Show Them a Good Time

by Nicole Flattery

  At dinner, that night, squashed into a small corner booth, in a low-priced restaurant, he looked around, frantically, as if pleading for someone to help him. Natasha could see the other diners thinking – that lucky soul. But mostly they could only see the back of his head. Natasha could see the whole thing and it wasn’t a pretty picture. Only the most macabre and disturbed of painters would enjoy creating a scene like this. The front of him, especially his gentle ageing face, was stricken. He was acutely aware that he had made a mistake and his mistake was sitting opposite him, munching cheerfully on vegetables.

  ‘Eat up,’ Natasha shoved his plate towards him. ‘Enjoy yourself. We’re having a liaison.’

  She could be mildly badgering, mildly abusive. It was a result of her control problems. The professor looked like he might cry again.

  ‘Let me tell you about my childhood.’

  ‘Natasha, please,’ the professor said, putting down his fork. ‘You have to rise above your circumstances.’

  ‘I’m not a character in one of your films. It’s not that easy.’

  ‘You must try.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to?’

  ‘Don’t get sentimental about the place you grew up,’ he said. ‘That’s for pedestrian minds.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Natasha said and stood up angrily. She walked to the bathroom. In the mirror she watched her face. She felt bilocated. She wasn’t here, but she wasn’t there either. She looked at her reflection like they were in on the same joke. In the cubicle, she shredded some tissue, threw it in the air and watched it fall like wedding confetti. She knew someone would have to clean that up. She had no excuses for why she did the things she did. She was sick of the cleanliness of the college, the neat angles, the smooth walls of the buildings, the gates that slammed shut. She saw the professor’s pristine bedroom as an extension of the college. She was sick of reason and order; she wanted filth and chaos. She thought of the dim basement bar her mother used to bring her to as a child, and how the college was the same really – no better, no more worthy. Everybody with their own solitary pains, their own endless private afflictions, but nobody looking anybody directly in the eye and asking what they were. Let’s turn up the music and pretend we’re having a hell of a time in here. She looked in the mirror again. Her face was just a sack of skin. Her face was totally white, and she considered the possibility that, after a long wait, she was finally falling apart.

  When she walked back through the restaurant, skirting around tables, she heard the professor laughing loudly. As she got closer to the booth, she realised there was another girl sitting in her place. She was maybe twenty, her hair was messy and she was wearing a dirty green coat with gold buttons. Underneath her coat Natasha could see a short dress, tight and tacky. Her eye make-up was black, heavily and expertly applied in thick streams. She looked like what was promised to men when they returned from war. She looked like a deep, dark forbidden river. She was also, from all appearances, monstrously drunk.

  ‘Welcome to the good life!’ the girl shouted.

  ‘You’re in my seat,’ Natasha said.

  ‘Natasha,’ Professor Carr said, ‘this is Lucy.’

  ‘Hi.’ Lucy extended her hand.

  Natasha stamped to the other side of the booth. She slid in beside Professor Carr. She smoothed down her floral-print dress. To calm herself, she thought of all the beautiful things she had ever worn in her life.

  ‘I don’t like anybody my own age,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Lucy asked. ‘Did you have an argument with your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend. We’re having a liaison.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘I’ve just met Lucy,’ Professor Carr said.

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ Lucy added, smiling.

  Natasha was silent.

  To ease the tension, Professor Carr signalled for the waiter. Lucy held the menu for a long time, shaking in excitement. ‘I like to order a lot of food,’ she said, ‘and then eat all of it.’ She dragged her finger through the menu, marking things off to the waiter. She ordered two starters, two mains and two desserts. ‘I like food that is lumpy and improper,’ she announced to the table. She insisted on three bottles of a bubbly drink that was close to champagne. ‘This is all I drink now. Bring everything together.’ Natasha watched this display in fascination as Professor Carr rested his hands on both their knees.

  ‘You’re a pig,’ Natasha said.

  ‘Do you like to have fun, Natasha?’

