Mile High Guy

by Marisa Mackle

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ I tell her, twiddling the tassels on the bedspread. ‘I get the feeling he’s dating other people too.’

  ‘He probably is,’ Debbie answers matter-of-factly. ‘But you’re in with a good chance, aren’t you? He asked for your telephone number. Hey I was there so nobody can ever say you ever chased him. So um . . . what’s he like? Where did he take you? God, this is pretty exciting.’

  I’m not sure I think it’s as exciting as Debbie is making out. I mean if this is exciting, then why am I not excited? I suppose I’ve forgotten what a big star Adam is and how I should be honoured that he chose to take me on a date. I wonder what Debbie would do in my position.

  ‘I’d just enjoy it,’ she advises. ‘I’d have a great time and not think too seriously about it all. After all, a guy like Adam Kirrane is not going to be settling down any time soon and he probably has a lot of Hollywood twigs chasing him anyway. Just be different. Be yourself and see what happens.’

  ‘But suppose nothing happens?’

  Debbie makes a face. ‘Don’t read into it too much. I mean at the end of the day we’d all like men to declare undying love for us but most don’t. Anyway men like independent women. I mean, some men seem to like doormats but would you like someone who likes doormats?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  I feel better already. I am so, so glad I spoke to Debbie and got everything out in the open. From now on I’ll take her advice and not dwell too much on the future. I’ll concentrate on the present. And on me.

  The new me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The taxi drops me outside my house. I somehow manage to drag my heavy suitcase all the way up the garden path to the front door. When I try to push the door open, I can’t because something is blocking it.

  ‘Hang on there Katie,’ I hear my mother yelling. ‘I’ll just move the flowers.’

  What flowers?

  A few seconds later I’m able to gain access into the hall. A massive bouquet of fresh white lilies with their pretty heads dancing in all directions is now not blocking the hall door, but the kitchen door.

  ‘They’re for you,’ Mum says. She’s just standing there as if she’s waiting for an explanation. Then Dad arrives into the hall and nobody seems to know what’s going on.

  Least of all me.

  ‘They’re from someone called Adam,’ Mum says before I have time to check the accompanying tag. ‘Who on earth is Adam?’

  I’m so shattered I could sleep for a month, but I have to admit I’m also thrilled. The flowers are magnificent. Wow. I bet Wendy didn’t get a bouquet like that. Or any of those other girls who are claiming to be seeing my Adam.

  My mother and father are still looking at me expectantly.

  ‘He’s just a friend,’ I say feebly. ‘God you know I’m so wrecked. If I don’t lie down now I think I’ll die. Talk to you in a couple of hours.’

  I head upstairs and my mum yells after me. ‘You’re not leaving that suitcase in the hall Madam and what about the flowers? Who’s going to put them in water?’

  ‘Will you do it Mum?’ I plead. ‘You’re great at that kind of thing.’

  I honestly don’t have the energy to do anything besides haul my exhausted body straight to my bed.

  My mother has changed the sheets on my bed in an extraordinary act of kindness and has switched on the heat in my room. I am so grateful because my tiny room has three outside walls which makes it about as warm as fridge. I usually spend my time shivering because my mum won’t let me have an electric blanket ever since the last one went on fire when I forgot to switch it off after one particularly heavy drinking session.

  Thankfully Ruth had barged into my room to see if I’d worn one of her tops out that night and she got the smell of burning wire immediately. To this day she still claims she saved my life. Anyway my electric blanket was confiscated and although I have a hot water bottle I really couldn’t be bothered filling it up every night. I also really hate waking up to a cold water bottle in the morning.

  I throw my uniform on the floor, avoid the mirror, step on the scales to see if I’ve lost any weight (I haven’t) and crawl into bed.

  Within seconds I’m out for the count.

  When I wake again I feel happy and relaxed. The few days in the sun have made the world of difference. And of course Adam has sent flowers, which means he likes me a lot obviously, although I am trying desperately not to read into it too much, just in case. Oh and Christmas is coming, which is nice. I love Christmas ’cos I get to meet all my school friends who return home from all over the world for the week. Christmas day however is not as much fun as somebody, usually Ruth, picks a fight over nothing and ruins the day.

