Pack Up the Moon

by Anna McPartlin

  “Which album?” he enquired.

  Now he was just showing off.

  “Well, which one do you have?” I said, smiling.

  “All of them,” he replied.

  I gave up. “Born in the USA,” I demanded.

  He used a remote control and a few seconds later Bruce Springsteen was in the car singing “I’m on Fire”. It was truly impressive, in a kind of a “wanker” way. He smiled at me and I smiled back, trying to get comfortable in his bucket seats. We made it to the restaurant before I got to hear the title track and I made a mental note to go out and buy the album. It reminded me of making out in John’s bedroom, which we had often managed even though his mom had made us leave the bedroom door open.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” I was miles away.

  “We’re here.” He pointed to the restaurant.

  “Right. Great.”

  How many times was I going to say “great”, I wondered, while trying to get out of his car and still retain my dignity. That having failed, we entered the restaurant. Obviously it was pretentious: silk walls, lots of lamps, linen tablecloths, silver service, candles, a pianist in the corner, snotty waiters, “the works” as Clo would put it. I really hated eating in places where the staff made you feel like they were doing you a favour by letting you in.

  After conferring we ordered from a set menu. The waiter, lanky and smug-looking, scribbled while sighing heavily to signify his distaste at having to serve a heathen who dared to ask for mayonnaise.

  “This is great,” I said smiling, my face starting to hurt.

  “You hate it,” he pointed out.

  Alarmed, I said, “No,” while examining my skirt for lint.

  He asked me if I wanted to go somewhere else, but the starters were on the way and for the first time I began to relax, a little.

  I looked at him across the table. He was blond, tall – square jaw, broad shoulders and kind of pretty. Not really my taste but a ride and certainly a lot of women in the place seemed to appreciate him. I kept catching their eyes as they surveyed him and they would turn away and face their uninteresting dates.

  I heard myself sighing.

  “OK, you really hate it here,” he noted and he was right.

  I kept saying it was fine until eventually, after a second glass of wine, when he asked again I relented.

  “It’s a bit stuffy,” I pointed out, embarrassed.

  “I know,” he agreed. “I was trying to impress you.”

  I smiled and it was genuine. “So I take it the sports car is not yours either then?”

  He laughed. “No, the car is mine. You don’t like it?”

  “It’s OK. I prefer Volvos. They’re very safe.”

  He agreed that indeed they were safe.

  I felt like a schoolteacher so I apologised. He laughed and we agreed that blind dates were difficult.

  But it turned out that Richard had told him all about me while I knew absolutely nothing about him.

  “I’m really sorry about your boyfriend.”

  I nearly choked. “Thanks,” I managed and he was embarrassed and it was visible that he was sorry he mentioned it.

  I told him that it had nearly been a year and that I was fine. He told me that he had been at Anne and Richard’s inheritance party and had noticed me entering with John. He had asked Richard who I was, but Richard had explained that I was taken.

  “I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “Well, you spent the whole night in the kitchen,” he recalled.

  “Yeah, I remember,” I said smiling weakly, hoping we could change the subject fast.

  “I am really sorry,” he said again.

  “So this isn’t really a blind date then,” I stated more than asked. “I mean, for me, yes, but not for you.”

  His face reddened. “Yeah. I liked what I saw.”

  Fucking hell, I thought and blushed. Mortified, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I returned and shortly after he asked for the bill.

  “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said.

  “No,” I agreed.

  “But we could go to a late night jazz bar that I know,” he suggested, brightening.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  We headed to the bar and I ordered a round of shots on me while being careful to explain I wasn’t an alcoholic. He laughed and told me he’d take what he could get.

  “That’s comforting,” I said and he told me I was a funny girl and for a minute I felt like Barbara Streisand.

  He told me about his childhood. It turns out he was born in Germany, but his parents returned home to Ireland when he was two. I was nervous and a little drunk, so I made a joke about the Aryan race, immediately regretting it, but he laughed and I joined in, relieved. We both agreed that first dates are a nightmare and I told him I hadn’t been on one since I was sixteen.

  “Jesus!” he said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed and drank another shot.

  He told me that before he became a solicitor he was a guitar player in a band in college. I told him John always wanted to be Jimi Hendrix.

  “He played guitar?” he asked, interested.

  I laughed and said, “No.” I asked him if he still played and he said no but that he did sing in the shower.

  “Me too,” I admitted.

  “Oh yeah? What do you sing?” he asked.

  “James Taylor,” I admitted, my tongue loosened by alcohol.

  He laughed. “James Taylor!” he repeated.

  “There’s nothing wrong with James Taylor,” I argued. “So what do you sing?”

  “Aerosmith,” he replied.

  I laughed for a really long time. “Aerosmith! You’ve a bloody nerve, laughing at me!”

  He argued that Aerosmith were the kings of rock and roll.

  I pointed out that Elvis held that particular crown.

  “Yeah, but he’s dead.” As soon as he said it his face fell. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean …”

  “Hey, it’s fine – I mean it hit me hard when I was kid, but hey, there’s always Graceland.”

