It's Got To Be Perfect

by Claire Allan

  “Running to people for help?” I threw open the door. “I don’t run to people for help!”

  “No,” she said. “You have them run to you instead.”

  “That’s not fair, Darcy! You offered to come up – and it’s not like you’re here every week, or every month or even once a season. You left Derry as soon as you could and even Mum and Dad didn’t stick around. I rarely see any of you. Mum and Dad haven’t been home in three years. This is the first time I’ve seen you this year. For all intents and purposes I’m alone up here and have been for years.”

  “You’re a grown-up,” she reiterated. “You shouldn’t mind being on your own. You have a good life, Annie. You just don’t see it.”

  “So sue me for feeling lonely!”

  “Annie, I can’t talk to you when you’re being like this. I never could. It’s like your teenage years again – all self-pity and mooning about like the world has done you some great wrong. Any second now you’ll be sticking on a Morrissey album and donning some black eyeliner. You need to realise that this – this whole sorry situation – is only as bad as you let it become.”

  “God, Darce, are you ever downhearted? Do you ever just think ‘fuck it’ and have a bad day? Christ almighty, woman, just because you can cope with everything life throws at you, doesn’t mean we all can. Fair bloody play to you for being perfect. But I’m not and I make mistakes, and I regret things and have a stupid Life Plan which, yes, might be exceptionally childish and immature of me but it’s just all gone to shit and I feel down. And I’m allowed to feel fecking down!”

  I sat down on the sofa, rearranging my dressing gown to curtail an unfortunate flashing incident.

  “I never said I was perfect,” Darcy said. “For fuck’s sake, Annie, you know I’m far from perfect, but what is different about me is that I just get on with it. You don’t know the half of it because you never ask.”

  “I ask!” I protested. “I send emails every day asking how you are.”

  “No,” Darcy said, sitting down across the room from me, and to my amazement I suddenly saw tears glistening in her eyes. “You send emails every day telling me how you are and what is going on in your life. If I’m lucky you might, somewhere, have stuck in a ‘What about ye?’ or a ‘Hope you are well’ –” A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away. “But it’s all about you, Annie. And I love you, with all my heart. You are my baby sister and you mean the world to me, and I would never see you hurt, but sometimes you need to get the hell over yourself and get on with things.”

  I got up, walked into my room, slammed the door and climbed into bed. I was just drifting off when my phone peeped to life with a text from Ant.

  “Hey Sexy. How r u?”

  “Fuck the feckity fuck off,” I shouted at the phone, throwing it across the room before I pulled my pillow over my head, wondering if it would be at all possible to suffocate myself with a memory-foam pillow and sheer brute force.

  Darcy came in two hours later and climbed silently into the bed beside me. I wanted to say sorry but something in me just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t trust myself to know what to say – because, no matter how hard I tried these days, I always seemed to get it wrong. And that wasn’t me being over-dramatic and nutso – that was me being a complete and utter realist.

  I listened to Darcy breathing softly beside me and I wondered what she had meant by “you don’t know the half of it” and what had made her cry and my heart started to ache for everyone who wanted a happy ending and didn’t seem to be able to find it.

  17

  She was still sleeping when I woke up. She didn’t stir, not even when my alarm burst into life. I figured she was ignoring me and I couldn’t blame her.

  I got up, dressed quietly and put my make-up on in the bathroom. Before I left the flat I took one of the flowers out of the arrangement Ant had sent me and put in a glass on the worktop. I scrawled a quick note: “I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to you. We’ll talk later. Love you, sis.” and left them both there together and then I set off for work where my first day without my Life Plan would start and where, I realised, I would have to start piecing together a whole new plan for my immediate and not-so-immediate future.

  Gone were my dreams of fancy wedding gowns, chair covers and pink champagne. Now I had to sort things out, once and for all.

  ~ First I had to make this Speed Dating Night the best darn success NorthStar had ever seen – even if it meant humiliating myself entirely in front of Pearse.

  ~ I had to stop feeling guilty about what had happened with Pearse. He was indeed, as Darcy said, a Pee-Arse.

  ~ I had to make it okay with Darcy. She was clearly upset about something – and I had a feeling it wasn’t just that I was an immature fecker.

  ~ I had to make it okay with Fionn – which I realised might have to mean I just bided my time and crept around her where possible. I was to absolutely keep my nose out of her business and I wasn’t to either talk to Alex or make a voodoo doll of Rebecca – even if I thought Fionn would be secretly happy about the voodoo doll.

  ~ I had to either tell Ant to feck off completely or spend more time with him. It was time, as my dear daddy would say, to shit or get off the pot. Not that I was comparing the time I spent with Ant to either voiding my bowels or sitting on the loo for any other reason.

  ~ I had to prove to everyone – myself included – that I could do this. I could be a successful, happy, confident grown-up who didn’t need anyone else other than herself to be happy.

  The last of those, I guessed, would probably be the hardest but I was determined that I would make it happen. Perhaps Darcy was right – it wouldn’t be the first time – and I needed to just get the hell over myself.

