Kerry is always dragging me out to restaurants even though all she ever seems to eat is just one or two garlic mushrooms. I, on the other hand, have been trained by my mother to clean my plate so that’s what I do. I think Kerry must have an eating disorder. I mean, the girl is constantly going on about chocolate and crisps and what she had to eat for breakfast and what she’s going to have for dinner. In the meantime she just seems to get thinner and thinner. I, however, am always on some kind of a crazy diet, which usually leads me to putting on more weight because after two days I usually just go ‘ah feck this,’ and pig out on a whole cake or something.
Do you know what I once did? I went down to my local Tesco’s and bought a huge box of Milk Tray all for myself. And I felt terribly guilty about it. So guilty in fact that I started explaining to the girl at the checkout that the chocolates were for a friend of mine. As if the woman gave a fig!
‘Is that all you’re having?’ Amy stares at my salad.
I try to refrain myself from glaring at her. Why do thin people always comment on other people’s food? It’s a bit rich, isn’t it? It seems that the thinner they are, the more concerned they are about other people not eating enough.
‘I’m not that hungry,’ I explain wearily.
Her plate is full of pasta. I bet she won’t eat half of it but I will polish off my salad drenched in a high calorific dressing. I ask for a large Diet Coke and Amy asks for a regular Coke. Is she trying to prove a point? Oh maybe I’m just being paranoid. It’s very late. If I were at home I’d be in bed.
‘I wonder where the rest of the crew are?’ Amy says, as we take a seat.
‘I dunno, none of them rang me to see what I was doing.’
‘Nor me.’ Amy looks a bit miffed. As if there’s a possibility that the rest of the crew have organised a big night out without us. I couldn’t give a tinker’s curse what the others are up to. It’s bad enough being cooped up in a large metal container with them for hours, without us all organising to meet up again as soon as we land. I mean we need a bloody break from each other!
‘Show us what you bought,’ Amy grabs my plastic bag like an excited child. When God was dishing out lessons in subtlety, Amy was obviously off getting her nails done.
‘Oh look, you got People! I love that magazine,’ she pulls it out of the bag. Luckily for me it’s just People she’s waving in the air, and not some saucy, erotic magazine.
If there’s one thing that drives me absolutely mad it’s someone reading a magazine I’ve bought before I’ve even had a chance to read it myself. Amy is busy flicking through the magazine and commenting on all the celebrities.
‘Would you look at the state of your woman?’ She points to a singing diva in a low cut sparkly dress. ‘If I’d a figure like that I’d keep it well covered up.’
I stare at her plate of pasta that she has already passed to one side. ‘Aren’t you finishing your dinner?’ I enquire.
‘Nah, I’m stuffed.’
See what I mean? She must be related to my pal, Kerry.
‘Oh look, there’s your man.’
‘What man?’
‘The one you were going on about earlier, Adam Kirrane.’
I feel my stomach muscles tense. I crane for a look at my own magazine but I can only see Adam’s picture upside down. I almost want to grab the magazine and clock Amy over the head with it.
‘He’s looking well there,’ she comments.
I say nothing. She’s staring at him and I suddenly feel very protective of Adam’s photo. I mean, anyone on the street can just walk into a shop, buy his photo and keep it and comment on it or slate it or whatever. And there’s nothing he can say in his defence. It’s the price of fame I suppose, but I’m not sure I like it.
‘Here, show it to me,’ I pull the magazine towards me. I stare at the image and it’s hard for me to imagine I even know the guy, never mind the fact that we dined together last night. Adam is wearing a white tuxedo and he’s at some party in LA. He looks relaxed, suntanned, happy and quite at ease with being in the spotlight. I wonder when the photo was taken. I wonder has he seen it yet. After all, it’s quite an achievement for an Irish actor to feature in a big American magazine like that.
Suddenly I feel very insecure. After all what would a huge star like that be doing with someone like me? What if he just sees me as another plaything, like a curious child in a toy department store? The very same guy could quite easily click his fingers and have his pick of the world’s female population. Maybe I’m getting in over my head here. Perhaps I should leave while the EXIT sign is still visible. Oh God, I don’t really know what to do. I’d love to see a fortuneteller now. I just want to know where all this is going. My heart is fragile enough without letting somebody else throw it on the ground to stomp on.
