed today?’ ‘SO NOW … blah blah.’ You get my drift.

  I’m sure it irritated the hell out of the company receptionist, who always threw me daggers, but after my Starbucks double-strength cappuccino fix en route, I thought it highly amusing and witty.

  It’s scary that I’d worked there over seven years, but apart from that one time I got caught on holiday with some of my gay mates in Ibiza instead of being at a family funeral, I’ve never felt so bad about showing my face around the office.

  Thinking back on it, subtlety was never my strong point. When I mess up, I like to do it spectacularly.

  That time, despite buying a T-shirt that read FUCK THE TAN, I arrived back to work after a week’s absence several tones darker and with an exact tan-line of my favourite Dior shades etched on my face.

  Needless to say, the boss was none too impressed. Further salt in the wound came after he found out I had charged the developing of my mischievous sabbatical to the company photo account.

  Jeez, it’s hard to remember primitive life before digital cameras.

  Anyhow, this morning felt like a first day at a new job.

  I wasn’t nervous, I was petrified.

  So much so, I must have been to the toilet at least six times before I left the house at 7.30. I then arrived at 8.45, approximately fifteen minutes before everyone else, in an attempt to avoid judge and jury at the water cooler.

  The women in my place are such bitches. Today will be like all their birthdays and Christmases come together. With this gossip they’ll think they’ve died and truly gone to heaven.