  I arrived at work feeling a mixture of excitement and fear at the very thought of what could, or wouldn’t happen. I was very good at making lists. I just wasn’t very good at following through.

  I sat down, switched on my computer, opened my contacts book and set about making the Speed Dating Night at Manna the biggest success story NorthStar had ever seen.

  I arranged an appointment with the clients – one of those exclusive dating agencies who charged a fortune for the privilege – and I called a few event planners we had on our books. I discussed themes, and chair covers, and pink champagne. I called some of the local press – the same greedy journalists who this morning or the next would be swooning over their free samples of lipstick – and promised them press releases and invites if desired. I tasked a photographer with getting us a great image to use for the releases and spoke to the printers about a leaflet drop in the city’s fanciest bars.

  By lunchtime the only thing I hadn’t done was actually book Manna but I had decided to take my life in my hands and do that in person that afternoon.

  Fionn invited me for an FSB and I nipped out feeling strangely enthused and it obviously showed.

  “You look happier?” she offered.

  “I am and I’m not,” I replied. “But I’ll get there. I just have to take it one day at a time.”

  “Good way of thinking. I’m trying to adopt that approach myself. I’m trying to just keep going and hope that things right themselves.”

  I felt myself cringe. I knew that while I wasn’t entirely to blame for the problems in the Fionn/Alex relationship, I couldn’t escape the fact that I was partially to blame.

  I didn’t know what to say to her to make it better so I just nodded. At least that way I couldn’t make it worse. I figured she would talk to me, and tell me more, when she was ready to and until then I would keep my head down and do the best I could. I vowed to myself that when I nipped out for lunch I would pick up a packet of Maltesers and drop them on her desk when I returned.

  And I vowed that on my way back from Manna, I would stop off and pick up something really yummy for Darcy and me for dinner and then maybe we would chat. She hadn’t called or texted that morning and I
hoped she wasn’t still mad at me. I hadn’t called or texted her either but I had at least updated my Facebook status to say that I loved my sister very much, in the hope she would check in and see it. If I was lucky she might even click the wee button which would indicate she liked my update and that things weren’t terminal between us.

  But it seemed I just wasn’t that lucky.

  I sat outside Manna trying to slow my breathing. I had to remind myself I was a professional woman. I was more than able to deal with a business transaction. Pearse was not stubborn enough to turn down money being poured in his direction and, for the moment at least, Manna was still a client of NorthStar and had recently promised a wodge of cash to us in return for us upping its profile.

  And it was still on my books. I was still the account manager and I could do this. I could show myself – and Pearse – that I could make a success of this night and that I wasn’t the useless lump of nothing he thought I was.

  I fixed my make-up in the rear-view mirror – reapplying my lip gloss and dusting my face with some pressed powder. I lifted my bottle of perfume from my bag and sprayed it liberally on my pulse points. I ran my hairbrush through my hair, before twisting it and clipping it up high on top of my head. As I did a final check in the mirror, I noticed the pearl studs I was wearing were ones given to me by Pearse and for a second I contemplated taking them off – but even though he had been a complete prick to me, and I wasn’t exactly his favourite person in the world, I thought some memory of our time together might be a nice touch.

  Stepping out of the car I straightened down my skirt and jacket and slipped my feet out of my flat driving shoes into impossibly high heels. Then I tottered – briefcase in hand – into the lion’s den.

  Toni was in her usual place – propping up the reception desk, a pencil pushed through the loose bun on her head. I could see she had just had her hair highlighted and, if I wasn’t mistaken, her upper lip waxed. Her pristine white uniform blouse was also opened one button lower than normal with just a glimpse of black bra showing. She clearly knew Pearse was now absolutely and completely single and yet that did not stop her doing a double take when she saw me walk in.

  I was almost tempted to tell her, right then and there, that there was absolutely no chance whatsoever of repeating that dry hump on the office desk and that she was welcome to Pearse and all his garlicky, arrogant, candle-obsessed, wankerish git-dom from here on in.

  But that did not scream professionalism at me and I was, I reminded myself, to remain professional at all times.

  “Toni, is Pearse around?”

  She sniffed and looked at me mutely as if she was desperately trying to find a way to tell me to feck the hell off.

  “It’s purely business,” I offered and she nodded before lifting the small Bakelite phone on her desk and dialling through to the kitchen. She turned away from me when she spoke, however, and placed her hand over the receiver before whispering (not that quietly) that “Annie – yes, Annie – is front of house. She says it’s business.” I heard a slightly raised voice swear down the line at her before she turned to me, face blazing, to say Pearse would be out shortly and I was to take a seat in the bar.

  I smiled at her and picked up my briefcase before taking a seat at the bar and ordering a fizzy water from the friendly barman. I didn’t know him – he was new – but he obviously knew who I was and what had happened, as he told me with a wink that the drink was on the house.

  I had worked out how to pitch this and I actually felt really empowered, knowing that I had come up with some top-notch ideas. I sipped my wine and waited for Pearse. And waited. And waited. After twenty minutes Toni approached to say he had been held up with a kitchen emergency and would be held up for a while yet, but I could wait if I wanted to.

