As I thought about rising to my feet, I wondered had I fallen asleep in the toilet? I was convinced I had lost time somewhere. I had a track record of taking power naps.
After gathering the energy to stand up I misplaced my footing and fell forwards against the door with a bang.
Very ladylike I thought, bursting into fits of laughter.
Pulling up my cerise Kylie pants, I safely positioned my bag on my shoulder and, taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door and tried not to fall down. Greeted with a disapproving frown by the toilet attendant who sat surrounded by the contents of a pharmacy, and several women availing themselves of her perfumes, deodorants and lollypops, I pulled the face of a six-year-old girl and stuck my tongue out at her the second she turned her back.
I was sorry I hadn’t applied some make-up in the cubicle, for the main area around the sinks was dimly lit and the smoked-glass mirrors only made me feel even drunker. It was a couple of moments before I realized the toilet woman was glaring at me again, so I smeared lip gloss everywhere from my top lip to my chin and all places in between, and made my way out, only to have to stumble through several other heavy doors.
It was then that I became aware I hadn’t a clue where I had left Michael sitting.
Scanning the busy room, I could only see bodies and flashing lights and waitresses and people walking past me on mobile phones.
Trying to get my bearings I propped myself up against a cigarette machine. Bringing my right index finger up to extend from the end of my nose, I pointed to the left of the room, at each table, and worked my way across to the bar to see if I could jog my memory. It didn’t work.
It was too dark, there were too many people, too much dry ice …
Turning to a nearby group I asked if I could sit at the end of their couch for a minute. But I didn’t wait for a reply, and plonked myself down beside them regardless.
After about five minutes I felt like a complete fool as the women around the table had started making comments to their partners about me.
Just as I started to probe my bag for my phone, dropping an eyeliner and some English money that Parker had given me on the floor, Daz appeared out of nowhere, put his hand on my shoulder and asked, ‘What cha doin’ over ’ere kid?’ His Liverpudlian accent sounded warm and compassionate.
‘Oh, thank God.’ I jumped up immediately and threw my arms around him.
We had bonded throughout the day, as he filled me in on his Irish roots. His mother Kathleen was from Dolphin’s Barn in Dublin. And his real name was Darren.
‘You’re OK, gal, wer just ova ’ere.’ He smiled as he spoke, and led me masterfully by the hand through the swarms of people, back to safety.
‘Look who I found,’ declared Daz, holding my arm in the air like a trophy.
‘We were about to send out a search party for ya,’ explained Michael as he gave me a solid hug. ‘Don’t do that again. You gave me a fright. You’ve been gone nearly an hour.’
Settling back into the group, I clung to Michael as if we were magnetically charged. Sod him, I thought, I had given myself a scare and didn’t fancy the idea of getting lost again either.
Despite the fact that he picked up his entertainment of the group from where he had obviously left off, I gripped his hand and refused to let go. Thankfully, he didn’t protest.
‘I need to talk to these people. If you want me, just squeeze my hand, OK?’ he said, before embellishing some anecdote about a model who refused to take her clothes off after being booked to do a poster campaign for a power shower.
‘It’s not my fault you forgot to shave your bush, you dumb fuck, I said to her.’ His New York accent resonated thicker than before. ‘I said fuck it. A big bush is retro, so we stripped the bitch and shot her …’ His audience howled with laughter.
After about twenty minutes I had started to sober up, and asked Michael to get me another drink.
‘Do you wanna do a line instead to wake you up?’ he asked. ‘No thanks,’ I said, my face wincing as I spoke, ‘it’s not really my thing.’
‘Well, how about some jungle juice?’ He pointed to a glass of Coke with a small plate resting on the top of it.
‘Huh?’
‘Some gone with the wind? A little unfaithful? Some amyl nitrate? Oh, poppers. That’s what they call it in Ireland. You must have heard of poppers?’ His eyes lit up with excitement.
‘Umm, OK. I’ve heard of poppers, but what does it do?’ I started to feel open to the power of his persuasion.
‘It makes you wanna dance – and it’s legal.’ He winked, urging me to try it.
