by Olivia Ryan
‘It’s kind of got things into perspective, to be honest,’ I say, sitting down and suddenly realising I’m dead beat. ‘I’d been feeling sorry for myself. All the things that’ve come out this weekend – well, some of them have been pretty upsetting.’
‘Katie, I’m so sorry…’ begins Helen.
‘So am I,’ joins in Emily. ‘I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to start telling you that stuff.’
‘I think we’ve all grovelled and apologised enough. It’s all down to us drinking too much, isn’t it, at the end of the day. I wonder how many friends end up falling out during hen parties?’
‘Don’t say that!’ groans Emily.
I give her a hug.
‘But not us. Can we pretend we didn’t carry on like drunken street-brawlers, d’you think?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll die of embarrassment if Sean ever finds out.’
‘Jude’s going to be OK – that’s all that really matters, isn’t it.’
There’s an annoying little voice whingeing away at the back of my head about all the things I’m going to have to deal with as soon as this weekend is over. But I’m in no mood for listening to annoying little voices in the back of my head. I’m telling it to shut the fuck up for once.
Jude’s being kept in overnight because of possible concussion. When we go back to say goodnight to her she’s got her bad foot propped up really high, and she’s been given some kind of anti-inflammatory drug to help with the pain and swelling. She looks a lot more comfortable.
‘God alone knows how long I’ll be lying here on this trolley – I could be old and grey before they get me into a ward,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I might as well close me eyes right here and get meself some kip – although they’re saying something about waking me up every now and then to ask me name and address. Jesus, if I forget me own name and address they’d better transfer me to the mental institution. I might get a bed there quicker.’
‘Well, we’ll sit with you till they move you to a ward,’ I tell her, looking around in vain for any chairs to sit on.
‘No, you won’t. You’ll get yerselves a taxi now before it gets any later and the streets turn into a zoo. The others will be worried back at the hotel.’
‘Are you sure?’ I feel mean, but on the other hand I can see she’s on the point of falling asleep and to be quite honest, Helen and I are both having trouble staying awake ourselves. ‘We’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
‘Not too early you won’t, if you don’t mind. I’ll need a lie-in if these eejits keep waking me up all night long. And your flight isn’t till the afternoon, is it, so?’
‘Half past six.’ I feel suddenly really, really sad at the thought of going home tomorrow. Despite everything. ‘I don’t want to think about that yet, though.’
‘Sure and why would you need to think about it yet, when there’s another whole day ahead of you?’
‘It’s Serious Shopping day tomorrow!’ says Emily brightly.
‘And time for a little more drinking at lunchtime!’ adds Helen.
If I hadn’t already committed enough acts of violence this evening, I might have hit her.
ABOUT DREAMS
I’m nearly asleep in the back of the taxi when Helen touches my arm gently.
‘Katie. I know you don’t want to talk about it; but I just need to tell you one thing.’
My eyes pop open. I’ve heard too many one things this weekend.
‘It’s just,’ she goes on, ‘that you’re not leaving Bookshelf.’
‘I am. But you’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You’re not leaving, Katie – because I am.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. How’s that going to work? You wouldn’t see Greg.’
‘Well, it might be for the best. I’m not happy in this situation. I preferred myself the way I was before.’
‘“The snake drags the lark along with it, breaking its wings – it never flies again,”’ I quote back to her with a smile. ‘You only told me that on the way over here.’
‘I know. I’m full of shit, aren’t I?’
‘No you’re not. It’s normal to fall in love. You seem to think it’s a weakness.’
‘I do,’ she agrees. ‘If it made me happy, perhaps I wouldn’t.’
‘Perhaps he’s just not the right man.’
‘Katie, they’re all the wrong man!’ she replies, more vehemently. ‘I’ve just been fooling myself. I’m not meant for all this romantic nonsense.’
‘Look, I don’t think either of us should do anything too hasty. When we get back, we’ll talk about it again.’
‘We can talk again as much as you like. But I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Australia.’
‘Australia!’
‘Yes. I’ve told you my brother’s a teacher in Melbourne, haven’t I? I visit him every three or four years. He’s nagged me for a long time to settle out there permanently. So I think I will.’
‘But... come on, Helen – you can’t make a decision like that, just on a whim – going off to the other side of the world, just because of some… some silly feeling, some silly idea…’
She looks at me sadly.
‘Thanks for trivialising my suffering.’
‘Fuck; I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s OK.’
Australia. Bloody hell. That’s certainly putting some distance between the lark and the snake.
There’s a reception committee for us in the hotel foyer. They all jump to their feet as we walk in, running to meet us, anxiety etched into all their faces.
‘How’s Jude?’
‘How is she? Have they kept her in?’
‘Did she have to have her stomach pumped?’
‘Have they done a brain scan?’
‘It’s all right, she’s OK,’ I say, quickly, before it turns into an episode of Holby City. ‘Emily and Helen brought the paracetamol packet in before they started any treatment.’
‘They think she might have mild concussion but they don’t seem too worried,’ adds Emily. ‘They’re just keeping an eye on her through the night and then they’ll let her go.’
