Pack Up the Moon

by Anna McPartlin

  “Hello,” he said smiling.

  “Hey,” I mumbled, attempting to cover my mouth.

  I could smell mint on his breath. He’d obviously washed his teeth while I slept.

  “Where’s the loo?”

  He pointed. I entered the en-suite and coated my finger with toothpaste. I cleaned out my mouth as best I could, splashed my face and re-entered. He was waiting, knowing that I had been preparing myself for something other than merely going home. He was under the covers. I walked over and he held the sheet up to allow me in. I obliged and then we were kissing, French-kissing.

  What followed? Well, all I can say is if he could sing as well as he could shag, he deserved his god-like status. Better again, when it was over I didn’t cry.

  A few hours later he kissed me goodbye before giving his driver orders to take me back to Seán’s apartment.

  “Will I see you again?” he asked.

  “No,” I grinned.

  He nodded. “Sad.” He smiled.

  “Thanks,” I said and I meant it. I really had needed to get laid.

  “You’re welcome.” He patted the roof of the car and the driver took off.

  I didn’t look back. I knew he wasn’t watching.

  * * *

  Clo and Tom were still in bed. Anne and Richard had left hours earlier to make the most of the day. I was in the kitchen fumbling for the coffee beans. I felt someone enter behind me. It was Seán, in a pyjama bottoms, nothing else. I grinned at him, but he was too angry to respond in kind.

  “Where the hell were you?” He was pointing and his finger shook ever so slightly.

  “Excuse me?” I said defensively.

  “What the hell is this? I’ve been up half the night worrying about you?”

  His finger fell to his side, but his face retained all of its anger.

  “You know where I was. Stop being a fucking asshole!” I was matching his tone. “You’re not my father.”

  “No, Emma, I know who you were with and judging by what I’ve seen this week, that could’ve meant anywhere or doing anything. How was I to know that he hadn’t got bored after an hour? You don’t know him.”

  Every ounce of joy I had felt as I drove away from my romantic evening was taken away. The fleeting freedom from guilt was gone. He was making it dirty and wrong. He was saying I was one in a long line of women, I was nothing and that I should feel bad.

  I’m not going to cry.

  Tears stung my eyes but I refused to let them fall. Anger was filling my throat, my voice battling to get past it. “You are a hypocritical bastard! It’s all right for you to fuck everything that moves, but it’s not OK for me to have one night. Your French tart sucks on your fucking ear all through dinner and that’s fine. After all, you’re a stud – but me, well I’m just a sad old slapper. Don’t waste your time worrying about me, Seán. I don’t fucking need you!”

  He blanched. I’d never actually seen anyone do that before. His whole face lost its colour instantly like I’d turned off the switch.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean that you … I’m sorry. I was just worried.” His overreaction didn’t make sense.

  Liar. He had ruined everything. “What did you mean then?” I yelled.

  “We’re friends,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, so are all my other friends going to come in here and scream at me?”

  “No.” He was shaking his head, looking for an answer.

  “So what is it then, Seán?” My voice had grown weary. It was getting harder to hold off the tears.

  “I …” He stopped and looked around for nothing in particular.

  I waited.

  “I …” He stopped again.

  What the hell is wrong with him?

  “I’m sorry,” he said and he walked out, leaving me standing alone with a half-open bag of coffee beans and I was crying.

  Damn it.

  I was still crying and hunched over my espresso when Clo emerged from her room. I had my back to her when she entered. She was clapping. I felt her arms around my shoulders.

  “You are such a dark horse. Pierre Dulac! I mean I know we’ve never heard of him, but who the hell are we? By God, when you do it, you do it in style!” Her voice was full of excitement.

  I looked up at her and her smile dissipated.

  “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

  My tear-stained face belied the truth about my romantic evening.

  “No,” I sighed. “Last night was perfect and so was this morning – that is, until I got here.”

  She put her hands on her hips, something she often did when confused. “I’m not with you.”

  “Seán,” I mumbled.

  “Seán?” she probed.

  “Seán seems to think I did something wrong last night.”

  “He what? What do you mean?” She pulled up a stool and sat beside me, her cheek resting on her arm resting on the counter.

  I looked down at her and shrugged my shoulders, signalling my bewilderment.

  “He was roaring at me.” I was crying again. I couldn’t believe how crappy I was feeling. It was so unfair.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s being a dick. You have a shower and change your clothes. We’ll get out of here, do a bit of sightseeing and then we can have lunch and you can tell me all about last night.”

  She was smiling again. I felt a little better. I had an amazing night and I could either let Seán take that away or not. I chose not.

  Seán was locked away in his room with Frankie when we left. We didn’t leave a note. Tom went to meet Anne and Richard, honouring our pre-existing commitment to meet them for a trip down the Seine. Clodagh had explained that we needed some time alone and he was happy to oblige. We picked up a Metro map and we were off. First stop Hotel de Ville for a coffee. We were sitting in the bar downstairs drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes even though it was only ten in the morning and I usually don’t smoke until after one, but when in Rome …

  Clodagh had ordered croissants, which I was devouring having suddenly realised that I was starving. She was smiling patiently, waiting for me to tell her about celebrity sex, but not wanting to push it. Suddenly she brightened like a little bulb had come on inside her head.