  ‘It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘I like it. I like parties.’

  ‘So do I,’ Professor Carr said. He struck Natasha in that moment, despite his education, as a fool. He was the most foolish she had ever seen him.

  ‘If you want,’ Lucy said, ‘you can compliment me until the food arrives.’

  ‘I will start,’ Professor Carr said.

  ‘Don’t compliment me,’ Natasha said. ‘Don’t dare compliment me. I will vomit all over this table if you even pass one single compliment in my direction.’

  ‘Natasha has a lot of anger,’ Professor Carr said.

  Lucy turned to Natasha. ‘How long have you had anger?’

  ‘A year. Maybe more than a year.’

  ‘It doesn’t suit most people,’ Lucy said, ‘but I think it suits you. You bear it well.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When the food and drink arrived, Lucy spread out the plates and arranged them as if there were a particular system, a definite hierarchy, but she ate everything in different orders, regardless. She dipped chips into reservoirs of ketchup and danced them in the air, as she held her almost-champagne flute in her other hand. She let chocolate ice cream dribble down her chin. She drank at a reckless speed. She drank like she was trying to quench a fire, except that fire was heavily dispersed and within herself. Professor Carr giggled, a high-pitched shriek that drove Natasha to the brink of her sanity; and he pushed his hands further up their legs. With her mouth full, Lucy spoke about the holiday she had been on recently and how it had changed her immeasurably. Had either of them been to the edge of the world to discover themselves? Had they lain on an uncomfortable mattress and watched the sun rise and fall like it was string-operated? Travel was now fundamental to her human make-up. But she was only in second year and was stranded on the island of college for another two years.

  ‘I believe I’ve been sent to this college as a punishment for something I did in a past life,’ she said, as she gnawed at a piece of chicken. ‘That’s the only way to explain it.’

  Natasha had the same fear, but she didn’t voice it.

  Lucy uncorked another bottle and continued. She found a lot about the college disgusting but what she found most disgusting was how all the girls from the country came up, got rich city boyfriends, as if it finally saved them and, of course, they stayed in the boy’s family home all weekend, being so impressed by the house, eating their expensive cheeses or whatever. It was boring, right? She wouldn’t do it. And these guys made such a production of introducing you to their parents. Who cares? Everyone has parents.

  ‘Do you have parents?’ Natasha asked.

  Lucy looked directly at her. ‘No.’

  ‘Where in the countryside are you from? Your accent is familiar.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said, ‘I can’t remember.’

  She carried on as if there had been no interruption. What was most boring was how all these guys would leave college, develop certain financial ideas, marry women from their wealthy villages, buy them cars to shut them up when they had affairs. And the worst thing was they accused her of being shallow. Once you saw underneath, once the curtain had been lifted, the show was over. The place was a farce. How were you supposed to take it seriously at all? She hiccuped and began breathing into her glass.

  ‘Lucy,’ Professor Carr said, cheerfully, ‘is a writer.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘She is. She reminds me a
lot of a young Sontag.’

  Lucy knocked over her glass. ‘That’s fine,’ she slurred, watching the fizzy liquid spread across the tablecloth. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘She’s written a play.’

  Natasha froze.

  ‘The most important thing about these guys is not to get pregnant from one of them,’ Lucy said, ‘you just wouldn’t trust them, would you? You wouldn’t feel comfortable.’

  Natasha stared at her.

  ‘What’s your play about, Lucy?’ Professor Carr asked.

  ‘I was crazy when I wrote that. I was really crazy.’

  ‘And you’re not now?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘No,’ Lucy smiled, ‘I’m feeling clear-minded now.’

  Professor Carr, giddy, drove his hands still further up their legs.

  ‘What are you going to do when you leave college in a few months, Natasha?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Natasha is going to the unemployment building,’ Professor Carr said, with confidence.

  Natasha sat up straight. ‘I might become an artist.’

  ‘Oh really? And what will you make art about?’

  ‘My childhood.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Professor Carr muttered.

