Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  The only person I really get on with is Elizabeth, who sits at my desk. Like me, she doesn’t do the after-work drinks and keeps her socializing well away from the department.

  Apart from being a features writer, she’s a wannabe actress, but has never been cast in anything other than a TV commercial for incontinence pads, and a small stage part where she played Woman who Delivers Pizza, Woman who Complains about Noise and Woman who Asks for Directions.

  To be fair, the ad paid her € 7,000 which went some way to make up for the embarrassment of having to endure endless slagging over her bowel movements. Jibes such as ‘Do you need your nappy changed?’ and ‘Golden shower girl’ will haunt her for ever.

  She was also quite brilliant in all three theatrical roles, despite her rather limited script of ‘That’ll be €25.80’, ‘Keep the volume down’, and ‘Could you tell me the way to Love Lane?’

  A place both of us were still searching for.

  I was feeling totally cursed. Elizabeth was away this week on a freebie lig to Eurodisney, where she texted me to say she was ‘Freezing her bits off’. So I was to brave the outcome of my dangerous liaison alone.

  So there I sat in an empty office. Dazed and confused; fearful of what the day might hold.

  After seven minutes precisely – the TV in the corner was constantly on and I counted on the Sky News clock as I read ‘Latest Headlines: 15 dead in fresh car bomb attacks in Baghdad’ – I popped to the loo one final time before my critics took their seats. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror I got a shock. That wasn’t a familiar face staring back at me. My nun-like High Court styled makeover made me look like a condemned woman, not the fresh-faced angel I was going for. Who was I kidding? My no-make-up make-up made me look washed out and ill. With my pale pasty skin I needed a lot more effort than a few smears of Vaseline, a brush of mascara and pinched cheeks.

  But with nothing more than Black Cherry lipstick and Charcoal Sparkle eye shadow in my handbag, I thought I’d better stick with my original look.

  Let’s be honest. In everyone’s eyes I was already slutty enough.

  By the time I finished fretting over my appearance, I could hear several members of staff starting to buzz about the office. Thankfully they were mostly advertising staff: they were never interested in anything other than their X-Boxes, some Eureka programme, and other nerdy Star Trek amusements.

  Thinking I was in the clear I made a bolt for my desk. It was only a moderately sized office so I thought I’d make it. Instead I was disturbed by, ‘Eva. Can I have a word, please?’

  There, skulking behind the printer, was the editor of So Now magazine, Josh McKenzie. Towering over me, he looked fierce. I didn’t remember him being so tall.

  ‘I’ve just a few things on at the minute,’ I offered weakly.

  None too impressed he bellowed back, ‘NOW!’

  Submissively I followed him into his glass office. I wanted to run in the opposite direction, but I thought it best to get the ear-bashing out of the way.

  ‘So now, what’s the problem today, boss man?’ I joked.

  ‘You,’ he replied.

  ‘Listen Mr Mac, I know David’s a good friend and all, but like—’

  ‘No, Eva, you listen for a change.’

  ‘But if I could just explain—’

  ‘Eva, I’m not going to drag this out.’

  ‘Drag what out?’

  ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’ll just come out and say it. Eva, you’ve violated our agreement by bringing shame on yourself and the company. You were never made staff, so you’re still officially a freelancer. I want you to pack up your desk and be out by lunchtime. You’re fired!’

  2

  SURVIVING ON A junk diet of the E! True Hollywood Story, Girls of the Playboy Mansion, The Hills and America’s Next Top Model, I realized I had become a TV tabloid bulimic.

  As if Velcroed to the couch with my thumb superglued to the remote, hours, days, even weeks had passed as I absorbed worthless knowledge on everything from Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends and Lara Flynn Boyle’s struggle to success to Navan man Pierce Brosnan.

  Tacky sayings such as, ‘This is where the magic happens’ and ‘Next on the E! True Hollywood Story’, began to penetrate my brain. I started to feel that my mind was about to explode into tiny pieces, which would splatter across my four walls and remain unnoticed for months.

  Maybe next door’s cat would discover me? Then again, he’d probably turn his nose up at me, and disown me like everyone else.

