Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

‘It’ll never stick,’ came a voice from behind me.

  ‘Ever the optimist, Brigid,’ I said without turning around.

  ‘Well it won’t,’ she said, stopping to marvel at the snow with me a moment before adding, ‘are you right?’

  ‘Almost done. Harvey’s being a complete dickhead.’

  ‘What’s new?’ she asked. Then, ‘Hurry up, will ya? I’m parched.’

  *

  Brigid is the fashion and beauty girl who sits opposite me. Harvey is the printer. And the three of us were the last remaining employees at Farrelly Publications yesterday afternoon; everyone else had already left for the Christmas party.

  I have no idea why they named the printer Harvey or, indeed, why Brigid was assigned the fashion and beauty desk – as far as I could tell she wore the same brown cardigan every day of her life, and her pink, iridescent lipstick did sweet fuck-all for her pasty complexion – but having only joined the company five weeks ago, these were two of many things that I accepted without question, because understanding them wouldn’t make me any better at my job or earn me any more money.

  I’d been hired to help with Farrelly’s travel magazine, Taisteal, which is Gaelic for ‘travel’. Genius. They wanted me to write articles on luxury holiday destinations, which I knew absolutely nothing about, but I was desperate to quit my current job at a local Northside newspaper. At the interview, my now editor-in-chief – a surly blonde woman named Ciara – told me that the previous travel and leisure girl had ‘unexpectedly pissed off to have a baby’. Her exact words.

  I remember clarifying for Ciara that I was actually a fiction writer and, without blinking, she told me that since they had no budget left to send me anywhere, that would work out just fine. I later found out that they had spent the entire travel budget sending what they assumed was an increasingly fat travel and leisure girl to various five-star resorts, none of which got a write-up in the end. Fair play to her, I suppose. In the meantime, I was hired on the spot, and paid to write about all the amazing holidays I never had.

  The office Christmas party is actually a glorified pub crawl called the Twelve Pubs of Christmas, wherein the participants visit twelve pubs, drink a pint in each one and, I’m told, never speak of it again; apparently, someone shat themselves outside the Foggy Dew last year, but nobody will tell me who.

  The whole office piled out the door around midday, all dressed as characters from the Nativity – the chosen theme for this year’s shenanigans – and although I’d actually finished my article that morning, I volunteered to stay with Brigid while she worked on an edit. I did this because I’m actually a complete lightweight and, truth be told, I hoped the rest of the team would be on pub four or five by the time we caught up with them.

  While Brigid, who’d been assigned the role of Mary, hastily shoved a cushion up her pale blue robes, I stapled together the pages of my ‘Flirting with Yurting’ article – I had suggested the title ironically and been forced to use it – and left it on Ciara’s desk along with a note that said, ‘Now I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho.’ I knew that would give her a giggle when she rolled into work tomorrow, hung-over as all holy hell.

  ‘Come on!’ whined Brigid, jigging like a child on the verge of pissing itself.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I shouted back, then I grabbed my handbag and followed her to the door, where she stood, haughtily eyeing me up and down.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Where’s your halo?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ I said. She looked from me to her cushion belly then back to me, and raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Brigid!’ I shouted, running to the cupboard to grab a wire hanger, while she pilfered tinsel from the office Christmas tree.

  Ten minutes later, the Virgin Mary and I were crunching our way across O’Connell Bridge through what felt like inches of snow. We were headed to the Long Stone – the fourth pub on the list – where we found Joseph and two shepherds smoking outside. I’m not sure what Joseph’s real name is, but she filled us in on the expedition thus far, then escorted us inside. As we approached, a stocky ginger man in a suit and tie stepped in front of us and stuck a hand in Joseph’s face. Brigid was about to kick off when he said, ‘Sorry ladies, no room at the inn,’ then burst into wheezy laughter, which descended into a filthy smoker’s cough.

  ‘Good one,’ I said. ‘Can we go inside now, please?’