  Anyway maybe this year we’ll hopefully all remember to be civilised. Thinking of Christmas, I’d better get myself organised. I am not, definitely not, going to waste Christmas Eve this year running around Grafton Street like a blue-arsed fly buying scented candles and pot-pouri holders for people who won’t appreciate it. In fact maybe I’ll venture into town later today and have a browse. If I buy my Christmas cards now I can post them off to America and the UK before the deadline. And that’s another thing. This year I will not just scribble the usual ‘Happy Christmas and New Year’ greeting. No. I will try and write a personal message to everyone. And anybody who dares send me a Christmas email in return is so dead.

  Before I leave the house I text Adam a quick thanks for the flowers. He doesn’t text back but he’s probably in work. Rehearsing a passionate love scene or something with some sex bomb. Oh God, I always presume the worst don’t I?

  I pop into the little shop beside the bus to buy something to flick through on the journey in. If I’ve nothing to read I’ll end up unintentionally catching people’s eyes on the bus, which I hate.

  When the bus comes along I sit on one of those single seats so nobody will sit beside me trying to read my newspaper. I glance at the headlines but that’s about it. There’s nothing but doom and gloom in the world at the moment. If there isn’t a bloody war, there’s an earthquake or somebody blowing themselves up in the name of religion. Then I flick to the social pages to cheer myself. I love to see photos of people out and about having fun.

  But as I turn the page, my heart sinks. I feel dizzy. There he is. Adam. A huge photo dominates the page. He’s in New York. He’s dressed to kill. And there’s a supermodel on his arm.

  I feel I’m about to throw up. They look perfect together. She is everything I’m not: tall, wealthy, skinny, famous and tanned. I couldn’t compete in a million years. I wouldn’t even try.

  Distraught I turn the page again. I don’t want to see any more pictures of Adam. Does the world really think he’s that amazing? Then what on earth is he doing with me? Is he just playing games?

  I look out the window at the people walking up and down Baggot Street, heads bent against the freezing wind. I wonder what makes them happy? What are they looking for from life? Are they happy with their lot or do they just plod along, taking every day as it comes without even thinking about it?

  Maybe I’m mad to hanker after a mad exciting life, which might not even exist. I mean I’m not even sure what I’m looking for! Suppose my script got accepted? Would that make me happy or would I still want more? What do I really want from Adam? Do I want him to love me exclusively, marry me and love me forever until the end of time? Or would there always be supermodels and actresses hanging out of him, never mind the fans and the groupies? How could I handle that? I turn back to the page Adam’s photo is on. According to the caption, the picture was taken yesterday. After he sent the flowers. He still hasn’t replied to my text. Maybe he’s with her. At this very moment. Maybe he thinks all his Christmases have come at once. Suppose they’re in bed right now? Enjoying a marathon love-making session. Perhaps Adam even showed her my pathetic text?

  I need to snap out of this negative mood. It’s not doing me any good. What would Debbie say to me now? She’d probably tell
me the photo was a publicity shot and not to read anything into it. I wish I were as strong as Debbie. And I wish I wasn’t so bloody fragile.

  Just as I’m getting off the bus I receive Adam’s text. It’s short and simple. IN DUBLIN THIS WEEKEND. R U AROUND?

  I’m so thrilled I could shout for joy. All is forgiven. He could have his photo taken with Cindy Crawford, Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell altogether now for all I care. The girl in the photo obviously meant nothing. She was probably just paid by the TV company to show up for an hour and smile with the cast. Models do that the whole time. And because Adam is so good-looking they made a decent photo opportunity. Everything makes sense now, I think happily as I make my way to the Jervis Street Centre to buy some nice new cosmetics in Boots.

  What a difference text makes!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When I was very young I was dying to go to school. After a while I was dying to leave. When I was in college I was dying to get my exams finished so I could get an office job. Then I was dying to leave that and work in an airline so I could see the world. Now I’m dying to finish my script. But I’ve never been dying to meet a man or settle down. Not before now anyway.

