Mr Right for the Night

by Marisa Mackle

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I insist.’

  ‘But what about Sally? Aren’t you meeting her tonight?’ Anna was panicking.

  ‘She’s on call tonight.’

  ‘But someone might see us together and get the wrong impression. It might get back to her.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Mark laughed. ‘Anyway, Sally doesn’t get jealous,’ he added.

  Sally doesn’t get jealous, Anna repeated spitefully after putting down the phone. Isn’t she great altogether? God, what kind of a mess had she gone and got herself into now? She should ring him back and tell him she’d made the whole thing up. Or that Elaine had cancelled at the last minute. No, he’d think she was sad. She went upstairs and started to get ready. Had she a screw loose or what? she seriously began to wonder as she smudged pink lipstick on her cheeks to give them a healthy glow. Did her image really mean that much to her? Or to Mark? After all she didn’t fancy him and he didn’t fancy her so what was the big hoo-ha all about?

  ‘By the way,’ she said to him half an hour later as he stood in the doorway, ‘how did you know I wasn’t out with Steve tonight?’

  ‘Oh that was easy,’ Mark grinned, ‘I saw him leaving with some sallow-skinned bird a while ago.’

  He opened the car door for her and she sat in the passenger seat, fuming. ‘Seat belt on?’ He flashed her a gleaming smile. He looked annoyingly good this evening. And smelled even better.

  ‘Yes.’ Anna glanced at her watch absent-mindedly.

  ‘You’re not running late, are you?’ Mark looked concerned.

  ‘No, no I’m meeting Elaine at ten.’

  ‘Elaine . . . have I met her now?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said firmly.

  ‘Is she single?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Is she good looking?’

  ‘She certainly wouldn’t be interested in you,’ Anna snapped. Immediately she regretted it. Sure wasn’t Mark only trying to do her a favour? It wasn’t his fault that she was leading him a merry dance. She’d have to stop behaving like a pitbull terrier in his company. It was terribly gauche.

  He pulled up outside the Shelbourne Hotel. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay here?’

  ‘Fine,’ Anna grinned broadly at him, ‘honestly, you go on. I’ll be just fine.’

  ‘Enjoy your night.’ At that moment Mark looked totally stunning. She couldn’t believe she was about to let him drive away because of some silly facade.

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

  She walked purposefully up the steps of the Shelbourne Hotel, past the crowded reception area and straight to the Ladies. She took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t looked this good in years. What a pity she was all dressed up with nowhere to go. She opened her little black handbag and took out her brush. Well, she had to do something, hadn’t she? She couldn’t exactly turn around and walk straight back out again. She began to brush her hair. The Ladies was full of ARMPITTS all vying for the mirror. Anna felt like she was really in the way. Hair done, she fished out her foundation and needlessly applied it. That lasted about ten minutes. She brushed her hair again and then wondered what to do. Was it safe to go back out again? She stared hard at her image. She now looked like a hooker who’d dumped her face into a bucket of foundation. Excellent.

  Eventually she marched out of the hotel and hopped into a nearby taxi.

  ‘Where to, love?’ the taxi man enquired.

  ‘Er . . .’ God, where was she going? She could hardly go back to Ranelagh. No, that would be ridiculous. First, she didn’t want to bump into Mark again, and secondly she couldn’t bear the thought of sitting alone in her flat knowing that Steve and Claudine were making out underneath.

  ‘Stillorgan,’ she said suddenly, ‘Stillorgan please.’ And before she had time to change her mind, the taxi driver had taken off like a grand prix contestant.

  Ah well, Anna thought, at least her parents would be pleased to see her. She hadn’t seen them since her birthday and life must be so dull for them at the moment, stuck with Grandad rabbiting on about the good old days.

  Anna’s parents were not as pleased as she’d thought they’d be. Mr and Mrs Brown from next door were round playing bridge.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her mother frowned.

  ‘Just thought I’d pop in.’ Anna forced a smile.

  ‘On a Friday night?’ She was definitely suspicious. ‘Really, Anna, you should be out mixing with people of your own age. You’ll never meet a man round in your parents’ on a Friday. Grandad is in the kitchen. I suppose you can go in and keep him company.’