  We laughed and I realised that despite myself I was having a good time. We were drunk. He left the car in town and we got a taxi back to my place. He asked the taxi man to wait, so that he could walk me to the door. It was raining hard so I suggested he stay dry, but he wasn’t having any of it. He walked me the three metres to the door.

  “I had a really good time,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  “Can I see you again?” he asked.

  “I’d really like that,” I replied, my stomach somersaulting.

  He leaned in and kissed me and I responded before pulling away, aware the taxi man was watching us.

  “I’ll call you,” he told me.

  “OK.”

  I waved him off.

  The taxi man drove away and, once they were out of sight, I took a minute to process the incident. I had kissed a blond man called Ron, on the doorstep of John’s home. I looked up into the rainy night.

  I still love you, John. A kiss doesn’t change that. Say hi to Elvis.

  I walked into the house with rain on my face. As suspected, Anne and Clo were still there, passed out on uncomfortable chairs in the living-room. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, smiling. I’d kissed a guy called Ron.

  * * *

  Seán hadn’t called in three days. After school I headed into town and dropped into his office. He was in a meeting so I said I’d wait. I sat in the waiting area reading magazines until he emerged, frazzled. I stood up, but he didn’t notice me. I called out. He appeared surprised.

  “I haven’t heard from you – I thought we could get a drink or something.”

  He looked like he was about to make an excuse but conceded. “OK, give me a minute.”

  It was awkward. We got to the bar and ordered a drink before either of us spoke. He was first.

  “So how did yo
ur date go?”

  “Good,” I answered.

  “Clo said you kissed him.” His smile wasn’t reaching his eyes.

  “Clo talks too much,” I laughed and tried to change the subject. “What are you working on?”

  “An article on smear tests.”

  I was sorry I asked. “Right,” I said, remembering I’d missed an appointment with my women’s health clinic.

  “So do you like him?” he pressed.

  “He’s nice.”

  I took a slug from my drink.

  “Nice,” he repeated.

  This was getting annoying. He was pissed I had gone on a date and it was really obvious despite his pathetic attempt to conceal it.

  “Have you something to say, Seán?” I asked, irritated.

  “No,” he responded.

  “So why the attitude?” I asked angrily. “Do you think I should join a fucking convent?”

  “No,” he repeated, “of course not.”

  “So, then, what is it? I had a date with a guy and we kissed. Big fucking deal. It’s been nearly a year since John …”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say “died”, not when I’d been talking about kissing another guy in the same breath.

  Seán apologised and said he was being stupid and that he was happy for me. I told him he didn’t have to be happy for me yet and reminded him it was only a kiss. He laughed and it was genuine. He told me he was going out with an accountant that night. My turn to pretend, but I was much better at concealing my true feelings, so I smiled and told him I hoped it went well. We hugged before I left and I found it hard to let go. He held me so tightly that in his arms I felt safe, like I had with John, and I knew that this was because he was my friend.

  I walked out into the street. The sky was grey, but light managed to stream through the clouds like a silver highway leading to another world beyond our own.

  It didn’t mean anything, John. It was just a kiss.

  Secretly I was glad that Seán was upset by the kiss and I spent the journey home convincing myself that I was glad because it meant that he was thinking of John.

  * * *

  Two weeks and three dates after I’d met Ron, he invited me to his apartment. He would cook the meal and I’d bring the wine. This invite meant one thing. Sex. He wanted to have sex. I wasn’t sure if I wanted the same thing. I’m not going to lie to you. I was hornier than a schoolboy on a hot day. It had been so long, but then there was John to consider. What about him? I picked out four outfits and laid them on the bed. I showered for a long time. I sat on the loo, my feet in a basin while I shaved my legs.

  Just in case.

  I returned to my bedroom to find that my choice of outfits had gone from four to three. Leonard was nestling comfortably on my velvet black dress.

  “Bollocks!”

  Dressed in green silk I looked in the mirror. John used to say that green brought out my eyes and even Seán had admired this dress. Not that it mattered what he thought, but he was a guy and he had good taste. My black hair rested on my shoulders. I wished that I’d gone to the hairdresser but it was too late. I put on my make-up slowly and carefully. It had to be right.

  Just in case.

  I fixed my Wonderbra, shoving my chest upwards and outwards. I kissed Leonard who struggled to get away. He jumped from the bed and legged it in case a hug followed. It would appear he wasn’t in the mood. I picked up my velvet dress, now covered in cat hair, and shoved it in the wash-bag. The green dress was definitely a better fit.

  Oh God, what am I doing?

  I was shaking in the taxi. The taxi man wasn’t a talker and I was glad. He turned up the heat without a word. I prayed I wouldn’t start to sweat. He pulled up at the fancy apartment block in Donnybrook.

  “That will be eight quid, love.”

  I fumbled for my money and handed him a tenner. “Keep the change,” I muttered while collecting up my bag and attempting to open the door at the same time. I awkwardly exited. He waved as he pulled out of the driveway. Momentarily I thought about calling him back, but I didn’t. Instead I watched him leave and the automatic gates closing behind him. I exhaled like an Olympic runner before a race. This was it. I felt like I was entering the lion’s den.

  I buzzed his apartment.

  “Push the door. I’m on the third floor.” His voice was light and happy.

