by Alex Coleman
On this occasion, I decided to split the difference with a text. Looking forward to the show, I wrote, Love, Mum x. I dropped the phone onto the bed and started to get dressed, wondering if I dared hang out the window for a crafty fag. A few seconds later, when I was halfway into a pair of jeans, it rang. I hopped across and picked it up. It was Robert. My heart began to hammer. I poked the green button.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mum. It’s me.” “Hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I got your text.” “Good, good. Seven thirty?”
“Yeah. Same as ever. So … how are you feeling?”
I bit down on the first reply that came to mind, which was “Not bad at all”. And then I heard myself saying, “I haven’t been feeling great today, to be honest.”
“No?”
“Not really. Things have just caught up with me a bit, I suppose.”
“Bound to happen,” Robert said quickly and uncertainly. “Bound to.”
“Yeah …. Is there any chance …” “What?”
“Ah, I’m sure you’re busy.” “No, what?”
“Well … is there any chance you could nip out and meet me? Just for a coffee. It might do me good to have a chat. Won’t take an hour, I swear. You’ll be back in plenty of time to watch yourself.”
He hesitated but not for very long. “I wouldn’t mind a proper drink,” he said. “How about that?”
“Okay,” I said. “Where?”
* * *
Downstairs in the kitchen, I reminded Melissa that this was The O’Mahonys night. She made a big show of pretending that she already knew because they never missed it. I let her make a fool of herself for a while and then told her it was all right, she could drop the act.
“I keep meaning to watch it,” she said meekly. “And I have caught it a few times. Vincent – isn’t that right?”
“Valentine,” I corrected. “Valentine Reilly. He’s no good.” “I knew that much. I saw one where he stole money from his girlfriend’s purse.”
“That was Nicola. She was about five girlfriends ago. And having a few quid nicked from her purse was the least of her problems. He got her pregnant and then cheered when she had a miscarriage. He crashed her car and said it was joyriders. He beat the crap out of her ex-boyfriend because he smiled at her in the pub. He drowned her cat in the toilet because it scratched him. I could go on.”
“He must have some redeeming features,” Melissa said. I nodded. “Apparently … he’s very good in bed.”
“I see.”
“Listen,” I said then. “I’m going to pop out for a while. I’m meeting Robert for a, y’know … chat.”
“Oh. Okay. Are you going around to his?”
“No. He fancies a pint. We’re meeting halfway. Leeson Lounge.”
Her face shimmered. “Right. Are you … walking?” “No,” I said as evenly as I could. “I’m driving. And not drinking. Obviously.”
She smiled quickly – too quickly – and returned to the bonsai she’d been pruning.
“Enjoy,” she said.
* * *
Robert arrived at the pub fifteen minutes late, as I had guessed he probably would; in matters of punctuality, as in so much else, he was his sister’s polar opposite. When he walked in, two women who were perched at the bar (and evidently had been for some time) made audible squeaks, eyed him up and down, then put their heads together to giggle like schoolgirls, which they were most certainly not – they were my age, at least. As he nodded hello and asked me if I wanted a drink, I found myself feeling faintly unwell. I had no trouble guessing what they might be saying to each other and dearly wished I could make my imagination a little more PG. I told Robert that I was fine with my sparkling water and watched with some surprise as he ordered a glass of red wine. The women at the bar clammed up and stared hard at each other while he was beside them, which was a relief; I’d half-suspected that one (or both) of them was going to proposition him there and then.
“Wine?” I said as he retook his seat. “I thought you were a Guinness man.”
He shrugged. “Dunno what to tell you. I got a taste for it, that’s all.”
“You’ll be on the caviar next,” I smiled. Robert didn’t smile back. He was, I presumed, on the cusp of taking offence. “Good for you,” I added hurriedly.
“So,” he said then. “Has he been in touch?”
“Your father? He called, yes. But I didn’t speak to him.” “Right. Are you planning on speaking to him?”
“I suppose so. Yes. I’ll call him … soon. Have you been talking to him yourself?”
“Have I fuck.” “Language, Rob –”
“I was talking to Chrissy though.” “Oh.”
“She feels like shit. She told me so. I think she only told me because she wanted me to tell you.”
I took some water. “I see.”
“I got the impression she’s afraid to call you.”
“Well, there’s no need for that. What did she say, exactly?” “She didn’t go into a lot of detail. She said she was a bit hard on you. Gave you grief about being too cool. Said something about your marriage being over. And then you bolted.”
“I did, yeah. I’m not proud of it either. I’ll give her a call and get it all sorted.”
“I’m sure that’d go down well.”
“And what about you? How are you … feeling?”
There was a long pause, punctuated by a large gulp of wine on Robert’s part and another sip of water on mine.
“I’m still mad. Fucking furious, actually.” Another pause, shorter this time. “But he’s my dad, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Robert. He is.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
I mistook this for a rhetorical question at first. When I realised that it wasn’t, I said, “You’re not supposed to do anything. Just … play it by ear.”