  Meeting Adam has definitely been one of the highlights of the year. Of course if my script was accepted that would be the icing and the candles. I’m working furiously on it at the moment because Adam’s back in town in three days and I want to be free when he’s around. The annoying thing is that I can’t judge if it’s any good or not. I’m too involved. Sometimes I’m in the middle of writing it and I think it’s really crap. The next minute I’m wondering if Hollywood will come knocking on my door. Jesus, who’d be a scriptwriter?

  Anyway I’m supposed to go to be going to Zurich tonight but I rang in sick because I’m meeting Adam. Oh I know that sounds terrible but I’ve been flying for four years and have only taken two sick days in my life so I’m kind of entitled to it. Funnily enough though, ever since I rang in sick this evening, I haven’t felt great. I hope I’m not coming down with something.

  I’m out in Dun Laoghaire getting my hair done. I wasn’t going to chance going into town in case I bumped into someone from the airline. It’s a pain really because I won’t be able to be seen gallivanting all around town tonight either. As much as I love Adam, I still don’t fancy losing my job over our secret date.

  After I get my hair done I wander around the shops desperately trying to find something nice to wear. Of course, because I’m looking so hard and happen to have money in my bag, I can’t find a damn thing. I suppose I’ll just wear something I already own or rob something from Ruth. When she left home, she left a whole wardrobe full of stuff. Mum keeps threatening to give it all to the St Vincent de Paul’s charity shop so it doesn’t matter if I borrow something for the night, does it?

  God, I’ve never spent so much time fretting over a date as I have today. You see, I know this might sound incredibly silly but I keep thinking about that supermodel Adam was pictured with. And I know I shouldn’t be comparing myself with her but I can’t help it. A body to rival Elle McPherson, she also had a thick mane of glossy hair and wore a tiny gold, sequinned skirt, which could have passed as a belt.

  I’m worried. If I turn up in a comfy pair of jeans and a black polo neck, Adam isn’t going to be impressed is he? Oh God, sometimes I just remember how much simpler it was with Tim. If I’d worn a nightie out with Tim, he wouldn’t have noticed. In fact he’d probably have thought I’d made a huge effort.

  Adam phones at about six. Will I be ready for seven? Considering I’ve been getting ready for the last few days, I shouldn’t think it’ll be a problem. I tell him I don’t want to go to town because I’m being a bad girl and skipping work.

  ‘Oh I love bad girls,’ Adam purrs down the phone.

  Yes, well . . . oh God I hope he doesn’t think I’m leading him a merry dance here. Skipping work is about as naughty as I get. Except for smoking of course and getting twisted out of my head every now and then and insulting anyone who crosses my path as I do so. Anyway I’m giving up drink in the New Year. I don’t enjoy it that much anyway and enjoy it even less the following day when I have to ring everybody to apologise for things I don’t even remember doing and swearing not to do it again. Anyway, getting hammered may be fun as a teenager but once you get past a certain age there’s something pretty awful about it, isn’t there? I mean have you ever seen a woman staggering about the place and thought she looked great? So that’s it. My New Year’s resolution is to give up getting drunk. In public anyway.

  Speaking of drink, don’t you just hate the way you always lose things when under the influence? Over the last few years I have lost among other things, handbags, jackets, make-up, keys, new lipsticks, money, friends, self-respect, prospective boyfriends and a mobile phone or two. In fact now that I think about it, I should save quite a bit of money by cutting out drink. It’s not cheap replacing make up on a weekly basis as well as having to get extra keys cut all the time.

  But tonight I’m going to have just a glass of wine and be civilised. Adam has booked dinner in a lovely little hotel in Co. Wicklow. I’ve never been before. I believe it’s lovely and very exclusive.

  When the doorbell rings at seven o’clock, my nerves are in bits. I hear Dad open the kitchen door downstairs and make his way to the front door. I have a minor panic attack. Of course Dad wouldn’t watch DreamBoat in a million years but he might just recognise Adam from the papers and say something really embarrassing. I open my bedroom door slightly and I hear Dad telling Adam to step in out of the cold. Phew! It’s obvious Dad doesn’t know him from Adam haha.