I push the magazine away again. I don’t want to look at Adam’s photo anymore. What’s the point of thinking about him and trying to figure out where all this is going? He’d probably freak if he realised how much I was reading into last night’s date. God I wish I wasn’t such a romantic, I really do. But sometimes I want my life to be just like the movies. I want love at first sight; lights, camera and action.
‘Do you want to go around any more of the shops?’ Amy asks.
No I don’t. I’ll go around the shops again when I’m not this tired. Anyway, I’m not keen on shopping with other people. It’s a pain. I just want to go to a bar now. And forget that Adam’s in America and I’m in America. But we’re not together.
God I wish in a way I’d never met him. Am I mad I wonder, as I struggle to get up off my seat? Being single is so much simpler. Granted, you don’t get the terrible highs you get in a relationship, but there are none of the horrible lows either where you just want to crawl under the duvet and not come out for days.
I often find that my single friends are a lot more career-driven than my ‘attached’ ones. This isn’t because they’re bitter or have nothing better to do, but because they don’t spend half the week wondering if they’re partner is happy or not. They’re not constantly concerned about somebody else’s welfare, which is good. It isn’t healthy. Especially if they are out on a Friday night and you are sitting in. Or they are in New York. And you are in Boston.
You’re probably wondering about Tim and where he fits into all of this, but I’m convinced Tim rings me out of boredom, not out of love. I mean it. He sees me as a cinema partner or somebody to keep him company in the passenger seat, as he drives around aimlessly on a Sunday afternoon. Like the hordes of other Irish couples who obviously can’t bear to ‘rest’ on Sundays either. Have you noticed the traffic jams on Sundays recently?
I wonder what people did on Sundays before Sunday shopping was introduced. I suppose they went for walks and that, or just sat and watched telly. I remember Mum and Dad always took us for a walk on Sundays to Dun Laoghaire pier. I dreaded it. I remember thinking the pier was the longest, most boring walk on the planet, and my little legs could never keep up. It was always freezing and I was always bumping into other kids from school whom I didn’t like but was forced to talk to because our parents knew each other.
The only good thing was that we always got an ice cream afterwards from Teddy’s. However I would have happily foregone the ice cream, if it had saved me from walking that never-ending pier.
Now of course, I don’t think the pier is long enough. It’s too short, I think, to get any real exercise. And it’s pretty boring too. If you want a proper walk go to Howth or the Dublin mountains or something.
‘Where will we go?’ Amy pipes up. ‘Where do you think everyone else is going? It’d be great if we knew, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would be great to know,’ I agree. ‘So we could go somewhere else.’
Amy looks so surprised I have to laugh.
I don’t mean to be rude, but people who spend their lives wondering where everybody else is, really annoy me. I’m sure you know those kind of people. They are so afraid that everybody else is s
omewhere else, with someone else, doing something else that they end up never enjoying themselves. My advice is to start the party yourself and see who turns up.
‘Let’s go to Kitty’s,’ I suggest.
‘Kitty’s?’
‘Yeah, Kitty O’ Shea’s. Nice bar with talent. We need to grab a taxi though.’
Amy follows me outside and we both pull our scarves around our faces to prevent the icy air biting any exposed skin. I notice the Bostonians don’t look as cold as we do. Maybe they’re just used to the big freezes.
We hail a taxi and hop in.
‘I’m dying for a drink,’ Amy says. She’s reading my mind.
We tell the taxi driver where we’re going and hop out ten minutes later.
We enter the pub, which is Irish, but the only person in it who looks Irish is the guy behind the bar. All the other customers look American. They’re tall, well-built ‘suits’, who look like they’ve just popped in for a single drink or a bite to eat. By the looks of things, the crowd won’t be here all night. Pity. I wish they’d stay and keep me company. If this bar was in Dublin, I’d be here all the time. In fact, you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me.