  So I waited, and waited. An hour had passed and my fizzy water had been topped up (still on the house). I had even nipped to the loo, hoping that the old adage that a watched kettle never boils also applied to a narky chef bothering himself to show up for a business meeting.

  My lip gloss was once again reapplied and I was just reading through the proposals for the fifteenth time when I heard footsteps approach from behind. I took a deep breath, steadied myself and turned to find myself face to face with a clean-shaven but otherwise very hairy Donegal man.

  He smiled, a slow sexy smile which may have started in his lips but twinkled in his deep blue eyes.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” he drawled and I felt my legs turn to jelly.

  I knew this was bad. Very, very bad. Here I was, with not even the excuse of having drink taken, feeling incredibly turned on by a very virile and hunky man while waiting for my ex to walk out of his kitchen and conduct what was bound to be a very terse business meeting with me.

  I once again took a deep breath – realising I was now at risk of hyperventilating – and smiled back at Ant. “I’m here on business actually.”

  “Hmmm, that’s disappointing. There was me hoping you were stalking me.”

  “But I was here first. Maybe you’re stalking me?” I offered with a raised eyebrow.

  “Maybe I am. After all, I’ve tried every other method of getting your attention – phone-calls, texts, flowers . . .”

  I blushed (ignoring the fact he might actually really be stalking me). “I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy.”

  “But you’re here now,” he said with a wink, sitting on the bar stool beside me.

  “And I’m working,” I repeated.

  “Anything interesting? Any other sex – sorry, adult entertainment shops to promote or the like?” He looked most amused.

  “Actually, I’m planning a Speed Dating Night and we’re hoping to use this place as a venue. Manna is one of our biggest clients.”

  “It’s a nice place all right. I’ve just had lunch here with a few colleagues. But watch out for that Pearse Campbell. I hear he’s a complete tosser. All mouth and no trousers.”

  I laughed – a strange strangulated high-pitched effort – just as the very same all-mouth-and-no-trousers effort came walking out of the kitchen in his chef whites with a face on him like thunder.

  “Annie,” he said, “what could you possibly be doing here?”

  Ant looked at me, and at Pearse, and then blushed every so slightly. “So I take you are acquainted then?”

  “I would say that is one way to describe it,” Pearse said and a small voice in my head just begged him not to say any more.

  “What other kind of way would you describe it?” Ant said with a raised eyebrow.

  This was not the professional start to the business meeting I was hoping for.

  The wee voice in my head got louder.

  Pearse looked at Ant, at me and then back at Ant. “And you are?” he asked.

  “Anthony Dunne. A friend of Annie’s.”

  “Well, I’m Pearse Campbell, an ex-friend of Annie’s.” Disgust was written all over his face.

  I knew I had to say something very quickly before he worked out that Ant might well be the new friend who had been the catalyst to our relationship going to the wall.

  “Oh but Pearse,” I said, plastering a smile on my face, “we don’t have to be friends to do business.”

  “That much is true,” he said.

  Ant watched, vaguely amused by it all.

  I turned to him and excused myself. “I’m sorry, Ant, but I really do need to talk to Pearse about a business matter. We’ll catch up later.”

  “Yes, I hope we do. You have my number, Annie. Use it.”

  The meaning behind his words was obvious and as he sauntered away I had to forcibly stop myself from staring at him until he was out of the room.

  “Is that him?” Pearse asked.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I replied quickly. “Look, Pearse, I have a proposal for you.”

  “Annie, be honest with me. Was that him? The one who sent the flowers?”

  “No,” I lied, desperate to get this meeting back on track as quick
ly as possible.

  “Well, if it is him,” said Pearse, “you really are scraping the bottle of the barrel now, aren’t you?”

  I bit my tongue. I would not rise to his bait. I would not tell him that actually when I was seeing him I was scraping the bottom of the barrel and, in comparison, Ant was floating somewhere near the top of the barrel even though he might, or might not, simply be using me to get his end away.

  “Pearse, can we talk please about the real reason I’m here? I’m here on NorthStar business – a proposal which could benefit both Manna and our newest clients . . .”

  Pearse listened, his head for business once again becoming more important than anything we had ever shared on a personal level.

  I outlined our plans – canapés, wine, chat, candles, press coverage and maybe making it a regular event.

  “So what you are proposing is getting all the losers who can’t get a date elsewhere lumping into my restaurant and salivating over each other?” he asked.

  “No, not at all,” I replied. “Our clients are high end. There would be a considerable fee for people looking to take part in the events. We are aiming this at the professional market. And, as I’ve said, we could go for it on Thursday nights which are traditionally on the quiet side for Manna. Initially we’ll market it as a one-off – just to see how it goes – but if it goes well this could be big news. Think of the revenue. Our clients will be paying top dollar for a selection of your finest canapés – maybe you could put on a tapas spread or something, I’ll leave that to you. You know what you’re doing, Pearse. You could do this in your sleep.”