‘Thank God,’ says Suze.
‘You look done in,’ says Lisa, putting her arm round me. ‘This wasn’t how your hen weekend was supposed to go, was it, love?’
‘I don’t care. It’s not important. Lise, I thought for a minute back there that we’d killed Jude.’
‘Don’t be silly!’
‘I’m not. I’m not exaggerating. Emily and I were completely out of control.’
‘It was my fault,’ says Emily quietly. ‘I was drunk, and I was talking out of the top of my head.’
‘And I was drunk too, otherwise I’d never have reacted like that.’
How many times are we going to go over this? Now it’s all over, now everything seems to be OK, I feel like crying. Shit, I am crying. Shit. So is Emily.
‘Come on.’ Lisa pulls us both down onto one of the deep leather sofas. ‘No harm done.’
‘But I’m so disgusted at myself… I didn’t know I had that side to me.’
‘Me neither,’ sniffs Emily.
‘It’s the drink,’ Lisa reminds us. ‘You’re not really like that.’
‘No. And I’ve given it up, now.’
‘Yeah, right,’ smiles Lisa.
‘I mean it. I so have. What’s the point of it? It’s not even pleasurable, is it? It’s just a drug.’
‘So you’re not having any more Guinness? Nothing to drink tomorrow, on the last day of your hen weekend?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not having any wine, or any vodka any more, when we get home? When you go out with Matt, or with Emily?’
‘No.’
‘No champagne at your wedding? Not even for the toasts?’
‘No. There’s nothing wrong with orange juice.’
‘Well, I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘Lisa,
I mean it. It’s a slippery slope. Binge drinking…’
‘On your hen weekend, for God’s sake! Everyone does!’
‘But it can get a hold of you. I haven’t said anything to you about this but – I’ve been thinking a bit about how much Mum drinks. Just for instance.’
Not that I’m worried about it.
‘What? She’s had a few drinks too many, on her daughter’s hen weekend! Like all of us! Give her a break.’
‘But…’ I shrug. I haven’t said anything to Lisa yet about what Mum told me, about Dad and their marriage and why she likes the ‘occasional little drink’. I do need to tell her, but not now. I’m much too tired and much too emotional.
‘I just think sometimes people drink to cover up their unhappiness.’
She gives me a puzzled smile.
‘But you’re not drinking because you’re unhappy.’
I sniff and blow my nose.
Maybe not.
It’s very late. We all traipse up to the bedrooms together, in a straggly tired group, whispering goodnight to each other. Mum and Auntie Joyce have missed out on all this drama; they’d come back to the hotel before things got really freaky back there at the pub. I’m glad they didn’t have to see it.
It’s odd being in this room without Jude. I feel strangely lonely, getting into my single bed, lying down and looking at the other empty bed across the room. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t get much sleep last night either; I’m so tired I feel like my eyes are going to come out of the back of my head. I turn off the light and close my eyes. And it’s only now that I start thinking: So what did Matt really say to Emily?
Bugger. I so wasn’t going to think any more about this. I was going to shut it out of my mind till I got home. I’ve got to trust Emily, haven’t I. Now I’ve sobered up, I realise how ridiculously paranoid my reaction was to her meeting with Matt. She had my best interests at heart – I should never have doubted her. She only met up with him because she knew I was upset. And she kept quiet about the meeting because she didn’t want to worry me. That’s all. Emily’s a good friend. She would never do anything to hurt me. How could I have thought that?
So what was all that about him being confused and mixed up?
About what?
Or about whom?
I toss and turn, and turn and toss. I sit up and punch my pillow, shake it and throw it back down. I put the light back on, have a drink of water, turn the light off again. Still I can’t stop my mind going over and over and over. Why did he say he was mixed up? Why did Emily look so embarrassed and shifty? What is she hiding from me?
It must be about five o’clock before I finally drift into a troubled, twitchy sleep. I dream that Matt’s working with Greg at Bookshelf. Greg gives me piles and piles of horrible scientific books to read. He piles them so high on my desk that I can’t see Matt any more over the top of them. Then he suddenly appears on my side of the barricade, naked, and we start to have sex on the desk. At first I resist, but to my surprise, he turns out to be a fantastic lover. I want to enjoy it, but I can’t because I’m worried Matt will see us. Don’t worry about him, says Greg. He’s having it off with Helen. They’re going to Australia together in the morning.
‘No! Not Helen! No!’ I’m moaning when I wake up. I look at the clock. Shit, I’ve only been asleep for twenty minutes. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to think about something else.
I put the light back on yet again and reach for Love in the Afternoon.
Chapter Two
Georgia couldn’t wait to see James again. She’d tried her best to fight the attraction – after all, it was completely pointless. James was a rich, powerful man and Georgia knew he’d only ever see her as his secretary – the silly little new girl, who couldn’t even do shorthand or spreadsheets like the famous Mary who worked for him before. When he was in her office, standing behind her, watching her clumsily working on the document he was waiting for, she became all fingers and thumbs and felt herself growing hot and bothered under his impatient gaze.