  I leaned on the door and it opened easily. I watched myself enter in the large mirror hanging at the end of the corridor. The lift opened in front of me and I entered cautiously. I pressed on the button marked “3” and stood facing the closing doors.

  Last chance to leave.

  Outside his door I felt foolish. He was waiting for my knock. I was waiting for a sign from John. Nothing was happening. I bit my tongue and raised my hand. The door opened before I managed to make contact. He was wearing an apron with a picture of a duck in a chef’s hat on it. He was smiling.

  “Hi,” he grinned, “you look incredible.”

  The fear went away. The door swung open and I walked into a gentle kiss. He took my coat and directed me into his sitting-room. High ceilings, white walls, dark wooden floors and funky vibrant art lined the walls. An expensive chocolate-brown velvet couch sat in the centre of the room facing a thick dark wood fireplace. The TV and sound system covered the entire corner of the room. Other than that the room was empty. It was stunning. The apartment was huge. It even had a separate dining-room. It was smaller than the sitting-room, but just as impressive. We ate a meal that tasted like it had been prepared by a top chef as opposed to a solicitor. I was slightly embarrassed that I’d let him see where I lived. He must have thought I was a knacker.

  “So what do you think?” he asked, grinning.

  “It’s stunning. It’s like a museum. A bloody nice museum.”

  He laughed.

  I was slightly perturbed, not having made a joke.

  “I meant the food,” he said, aware of my confusion. “OK, I’m an asshole,” I admitted.

  “I’m really glad you like the place.” He smiled and it made him look beautiful.

  I laughed unselfconsciously.

  After the meal we moved to the sitting-room and sat together on the soft couch drinking the wine that I was glad I had spent a fortune on.

  He told me about his past, where he’d gone to school and the reason he chose the legal profession. It was clear that he, like my friend Richard, came from money. He was more of a playboy though: that was very clear. Still, tonight he wanted to play with me and after the second bottle of wine I was ready to play with him. We were talking about Madonna. Don’t ask me why. The conversation came to a natural end and we both felt a kiss in the air. We simultaneously put our glasses on the floor. We both turned to one another. He put his hand on my neck and I could feel his warmth. He pulled me towards him and I leaned in. We kissed soft and long. His hand moved down my back and when it rested at the base of my spine I felt ready to explode. We stripped in the sitting-room. The couch felt good against my skin. His body felt a hell of a lot better.

  Jesus, I’m doing it. I’m really doing it!

  We moved to the bedroom – again fantastic; candles lit the room and it had a view to die for, but never mind about that. He laid me on the bed, which was soft and inviting. It was obvious he had a housekeeper and I made a mental note to shop for new sheets. He was on top of me and then inside of me and we were moving together. I stopped thinking. He was sweet, attentive, passionate, sexy, and we had a really good time together. We didn’t know one another three weeks ago and now we had shared this night of music, candles, wine, roses and great sex.

  Afterwards he slept and I sat on his cold marble bathroom floor and cried for the boy who had waited nearly two years for sex with me. The romance I had enjoyed earlier left when I came. The magic revealed itself to be nothing but a parlour trick. I felt so desperately sad, it hit me like a truck. I couldn’t go back in there so I left in the middle of the night, feeling like an adulterer.


  Ron called the next morning and I let the machine pick up. He hoped I was OK. He had a really great time and he wanted to see me that night. All I wanted was the ground to swallow me. I rang Clo and told her that I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see him again. She told me it was perfectly natural to be unsure and scared, but that I deserved to give this guy a go. I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted her to tell me to dump him. So I after I hung up, I called Anne. She told me pretty much the same thing as Clo had and then went on to describe how fantastic Ron was and what a great match we were. I certainly didn’t want to hear that so I called Seán. He said he’d come over and I said there was no need. He came over anyway and brought a bottle of wine. I told him I had spent the night with Ron.

  “Go on,” he said through gritted teeth, obviously hoping I wouldn’t do the female thing and tell him anything too personal.

  I tiptoed into the conversation, aware of his fear. I told him I really liked Ron, he was a lovely guy and we got on very well and that he was great. He appeared to be more comfortable with the line of conversation than I had originally anticipated. This was encouraging.

  “Go on.”

  I told him that I didn’t want to see him again.

  “Why?” he asked, without hinting emotion or judgement.

  The others had not asked that and I was unprepared. I thought about it.

  “I just don’t have the heart.”

  He smiled. “Well then, wait until you do.”

  Suddenly I didn’t feel so pathetic. Just because I didn’t want something with Ron didn’t mean I wouldn’t want something with someone else. I had slept with someone. That was a start and, who knows, the next time I slept with a guy I might even stay the whole night. I had choices; I was a nineties woman. A weight had been lifted. That night I called Ron and told him I thought it was a bit too soon for me to be seeing someone. He was nice about it, but the call was short.

  Anne was devastated. I think she had my future entirely planned and this meant she had to go back to the drawing board. Clo asked me if it would be OK if she had a go at him, before laughing her ass off – the way she always did when she found herself funny. And so I was single after three brief weeks. I felt like a sixteen-year-old again and it made me smile.