by Alex Coleman
She had chosen this as the least horrible of the options available to her. But now that she’d said it, she was filled with such a profound sense of guilt that she began to feel unwell all over again.
“Oh,” James said. “Bad taste in duds? That’s not so terrible.”
“This is good coming from you,” Peter said to Holly. And then his eyes turned to saucers. “Wait . . . Wait . . . There’s a joke in there somewhere. Pot, kettle, black . . . Hang on, give me a minute.”
Holly puffed out some air. “We haven’t got time for your tiny mind to cobble together a feeble crack, Peter, thank you very much.” She returned her attention to James. “You’re right. It’s not so bad. If Orla had someone else doing her clothes shopping for her, she’d be beating them back with a stick, lemme tell you.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
“Good.”
“Now – what are we going to do? I don’t think John would go for the whole blind date thing. He’d be too nervous.”
“No. Neither would Orla. And besides, I wouldn’t like her to think that I was intervening. She has her pride.”
“So has John,” James said.
“Jesus, look at the time,” Peter said. “We have to go. You can work this out later.”
Holly and James looked at each other. Simultaneously, they squinted with concentration. Apparently, neither wanted to get up from the table before a plan had been formed. Holly joined her hands together and rested her chin on them. James followed suit and added a raised eyebrow to the mix.
“We could just get them to the same place at the same time,” he said slowly. “Introduce them and see what happens. I’ll bring him, you bring her.”
“We just bump into each other accidentally . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Somewhere informal. Relaxed.”
“Exactly.”
“Low pressure.”
“They mustn’t suspect a thing.”
“I’m off now,” Peter said, getting up. “If you want a lift, I’d suggest –”
“Cinema?” James ventured. “We all go to the same flick and afterwards just happen to meet up in –”
“Nah. They could just wander off. We have to meet at the start of whatever it is.”
“Dinner, then? Join tables?”
“Maybe . . . ”
“Pub?”
“I don’t know. Seating arrangements could be tricky. They might never even talk to each other. We need something active, something fun, something where we’re bustling around each other, y’know, interacting. Plus, if it’s a bit different we can use that as a selling-point. Not just the same old pub and restaurant shite.”
“Yeah, that’s true. What about bowling? John loves bowling.”
“Bowling,” Holly said, trying the word out. “Bowling. Bowling.”
“Bowling it is!” Peter said and walked off, his patience finally gone.
Holly and James gave each other one last squint.
“Bowling,” they said together.
Chapter 8
Holly was surprised – stunned, really – by Aisling’s response to the blind-date plan. She had expected her to argue with it for no better reason than she hadn’t thought of it herself. But no.
“Fucking deadly,” she said when Holly rang her from home. “And bowling’s perfect. Orla loved it when we went on my birthday. She laughed her ass off the whole way through. And ate three or four hot dogs.”
This was a habit of Aisling’s that Holly had never quite got used to – referring to events in the distant past as if they had only just happened (and displaying a quite freakish ability to recall the details). They had indeed gone bowling together, just once. Holly guessed that this was in 1994, maybe 1995. Her own memories of it were somewhat hazy. She seemed to recall a lot of noise and heat and a general sense of being out of her natural environment.
“Right.”
“So, what’s the story? Are you being all self-sacrificing now?”
“Sorry?”
“Bowling. You hate bowling.”
Holly frowned down the line. “Do I?”
“Well, you certainly hated it that time. You gave out shite for about a week afterwards.”
“Did I?”
“Jesus, Holly, are you losing track of all the things you can’t stand? It can’t be easy, right enough. Maybe you should keep a journal of some kind. Or do up a spreadsheet.”
“Piss off.”
“I’m telling you – you hated it. A lot. Even by your standards. I can’t believe you don’t remember this. You had an argument with the people in the next row or strip or whatever they’re –”
“Lane.”
“Lane. You had an argument with the people in the next lane because they were making animal noises. We presumed they were high? One of them threw a can of Fanta at your head?”
Suddenly, there it was, the whole scene. “That’s right,” Holly marvelled. “It’s coming back to me. They were doing cows and monkeys . . .”
“That was them. Even apart from the Fanta-throwing and all, though, you were miserable. Complained all night long. I gave out yards to you about ruining my birthday.”
“Yeah, that rings another bell.”
“But you might be thinking of another time I gave out to you for ruining my birthday by complaining all night.”
“Har-de-har.”
“Right, so you’re not being all self-sacrificing. You just forgot that you hate bowling.”
“Hm. Anyway. It’s still a good plan. Tomorrow night then?”
“I’ll be there. Can’t wait to get a look at this Bond . . . James Bond. See if he’s as good-looking as you say.”
“Hang on, I didn’t say he was good-looking. I said he looked like an anchorman.”
“Yeah, and they tend to be good-looking. Is he much of a bowler?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He seems to breeze through everything, that one, so he’ll probably turn out to be brilliant at it.”
“Yeah. And he might be a good bowler too. Wa-hey!”
“Christ. It’s like being friends with Julian Clary.”
“Thanks!”
“That wasn’t a compliment, Aisling.”