  ‘Maybe you could write a play? Do you like the theatre?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Natasha doesn’t like anything,’ Professor Carr said.

  ‘I thought you might like it because you’re studying it.’

  There was a long, grateful silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ Natasha said.

  ‘You have a reputation for being strange, you know.’

  ‘That,’ Natasha said, ‘is unproven.’

  Lucy smiled at her in a secret way. ‘Anyway, I hate this college,’ she said. ‘I wish they would leave a window open or something so I could wriggle out and escape.’

  ‘Me too,’ Natasha said.

  ‘I know from my travels that the world is wilder than they have led us to believe in there.’

  ‘It’s a terrible world,’ Professor Carr said. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Natasha, do you know he’s married?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I am,’ Professor Carr said. ‘It’s a personal thing so I didn’t mention it.’

  Natasha pictured herself at Professor Carr’s funeral, in the back, in head-to-toe black. A harlot. Their relationship was even less pleasant than she thought it was.

  ‘Natasha,’ Lucy asked, ‘has anyone ever made a speech in your honour?’

  ‘No. I’m considered too ridiculous.’

  In one swift motion, Lucy kicked off her shoes and clambered up on the table, knocking over cutlery and several glasses. ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘There are a lot of knives and forks on this table.’ She took a long swig from the nearest bottle. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ she announced to the restaurant, ‘I would like to make a speech.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Professor Carr said, ‘a speech.’

  The diners turned to face Lucy. She swung her dirty coat.

  ‘To Natasha,’ she said, ‘when she first came to this college, she met a religious boy.’

  Someone in the restaurant groaned.

  ‘But he was a dud,’ Lucy said. ‘He wouldn’t listen to anybody and when he kissed he did this with his tongue.’ Lucy opened her mouth and jerked her tongue furiously.

  ‘It’s true. He did,’ Natasha added.

  ‘There’s no reason on earth to stay with a man like that,’ Lucy continued. ‘In the beginning I didn’t understand Natasha but then I read her emails and I realised she’s an irreplaceable person.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you sure you read the right emails?’ Professor Carr asked.

  ‘So put your glasses up for Natasha now. She’s had it tough.’ She paused. ‘Now!’

  The diners put down their cutlery and raised their glasses. ‘To Natasha,’ Lucy said sweetly. ‘To Natasha,’ the restaurant chorused. Lucy stepped down and climbed back into the booth.

  ‘How do you know everything about me?’

  ‘I’m done,’ Lucy said. ‘Goodnight lady, goodnight gentleman. Let’s do this again sometime.’ She threw herself face first onto her plate and began drooling.

  Professor Carr and Natasha sat in silence. Their relationship was destroyed beyond repair. Natasha thought about her patience and her self-control, and how all of that was useless to her now.

  ‘Well,’ Professor Carr said.

  ‘Is she okay? Does she do this a lot?’

  ‘I only met her for the first time tonight too,’ he said. ‘I think she’s asleep. She has a head full of dreams.’

  ‘Should we help her?’

  ‘She will be fine.’

  He squeezed Natasha’s arm gently before he stood and went to the bathroom. Natasha surveyed the wreckage around her, the broken glass, the empty bottles, the destruction. She felt like she might have just attended a party? Her first ever party. There was even a girl passed out beside her; a hopeless corpse.

  The corpse opened one blue eye. Natasha screamed. ‘Is he gone?’ Lucy asked.

  She lifted her head off the plate and sighed deeply. She seemed suddenly sober. ‘Do you think he’s going to be talking when he gets back?’

  ‘He might be.’

  Lucy took out an ornate cigarette case from her tiny handbag.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here.’

  Lucy flipped open the case and turned it to face Natasha. It contained three straight rows of cotton wool. ‘I put this stuff in my ears,’ Lucy explained, ‘when I don’t want to listen to people.’

  Natasha rummaged for her own cigarette case. She opened it. ‘So do I,’ she whispered.