  I then dreamt everyone from Cameron Diaz to the not-so-newly divorced Jessica Simpson had all started laughing at me.

  In one dream I was watching the news. A massive tower block was collapsing after a terrorist attack. I was fearful and paranoid. It felt so real, as if I was in a disaster movie. Somehow I started to clamber over the rubble trying to find people I could help. But there was no one left alive.

  Then I saw David Beckham. He looked down at me from a ledge and smiled and winked. Exhilarated at such a heavenly vision I made a run for him but I tripped at the feet of my old school headmistress, who strangely looked like Pamela Anderson (in reality she looked more like Judge Judy). But she put her hand out in front of me and told me I wasn’t to go after ‘Golden Balls’. They were her words.

  ‘You must never have sex with that married man,’ she said, then pointed at a football pitch. ‘This is your destiny. You must walk around this field for eternity. You must never leave here,’ she told me.

  As I started to trudge around the goalposts I spotted my mum and dad having a picnic. I tried to wave at them but they refused to acknowledge me and turned their backs.

  In floods of tears I looked to the sky to see a plane flying by with a banner. At first I couldn’t read what it said, but when I wiped my eyes it became clearer. ‘Welcome to your hell,’ it read. ‘Keep walking.’

  Suddenly I woke up, sweating and extremely shaken. Mentally bruised, I felt I had done ten rounds with Tyson.

  It was 4.20p.m. and ‘Pink Panther’ was flashing on the house phone for the seventh time that afternoon. Knowing that he wouldn’t give up, I answered it just to get some peace.

  ‘Yes? ’

  ‘When are you going to snap out of this depression? It’s been nearly two weeks since your halo slipped. Get over it,’ complained Parker.

  ‘Eh, excuse me, but I never saw your name being dragged through the mud. Can I have a little sympathy please?’

  ‘OK, then. Poor you … Now get over yourself. I’m the only person who’s Girls Aloud to do drama in this relationship.’

  ‘Charming, you’re all heart.’

  ‘Yes, well my suits are too expensive for you to be crying on them, so let’s build that bridge and step out of that river of misery you’re drowning in.’

  ‘Jeez. I’d hate to hear how you deal with people you don’t like. Be nice. I’m a little fragile at the minute.’

  ‘With an arse like that you’re hardly fragile, dear …’ Parker was practically tutting with annoyance.

  ‘PARKER!’ I screamed back indignantly. ‘Yeah, well the only snap here is between your face and my arse.’

  ‘There she is. Good to have you back. Now, are you coming out tonight? I’m so bored. I need to play.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Pray tell why? It’s not as if your social diary’s full, now is it?’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘OK, so you’ll come out tonight before I die of boredom?’

  ‘Parker, I can’t. I’m totally broke.’

  ‘Already? That didn’t take long. I know you’ve been let go, but you’ll get another job soon. Money matters can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Well they are. Not everyone has amassed your wealth, sweetie.’

  ‘Damn right they haven’t. And I’m worth every penny.’

  ‘Parker, the only magazine in this town that isn’t owned by either Barron or the Cooper organization is that feckin’ teen
sex mag NEU Today, and they’ve told me in no uncertain terms to eff off as well.’

  ‘OK, my poverty princess, you don’t need money. Well, not tonight. Just put on your glad rags. I presume you still possess nice clothes, or have the bailiffs come for them too?’

  ‘Ha. You’re wasted. You belong on the stage.’

  ‘Right then. Be at my apartment for ten o’clock, and bring a smile. They cost nothing.’

  By eight o’clock I managed to pull myself off my tiny two-seater couch and away from the TV. My knee joints pained with cramps.

  Trying to shut out the nagging voices that kept screaming at me to go and hide under my duvet and never leave the apartment again, I struggled into my black skinny jeans and donned my lucky pulling top. It was only a black polo that I bought for € 20, but it looked great on, and always made me feel sexy.

  Surprisingly enough, tonight was no exception.

  I had to endure the narkiest taxi driver complaining about ‘Foreign lads takin’ taxi plates’, who then managed to test my patience even more by leaving me a good walk from Parker’s apartment block.