The friendly bartender takes our orders and is back almost immediately with our drinks. I tip generously as I’m never sure how much is acceptable in the States and am always nervous about not tipping enough. One of the air hostesses once didn’t tip enough after breakfast in a New York diner and the waitress followed her out onto the street and started shouting at her.
Of course, Kitty’s is not the type of place where people shout thankfully. There’s a nice atmosphere in here and I feel I thoroughly deserve a drink after all my hard work today. Amy is drinking Malibu and pineapple. It’s a drink I used to love when I was about seventeen, as I couldn’t stand the strong taste of alcohol. Now I honestly don’t know how anybody drinks it.
I have a vodka and orange juice with lots of ice. They never skimp on ice in the States. Irish bartenders take note!
‘So what’s this big secret about Adam?’
I just blurt it out. I’ve decided I’m not beating around the bush for another hour.
Amy looks at me blankly. ‘Who’s Adam?’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘Adam Kirrane.’
‘Oh,’ she laughs into her Malibu and pineapple. ‘That’s hilarious haha. When you asked me about Adam I thought you were asking me about somebody we knew. The way you just said ‘Adam’ instead of ‘Adam Kirrane.’
She laughs again and I laugh too although I don’t find anything particularly funny. Mind you, she does have a point. If somebody asked me what I thought of ‘Colin’, meaning Colin Farrell, I’d probably think it was funny too.
‘I’ve been told not to say,’ Amy says in a very irritating voice, as she pulls a mock zip across her mouth. ‘You know yourself.’
Actually, no. I do not know at all. The one thing I do know however is that I’m sitting in Boston with a girl I barely know who keeps laughing for no reason. The other thing I know is that she claims to have this big secret about Adam. And I will not let her go back to her hotel room until I’ve got it out of her.
I absolutely will not.
And yes, I know I probably sound like a psycho.
‘Oh well,’ I shrug, deciding to change tactics. ‘It’s probably not even that interesting.’
‘Oh but it is though,’ she tilts her head to one side but still refuses to tell me the secret. What does she want? Money?
My mind is racing. What is this flipping secret? Does Adam like to wear women’s clothes? Does he have a love child? Does he have a history of violence? Does he swing both ways? Is he having an affair with Hillary bloody Clinton? God, I can’t stand this.
‘Mmm, that was lovely,’ Amy says dreamily after letting the remains of the Malibu and pineapple trickle down her throat.
‘Another one?’ I offer and shoot to the bar before she’s had a chance to answer. Amy is going to have another drink here whether she likes it or not. If I can’t personally get her to talk, a few drinks should do the trick.
I’m back with the round. Amy reaches for her purse.
‘Put your money away,’ I say firmly.
‘But . . . ’
‘You can get the next round,’ I say cheerily and pretend not to notice Amy’s rather crestfallen face as she realises we’re in for a far longer night than she thought.
‘Okay,’ she says in a quiet voice.
I can tell she’s pissed off.
‘So do you like flying?’ I ask completely changing the subject as if I don’t care if she’s not going to tell me Adam’s big secret.
‘Mmm, yeah, I love it. It’s always been my dream to fly, you know.’
‘Have you ever thought of doing anything else?’
Amy stares vacantly. ‘No, why?’
‘Oh I was just wondering.’
‘Would you like to do something else?’
‘Well I’m writing a script.’
‘A what?’
‘A script.’
‘For the telly?’
‘Well, a feature film.’
Amy looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m joking or not.
‘It’s about Ireland during the famine,’ I tell her.
She’s not impressed. At least if she is, she doesn’t show it.
‘It’s about a family who have no money but whatever money they get the father drinks it and then . . .’
‘You could get Liam Neeson to star in it,’ Amy suggests brightly, and I notice she’s drinking her Malibu and pineapple a little faster now.
‘If he’s free, yes. I think he’d be good.’
‘Will you get to pick the cast?’
‘I dunno. Hopefully they’ll let me have some say.’
‘Who’s producing it?’
‘Nobody yet, because I haven’t finished it to send it around to the studios.’