He made a noise with his lips. “Yeah, but …” “Go on.”
“It’s just that … Chrissy says she’s never talking to him again.” “I know. She told me.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. I thought it was something she came up with while she was talking to me. But …”
“But you don’t feel that way.”
“No.” There was an element of fear in his voice. “Robert, she obviously didn’t tell you this much either: I was very upset when she said she was finished with your father. Very upset.”
The fear turned to relief. “Really?”
“Of course. Why would I want my children hating their dad? Never mind what he’s done to me. He’s still your father, like you said.”
That middle bit stuck in my throat a little. But I got it out. Practice makes perfect.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Robert said. “I could kill him.” “I know. Please don’t.”
He laughed, briefly. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in a long while – the non-sarcastic version anyway. “Anyway – what about you? You said you’re not feeling the Mae West. Did something happen? I mean … something else?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing specific. I just . . . I don’t know. I thought it would be nice to see you.”
“Christ,” he said. “Now I feel all pressurised.”
“Don’t worry, Robert. I’m not expecting you to make it all go away.”
“Phew! Probably just as well.”
I began to smile, then aborted the move, replacing it with a deep sigh. “I haven’t slept a wink since,” I said.
“No shit,” Robert replied. “Sure how could you with all this going on?”
The best course of action, I quickly decided, was not to backtrack over the lie, but to fully embrace it and run like hell. “Yeah. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind starts racing, you know?”
“I bet.”
“I start wondering …” At that point, I hit a spot of trouble. I’d launched into a sentence for which I had no ending.
“What?” Robert said softly. His tone was so sympathetic that I almost cra
cked and told him I’d been sleeping perfectly well and had just had a pleasant day at the zoo where his aunt and I had almost hugged. Instead, I closed my eyes and allowed my head to droop. As I struggled to think of a way to elaborate on my deception without making myself sick, Robert reached across the table and placed his hand over mine.
“It’ll be all right,” he said in a voice that was so much like his father’s that I lost my breath. Before I knew what was what, I felt tears streaming down my face.
“Come on, Mum,” Robert whispered. “Don’t cry. Everyone will think it was something I said.”
I smiled through my silent sobs for a moment and then made a serious effort to get myself under control. When I had achieved a small degree of stability, I looked up and saw that Robert was on the edge of tears himself. That did it; I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. Equilibrium was soon restored.
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely, dabbing my eyes with a napkin.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I didn’t drag you out here to give you a sob story.” Another lie: that was exactly what I had meant to do.
“You didn’t drag me anywhere,” he said. “I wanted to come.”
I withdrew my hand and placed it on top of his. “Thanks, son.”
“What for? I didn’t do anything.”
Just then, the nearer of the two women at the bar slid off her stool and began to slowly step towards us. I noticed before Robert did and looked up at her expectantly.
“Excuse me,” she said, slurring slightly, as he turned to see what had caught my eye. “I don’t want to be a pain in the arse … but are you Valentine Reilly out of The O’Mahonys?”
“That’s me,” Robert said and stuck out his hand.
The woman shook it for what seemed like several minutes.
“I can’t think of your real name,” she said when she finally relinquished her grip. “It’s driving me mental.”
“Will I give you the initials?” Robert teased. He was good at this, I thought. Slick.
“Go on,” the woman said, enjoying herself immensely. “R O’C.”
“R O’C … O’Connell! Something O’Connell, that’s right.” She turned to her pal at the bar, who, for some reason, had been pretending she wasn’t even watching. “Maggie! It’s something O’Connell! Begins with an R!”
“Robert!” Maggie cried instantly, pointing at my son as if he might not have been sure himself.
Robert clapped. “Correct. Congratulations.”
“It was on the tip of my tongue,” the woman said. “C’mere, we were just finishing up – would you ever do us a photo before we go?”
“Sure,” Robert said.
For the first time, the woman acknowledged my existence. “Maybe you’d take it for us,” she said. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to steal him away from you.” “You couldn’t if you tried,” I said. “I’m his mother.”
I expected her to say what practically everyone said in this situation (or the corresponding one with Chrissy), which was “You don’t look old enough.” But she didn’t say that. She said – with an air of considerable satisfaction – “Ahhh! I was wondering …”
Robert suppressed a grin as she withdrew her mobile phone and switched the camera on.
“You just press the middle button,” she said cheerfully as I snatched it from her hand.
“Thanks.”
Maggie hopped off her bar-stool and the three of them arranged themselves in a tight bunch. Both women put their arms around Robert. Most of the pub was watching proceedings by now. I felt slightly embarrassed and took the photo quickly – too quickly for Maggie’s liking.
“Aw!” she said. “You barely looked! Do one more.” “Two,” her friend added. “Just to be sure.”
I took the shots and handed back the phone.