  I take one last look in the mirror. I look okay. Just okay though. My hair is a bit flat because the bored-looking girl who washed my hair today obviously didn’t rinse out all the conditioner. I’ll never go back to that salon. And for some reason I think my face is a bit redder than usual. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the full twenty minutes on the sun bed this morning. Hopefully this lovely hotel in Wicklow will not have bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Anyway if Adam comments, I’ll just tell him it was hot in LA. Very bloody hot.

  My dad has left Adam in the sitting room flicking through a book on Irish castles, which my mum leaves around to impress random visitors. When I enter the room, he stands up and tells me I look beautiful. His whole face is smiling; even his eyes, and his teeth look even whiter and straighter than I remember. His hair is slightly damp as if he’s just got out of the shower but maybe he’s just wearing hair gel or something. He looks like a TV star but then again that’s what he is, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.

  Adam kisses me fully on the lips. The kiss is warm but strong. It makes me feel loved if only momentarily. We head out into the night and into Adam’s car. I slip into the passenger seat of his shiny black BMW. The moon is clear and the night is full of promise. I’m high on excitement. Soon we’re on the motorway heading out of Dublin. Neither of us says very much but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s no point talking just for the sake of it. And anyway, I read somewhere once that men don’t like women who yap on about nothing. I don’t blame them. The sound of silence is golden.

  As we drive past Foxrock church Adam asks me how I’ve been. I tell him about my script and he seems suitably impressed. He admits he’s still looking for the perfect script but that everything his agent sends him is crap. Strangely that gives me hope. Maybe people won’t think mine is rubbish. After all, with all that crap circulating around Hollywood, maybe my script will be snapped up.

  Adam tells me he’s desperate to move from telly to big budget movies. He says people like Colin Farrell have opened the door for young Irish actors trying to break into the game. I tell him I hope he’s not going to take up swearing and womanising in order to get noticed. He laughs and gives my thigh a squeeze.

  I wonder if he’s going to mention the woman I saw him photographed with during the week. I know I shouldn’t really ask in case it annoys him. In case he thinks I’m pa
ranoid or something.

  ‘What kind of part are you looking for?’ I ask.

  ‘A strong lead. In a comedy maybe. I’m not sure what part I’m looking for exactly but I know I’ll know it when I see it.’

  I tell him my script is as far from a comedy as can be. He tells me writing a comedy is the hardest thing to do. It’s much easier to write tragedy, he says.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because everything that’s sent to my agent is tragic,’ he explains. ‘Everyone’s got a sad tale to tell. I mean it. Everyone.’

  I wonder why he’s being so negative about it all. Maybe he thinks he is doing me a favour. Letting me down gently before I even get the chance to put my script out there. Does he think I haven’t a chance in hell of being accepted? I don’t blame him really. Most people are sceptics. My mother never fails to tell me I’ll never be anything. And all the teachers in my old school used to write ‘Katie is an idler’ on my numerous report cards.

  ‘Who do you hang out with when you’re in New York?’ I ask Adam suddenly, because I don’t want to talk about my script any more.

  He seems slightly surprised at the question.

  ‘I’m usually working all the time so I don’t get to hang out that much.’

  ‘But don’t you have any friends over there?’

  ‘I’m friendly with the cast but I don’t socialise with them after work or anything. I just tend to chill in my apartment or go to see a movie or something.’

  ‘Have you a nice apartment over there?’

  ‘It’s great,’ he tells me. ‘You should come over and see it sometime.’

  My heart soars. Oh my God, did you hear that? Adam has just invited me to come and see his apartment. Wow. He’s obviously pretty serious about us. After all, you don’t invite people you don’t really care about to visit you, do you? Especially not when they live on the other side of the world. No. Nonetheless I can’t believe how fast things seem to be progressing between us. It’s almost scary. But I don’t want to slow down though. No. This might be the real thing, so why not just go with the flow?