  ‘Do as you like,’ he replied, through fits of coughing. ‘I’m not the bouncer, I’m just here on me Christmas do.’ Then he gestured to a bunch of other men in black suits and ties.

  ‘What’s the theme?’ asked Brigid, still annoyed she’d fallen for his joke. ‘Used-car salesmen?’

  ‘It’s Bond, actually,’ he said, ‘James Bond.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joseph, eyeing up the group of flabby, balding Bonds.

  ‘No, Jesus is inside,’ said the guy who wasn’t a bouncer, before guffawing once more.

  ‘Fuck this,’ I said, pushing past them into the pub.

  Jesus was indeed inside, in the form of Gary from our graphic design department. Gary, a wiry-looking Cork man, had braved the elements today in nothing but an adult nappy, a scraggly brown wig, and a pair of old battered Reeboks.

  ‘Dad!’ yelled Gary, throwing his arms around Joseph. She laughed and hugged him tightly.

  I left them locked in an embrace and headed straight for the pub’s fireplace, where I spotted Ciara and the rest of the team huddled around it, defrosting themselves. Ciara was dressed as a Wise Man, beard and all, and as I approached I heard her make a joke about the term ‘Wise Man’ being an oxymoron, to which some inebriated staff member replied, ‘You’re an oxymoron!’

  There was a pregnant pause before Ciara cracked a smile and the employee breathed a sigh of relief.

  Unfortunately, my ‘brilliant plan’ didn’t go quite as I’d expected; apparently the rules of Twelve Pubs state that you must make up for any pubs you miss. And so I found myself downing three shots of sambuca and a pint of Guinness while the team cheered me on. I silently put a hex on each and every one of them, then wobbled to the bar in search of water.

  I was doing my very best impression of a sober person ordering a drink, when a guy in a stormtrooper costume appeared beside me and asked the barman for a Heineken.

  ‘Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?’ I asked.

  ‘Aren’t you a little drunk for an angel?’ he replied. His voice was muffled inside the plastic helmet, but I detected an English accent.

  ‘Touché,’ I said, as the barman placed a glass of water in front of me. I picked it up with both hands and began guzzling it down.

  ‘I’m Theo from accounting,’ he said, offering me his hand. I held out a finger, indicating for him to wait while I emptied the glass, then I smacked it down unintentionally hard on the bar. When I finished, I wiped my mouth with the back of one hand and shook his with the other.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Theo from accounting. I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said, cutting me off. Then, presumably realising how odd that sounded, he added, ‘I write your paycheques.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’ve never met a guy who already knows how much money I make.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, his body shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Nah it’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I guess now you owe me a private detail about yourself.’

  ‘That’s fair,’ he replied. He took off his helmet and placed it on the bar, instantly disarming me; I hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking.

  While he decided which piece of top-secret information to divulge, I became suddenly and painfully aware of my face. At the best of times, my face betrays my every thought, but when I’m drunk it might as well be a fifty-foot neon sign. Right then I imagined it read ‘YOU’RE VERY ATTRACTIVE’ in letters the size of houses, so I focused really hard on presenting a completely neutral expression, one that would give nothing away.

  Poker face, I thought, pre
tend you’re playing poker.

  I have never played poker.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Theo.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘It’s just, you haven’t blinked in a while,’ he said, concerned.

  ‘Oh.’

  Before I could figure out how often a normal human blinks, the barman appeared with Theo’s pint. After he paid for it, he turned to me, having clearly reached a decision about what to tell me.

  ‘You know how men sometimes get erections at inopportune moments?’ he asked.

  I enjoyed hearing the word ‘erections’ in his posh British accent.

  ‘I’m familiar with the concept, yes.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when I find myself in that … predicament, I think about Margaret Thatcher addressing the House of Commons.’

  I pictured it myself, lingering on the image a while.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, nodding, ‘that makes sense.’

  ‘Works every time,’ said Theo, picking up his pint and lifting it towards me. ‘I’ve never told anyone that before.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ I said, clinking his glass with my mine.

  ‘Slanty,’ he said.

  ‘Sláinte,’ I corrected, laughing.

