Chapter 18
The women’s changing room at the Sandycove Seafarers smelled of decades of stale sweat, blood and tears, and there was a top note of Harpic from the toilets. It brought Kitty back to school hockey, where they were shouted at by sergeant major-like PE teachers who were utterly confounded and therefore apoplectic when flinging balls accurately didn’t come naturally to all the girls. There was one teacher, a small woman from Belfast, who would peer up at the girls and say things like, ‘I’ve seen lesser atrocities on the Falls Road than you playing here today,’ or, ‘You have the hand-eye coordination of a blindfolded sniper.’ She’d been terrifying. Kitty had vowed never to take part in organised sport ever again, but here she was, being transported back to her schooldays.
It was Friday evening and their very first match. A friendly, apparently, but Kitty thought there was nothing friendly about facing an opposing team. She wasn’t a naturally competitive person and it felt a little like going to war. Especially as all she knew about football was that the point was to kick the ball into a net. Anything further than that remained a mystery. She needed someone who could explain some of the finer points and then she could surprise Tara, their captain, by being a tiny bit better.
Wait. Did she actually want to get better? Was she actually beginning to enjoy herself?
There were two football strips folded on the benches, which had been left by Tara. ‘Blue and yellow polyester,’ said Shazza, holding her set up between finger and thumb. ‘I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in polyester.’
‘We’re here to have fun, remember?’ said Kitty.
‘Hold your head still.’ Shazza was examining Kitty’s face with an air of expertise as though she was a fully qualified nurse. ‘No bruising, good…’ she was saying. ‘Redness practically gone… brain damage… to be confirmed.’ She let go of Kitty’s chin with a satisfied nod and sat down beside her on the wooden bench, their backs against the wall. ‘Mr Unmentionable turned up at the office today,’ said Shazza. ‘Janet, you know, who’s on the front desk… well, I heard her saying in her posh voice, the one she puts on…’ Shazza gently mimicked Janet, putting on an old-fashioned lady-of-the-manor accent, ‘And whomsoever may I say is attending? And he said his name and she said, I’ll just check if Sharon is in residence… and she rang through, but I was on the other side of the door… I mean, you’ve seen the office, it’s a shoebox. So she rang through, and I didn’t answer and Janet said, Sharon Keegan doesn’t appear to be present currently… I will take your card.’ Shazza laughed. ‘And she did! She took his business card and said he looked shifty and suspicious because she said his eyes were crooked. And it’s true, he does have a very tiny, little turn in one of his eyes which I’ve barely noticed, but then Janet prides herself on being Sandycove’s very own Miss Marple. She never misses a trick.’
Shazza smiled, but there was something about her which broke Kitty’s heart, as though her healing journey wasn’t over yet.
‘Why did he come?’ asked Kitty, gently.
‘I suspect his ego needs flattering. Maybe Miss Horsey Kildare has realised he’s not the asset she thought he was. Or… I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘Do you think I should have gone and talked to him? Asked him what he wanted? Maybe I should unblock him on my phone? Or… he might be ill. Dying. Ebola. Leprosy. Irritable bowel syndrome? Does that kill you? Something bad, anyway. So, maybe he needs to tell me something, like where he’s buried his treasure or that… he loves me and he was wrong and leaving me for Miss Kildare and…’ She stopped, her eyes big and sad.
‘Shazza…’ began Kitty.
‘I know… I know…’ Shazza looked away. ‘If Janet wasn’t such a good gatekeeper, I would have gone and talked to him. And… well, thank God for Janet or I might have been caught again. I mean, he’s the reason why I’ve gone off all men, which has effectively ruined my life because it’s his fault I will never get married or have children and will remain a consecrated virgin the rest of my life…’
‘I’ve noticed you’ve shaved your legs though,’ said Kitty, running her hands over Shazza’s billiard-ball smooth legs.
‘I had to,’ said Shazza. ‘It was becoming unmanageable. I’m going to knit a jumper or a scarf out of my shearings.’
Kitty laughed but took Shazza’s hand in both of hers. ‘He’s such an idiot…’
‘He is…’ Shazza nodded. ‘Why did I allow myself to get entangled with Mr Unmentionable? Every red flag was billowing in my face and I pretended not to see them. And he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. He thought eating seasonally was hot cross buns on Good Friday.’ She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I am just determined not to be that stupid ever again. I love the Newsletter and working in Sandycove and being part of the village. It’s surprisingly satisfying. And I’m covering Lola O’Hare’s wedding next week. You know I’ve loved her forever.’ Lola O’Hare was an international singing superstar who had come home to get married. Shazza took Kitty’s hand. ‘I saw Dave with his monstrous mother earlier, doing the shopping. I utilised my undercover investigative journalism skills and followed them around and saw that they were buying those heat-in-the-oven roast dinners… with the foil trays with the potatoes, gravy and carrots.’
For a flickering moment, Kitty wondered if this was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. But yes… of course it was. Dave was still obviously yet to rediscover his former self and if his healing journey involved him eating pre-prepared roast beef and potatoes, then so be it.
‘The two of them looked quite chirpy as though they had discovered the secret to a happy life.’
‘The essence,’ said Kitty.
‘The what?’
‘Nothing…’ said Kitty. ‘It’s just that if you find something that makes you happy, do more of it.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But we don’t,’ said Kitty. ‘We ration the fun things, the nice things, we do the hard things and forget about the lovely things. Like you spend your time mooning after men who make you unhappy… rather than men who make you happy.’
‘Are you saying we all self-sabotage?’
Kitty was nodding. ‘A lot of the time, yes…’
‘I have a biscuit addiction,’ said Shazza. ‘It’s as though they are in charge of me. I can’t resist them. I am in a very unhealthy relationship with them and am being coercively controlled by custard creams.’
‘I can’t eat another tuna and mayonnaise sandwich,’ said Kitty.
‘I want to enjoy food again. And nice men again…’ Shazza put her feet up on the bench across from her. ‘When I leave this virtual nunnery, I’m going to follow your advice.’
‘It’s not my advice,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s Tom’s. I met him and his mother in town earlier. We’ve been invited to Sunday lunch at theirs.’
‘Lunch?’ Shazza’s eyes gleamed. ‘As in proper, home-cooked food?’
‘I think so.’
‘Tell them yes,’ said Shazza. ‘My new plan to eat widely and well has begun.’
There was a long, shrill sound of a whistle outside which hurt their ears, followed by a booming ‘COME ON!’
‘Oh God, Tara…’
‘We’d better go…’
Their first match. Kitty’s stomach churned, thinking of the time she was whacked in the face but also how out of her comfort zone she was. Literally. Wearing shorts, being injured, the horrible hobbly football boots… she was decidedly uncomfortable in every way.
‘All right?’ said Shazza.
‘Fun, you said?’
‘Fun takes all forms. It’s not all Waltzing Chairs and helter-skelters, you know? Fun can be anything you want. Now, come on, Messi…’
‘Messy?’ That was the last thing Kitty was.
‘Beckham, then. Come on and let’s have fun!’