Holly took a few minutes to gather her thoughts before making her next call. She made herself some tea and tried to interest Claude in a toy she’d bought on a whim a few weeks previously. It was something akin to a thin plastic fishing rod with a bell and ball combination instead of a hook. He ignored it completely when she dangled it in front of his face and trailed it along the ground around him. She did manage to get a reaction when she bounced the ball on top of his head but it was hardly the one she’d been hoping for. Rather than seizing it with his mighty jaws or even giving it a playful swipe, he simply got up off his hunkers and moved a foot to one side, all the while staring at her with an expression of deep disappointment. Holly gave up at that point and returned to the sofa, phone in hand.
Okay, she told herself. Nice and easy. Casual. Cool as a breeze. Like Saturday night never happened. She dialled.
“Hiya. It’s me.”
“Well. What’s up?”
“Not much. Listen: I was wondering if you fancied doing something tomorrow night. Something different.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I was thinking maybe, I don’t know . . . bowling?”
There was a pause.
“Bowling? You hate bowling. We tried it once, didn’t we? Ages ago?”
“I don’t know, I think –”
“No, wait, we did. Definitely. You hated it.”
“Well, you know me, Orla. I’m not one to hold grudges. I’m willing to give it another try, if it’ll have me.”
“I don’t get it. What brought this on?”
Holly had an answer all ready for that one. “I’m just sick of pubs and restaurants. Aren’t you sick of pubs and restaurants? Same old thing, every weekend. I just thought we should branch out, you know? It was either bowling or Go-Ka
rting.”
Orla made an alarming noise. For a moment, Holly was sure she was choking on something. Then she realised that the raspy gurgle had not been prompted by a wayward peanut but by simple excitement.
“Ooh! Go-Karting! To hell with bowling! Let’s do that! That’s a brilliant idea!”
“Uh –”
“You know Top Gear? They do that celebrity time trial thing? Every time I see Gloria Hunniford or someone pootling around at fifteen miles an hour, I get a serious urge –”
“One thing at a time, Orla, one thing at a time. Let’s give plain old bowling a shot and if we like that, maybe we’ll try something with crash helmets.”
“Have you ever been Go-Karting?”
Holly silently cursed herself for her choice of fictional alternative activity. She should have said Pitch’n’Putt, she now realised. Orla’s hatred for golf was a matter of public record and presumably applied to the sport’s little brother too. “No, Orla, I’ve never been Go-Karting.”
“Well, then. Who knows? You might love it. And we know for a fact that you hate bowling. Doesn’t it make sense to at least give ourselves a chance of all having a good time?”
“Yeah, but –”
“Let me put it another way,” Orla continued. “I quite like the idea of bowling. But I’m not going with you. Sorry. I just don’t want to listen to all the bitching.”
Holly’s mind raced ahead. Could she rearrange the whole thing and have James show up at a Go-Karting track somewhere? She supposed she could; she had his number. But what would be the point? John and Orla weren’t going to get to know each other while whizzing about at speed. And besides, for all she knew, James had already made his call. How would it look if he had to ring again to tell his friend that his sudden, irresistible urge to roll a heavy ball along the floor had changed into a sudden, irresistible urge to drive a glorified lawn-mower around in a circle? No – there was nothing for it. She would have to somehow talk Orla into bowling without making it sound like too much of a big deal.
“What if I promise not to bitch?” she asked tentatively.
“No offence,” Orla began. “But when it comes to bitching, your promises aren’t worth –”
“All right, all right. Jesus. I don’t know why it popped into my head. It just suddenly seemed like a really good idea.”
“It isn’t. Go-Karting is a really good idea.”
Holly saw that she had no chance of getting anywhere while this was a choice between bowling and the thing Orla actually wanted to do. Her only chance was to make it a choice between bowling and nothing. “Well,” she sighed, doing her best to sound genuinely saddened, “it looks like we’re out of runway. Because I, for one, am definitely not getting into a Go-Kart. That ain’t happening.”
“Okay. Back to the pub or restaurant, so.”
“Looks that way.”
“Sure does.”
“Oh well.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Pity. Aisling will be disappointed too. I just called her and she was very keen.”
“So? Maybe if I called her and suggested Go-Karting she’d be very keen on that too.”
“That’s a laugh. Aisling would never put on a helmet of any kind. Think of the havoc it would wreak with her hair.”
At that point, Orla suddenly opted out of the jokey back-and-forth routine they’d got going. “What’s going on here, Holly?” she asked. “You sound weird. This is all very suspicious.”
“What? I don’t know –”
“Is this something to do with a man?”
Holly’s heart-rate doubled. “What? What makes you say that?”
“It is, isn’t it? You’ve met some bloke who works in a bowling alley and you’re trying to drag us along while you scope him out.”
“Oh! No. God, no. Honestly, Orla. No. Nothing to do with men. It’ll be a laugh. Come on. Please.”
Orla didn’t reply immediately but Holly could hear her breathing down the line. Cogs were definitely turning.
“If you do any complaining,” Orla said then, “about the noise or the morons in the next lane over or the rules of the game or the taste of the munchies or anything – I’m leaving right away. Got it?”
“Right. Got it.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Cross my heart.”