‘Promise you’ll mind me?’ I pleaded, glancing nervously at the innocent-looking glass.
‘I promise,’ he said, rubbing my back and giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘You’ll get a kick out of it.’
Feeling safe in his arms, I grabbed the glass and asked him what to do.
‘Hold the plate over it until you’re ready to take a big breath.’ His instructions came as if he were telling a child how to tie her shoelaces. ‘When you are, take it off, take a deep breath then hold it for a few seconds and cover the glass up. It’s potent stuff. It’s not good to stink the place out.’
‘That’s it? I just breathe in and hold it?’
‘That’s it, heart-breaker. But be ready, it’ll probably blow your head off.’ He laughed at my innocence.
Feeling like a rebel wild child I stuck my face in the glass of Coke and took a deep breath of something with the distinct odour of smelly socks. Gross, I thought, as I struggled to hold my breath.
And as I replaced the glass on the table I released my inhalation and instantly felt a rush of blood erupt through my body and explode across my face. My cheeks were on fire, my heart started to pound, and it felt like it was going to surge out of my chest.
As Michael looked on like a proud boyfriend, a wave of emotion flooded over me and I took it upon myself to straddle him and push him to the back of the couch, which was carpeted with people’s jackets and coats.
‘Do you feel good?’ he asked as I pinned his arms back by the wrists. ‘Yes, baby,’ I replied, coming over all light-headed, ‘I feel very, very, very good!’
I kept kissing him like I was a Hollywood starlet until several members of the group started shouting, ‘Get a room!’ Reluctantly, I sat back down to face the group. In milliseconds I was bored and demanded, ‘I want more!’
Happy to oblige me, Michael handed me the glass again. Fearlessly I took a second, deeper breath of the poppers.
This time I held it in for longer. And just like before I felt the rush of blood rippling over me. My heart pounded again, my head went dizzy. I had never experienced anything like it before. I felt hot. I felt like I wanted to dance.
And dance I did. Stepping up on the table, I thrust my hands in the air and tossed my hair to the beat of, ‘Where’s Your Head At?’
I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
I was living in the moment, and it felt great.
I was being a bold Eva. And I loved it.
The diva was back …
4
9.55 SATURDAY MORNING, I was stepping out of a black cab and ducking into Liverpool Street Station. The sky was grey. And so was my mood. Sorry – change that to thunderous.
With three days to go till Valentine’s Day, I didn’t want to be booked on a cheapo no frills flight back to Dublin. I wanted to be boarding a BA to Vegas. But it wasn’t to be. Michael had been called back to the Big Apple on an urgent job, and the party was well and truly over.
‘The industry needs me,’ he teased. And that was as much of an explanation as I got.
Luckily for him his flight wasn’t till later, so I left him in bed, our bed, looking as edible as ever. His tired eyes and wayward hair just added to his appeal. ‘I’ll call ya later – ya big ride,’ were the last words he shouted as I shut the door, in his newly acquainted Dublin accent.
I cursed the cold as I stared back up to th
e bedroom window, where we had spent so much quality time nuzzling and analysing the world’s problems. I had hoped he would have waved down or blown me a kiss. But I was probably being petty.
We had grown close in our time together. We’d laughed, been intimate; Michael had even feckin’ proposed to me, but had yesterday confessed that it had just been a wicked ploy to make him stand out.
Stand out indeed. I felt as if I’d been catapulted up in the air and then dropped from a height like on a ride at Alton Towers. Despite my best tough girl act, I still found it hard to control my emotions. Maybe I’d watched too many rom-coms, because I still believed – hoped for – fairy tales.
Stupidly I had thought Michael serious when he asked me to marry him. How naïve! My heart then sank, well, it kept sinking, especially when he told me my booking number for the flight and said, ‘It’s just the way it’s gotta be, heart-breaker!’
I felt totally despondent. I wasn’t the heart-breaker. He was.
Like a stroppy teenager, I dragged my well-smacked ass and my few belongings to the nearest taxi rank and prayed for news of a bomb scare at the airport. For once, I had no such luck.