This is crap. Still, I suppose it’s going to get to the sex scenes soon; Ginny Ashcroft’s novels are always fifty per cent crap, fifty per cent soft porn. I doubt whether this one would even have got as far as a publishing contract if she wasn’t already a best-seller. It’s hardly worth reading on, because I already know Georgia is going to end up on the desk with her knickers round her ankles and James shafting her from behind while he waits for his important document.
I’m surely not getting bored with romantic fiction, am I?
I’m so shocked by this thought, I actually flip a chapter or two forward and start reading one of the sex scenes, just to liven up my own interest. Yes, this is better. Georgia’s sitting astride James on his leather executive chair, unbuttoning her blouse and getting her tits out when I’m sure she really ought to be getting on with that typing. It didn’t take her long to stop worrying about it all being completely pointless, then, by the look of it.
She’s gasping with pleasure and he’s groaning as she arches her back and they give in to the sensations of the moment.
Why am I reading this rubbish? I slam the book shut and throw it back on the bedside table. I’m going to give it a bad review, and I’ve only read about twenty pages of it. It’s not that I’m bored with romance. Of course I’m not. I love romance, but this isn’t it. Romance is about walking on the beach in the moonlight with someone you really love; not about shagging someone in the office because he’s powerful and filthy rich and he’s got a leather executive chair, for God’s sake.
I fall asleep again with the light still on, and instantly start to dream that it’s me sitting astride the boss with my skirt up round my waist, gasping with pleasure and giving into the sensation. The dream is so erotic I can remember every detail of it when I wake up. I want to dream it again. How bad is that? Because the boss in my dream wasn’t some fictional rich and groaning James. And it wasn’t Matt, either. It was Harry.
Once again we’re a sorry looking group at breakfast this morning. Mum and Joyce are the only two who look even halfway to being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and they soon lose their cheerful smiles when we fill them in on last night’s events. I’ve been a bit economical with the facts actually. I haven’t told them about Emily and me fighting. I might be over thirty but I still don’t want my mum to hear about anything really bad that I’ve done, if I can help it. Do we ever grow out of needing our mums to think the best of us?
‘Poor little Judy!’ gasps Mum. ‘Is she going to be all right? Shouldn’t someone have stayed at the hospital with her?’
‘No, she didn’t want that. She was practically asleep when we left her. We’re going back as soon as we’ve had breakfast. They’re going to discharge her this morning.’
‘We’ll go back,’ says Mum firmly. ‘Joyce and I. We can go to the hospital this morning, and let you girls go off and have your fun.’
‘No, don’t be silly, I’ll go. I can bring Jude back in a taxi.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Emily at once.
‘No, Katie, Emily – Margie’s right,’ says Joyce. ‘You girls looked after poor Jude last night; let us go to the hospital this morning and bring her back. We’d like to, wouldn’t we, Marge? You can all go off and do whatever you’ve got planned for your last day.’
‘Not without Jude,’ I say, stubbornly.
‘Katie,’ points out Lisa, ‘I don’t think Jude’s ankle will be up to her traipsing round the shops, to be quite honest.’
‘No. She shouldn’t be traipsing round the shops anyway, when she’s just come out of hospital,’ says Mum, going straight into Nurse Mother mode. ‘She needs to come back to the hotel and rest, and be looked after. Joyce and I will take charge!’
‘Poor Jude,’ I mutter.
‘She’d probably prefer a couple of stiff drinks,’ suggests Joyce.
She looks completely taken aback when we all start groaning and turning white at the mention of drink. I haven’t
told her yet that I’ve given up.
With Jude’s rescue from the hospital being taken out of our hands, the rest of us decide the right thing to do is to carry on with the proposed shopping expedition to Grafton Street.
‘It’s what she’d want us to do,’ points out Emily. ‘She’ll be on our case, otherwise, about going home without any souvenirs of Ireland.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Maybe we can buy her something to make up for missing out.’
‘That’d be cool. But she’s been shopping in Dublin lots of times, hasn’t she, so I don’t think it’ll be too devastating for her.’
Fortunately, as none of the rest of us have much of a grasp of geography, Jude’s Dublin guidebook is lying neatly on her bedside table, and from its pullout map of the city centre we can see that the main shopping streets are only a short stroll away from where we’re staying.
‘Let’s cross the river,’ suggests Lisa, pointing to the map while we all try to peer over her shoulders, ‘and walk up O’Connell Street on one side and down on the other. Then we can cross back over and do Grafton Street.’
‘If we haven’t spent all our money by then,’ says Karen.
‘Pace yourself, girl!’
‘Come on, then! Let’s get going!’
‘Yeah, my last few euros are burning a hole in my purse!’
‘I need a new handbag!’
‘I want to look for shoes.’
‘A new dress for Katie’s wedding!’
We seem to be pretty cheerful again, then, as we set off from the hotel for our major shopping expedition. Not that we’ve forgotten about poor Jude lying in her hospital bed. But she wouldn’t want us all to be moping around, on our last day, would she? She’d want us to be having fun and spending money. Helping the Irish economy. That’s the way we’re looking at it.