  “I know! Let’s play a game. I’ll tell you something personal if you tell me.”

  I laughed – she was so obvious. “OK. You first.”

  She nodded her head, preparing herself. “OK. Tom is divorced.”

  My face fell. I’d expected her to say something stupid just to get me talking. “I thought he wasn’t married?”

  “He isn’t, he’s divorced.”

  “Oh my God! When did he tell you? Was he married long?”

  “Emma, this isn’t about me. It’s your turn,” she sighed, signalling that discussion was not part of the game.

  “OK. I didn’t have sex with Pierre last night.”

  “What?” she almost roared.

  An old man looked over and grunted.

  “What?” she whispered. “You didn’t have sex? Oh my God, Emma, I’m so fucking disappointed. Why not?”

  Her face was a picture and I was beginning to forget Seán.

  “Clo, this is not about me. It’s your turn,” I smiled.

  Two can play at this game.

  “Fine.” She straightened up in her chair. “Tom has two kids. Mia is nine and Liam is four.”

  I think I may have blanched. “Two kids?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you met them?”

  “Your turn.”

  I was beginning to tire of this game. “Fine, I had sex with Pierre this morning.”

  She burst out laughing. “Yes. Oh yes! Thank you, God!”

  We were both laughing.

  “What was it like?” She was jumping slightly in her chair. It was time to end this charade and find out what was really going on with Tom, because shag or no shag that’s what we really needed to talk about.

  “You tell me abou
t Tom and his kids and what it all means and I’ll tell you about my morning with Pierre Dulac.”

  So she told me.

  Tom was seventeen when his girlfriend got pregnant. They had Mia. He got a job in a computer factory. He was married and had a mortgage at twenty-one. He worked hard during the day and did computer courses by night. She got a job in a flower shop. They had Liam. Tom opened his business. He became successful quickly, but he was never home. His wife met someone at the flower shop. She had an affair. He left. It was messy for a while, but amicable in the end. They both realised that they had been going through the motions. They had just married too young. She did well in the divorce. She’d since remarried and he saw his kids on weekends. He told Clodagh about his past on their first date. She had met his children and, although it was clear she wasn’t Mary Poppins, they were getting on all right. She was happy and it didn’t matter.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Initially it was a worry, especially with my luck. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I needed to work it out for myself.”

  She was worried I’d be offended that she hadn’t told me, but deep down she knew it didn’t matter.

  “You’re in love.”

  “Yeah, I am,” she agreed smiling. “First time for everything,” she added, laughing.

  Wow, Clo was in love. There was light at the end of the tunnel.

  I’d like to be able to say that we spent the rest of the day in museums, galleries and old Parisian churches but I can’t. We shopped, buying in Old Navy, Gap, Naf Naf, the list went on. We bought dresses, shoes and bags. Clodagh bought a watch. We ate lunch outdoors watching our fellow shoppers go by. We looked in Prada, Gucci and Chanel just for a few minutes, then out the door before one of the beady-eyed salespeople spotted us, blew a whistle and kicked us out. In the late afternoon we walked along the winding little backstreets absorbing the atmosphere.

  It was after eight when we got back. Anne, Richard and Tom were playing poker in the sitting-room. Frankie and Seán were out. Anne made tea and we filled her in on our day. She talked about the Mona Lisa. It had been a let-down and her feet were killing her. She loved the galleries and had bought a painting that would be shipped to Kerry. Tom was in great spirits, having thoroughly enjoyed his sightseeing. He and Richard bonded over a mini-case of seasickness on the bateau-mouche, but they had recovered enough to enjoy four pints in the afternoon.

  We were all starving so Anne left a note telling Seán which restaurant we would be in. Over dinner Tom showed us pictures of his kids. Everyone was happy and in good spirits. I aimed for the vegetarian option and got fed. It was a good night, but Seán was missing. It reminded me of our fight and all the ugly things we’d said. I felt tired. The others wanted to go for a drink, but I made my excuses. They blamed my weariness on having had a good ride and they were partly right.

  Clo and Tom walked me around the corner to the apartment. They waited until I was inside before they walked away arm in arm. I sat on the sofa and lit up. Seán entered from his bedroom quietly and sat down next to me. I handed him a cigarette. He took it gratefully. We sat in silence.

  “You were right. I’m an asshole.”

  “You’re not an asshole. You’re just an insensitive tosser,” I smiled. It was impossible to stay annoyed with him.

  “I would never intentionally say anything to hurt you.” “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  He looked so lost I couldn’t help but put my arms around him and we hugged.

  “Where’s Frankie?” I asked mid-hug.

  His arms stiffened. “Gone.”

  I remembered that Pierre and his posse were heading off to Canada that afternoon. She was part of the posse so it made sense.

  “Oh well,” I sighed, “at least we have each other.”

  He kissed the top of my head and we lay in one another’s arms exhausted and fell asleep.