Much to my annoyance, the train was crammed with people with oversized jackets and fake-fur-rimmed hoods. But my diminishing luck somehow allowed me to find a seat; a small sanctuary where I could obsess about my phone with two hands.
Unable to concentrate, I clasped it tight and continually flicked through the few precious photos of us with stupid cheesy grins, which we had taken while lying in bed.
By the time I had reached the airport, I had texted his ‘cell’ several times, but had got no reply. He must have fallen back asleep.
It had been seven days and seven nights of utter debauchery.
My bones ached. My skin was blemished, and my nails looked like they had tried to scrape their way out of a cave.
I felt and looked a wreck.
But it had been wild.
It had been an adventure of the rock ’n’ roll variety, and one to tell the grandkids. Well, a watered-down version anyway.
But my week away from home had nearly killed me. And as I approached the Ryanair check-in desk, queuing alongside the businessmen with their cheapo laptop cases, the hassled mothers with their irritable children and the young professionals with their iPods, I realized I had become an outlaw to society, a vagrant, a person without purpose or use. OK, so I’m sounding a little dramatic. But that’s how I felt.
Numbed by the alcohol in my system, I mulled over all the problems I would face when I arrived home. I had been putting it to the back of my mind, but money matters had become critical. Rent was due. My MBNA credit card was maxed at about €12,000. And bills from Bupa, Eircom, the TV licence crowd and Vodafone had been shoved in a pile at the back of the microwave. It was better than putting them straight in the recycling, I thought.
But how could I forget Annette? Crap. I had been admiring how glossy a woman’s blonde hair was in the adjacent line when I remembered the text from Barron’s wife, threatening me. Get a solicitor, eh? This should be interesting. I own nothing apart from a few designer labels and some jewellery. If she can squeeze blood out of this stone I’ll kiss her myself!
Another wave of depression hit me. Although I was a girl who was attracted to wealth, I had amassed none of my own, and had frittered away all my previous earnings on frivolous things like entertainment, taxis and holidays to Marbella. My mother was forever nagging me about saving for a house, or the possibility of putting some money aside for a rainy day. Unfortunately this week the outlook was for a monsoon, and the kitty had not only been spent, the bottom of the barrel had been licked clean.
Knowing my luck, there will be nothing more than a tin of chick peas and Weight Watchers’ rice pudding in the cupboard, and I’ll be left thinking, why did I buy this stuff? I don’t even eat it.
Things would have to change. But then I glanced back down at my phone, its battery power was running dangerously low now, and proudly smiled at the happy screensaver of Michael and myself.
Would I have swapped the last week of terrific sex with such a hunk for a sensible millennium of work and early nights in Dublin? No chance!
With just enough cash to grab a Tropical Twist smoothie and a bag of popcorn, I sat at Gate 82 waiting to board. Feeling a renewed sense of excitement I couldn’t wait to get home and fill Maddie in on all the nitty-gritty details of my true romance.
She’d be waiting for me in Dublin Airport arrivals at 1.30 to take me home. Shame I only had a token menu from the Ivy to say thank you …
The lift home with Maddie was strained. She looked worse than me, but every time I asked her if she was OK, she’d just bark back at me, ‘I’m fine! ’
She hadn’t seemed remotely interested in the fact that I had met Paul O’Grady at 6a.m. in some restaurant place that still served us champagne.
‘I didn’t know both his parents are Irish,’ I rambled. ‘Now, I think his mother is from Gardiner Street, or did he say his dad was from Gardiner Street? Either way one of them is from Dublin and the other is from Mayo. He was great craic, you know. Really friendly when he heard the Irish accent.’
But I might as well have been reading her the shipping forecast, for the interest she showed.
The real alarm bells started ringing when I said that I had bumped into Chris Evans at Zilli Fish and that he’d bummed money off us for a bottle of wine.
Many moons ago, Maddie had met him at Renards with me, when he had just signed that massive £75 million deal with Virgin. That was before he had fallen in love and married Billie Piper, and they had only shared a quick snog, but she always thought that if she had played easier to get, she might have been the one with the red Porsche birthday presents and the Vegas wedding.
‘OK, stop the car,’ I ordered. ‘Something’s up, so just spit it out!’