  She disappeared into the good room. Anna was left alone in the hallway. God, what was the point in being a dutiful daughter when nobody appreciated it? She wasn’t in the mood for listening to the entire history of County Roscommon. She slumped into one of the kitchen chairs and shut her eyes. Was there any woman in Ireland quite as sad as she was? She wondered what Victoria Reilly was up to. No doubt frolicking with fickle friends in a famous hot spot. Consuming champagne from crystal. Goading her friends in her latest Gucci get up. So what? Anna wouldn’t like that kind of lifestyle anyway. It was all so pretentious. She preferred the simpler lifestyle. Like . . . a night in with Grandad, say.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘I didn’t go in the end, Mark.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Listen, Mark, I wish I had all day to chat but I’m up to my eyes, so I’m putting the phone down now, right?’

  ‘Talk to you later so.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, bye.’

  She cut him off. God, he’d a bit of a cheek, Anna thought as she made her way over to the checkouts. She should start ringing his office at the IFSC with all kind of obscenities. That would soon put an end to the fun and games!

  The checkout queues were building up. She marched over to prevent two of the gum-chewing staff from describing their hangovers in great detail in front of paying customers. A headache was approaching fast, streaking past all traffic lights and stop signs. But she couldn’t leave the shop floor. It was manic. God, roll on seven o’clock.

  A pram collided with the back of her heels. Ouch! She swung around ready to attack but the worn-out looking woman with the double buggy didn’t even know she’d hit her. Anna hobbled over to the fed-up security guard. ‘Everything in order?’ she checked.

  ‘None of our regulars yet,’ he said with a deadpan face. “Regulars” meant shoplifters. They usually appeared on Saturdays along with the crowds, heading straight for the sportswear. Nightmare stuff. The bell at one of the checkouts rang loudly. A customer was whingeing about being short-changed a fiver. Damn!

  That meant opening the register and checking all sales for the afternoon against cash in the till. It would take at least fifteen minutes. Oh to work in a quiet little library. Or a church. Or in the fields as a goddam shepherd. What was that Jean-Paul Sartre had said? Hell is other people.

  ‘Oh Claire, I’m knackered.’ Anna leaned against the communal phone booth in the hallway. How she was going to motivate herself to get upstairs, shower and make up, and face the howling wind, she just didn’t know.

  ‘Get ready, Anna. Seriously, the babysitter is on her way. I’m practically ready to go.’

  ‘Is Simon not babysitting?’

  ‘No, he’ll probably join us later.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Anna said.

  ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

  ‘Well . . . would Simon not think of going out with some of his own friends? You know . . . like a lads’ night out, since this is supposed to be a girls’ night out?’

  ‘Er . . . er . . .’ Claire couldn’t think of a suitable answer.

  ‘It’s just it might be more craic you know, just us, the girls.’

  ‘I never thought about it like that,’ Claire mumbled, ‘but surely you can’t expect me to behave like a woman on the pull. Simon is well known on the Dublin social scene.’

  ‘I completely understand,�
� Anna sounded sympathetic, ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to let Simon down. I completely understand how important he is.’

  ‘Yes,’ Claire agreed uncertainly. ‘Oh by the way . . . Jake said he thought you were extremely good looking.’

  ‘Did he?’ Anna was pleased. It was always nice when someone thought you were good looking. Unless of course it was some lecherous drunk in a nightclub when the lights had come on. Or down in the chipper, say. Or when you were walking through Donnybrook at 3 a.m. looking for a taxi. Or if it was a flasher who said it to you. Or two fifteen-year-olds taking the piss. Or when someone told you in a dark laneway and you were on your own. In fact, when you thought about it, there were quite a number of occasions when you could happily live without the compliment.

  Still, it was nice that Jake had noticed. Jake had a nice BMW. It wouldn’t look out of place in the drive at Victoria’s party. Or her own drive. Not that she had a drive, of course. And the county council had now gone and painted double yellow lines outside her gate.

  Anna promised Claire she wouldn’t be long.