  Chapter 18

  The Sound of Music, Plastic Tits and Bruce Willis

  It was coming up to Christmas and I was dreading it. I had to look forward to at least three Christmas parties, which I was being forced to attend, battling to get Christmas presents, crowds, wrapping, extending my Visa credit, “Jingle Bells”, queuing in the post office for four hours, marking Christmas tests and Wham’s bloody “Last Christmas” on the radio every five minutes, culminating with Christmas Day spent with my parents fighting over the remote. At least Noel was coming home. The rest of it was almost worth it. I was wrapping presents when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma, crackle, crackle …”

  “Hello?” Crackle, crackle …

  I shook the phone, something I always did when I had a bad line. It never helped, but it felt like I was doing something.

  “Emma, crackle, crackle. It’s me, Noel.”

  “Noel, is that you?” Crackle, buzz, crackle.

  “The line is really crackle, crackle, crackle …”

  “Noel, oh my God! Where are you calling from? It’s so good to hear your voice!” Buzz. “Damn this line.”

  “Goa buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

  “Are you OK?” Crackle, crackle, crackle. “When are you coming home?”

  “Em, I’m not. Crackle, crackle, crackle … Tell crackle, crackle that crackle, crackle. Sorry. I’d crackle to but I’ll call on crackle day.

  “What?” Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. “You’re not coming home?” My heart sank.

  “I crackle time crackle love you crackle I’m crackle.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Fine!”

  “I love you too!” I shouted.

  The line went dead.

  “Fuck!”

  How was I going to break this to the parents?

  Oh Noel, please come home!

  I was upset then pissed off, then really pissed off. He had called me with the bad news so that I was the one who had to break it to our parents. He was doing God knows what in Goa and I was left on the receiving end of their wrath.

  That’s like something I’d do.

  I decided to get it out of the way as soon as possible. I fixed myself a hot port and dialled home.

  Bloody Christmas.

  * * *

  There was one bright side to the season. Clo, Tom, Seán and I were heading down to Kerry to spend New Year’s Eve with Anne and Richard and I was really looking forward to that. I missed them and I couldn’t wait to see their place and to get out of Dublin. I was excited so I planned to grin and bear the rest of it. That was the plan – the reality was somewhat different.

  Tom ran his own graphic design company, which meant that he threw a company Christmas party. Clodagh attempted to entice us to attend.

  “It’ll be great,” she said.

  I didn’t want to go and complained loudly. She told me to shut up. It had been over a month since Paris and as soon as we returned to Dublin the old unsocial me had taken up residence once more. She was fed up of it.

  Seán didn’t complain – he was in party mood. He’d met some New Yorker who was working with the magazine for two months. She was an executive type, blonde hair, tall and big tits. Basically, most women’s worst nightmare. Despite his vow to never date a co-worker again, he appeared smitten and needed an excuse to ask her out. Tom’s Christmas party was perfect.

  I was busy getting ready. The doorbell rang. I ran down the stairs cursing the pizza man. It was Seán. He was early.

  “You’re early,” I said while trying to towel-dry my hair.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I had a late meeting in town.”

  “How’d it go?” I asked while running up the stairs, not waiting for his answer.

  He made himself at home. The pizza man arrived and he paid him. I arrived downstairs fifteen minutes and half the pizza later. He looked up from the near-empty box. “I was hungry,” he said.

  I sat down and started to eat the remains. “So how did it go?” I asked again, this time actually
awaiting the answer.

  “Good.” But he didn’t appear happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

  This was annoying. I knew that he had something to tell me. I could always tell when he was holding back.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well,” he repeated.

  Christ, it’s like talking to my mother. I gave him a dirty look.

  “OK,” he surrendered, “my boss called me in to his office and asked me if I would like a promotion.”

  I was delighted. “Oh my God! That’s amazing. Congratulations. What’s the job?”

  He wasn’t smiling. “Editor,” he said unhappily.

  “Wow,” I said cautiously. “Amazing.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The thing is, it’s editor of a new sister magazine. I’d be based in London.”

  I stopped smiling. “London,” I repeated.

  “Yeah,” he said while looking at my clean floor.

  “London, England?” It just came out.

  “No, London, Spain.” He almost laughed.

  “Wow.” Then I repeated the word “London” because I was having difficulty allowing it to sink in. I felt a lump in my throat. Oh my God, I’m going to cry. To give myself something to do I picked up the pizza box and put it in the bin, then turned away to make coffee. He was silent. “That’s great,” I repeated.

  “You think so?” His voice was small.

  “What’s the money like?” I asked, delaying a response.

  What was I supposed to say? Don’t go?

  “It’s good money,” he repeated dully.

  Seán loved Dublin. Unlike most of us, he never complained about the dirt or the late bus. He lived in Joyce’s Dublin. He acknowledged the beauty of this ancient city, the old, the new, the tradition, its people and of course the old-fashioned craic. He actually got excited when he stood at the taxi rank on Dame Street. He’d spin around observing the glory of the Central Bank and Trinity College, the two concrete works of art that closeted him.

  “This is where Stoker first thought of the idea for Dracula,” he told me once.

  I remembered laughing at him one cold night as he pointed out the Central Bank lit up in all its glory. “You can see how these buildings inspired him, can’t you?” he had said, seeing something that I would never see.