  The two girls smiled and filled their ears. When Professor Carr returned, sat down and began gesticulating and leaning his body against theirs, they couldn’t hear him. Lucy took Natasha’s hand as his mouth moved in slow motion but no words came out. He let out another high-pitched giggle. Soon, his face became blurrier as the restaurant lights dimmed and flickered until, finally, he disappeared, and only the two girls remained in the booth.

  LUCY

  Lucy had no idea where she came from. She remembered getting the bus to college and how, as they moved from the countryside to the city, the music on the radio became gentler, more refined. The heat on the bus was oppressive and the material of the seats scratched at the back of her knees. When she disembarked she swore to never get another bus for the rest of her life.

  Every two weeks or so, her parents rang from the black hole she sprang from. Their voices were tinny and far away. She didn’t know where her money was funnelled from, and had no inclination to find out. The world, in all its bleak and unexplainable misery, was simply not happening. Whenever her new friends asked about growing up in the countryside, she said, ‘I had a lot of authentic experiences. Rivers. Trees.’

  ‘Oh,’ they murmured collectively but didn’t press her on it.

  She was studying theatre and that involved rolling around a wooden floor in a leotard. She was a cat, a bridge, a carton of milk. She was the most malleable student and the instructors ran their hands up her spine. She memorised and recited passages with vigour. Cocteau, Artaud, Sartre. She recited these quotes as if they were filled with the utmost meaning, as if they were designed specifically for her. Her mind had little compartments and her education slid in easily. Her past was disappearing, although she still had dreams. The sky over the college was always a paralysing grey. Every day, in the dance studio, she rested her leg on the wooden bar and limbered up. The wooden bar shook slightly. She recited lines to calm herself. Every week, she shoplifted from the luxury department store.

  The first time she walked into the luxury department store, she felt like she was entering a church. The light streamed through the windows; she got to her knees. She had no previous conception that a place like this existed. She had a desire to throw herself out one of the front glass windows because it would be a beautiful, glamorous death. She opened her bag wide and th
rew in brands. She collected them like quotes – something to show off to her friends. After she shoplifted items she made a careful note of each one in her notebook. She called this notebook, ‘Possessions.’ She wanted to shoplift from every major brand before she died.

  ‘Is that a political statement?’ a drama girl asked when she confessed her ambition.

  ‘Yeah,’ Lucy said. ‘It’s against capitalism.’

  In truth, she just wanted the stuff. She put it in another compartment in her brain. She felt when she had shoplifted all the major brands, her true project would be complete.

  ‘Brave,’ the drama girl said, snapping the strings of her leotard.

  She attended all the lectures and seminars, read the correct books starring shifty Irish male heroes, saw films with shifty French male heroes, squinted at the subtitles, shoplifted the plainest cardigans. ‘Can you read that?’ she asked loudly in the viewing room as the subtitles tumbled across the screen. ‘I can’t read that.’ She was performing expertly, she was adorable except once, in a seminar, when she shouted, ‘Jesus Christ, let me out of here.’

  ‘Who said that, Lucy?’ her tutor asked.

  ‘Beckett.’

  She couldn’t risk a slip-up like that again so she began stuffing her ears with cotton wool, making it easier to agree with people by not listening to them. Her parents’ money couldn’t keep pace with her lifestyle. The styles of the cardigans kept changing, wool spooling and unspooling itself across the sky. She slammed her digits into cold machinery. There was nothing that could be done. She didn’t speak to her parents anymore; she couldn’t even remember their number. Her only memory was them eating plain sandwiches off their laps, and she wasn’t even sure that was a real memory or some idea of poverty planted by the college.

  ‘Where does your money come from?’ she asked a drama girl.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the girl said, one leg resting on the wooden bar. ‘It just arrives.’

  She started sending pictures to men online, her finger in her mouth, her breasts on show, her legs wide open. It was fine. Her accounts filled up. She had one customer called the professor who was particularly fond of her. He claimed that when he looked at her photos, he felt like he was in love, that it had to be love.