  ‘That one,’ he agreed. Then he took a gulp of his drink, nodded towards the rest of our group and said, ‘Shall we?’

  As we made our way towards the fireplace, I looked back over my shoulder at him and, feigning genuine interest, I said, ‘I’m curious, Theo … exactly how many stormtroopers were there at the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ?’

  I watched him try to formulate a joke before he gave up, smiled, and said, ‘I didn’t read the email.’

  Despite numerous warnings not to mix my drinks, I had a glass of wine, a pint of cider and a gin and tonic in Chaplin’s, Doyle’s and Palace Bar respectively. Suffice to say I was a little worse for wear by the time we headed to the eighth pub on our list, O’Neill’s on Suffolk Street.

  Thus far, Theo had been keeping just enough distance to keep me interested; flitting between the various Farrelly factions and reappearing just long enough to buy me a drink or join one of the many strange conversations I was having with colleagues I barely knew. They ranged from the benefits of electric toothbrushes, to the first dog in space, to how Joel Schumacher had ruined Batman.

  ‘Batman and Robin is the best Batman movie ever!’ announced Joseph, whose name I had by now learned was actually Aoife.

  ‘You’re wrong. You’re just plain wrong,’ I said, then turned to Theo for support. ‘Tell her she’s wrong, please.’

  ‘You are,’ said Theo. ‘Everyone knows The Dark Knight Rises is the best Batman movie.’

  ‘Rises!?’ I exclaimed. ‘Rises? Really?’

  ‘Well, that’s me off the hook,’ said Aoife.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘really.’

  I stared at him, gobsmacked.

  ‘And I suppose you think Jedi was better than Empire too?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Theo. ‘Attack of the Clones is by far the best Star Wars film.’

  We were still giggling when Ciara announced it was time to go, and on the way out, Theo moved ahead to open the door for me. His chivalry felt sincere and unforced and while yes, I presumed there was also some agenda at play, I welcomed it. I even played up to it a little, making a point of always being in his eyeline, and hooking my arm in his as he escorted me between pubs. I had somehow neglected to bring a coat to work on this, the coldest day of the year, and so we trudged arm in arm down College Street, an angel and a stormtrooper, both blending in with the backdrop of snow. We watched as ever fatter flakes tumbled silently across Trinity College, caught all too fleetingly in the orange glow of passing street lights.

  Perhaps it was the crowds of drunken men in O’Neill’s, or the fact that I could barely walk upright, but I noticed Theo taking on a somewhat protective role by my side. He marched me straight to the big mahogany bar where I stood, swaying slightly, while he ordered us each a pint of water. A man in a Rudolph jumper sidled up next to me and I was distracted by the flashing red light in the reindeer’s nose. The man caught me staring and smiled. I smiled back.

  ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ he asked.

  Straight in.

  ‘No,’ I said, not looking at Theo, but sensing a shift in his energy next to me.

  ‘Good,’ said the man.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’d like to buy you a drink.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. But I’m all right, thanks.’ I looked away then, indicating that I wanted the conversation to be over.

  ‘So you do have a boyfriend,’ he declared.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Are you gay?’ he asked – because as well we all know, any woman who doesn’t want to sleep with a man must either be gay or taken.

  ‘Only sometimes,’ I said.

  ‘Then what’s your problem?’ he spat, successfully going from polite to inquisitive to complete cunt in under ten seconds. He might have just broken the world record.

  I felt Theo tense up next to me, so I placed a hand on his forearm and silently willed him not to get involved; if this gobshite heard an English accent right now it would only make things worse.

  ‘My problem,’ I said, smiling politely, ‘is dipshits in stupid jumpers who can’t quite seem to grasp that I can be simultaneously single and not fucking interested.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, raising his hands in the air like I was some kind of madwoman with a gun. ‘I was only offering to buy you a drink, sweetheart.’

  I wondered, in that moment, if all men were pulled aside in school and taught this shit. I imagined a drill sergeant shouting at a row of terrified young boys, urging them to never admit defeat, never take no for an answer, and never walk away without first convincing the target that you weren’t even interested in the first place.

