He adds and shapes, checking frequently to see how the dress sits against the model. It is all about proportion, about how the width complements the height. When he is relatively happy with the chest area he moves on to the waist, using the foam to widen it. He then moves on to the hips. It is more time-consuming than he had expected because if he feels the proportions don’t sit well he must decide where to remove the foam from. This alters the whole shape and then he has to begin the process again.
Eventually he is happy with the dimensions. He pulls the dress at the back so it hugs the frame and he ties a knot in the material to keep the size. He takes to the armchair and nods slowly, examining his creation. Ignore the head and it doesn’t look too bad, he thinks.
The hips are big compared with the bust. A mistake or on purpose, he isn’t truly sure, but he is happy with it. He can always make alterations if he feels the bust is too big or too small or if he feels the waist could do with another inch or two.
He drinks a beer to celebrate his progress.
When finished, Tom notices a telephone directory under the small table next to the door. It is an old one, 2008, the thick end has blackened from dust and the cover is shredded at the edges, crinkled.
It rests on a Yellow Pages directory, a pile of magazines underneath, newspapers, a number of copies of Ireland’s Own, The Big Issue, The Local News from early last year. There are half a dozen free ad papers too. He carries the telephone directory over to the armchair with the bone-like armrests and begins to look for the name ‘McCarthy’. The beer has affected his judgement and he opens it on ‘E’, then skips to ‘H’ before landing on ‘L’. He moves in a forward direction bit by bit until he gets to ‘M’.
There are a lot of numbers with the name ‘McCarthy’ in the book. He skims down the columns and eventually finds a small bunch with the name ‘Sarah’. There are none in her hometown of Rossboyne, a couple in Meath and Kildare, three in Dublin.
It’s worth a shot, Tom thinks. What have I got to lose?
Tom’s first call reaches an answer machine. The recorded voice is female, a heavy Dublin accent. It is certainly not his Sarah. He tries another and his call is answered after a wait. It is a woman again, her voice groggy, as if she has been disturbed from sleep.
‘Speaking,’ she grumbles when he asks for Sarah.
Tom suddenly realises that he doesn’t know where to go from here. This is partly because he had never really expected to reach this point. It is just a series of small actions that have somehow led him to be talking to a stranger on the phone.
‘Hello, are you still there?’ the woman asks.
‘Yes, sorry. I’m looking for Sarah.’
‘Yes,’ her tone is angry. ‘I’m Sarah.’
‘I was just wondering,’ he stumbles on. ‘Did you know a Tom Stacey when you were younger?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Tom Stacey.’
‘Are you asking me if I know a different Tom Stacey or if I know you?’
‘Me, I’m Tom Stacey, do you know me?’
‘Do you realise what time it is?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. Hang on,’ Tom looks to the spot where his watch usually is.
‘I’ll tell you what time it is,’ she says. ‘It’s ten past twelve. That’s what time it is.’
‘That late?’
‘Yes, that late,’ she rasps. ‘So why don’t you and Tom Stacey just fuck off.’
The line goes dead. Tom’s face burns with embarrassment.
He puts the telephone directory away and returns to his own bed-sit.
Chapter 11
Tom takes his camera for an outing after work on Tuesday. It is draped from his neck by a shoelace as he walks the main street of the town. There are plenty of women worth photographing but every time he approaches one an image flashes into his head, a photographer rapid-clicking in front of a semi-naked young girl. For some reason the photographer has a cockney accent and has shoulder-length blonde hair, blow-dried and brushed backward on his crown.
Lovely babe. Jus’ lovely.
He needs to sit down.
He sits down.
He takes a deep breath.
He forces himself to think of the expedition in scientific terms, in that he needs the input of these photographs in order to get a reliable output and that the more varying the inputs the better the chance he will have of finding his perfect match.
You can do this.
He thinks of Charles Darwin.
What if he had just hidden in a lava cave when he reached the Galapagos Islands?
What if he had not had the courage to explore?
Do it for Darwin.
Do it for science.
Do it for the evolution of Tom Stacey.
The blood pumps in his temples. His nerves jump and tingle. His eyesight becomes tunnel-like.
Adrenaline, he thinks. He needs this adrenaline.
I am a photographer.
I am a scientific photographer.
He stands and walks over to the nearest woman to him. She is a grey-haired lady in a pale raincoat. She clutches two bags of shopping and is trundling towards the butchers.
‘Can I take your photograph?’ Tom blurts out when he is next to her.
‘No,’ she replies quickly, her bags swinging forward with the suddenness of her halt.
‘Okay,’ Tom says, aware that his voice is too loud.
He turns and walks away, his cheeks a burning heat. That wasn’t so bad, he thinks.
Tom holds on to this thought and the adrenaline. He uses it, makes his way down the main street and asks another woman if she would like her photograph taken. He receives the same answer, always the same answer, but the more he asks the less uncomfortable it feels.
Pretty soon he is asking every woman he meets.