“Thanks,” the women said. They spoke as one; each addressed her gratitude to Robert.
“Any time,” he said. “Will you be watching tonight?” “Definitely,” they said, once again speaking simultaneously.
And then, amid a flurry of handshakes and cheek-pecks and compliments, they were gone.
“Sorry about that,” Robert said as we retook our seats. I’d found the two women – or more correctly, their obvious lusting over my child – quite annoying. But there was an upside to their intrusion, I now realised: way ahead of schedule, I could stop pretending to be more miserable than I was, while still giving Robert credit for the improvement.
“Don’t apologise,” I said. “I’ve never seen that happen before. It was … cool. I keep forgetting that you’re famous.” “Well, now, I’m hardly famous famous. It’s not like I can’t walk the streets.”
“Won’t be long though. Wait’ll you see.”
He tried not to show that he was tickled by the idea. I was reminded of the time when he was eleven or twelve and my mother pointed out that he was turning into “a little heartbreaker”. He was too young for girls then and made a big deal of slapping the compliment away. But he’d been unable to keep his mouth straight. The same difficulty plagued him now.
“Will I get you another glass of wine?” I asked, just to change the subject and put him out of his misery.
“I’ll get it,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Another water?” “I’ll have a Diet Coke this time,” I said. “Might as well go mad.”
He nodded and went to the bar.
We took our time over that second round, and over the third as well. Robert did almost all of the talking – out of nerves, I suspected. Like his Aunt Melissa, he wasn’t used to being alone with me. I listened intently as he trotted out one harmless anecdote after another (most of them featuring various nutter neighbours in his apartment block), smiling and frowning when appropriate. When we realised that we’d been sitting there for an hour and would miss The O’Mahonys if we didn’t leave soon, I offered him a lift. He declined, but he did so politely, pointing out – ha-ha – that he just wanted some air and wasn’t trying to get away from me or anything. We said goodbye on the pavement and briefly hugged. I thanked him for cheering me up, a statement that only felt like half a lie.
“Will I give you a call after the show?” I asked just as we were parting.
“Sure,” he said.
I smiled and turned away, feeling a little light-headed.
Will I give you a call after the show? Sure.
It was like old times, only just the opposite.
* * *
I got back to Melissa’s to find her putting the finishing touches to dinner. We ate and cleaned up and got comfortably installed in the living room just in time for the seven-thirty deadline. Niall had been roused from his nap to have a bite, but he was clearly still exhausted and had to be tucked up again within half an hour. (There was an awkward moment when he announced that his mother’s chicken curry smelled “funny” and wondered if I would be cooking again any time soon. I quickly changed the subject to tigers.) “We’ll be seeing him again,” Colm said, as the opening credits rolled. “There’s no way he’s going to sleep all night.” “Shhh,” said Melissa, as if she was missing something already.
The show’s first couple of minutes were embarrassingly dull. I let them slide by without much interruption; there didn’t seem to be any point in getting into detail about every last storyline and character. Then the scene changed to a small office. Henry O’Mahony was sitting behind his desk, making dinner arrangements with his mistress. The O’Mahonys, I had always thought, was a County Wicklow version of Dallas. But while the Ewings had made a huge fortune from oil, the O’Mahonys had made a small one from construction. Like Jock and Miss Ellie, the senior members of the family were honest, hard-working types. Francis was an old-school gent and his wife, Theresa, was quietly devoted to her man and her two boys. They had a Bobby-like son in James, who worshipped his father and worked every hour God sent. Henry, on the other hand, was J.R. He was mean and cunning and ruthless and got all the best lines; they might as well have give
n him cowboy boots and a Stetson.
“Robert owes this guy money,” I explained quickly. “I mean, Valentine owes him money. He got into a poker game he shouldn’t have gone near and ended up writing an IOU for five grand. Henry here bailed him out, but he hasn’t seen a penny of it since.”
Sure enough, Henry’s phone call was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Valentine, looking very sheepish.
“Oh, he looks so well!” Melissa said. “So handsome!” The scene was no more than a minute long and, frankly, was one that we’d all come across before. Henry pointed to the calendar on the wall behind him and asked Valentine if he’d mind reading out the date. Nervously, Valentine did so.
Henry played dumb, saying he was sure he remembered something about a payment of some kind that was supposed to have been made by this date. Was he dreaming or had the money failed to materialise? Valentine ran through the usual assurances; there had been unexpected complications, but things were getting back on track. He’d have the cash in a matter of days. Henry said he sincerely hoped so. He hated having to hire muscle. It went wrong so often. These guys were animals, had no sense of restraint. You asked them to rough someone up and next thing you knew, the someone was in a box. No need for muscle, Valentine whimpered, the debt was as good as paid.
“Very good!” Colm said when it was over. “He does the accent very well.”
“The other guy was good too,” Melissa added. “Menacing. But Robert was better.”
This was pure flattery, of course. Still, I was happy to hear it.