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ she promised before going back upstairs and lighting her first cigarette of the day. It was nice to have a cigarette before you went out. It put you in the mood. As did a little drink. Good idea! She’d have a beer. But to her dismay she found the fridge practically empty. Two out-of-date yoghurts, a very yellow half tub of butter, an egg (God knows how long that had been there!) and one can of beer left over from a party she’d had months back. That would have to do. She snapped it open, gingerly sniffing the contents. It smelled off. It was always hard to tell with beer. She sipped a little. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t that pleasant either. Then again, if you wanted something pleasant you’d drink coke or orange juice or something, wouldn’t you?

  Anna reluctantly undressed. It wasn’t nice undressing in a place that wasn’t room temperature. The flat wasn’t sub zero. But it wasn’t far off. She brought the beer into the shower and drank a bit more. There, it tasted better already. She turned on the water. Jesus, it was like frigging ice! Then it hit her. She’d forgotten to switch on the bloody immersion. Ah no! She couldn’t go out with unwashed hair. She positively stank. Hours of crawling around unclean cardboard boxes in the stockroom hadn’t exactly added to her appearance. At least ten creepycrawlies were planning a soire´e in her messy bun.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the tarnished bathroom mirror. Her eyes were like two bullet holes in her sunken face. An angry spot above her left eyebrow was seriously threatening a night out. She felt like collapsing on the bed, finishing the box of cigarettes and getting hammered all by herself. Feck the night out. It was Saturday. That meant queues. Queues for buses. Queues for pubs. Queues for taxis to get from pubs to clubs. Queues for clubs. Queues for cloakrooms. Queues for the bar. Queues for the toilet. For the sink. For the dryer. For the mirror. It meant getting squashed on the dance floor . . . freezing your ass off as you walked home swearing that this would be your last night out until the summer.

  The doorbell rang. Oh God, she was still naked. She scrambled into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pyjama top and pulled on a pair of odd socks.

  ‘Claire,’ Anna grinned, ‘you look beautiful.’

  ‘Anna, I can’t believe you haven’t even started to get ready.’ Claire looked cross. She’d made a huge effort. Boots, leather mini (to the knee and not at all as tarty as it sounds) and black cashmere jacket. A hint of make-up (God, Anna envied girls who just hinted) and a subtle spray of Miracle. Perfect.

  ‘Sorry, I got held up.’ Anna ushered her in. ‘Now tell me honestly, do you think I’d get away without washing my hair?’

  ‘Honestly? Well . . . you’d get away with it but you wouldn’t look your best.’

  ‘In other words I’d look like shit.’

  Claire said nothing. This was a common Saturday night scenario in Anna’s. Nothing new here. Eventually Anna would give her hair a quick splash, add some new make-up to the old and spend the rest of the night wishing she’d made more of an effort.

  They abandoned the flat at 10:10 p.m. Not a sound was to be heard from the flat downstairs. The air outside was damp. The front path was covered in wet leaves and faded crisp bags. Anna trod carefully in ridiculously high heels. Her short skirt must have caught the attention of a passing cab. It screeched to a halt outside the front gate. Classic. The girls clambered in.

  They decided on a new ultra-trendy club along the quays. Problem was, so did everybody else. The queue was the length of the Liffey. There wasn’t a hare’s sniff of getting in. Unless you were shagging one or more of the bouncers.

  They ordered the taxi man to drive on. He recommended a dodgy-looking place around Clarendon Street and the girls agreed to get out there so as not to hurt his feelings.

  ‘I’d love to go to Burger King,’ Anna’s stomach was talking to her. She tipped the taxi man.

  ‘Are you mad? We’re not going to Burger King dressed like this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Anna sniffed. ‘Somebody important might see us.’

  ‘We’ll go for a drink first and then find somewhere to eat,’ Claire suggested.

  ‘Fine.’

  They entered a pub at the top of Grafton Street. The place was wall-to-wall jammed with people trying to look cool but failing miserably because of the thermal atmosphere: it was hard to be sophisticated when beads of sweat were bonding on your forehead and two damp patches were propagating at accelerating speed around your armpits.