‘If you don’t shut up you can get out and walk.’
Maddie’s tone was so serious I believed her.
We spent the next fifteen minutes in silence.
When we pulled up outside my little house in Stoneybatter, we sat for another moment in deafening silence. I hated to see Maddie upset. But I was afraid to say anything that might to make her worse.
Eventually, Maddie spoke. But she kept her eyes focused directly above her as if keeping watch for passing birds that might shit on her car.
‘So how are you fixed for money these days?’ Her question sounded loaded.
‘I’m screwed,’ I told her honestly.
‘Hmmm. Me too,’ she whispered, almost as if she wasn’t speaking to me, but to herself.
Worried she’d fly off the handle if I asked her if she was all right again, I patted her hand, which was all tensed up and almost decapitating the gearstick, and asked her, ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, hon?’
Realizing her bad mood, Maddie strained a fake smile and declined my offer. ‘I’ll catch you later, babes. I’ve a job at 3.30.’
‘Call me later when you get a chance?’ I pushed, but with a quick ‘Yeah’ she had pushed me on to the path and screeched off down the road in her super-sexy silver 3 Series BMW.
I then spent the next ten minutes scrapping through dirty underwear and old razors in the side panels of my Samsonite to find my house keys.
Suffering with a bad case of ringxiety, I felt emotionally dependent on my phone.
It was Monday morning and there was still no word from Michael.
So far I had growled at Parker, my sister Ruth and some young PR twit who was wondering did I have a contact number for the model Glenda Gilson and had made the fatal error of ringing me.
I hadn’t held, smelt, kissed or spoken to my boy in forty-eight hours. The frustration was positively killing me. Why hadn’t he phoned? Was he OK? Maybe his plane crashed? No, I would have heard on the news. But maybe he was in a car crash and he’s in hospital injured with amnesia? That wouldn’t have made the news.
I know, I’m being s
tupid. He’s probably just been busy, or playing hard to get. That must be it. Blokes always have their own rule-book for how many days they should leave it before they call a girl.
Hmmm, I wasn’t happy.
Then again, maybe he left his phone by mistake in Frankie’s place and that’s why it keeps ringing out. My mind kept racing, thinking of the endless reasons why he hadn’t got in touch.
Damn him anyway …
Tuesday night, Valentine’s night – and supposedly my wedding night – the Bitches of Eastwick found themselves slouched on Parker’s couch, stuffing their faces with aromatic duck, ribs, sweet ’n’ sour chicken and far too many prawn crackers, while struggling to stay focused on Woody Allen’s Match Point.
‘This is shit,’ groaned Parker, with his usual attention span of an ant.
Maybe it was just because I was in such a foul mood, but I had to agree with him. I hated everything about this movie – the cinematography, the weak acting, Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s irritating English accent. Even the way the very gorgeous Scarlett Johansson pouted annoyed me.
‘I hate to admit it, but you’re right,’ I sighed. ‘This is possibly the worst movie I’ve ever seen!’
‘It’s drivel. It’s not just shit, it’s about as exciting as our sex lives right now,’ declared Maddie as she sucked on a spare rib bone suggestively.
‘What you mean is it’s lacking in spunk?’ teased Parker.
‘Ha, very droll, Mr Pink,’ snarled Maddie, ‘but not everyone gets as excited about body fluids as you, my dear.’
Feeling the need to interrupt Parker before he embarked on a rant, I offered, ‘Anyone for more chicken balls?’ But of course that just set Parker off on another tangent. ‘Chicken balls … Tennis balls … I need hunky male balls, Goddamn it. What are we doing here apart from dribbling Hoi Sin sauce all over my suede couch? Thank you very much, Eva. But come on, this is depressing. Let’s go out and play.’ Parker’s eyes bulged passionately.
Like a man on a mission, he gave his best hurtful truth justification for why we should entertain his impulse demand.
‘Look, face it, Eva, he’s just not that into you. That’s how the saying goes. If he was, Michael would have called you by now. So put it down to a cute holiday romance and let’s hope you didn’t catch any STDs off him.’
Champagne Kisses Page 9