‘Oh.’ Amy’s eyes begin to glaze over. I can tell she’s had enough of this conversation.
‘Maybe Adam Kirrane could star in it,’ I say suggestively.
‘Maybe.’ She looks away. What on earth is she trying to hide? Why won’t she tell me Adam’s secret?
‘Anyway, I’m hoping to go into films after this job,’ I tell her. ‘Have you no dreams of doing something else?’
‘No.’
We sit side by side, deafening silence hanging between us.
‘Are you tired?’ Amy asks eventually.
‘Not a bit,’ l lie. ‘Come on, finish your drink and let’s check out another bar.’
We leave the bar and she’s sulking now, but I’m determined not to go back to the hotel. If I go back I’ll only be lying on the big double bed thinking of Adam and torturing myself wondering what this big secret of his is.
‘Where to so?’ Amy jumps up and down on the pavement, demonstrating how unbearably cold she is.
‘Have you been to the Littlest Bar?’ I ask.
‘Huh?’
‘Follow me.’ I start to run before the frost bites my toes off.
Amy just loves the Littlest Bar. Not because it’s Irish. Not because it’s so small it could only fit about thirty-five people. Not because of the jolly atmosphere. But because Amy recognises two of the customers.
They’re pilots.
Suddenly Amy is no longer showing any signs of tiredness. A big smile seems to be sellotaped onto her face and her eyes are dancing in her head. My heart sinks as the two lads approach us and she eyes them flirtatiously. My chances of finding out Adam’s big secret have plummeted.
‘Hi Mike. Hi Derek,’ she beams and she looks the happiest I’ve seen her all day. Mind you, she’s had a couple of drinks, which seem to have added some colour to her cheeks. ‘Have you met Katie?’
‘Hello,’ I say politely without being too enthusiastic. I notice there’s not much left in their pints. With any luck they might be leaving.
Mike is quite good-looking, I notice. He’s got v
ery short dark hair and clear blue eyes. I don’t think much of his dress sense though (brown bomber jacket and black jeans). But he’s got a nice face. No wonder Amy is all over him. Derek isn’t that good-looking, but I noticed his eyes lighting up when he saw Amy so I guess there’s no chance of himself and Mike heading off just yet.
‘Can we get you girls a drink?’ Mike offers.
Well, I must say I’m impressed. Some pilots have a name for keeping their hands firmly in their pockets. Especially if they’re considered good-looking.
Mike obviously isn’t one of them.
‘I’ll have a . . .’
‘Listen, I’ll get them,’ Amy shouts. ‘It’s my round.’
Oh no, I think. They’re going to think she’s bloody brilliant now. A beautiful bird who’s only falling over herself to buy them alcohol.
Derek looks like he’s about to accept but Mike won’t hear of it and insists on paying the round. Amy flutters her eyelids in thanks. I think I’m going to be ill.
Derek goes to the toilet and Amy whispers to me. ‘He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?’
‘Which one?’
‘Well both of them are nice, aren’t they? But I think Derek likes you,’ she says.
‘No, I think he likes you,’ I insist. If she thinks I’m going to entertain the ugly one while she cops off with handsome Mike, she can feck off.
Mike hands us our drinks. ‘So where are the rest of your crew?’ he asks.
‘Oh they were all going to another bar so we came here instead,’ I tell him and he laughs.
Amy looks annoyed. Obviously I’m supposed to back off here but I’m just not getting the message, am I? Well too bad about her. Anyway she’s supposed to be going out with another pilot.
Then again, I’m supposed to be with Tim. Tim and Adam. Well just Adam really. I just haven’t got around to letting Tim down yet. I want to break it to him gently. It’s always awful being dumped. I’ve never quite got used to it anyway. I don’t think anyone ever does.
‘So did you arrive in this afternoon?’ Mike asks me and I wish he wouldn’t stare at me like that ’cos he’s got this really intense look that I’m sure lots of women find irresistible, but I don’t because I don’t suffer from pilotitis like Amy obviously does.
Mile High Guy Page 11