  ‘Sorry luv, but I’ve gotten anudder fare. This traffic ain’t movin’, I’m gonna have ta leave ya here.’

  So I had to immerse myself in the cold night’s fresh air.

  As I teetered over the complex’s designer cobblestones, my Nine West heels sank in a gap, slightly scraping the leopard-print motif.

  Argghhh! Even the outside world was attacking me. Maybe this was God’s way of telling me I shouldn’t have left home at all. This guy sure had a sense of humour.

  Dodging the swooping seagulls I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached Parker’s intercom. My fate wasn’t all bad though, as I was fortunate enough to avoid any hassle from the resident junkies.

  And in this neck of the woods, they were hard to dodge. The Docklands is still up and coming, you understand. Millions have been spent giving it a glamorous new century makeover, and while the dotcoms have moved in, not all of the undesirables have moved out.

  My neighbour Mrs O’Flaherty had once told me about St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. She said if I prayed to him, he’d take care of me. In light of recent events I had attempted an occasional chat with the fella.

  But I think my waffling had fallen on deaf ears. He must have thought I was beyond lost.

  Buzz … Buzz … Buzz … I hammered at the intercom. ‘Let me in, it’s Eva.’

  ‘Ohh, hello my little marriage-wrecker,’ gushed Parker. ‘Move it on up, girlfriend.’ Buzz.

  The lift doors opened and I pulled on a weak mask of a smile. Parker greeted me with his usual pose. The music in the mirrored lift may have been Bach, but Parker quickly changes the tune to totally diva.

  He ushered me through to his bachelor-style grey and black living room, giving me the inquisitive, once-over eye. ‘Well, tickle you pink, you don’t look bad for a woman on the edge. A little fleshy around the gills but that’s to be expected after your hibernation. But not bad, Miss Valentine, not bad at all I must say.’

  ‘Thank you, Parker. Your support is super-generous and appreciated.’

  ‘OK, enough about you, I’m in the middle of some text flirting. Quick, grab a glass, I need your help.’

  Knowing my grievances would fall on deaf ears, I pulled a large John Rocha out of one of the smoked-glass units in his stainless steel kitchen, and filled it to the brim with the ever-ready supply of pink bubbly which Parker keeps in the freezer. Why in the freezer? Well, it’s just never left there long enough for it to fully freeze.

  ‘So who are we toying with tonight then?’ I asked, strutting back into the room with my glass and the bottle and staring out the large glass patio doors overlooking the city and the River Liffey.

  ‘The builder boy,’ he beamed.

  ‘Which one is he?’

  ‘The buff puff with the scar on his chin, that I met a couple of months ago. His family are worth millions, don’t you know. Well, he pretends to be straight, but he really loves the boys.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t remember him.’ I found it hard to keep up with his conquests.

  ‘Who cares, it doesn’t matter …’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I do remember him. I thought you said his hairy back freaked you out.’

  ‘Ha! Yeah that’s the guy. But it was his hands that were hairy. Anyway, I’d forgotten all about him until this evening. But he started texting about half an hour ago asking me to meet him. What should I do?’

  ‘Ignore him. What’s the point if you don’t like him?’

  ‘Yeah, but he also mentioned that he wanted to fly me – get this – in his own plane to London for the weekend. Apparently there’s some society party with loads of celebrity types that his company is sponsoring, and he wants me to go with him. What should I do? I didn’t realize he was a pilot as well. How cool is that?’

  ‘I’d say arctic. Need anyone to carry the bags?’

  ‘Maybe, let’s ask him … So, builder boy. How big is ure – plane?’

  Like children we sat giggling around the phone waiting for his reply and swilling on the already half-empty bottle of Laurent Perrier rosé. The bubbles had started to go to my head, and I relaxed into ole Valentine mode.

  Beep. Beep. ‘1 Message Received’ flashed up in Parker’s phone.

  ‘BUILDER BOY: It’s always large with me babe x x.’

  Not wanting to let the moment pass, I grabbed the phone and texted back, ‘Are you writing cheques you can’t cash?’

  Thinking I was decidedly witty I refused to let Parker have his phone back, convinced of a great reply, and ordered him to top up my glass.