  ‘See anyone nice?’ Claire roared above the crowd.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Anna hushed, ‘I don’t want the whole place thinking I’m some kind of desperate eejit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Claire shouted. The jazz band in the corner was obviously playing havoc with her ears. ‘What do you want to drink?’

  ‘A beer. Preferably a well-known brand.’

  ‘Right. Crisps?’

  ‘Are you mad? I’m not eating crisps in a place like this.’

  ‘I thought you said you were hungry.’

  ‘Not that hungry.’

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ Thick east London accent, gold bracelets, very short haircuts, very bad dress sense, very up for it.

  ‘Hello,’ Anna replied distantly.

  ‘What are two ladies like you doing in a place like this?’ One of them grinned, revealing a gold tooth.

  ‘Just taking it easy,’ Claire glanced nervously at Anna.

  Gold Tooth offered to pay for the drinks.

  ‘No honestly, thanks,’ Anna insisted. ‘We’ll get our own. But thanks anyway,’ she repeated so as not to insult him.

  ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ The one with the sideburns and three earrings slid a scraggy arm around Claire’s waist.

  ‘Married.’ She held up her left hand. They stared, electrocuted. Unbelievable! It was as if she had waved a magic wand warding off the wicked witches of the west. The three guys disappeared before you could say ‘actually I’ve changed my mind about the drinks’.

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ Claire stared after them.

  ‘Yes, very.’ Anna tried to catch the barman’s attention. ‘But don’t be waving your ring around – you know, if someone decent shows up.’

  Later, at the club, the doorman ushered them in with surprising speed, obviously thinking they were someone else. At the bar a more mature man offered them drinks. A nice start. He was American and thought the girls could be models. Especially Claire. He asked Claire to dance. A friendly dance. Why did men always do that, Anna wondered. Was there such a thing as an unfriendly dance? Claire politely declined, blaming a sore foot. So he asked Anna.

  ‘Go on,’ Claire winked at her, ‘I’ll hold your drink for you.’

  Mildly insulted at being only second choice, Anna followed him out on to the dance floor. George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ was playing. Anna hoped he wouldn’t whisper anything careless into her ear. Or do anything with her ear.

  The America
n’s dancing wasn’t great. He shuffled about uneasily after Anna on the crowded dance floor, at one stage colliding heavily with a smooching young couple.

  ‘Sorry,’ Anna told the male half.

  ‘Sorry,’ he answered her back and held her gaze for longer than necessary. He was taller than average with jet-black hair, long sooty eyelashes and sallow complexion. Probably not Irish. Definitely not unattractive. His partner whisked him away.

  The song changed.

  ‘Well thanks for that,’ Anna told the American hurriedly. ‘I think I’d better get back to Claire.’ The hint fell on deaf ears. He followed her back to the bar and bought another round of drinks. Anna scoured the room to see if she could spot that man with the dusky looks again. But to no avail. The place was jammers. Claire and the American were blocking her view. She began to feel hot. On a scale from one to ten, the stuffiness in this place rated eleven. She took a quick note of the exits. Only three were visible. Hopefully the place wouldn’t catch fire or anything. Her high heels wouldn’t stand a chance. She knocked back her glass of beer and bought the next round. She hadn’t eaten she remembered. No wonder the walls felt like they were closing in on her.

  The music revved up. The American wanted to boogie. Claire wanted to boogie. Anna didn’t.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ she told them and vanished to the Ladies.

  A good twenty-five minutes stood between her and the first toilet. Feck it, she muttered, crossing her legs tightly. Her bladder was about to explode. That was the problem with beer. It ran right through you.

  She gave her hair a few half-hearted brushes and injured herself slightly with eyeliner. Tears filled the affected eye.

  To say she didn’t look her best was an understatement. Maybe you’re drunk, she told her reflection. Her next drink would be a coke, she decided. A nice, cool, civilized coke on the rocks.

  Claire seemed to be having a whale of a time back at the bar. Lucky divil! Somebody was chatting her up. He looked coincidentally like Simon from the back. Good Jaysus, it was Simon. What on earth was he doing here?