Tom quickly realises that people don’t have the time to stop. Or smile, nod or acknowledge you in any way if you are trying to get their attention on a street. Of course there is the camera to add as another disincentive. He has always been aware of the fact that some women don’t like to have their photographs taken but he never knew the extent of their resistance. Near violence in some cases.
Tuesday could be another part of the problem, he thinks. To Tom, Tuesday is the kind of day that likes to hide amid the other days, the type of day that could fall out of the week with very little reaction. Nothing usually happens on Tuesdays, and for this reason people are conditioned to expect little from the day, which means they don’t make much of an effort, certainly not in the sense of choosing what to wear for the day. As soon as he mentions the word ‘photograph’ to some of the women their initial reaction is to check their outfit, followed by a flat refusal. And on the occasions where Tom has pointed out that it doesn’t matter what they are wearing, the angry reaction seems to intensify.
Bloody Tuesdays!
So the first part of his task involves a lot of negative responses, rapid twisting and turning amid the traffic of people, a variety of mumbled curses aimed his way, and the half-hearted raising of his arm in an effort to gain more attention. He only finds one willing participant, a forty-something blonde woman with an excessive amount of make-up and a T-shirt that says ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’ on the front. She places her right hand on her hip and sticks out her behind when he moves to take her photograph.
Tom concentrates on the face area.
‘Your eyes really stand out,’ he says and clicks. ‘Did you know that some cats have blue eyes too?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes, unfortunately it’s caused by a neurological disorder.’
‘Oh.’
‘There’s also a lemur with blue eyes. It’s called the Black Lemur,’ he steps closer and takes another shot. ‘They are prone to weight issues though, ye know, especially in captivity.’ He brings the camera to his side. ‘Yes, obesity is a big problem for the Black Lemur.’
Her behind retreats, her arms fold and she w
alks off with a cold look on her face.
Tom needs a different tack. He contemplates how photographers take pictures of fearful animals in the wild all the time, considers how they take up positions where the animal will not see them.
If the animal doesn’t come to them, they go to the animal.
Bus stops.
Of course, why didn’t he think of this before? There are always women at bus stops. And he’ll be gone before they even know he was there.
Tom goes on the hunt.
He strikes it lucky straight away. Two women are standing in a queue, one staring at the ground, the other looking at approaching traffic and tapping her foot impatiently. He conceals the camera within his coat and pretends to read the timetable on the rotating section of the bus stop. Before long he is not pretending any more and he notices that the 327A departs from the city centre every fifteen, minutes apart from a twenty-minute gap between 4.15 and 4.35, and this seems like such a strange alteration that he can’t help but think that the whole timetable is ruined by it. The roaring of a car horn breaks his concentration. He looks away from the timetable to find that the women are still there.
He lifts the camera, focuses and clicks.
He ducks behind the timetable and is gone.
Tom believes they are probably wondering if they had even seen him at all.
The Shadow.
He moves in silence.
Smooth and sleek.
One minute he’s there, the next he is gone.
The Shadow!
A woman in a café. She is nibbling on a scone while flicking through a magazine. He readies the camera at his side before moving in front of her. She looks up at his presence. He clicks and is gone.
The Shadow.
Like a flicker in the water.
Or the blink of an eye.
Was he here or is he there?
The Shadow!
A woman waiting at the traffic lights. Click.
Two women standing in front of a parking meter. Click.
Exiting a clothes shop. Click.
Topping up a phone. Click.
Reading a book. Click.
Searching in a handbag. Click.
The Shadow!
Is he real or in your imagination?
As stealthy as a cat.
As fast as a thought.
Can you see him or can you not?
The Shad—
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
The policeman is tall and broad at the shoulders, mid-twenties, with a face that looks like it has been removed at some point, ruffled up a bit before being carelessly thrown back on again. There is a gorilla in Dublin Zoo, a fat-headed beast of solid muscle with a back like a worn rug, perpetually watchful and perpetually scowling. His name is Harry. And Tom sees this gorilla when he looks at the policeman. Garda Harry, he thinks, and lowers his camera.
‘Nothing,’ Tom says. ‘Just taking a few pictures.’
‘Of what?’
‘People.’
‘I’ve been watching you for the last five minutes and it seems to me that the only people you’re taking pictures of are women.’
Tom nods.
‘Why?’
‘It’s kind of a long story.’
‘Well you better start telling it because I’ve had a complaint that there’s some pervert taking pictures of women at bus stops.’
‘No,’ Tom says. ‘It’s nothing like that. Jesus, no.’ Tom rubs his hands together, briefly wonders if this is something that a pervert might do and stops immediately. ‘I’m not a pervert.’
‘I’ll decide that,’ Garda Harry says. ‘Go on.’
‘The pictures are for research purposes.’
Garda Harry raises a single eyebrow.
‘I’m trying to gather photographs for,’ Tom stops.
There is an electricity box adjacent to a nearby wall. It buzzes gently.
‘For what?’ Garda Harry asks.
‘For the,’ Tom scratches his head. ‘To represent a kind of ideal female face.’
‘What?’
Bzzzzzzz
‘What?’ Tom shakes his head.
Bzzzzzzzzz
‘Who’s the research for?’ Garda Harry questions.