  Beep. Beep. ‘1 Message Received BUILDER BOY:????’

  ‘Ah, crap.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Look, he only sent back question marks. He’s no fun.’

  ‘Shut up. Let me have a go.’

  ‘Builder Boy, since ure plane is sooo big, can I bring a fabulous friend?’

  ‘BUILDER BOY: Sure, bring a couple of girlies. The Piper Seneca seats 6.’

  At that the two of us jumped off our chairs, spilling a little bubbly over the stone suede sofa, and did our victory dance. Think Joey’s jazz hands crossed with a Jack McFarland tap dance.

  ‘He sooo wants me,’ cooed Parker. ‘I wonder is there a bed on the plane? I’ve always wanted to join the mile-high club.’

  ‘You can have him and his hairy extremities. Now don’t mess it up. I need to party in London. I need some rich Brit to rescue me from this life of poverty. ’Cause my situation doesn’t look like it’s gonna mend itself.’

  ‘Well, I can do hairy – especially in London. OK, let’s get details. So, builder boy, when is the party and I’ll see if I can make it?’

  ‘BUILDER BOY: I’ll take care of u and ure friends Pink Panther. Just say YES 4 sat :)))’

  ‘Oh, my God. He wants us to go this Saturday. What’ll I wear?’

  ‘Parker, you always wear the same thing. It’s always black. What the hell will I wear?’

  ‘Who cares, gorgeous? I’ve a rich boyfriend.’ Then Parker ran out to his balcony which ran about thirty feet alongside the apartment and broke into a diva-style performance of ‘Money, Money, Money’.

  Obviously, this was not typical behaviour for a man in his early forties, but for my Parker, the words tart and fickle could sum up his personality adequately. The only thing with depth about him was the fact that he liked deep pan pizza. Apart from that, he was as flighty as they come.

  Not a great trait, it has to be said, and one that caused us many arguments when we first became friends, but now that we all know him for the Shallow Hal that he is, we work around it and love him regardless.

  Caught up in the moment, we started on a second bottle of bubbly, sang our way through ‘Cabaret’ and ‘Sweet Charity’ while Parker paraded around the apartment in a pair of silk boxers, a cravat and a vintage Gucci hat he bought on eBay that allegedly was once owned by
Madonna.

  It was only as he murdered his favourite Shirley MacLaine number ‘If they could see me now’, that I remembered we hadn’t texted our Builder Boy back. By this stage it was 12.30a.m., which was admittedly quite late on a school night for a person with a regular existence.

  Trying to think sober, we managed to type back, ‘Yes. Sat cd b ure luckkky nite.’ But we never got a reply.

  Resisting the temptation to text again and annoy the poor bloke into retracting his invitation, we occupied our hands with buttered popcorn and nachos, and finished our evening in front of the TV.

  After all, why go into town and risk ruining our happy buzz? Instead we channel-hopped until we found some fairly hard-core American gay porn for Parker, which I sat and watched for ten minutes before I got totally grossed out and crashed in one of his spare rooms.

  I just loved staying over. It felt like a five-star hotel. Slumping in my sumptuous Ciaran Sweeney oasis – Parker just loved his stuff, and had most of his apartment styled in his trademark hand-printed silk velvet – I drifted off to sleep thinking, maybe life’s not so bad after all …

  One o’clock Saturday afternoon I was propping up the Ice Bar @ the Four Seasons Hotel; spray-tanned, plucked, perfumed and preened to within inches of Miss World requirements.

  It’s one of our favourite hangouts as it’s a total gossip factory.

  A haven for the rich, the mega-rich and the wannabe-rich, on any afternoon you could end up working through the cocktail menu with A-listers like Colin Farrell or Michael Flatley.

  Though most of the time the reality is you end up being caught in a corner by some Daddy Sleaze who’s removed his wedding ring, and who pretends to be big in beef. When in reality he works in a camera shop. Trust me, it happens.

  Normally, we’d place ourselves at the middle of the long marble bar so we could rubberneck the two entrances. From our regular spot we could gauge what talent was where. Today, though, I couldn’t care less about trying to impress anyone. I needed to be focused on London. I was a woman on a mission.