“All right then. Where and what time?”
The plan that Holly and James had concocted between them via text message was a simple one. The girls would arrive at the MegaBowl in Blanchardstown at eight; the boys would follow at eight thirty. James would spot Holly (or vice versa) and suggest that they make one party. This was the tricky bit. There was every chance that Orla or John – or both – would be unhappy with this arrangement and cut their evening short. But that was an unavoidable risk; they would just have to keep their fingers crossed.
Holly and Orla shared a taxi while Aisling made her own arrangements. There was almost no chance that the latter would be on time, Holly had assumed. But she was wrong. As they pulled up at the MegaBowl, she glanced out of the window and saw that Aisling was standing by the entrance tapping her watch.
“What time do you call this?” she said when they approached.
“I call it five to eight,” Holly replied. “Let me guess – you got the time mixed up.”
Aisling didn’t even bother to deny it. “Yeah . . . I thought we said seven.”
“And what time did you get here?”
“Seven thirty. I remembered as soon as I arrived. I’ve been standing here like an eejit for half an hour.”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Holly corrected. “We’re early – as opposed to wrong. Okay then. Shall we?”
“We shall.”
They trooped inside where they met a quartet of teenage boys coming in the opposite direction. One of their number – he couldn’t have been more than sixteen – stopped dead and looked Aisling over from head to toe, pausing along the way at the more obvious landmarks. “Now we’re talking,” he said. “Just the way I like ‘em.” He swivelled as she passed and gave her another once-over, this time from the rear. “Front and back,” he said approvingly. “What’s your name, darlin’? Aw, don’t run off, don’t be shy.”
His mates cracked up as only teenage boys can, falling over each other and cackling like wild dogs. Holly slowed, stopped, then turned to face him.
“Wow,” she said. “So it’s true . . . excessive masturbationdoes cause spots. I always thought that was just a myth.”
The boy’s hand went reflexively to the crusty landscape of his forehead. As soon as he became conscious of the move, he pretended that he was merely running his hand through his hair. This made him look even more ridiculous and he seemed to realise as much. His friends did their best to show some solidarity by putting a lid on their laughter, but it proved too much for them; almost immediately they collapsed into even greater hysteria. As she turned away from them again, Holly felt a heavy wave of satisfaction roll over her. Aisling and Orla hadn’t so much as broken stride and she had to break into a trot to catch up with them. Neither of them mentioned the teenagers. Holly didn’t either. Par for the course.
“Quiet, isn’t it?” Aisling said. “I would have thought it would be busier on a Saturday night.”
“I would have thought just the opposite,” Orla said. “People have better things to do. Like Go-Karting”
Holly pretended not to have noticed this response. She’d heard several swipes in the car on the way over. They were playful, she’d assumed, rather than malicious and would probably taper off if ignored.
“All the better if it’s quiet,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of –”
The word “lanes” died on her lips. James Bond and another man – John Lennon, presumably – were coming through the door.
“What’s wrong?” Orla said.
Earlier in the day, Holly had given a lot of thought to the moment when she would have to fake surprise at bumping into a colleague; she’d even
practised a little, staring wide-eyed into the bathroom mirror. Now she realised that she needn’t have bothered. She was genuinely startled. And judging by the expression on his face – he had spotted her right away – so was James.
“Nothing. Just, that’s, eh . . . that guy over there is the new sub. At school.”
Orla spun around, as did Aisling. James had already started towards them, one hand raised in greeting. John Lennon stayed put, just inside the front door.
“Hi, James,” Holly said when he arrived. “Small world.”
“It sure is,” he said. Then he smiled too broadly and for too long. Holly tried to communicate with her eyes that she had come at the right time and that he was early. She wasn’t at all sure that the message got through.
“Oh, these are my friends,” she said then, “Aisling and Orla.”
“Hello, Aisling,” he said extending a hand and giving two brisk shakes. “I’m James Bond.” The name had barely left his lips before he rolled his eyes and said, “If you have any jokes on the subject, feel free. I won’t mind. If you have something original, I might even laugh.”
“James Bond?” Aisling said. “Really? Wow. But there’ll be no jokes. Holly has us well-trained on that score. Name jokes are a no-no around here.”
James twinkled at her. She flipped her hair.
“Hi,” Orla said as he turned and took her hand. “Orla.”
Holly’s toes clenched. Was it her imagination or had there been a certain stiffness about this opener? No comment on his name, even?
“Hi, Orla,” James said. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, are you a big bowling fan?” Holly asked him as innocently as she could.
“Not really,” he said. “We were just bored, so we thought we’d give it a go. You get sick of doing the same old thing every weekend, don’t you? Pubs and restaurants, that’s all we ever seem to do.”
Orla went up on her toes. “Wow, that’s weird. That’s what Holly said. I mean, that’s exactly what Holly said.”
“There you go,” James said. “Great minds and all that.”
“Who’s your friend?” Aisling asked. “Isn’t he going to come over?”
Holly was impressed with the acting, if not the material. John was already looking a little forlorn and out of place; Aisling’s intervention had only served to draw attention to that fact. James glanced behind him, then waved.