  ‘MAKE THAT BITCH FEEL CRAZY!’

  ‘SIR, YES, SIR!’

  Just then, Theo slid my water towards me.

  ‘Water!’ exclaimed the dipshit in the stupid jumper. ‘What kind of pussy comes to a pub to drink water?’

  He was grasping at straws and I shouldn’t have risen to it. But knowing that didn’t stop me. I smiled, leaned right in – my lips almost touching his ear – and whispered, ‘The kind of pussy you’ll never get.’

  Then I stepped back and jerked my hand, pretending to throw my drink at him. I savoured the look on his face as he flinched and, I shit you not, instinctively covered Rudolph’s little lightbulb nose.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said, before turning on my heel and walking away.

  Theo found me sitting on a step outside, shivering and crying. I could tell he was surprised, but he just sat down beside me and said nothing. We stayed there for a while before I finally broke the silence.

  ‘First of all,’ I launched in, ‘I’m not angry with you. I’m really grateful that you let me fight my own battle, actually. I’m angry with him. I’m angry with men in general. No offence. I’m angry with myself for rising to it. No, I’m not. What I did was hilarious. But I’m angry that I even give a shit. I’m angry that I’m out here crying and he won’t think twice about it. He’s probably in there, right now harassing some other poor woman. And maybe this one won’t have the balls to say no.

  ‘And I know what he did wasn’t that bad, you know, in the grand scheme. But it all adds up. It wears you down. And I’m tired. I’m tired of having to be tough, I’m tired of having to keep my bloody guard up all the time, and never being able to trust anyone. And, yes, I realise this isn’t actually about that guy. It’s about an entirely different guy, in fact, who treated me so badly for so long that I literally lost the will to live. And probably it’s about my father too. But you really don’t need to hear about any of that right now.

  ‘Christ, listen to me. I’m just sat here blubbering at you like a fucking eejit. And it’s Christmas. And we should be havin
g fun. You should go back inside. I’ll follow you in in a sec. I’m actually fine. Just a bit drunk. I’m fine. Go back inside.’

  Theo regarded me a moment, then he nodded and stood up. He put his hands in his pockets and squinted up into the snow, seeming to mull something over. This is it, I thought, I’ve gone and fucked it completely.

  ‘So, just to be clear,’ he said finally, ‘you don’t have a boyfriend?’

  Pubs nine, ten and eleven are a bit of a blur. I drank twice in pub nine to make up for O’Neill’s. And there was definitely karaoke in the last one; Gary and I gave a rousing rendition of ‘Fairytale of New York’, the only song in the world that is actually improved by the singers being absolutely shitfaced. Much to everyone’s surprise, Gary did a great impression of Shane MacGowan, and while my Kirsty MacColl left a lot to be desired, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we belted out the final refrain. When the music stopped the pub kept going; rows of people stood, arms around one another’s shoulders, gently rocking from side to side as they raised their glasses and their voices to repeat the chorus one last time, reaching peak volume as we sang of the boys of the NYPD choir and hit the concluding ‘Christmas Day’.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Theo, en route to the penultimate pub. We had stopped at the entrance to an alleyway, inside which Gary was carrying out a tactical chunder.

  ‘Y’all right Gazza?’ I called out.

  ‘Grand,’ shouted Gary from inside the alley.

  ‘Don’t get what?’ I asked Theo.

  ‘Why you all love that song so much,’ he said. ‘It’s so sad.’

  ‘It’s not sad!’ Gary chimed in.

  ‘It’s not sad,’ I echoed.

  Theo laughed derisively.

  ‘He’s in jail! On Christmas Eve! And he’s lost the girl. The girl hates him!’

  ‘She doesn’t hate him. They’re just … passionate.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re passion—’ Gary was cut off by another round of vomit. I heard it splatter against the wall and was thankful I couldn’t see it as well.

  ‘You just look after yourself, Gary!’ I shouted, then turned back to Theo.