‘It’s for a dating agency.’
‘And you work for this dating agency?’
‘No, I’m just a member.’
Bzzzzzzz
‘So it’s not for a dating agency?’
‘It is. It’s just, I’ve told them that I’m doing it. I didn’t go into too much detail but …’ Tom trails off. ‘You know.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ the policeman shakes his head. ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all.’ He begins to bite his lip.
Tom recognises this as a sign of someone coming to a decision. He sees himself in prison, a stripy outfit and a ball and chain locked to his ankle. He can’t go to jail. There are no windows in jail.
The buzzing intensifies.
‘It’s the truth,’ he says loudly. ‘It’s like pandas, ye know.’ Tom speaks quickly, filling the space, not sure if it is the link between gorillas and wildlife which causes him to think of pandas. But once he starts talking he finds it difficult to stop, despite the darkening of Garda Harry’s face, and the fact that a number of people are standing beside him, watching, unmoving, heads bowed and mouths open. ‘People think they’re fussy at choosing a mate but it’s not true,’ Tom blabbers. ‘You see, the female panda is only in her reproductive cycle for about five days. Now, I’m not saying that women have the same reproductive cycle as a panda or anything like that, but what I’m saying is that it’s mad that a male can find a female in the wild in that space of time, while she’s still fertile, ye know. But it happens. And it happens because for those few days he knows exactly what he wants and the female panda knows exactly what she wants and so it happens. And that’s what I’m doing. But in a slightly different way.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m just trying this out for the agency, that’s all. I’m not a pervert.’
The policeman stares at him. Tom is afraid of those eyes. They are hard and unblinking and he gets the feeling that they see a lot more than what is right in front of them.
‘Give me your name and address,’ Garda Harry takes a small black notebook from the inside pocket of his coat, flicks through the pages, finds a blank one and writes down the address that Tom gives him.
‘This is the deal,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll give you two seconds to get out of here but don’t think you’re off the hook or anything. I’ll be watching out for you and if I see you taking any more pictures or hanging—’
‘I’m not a—’ Tom tries to interrupt.
Harry holds his hand up.
‘Or hanging around any women,’ he continues, ‘I’ll arrest you. And if I hear of any complaints about creepy perverts around here I’ll be calling straight to this house,’ he taps the notebook.
‘Bed-sit,’ Tom corrects.
‘Fuck off,’ Harry says.
Tom doesn’t hang around.
Tom spots the eyes as he passes the apartment block opposite his bed-sit. They belong to a woman exiting the building, a knobbly type of woman, so thin that the contours of her bones are clearly defined under her white blouse. She has brown hair, dyed so it has a coarse and stringy appearance. Her other features are overshadowed, outplayed even by those eyes. They are large and round, a glossy white and the irises the fairest of blue, so fair that they are almost grey.
They are beautiful.
He has to have a picture.
What about the policeman?
The eyes are worth the risk.
Her walk reminds him of a foal some hours after it has been born. It seems to lack full control, her bony limbs flung outward as if compensating for her limited balance. She is quick though and Tom has to push himself to keep up. She stops at a second-hand clothes shop. Her breath fogs the glass. Tom is almost upon her but s
he moves again. Down a side street, cobblestones the colour of jaded flower pots, framed with moss and slender blades of grass. Her step looks even more precarious on these, clown-like.
Tom hears circus music.
Pa-Rump Rump Rum-rump.
Par-ra-rump Rump Rum-rump.
Roll up, roll up.
The elasticated, elongated, dingly-dangly dancing lady.
Pa-Rump Rump Rum-rump
Par-ra-rump Rump Rum-rump.
A higgledy-piggledy performance of preposterous proportions.
Under the archway in the eternal shadow of corroded brickwork, a hurried rush two steps ahead, by the small record store which offers music to the minority, anti-popular protesters and haters of chart, past the second-hand bookshop that seems to have an unhealthy obsession with military memorabilia. She stops again in front of a café. There are metal chairs with hollow legs, the type so light that they slide too easily and tilt when someone moves to stand. A border separates the café from the pedestrians, waist high, made of canvas with the café’s logo printed on it, a series of thin posts with fat bases keeping it in place.
She checks her watch.
Tom walks up to her and she looks at him.
He looks at her eyes.
She bites her lip and fidgets with the sleeve of her blouse.
‘Can I take your photo?’ Tom asks.
She looks at the small camera.
‘No thanks.’
‘It’ll only take a second.’
‘I’d prefer if you didn’t.’
‘Maybe I could just take a photo of your eyes?’
‘No,’ she slowly moves to the side away from him.
‘One eye?’ Tom asks.
A man comes from their left, dark hair brushed to the side, pointed nose and chunky Desperate Dan-type chin, a blue V-neck jumper, the shirt underneath buttoned to the top.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asks. ‘Is this fella hassling you?’
‘It’s all right, John,’ she tugs on his arm and starts to walk. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Are you hassling her?’ he asks Tom.
‘No,’ Tom says and raises the camera half-heartedly.
‘Come on John,’ she says.
A Model Partner Page 10