Chapter Sixteen #3
‘I think my mum’s quite touched by it,’ says Art. ‘But she’s made it clear she doesn’t need me fussing over her. Which is a good thing, I might add.’
We cross the canal and walk past the restaurant-bar where Roo is having her birthday party next week.
‘Have you been there yet?’ I nod towards it. ‘The food’s meant to be great.’
‘No,’ says Art. ‘I’ve only met up with people in the city centre.’ He glances at the bar. ‘It’s kind of weird, not knowing where to go.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘Well, the last time I lived here, I knew where all the best places were.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Of course you did.’
‘I’m not, like, boasting about it!’ protests Art. ‘It was just a fact! And I lived in LA for so long it was the same there. But now …’
I actually know what he means.
‘It’s like we’re tourists,’ I say. ‘Except we’re home.’
‘Exactly,’ says Art. ‘I know this city by heart. But I know a version of it that doesn’t exist anymore.’
‘Well,’ I say, as we reach a junction, ‘now we can discover the one that does exist.’
A small boy tears around the corner on a scooter followed by an older girl shrieking, ‘Karl, you little bollix, slow down or I’ll bleeding burst ye!’
‘You know, maybe I did miss this place after all,’ says Art.
We keep walking further into the city centre, past the spot where my first college boyfriend declared his love for me after a night out (I do not mention this to Art) and the road where my sister lived after she moved out of home (I do mention this to Art, because I went to a spectacular fancy-dress party in that house).
We pass a spot where Art filmed some of his award-winning student film (he doesn’t mention the award) and we pass the location of his college girlfriend’s flat (he does mention her name, presumably because she’s now quite a well-known actress). We’re properly in the inner city now.
‘I’ve travelled this route by bus or taxi or bike so many times but I haven’t walked it for ages,’ says Art. ‘This used to be my walk to school.’
‘That’ll be the north inner-city school you told Bernard about,’ I say with a grin.
Art looks slightly embarrassed. ‘That wasn’t a lie! It’s in the inner city.’
‘You didn’t mention it has its own swimming pool,’ I say. ‘Seriously, though, do you want to walk down there now? I mean, if we’re reconnecting with our past …’
‘No, it’s grand,’ says Art. ‘I had a great time at school but I have no desire to go back. I never wanted to be one of those men still banging on about their old school’s rugby matches when they’re, like, fifty.’
‘Good to know,’ I say.
Art looks utterly at ease as we head closer to the heart of the city, and I realise I feel utterly at ease too.
The voices of the passers-by sound familiar.
They sound like home. We wander through Mountjoy Square, with its shabby Georgian houses and its playground full of gleeful small children, and eventually down Parnell Street, past the Szechuan and Korean restaurants and African barbers and Asian supermarkets, past the bookshop and bike shop and cinema.
This street has everything you could possibly want.
‘I can’t believe you can get Korean food in Dublin now,’ says Art. ‘I doubt it’s as good as California.’
I can’t think of any response to this that doesn’t sound sarcastic, so I say nothing.
When we reach Capel Street, Art looks around in surprise. ‘God, this has changed. When did they pedestrianise it?’
‘Wow, I dunno.’ Instead of traffic, the street is full of pleasingly asymmetric benches and flower planters, and several bars and cafés have outdoor seating. ‘It’s an improvement.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘Bernard wants us to people watch in the city. Why don’t we do that here?’ He looks at his watch. ‘It’s half twelve. We might as well get lunch.’
An hour later we’re sitting outside a brightly painted restaurant, finishing some delicious tacos.
‘These aren’t bad,’ says Art. ‘Like, obviously not the same as back in LA …’
‘Yes, obviously.’ I fight the urge to roll my eyes again.
I’m sure he’s right, but I can’t help thinking that if he’s going to keep comparing Dublin to Los Angeles, he’s never going to be happy here.
I clearly don’t fight the urge hard enough because Art says, ‘I did live there for a long time, you know. I mean, it’s all I have to compare things to. ’
I’m so used to being irritated by him, it hits me that I may not always be fair to him. ‘I know. Sorry. You went there straight from college, didn’t you?’
Art swallows some taco and nods. ‘Yeah, more or less. The producers put me up for the first few months, so that made the move easier. They sorted everything out with visas and stuff. And then when I sold my script I found a nice place of my own. How about you? When did you go to England?’
‘Full-time? Six months after college.’ I think of my first year in London, sleeping on friends’ couches, finally moving into a house full of fellow Irish media workers where I had to share a bedroom with a friend.
‘Wow, the last time either of us lived in Dublin we were basically kids. It’s different being here as an adult with a job.
’ I take a sip of water. ‘I think that’s the biggest change for me.
Like, how do I live here in my thirties? ’
‘Yeah,’ says Art. ‘It did hit me that the good places I knew back in the day were, you know, good for twenty-two-year-olds.’
‘So have you figured it out?’ I say. ‘How to live here as an adult?’
‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘I’m currently sleeping in my childhood bedroom, so that’s not helping.’
I feel a pang of sympathy. ‘How’s the house-hunting going?’
‘It’s not,’ says Art. ‘I mean, I haven’t found anything yet.’
‘What’s on offer?’ I ask. ‘I’ve heard so many horror stories.’
I’m expecting to hear tales of flats where the loo is in the kitchen but Art says, ‘I’m … I’m seeing how things pan out.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it and I can’t blame him. I know looking for accommodation in Dublin is soul-destroying, especially if you’re single. I was incredibly lucky that Roo had a spare room. I raise my water glass. ‘Well, here’s to letting things pan out.’
Art clinks his glass against mine. ‘Do you want to go back to IBC after this?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to risk bumping into Bernard.’
‘I usually prefer working in the office,’ says Art, ‘but maybe not today.’
‘Do you really prefer working in there?’ I don’t know exactly how I feel about hearing this, apart from surprised.
‘Um, yeah,’ says Art. ‘When I’m at home it just reminds me that my dad’s not there.’ He gives me an apologetic look. ‘I don’t know why I keep throwing the dead dad stuff at you today. Sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, and I mean it.
‘When I was thousands of miles away it wasn’t like I was in denial, but I suppose I didn’t have to, you know, confront it,’ says Art. ‘And now I’m back in the house and he’s … missing.’ He picks up a beer mat and fiddles with it. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘It makes total sense,’ I say.
‘Most of the time I’m fine,’ says Art, ‘but then every so often I remember that he’s really gone and it’s like being hit behind the knees with a sandbag. My brain goes, “But he can’t be dead! Not my dad.” It’s ridiculous. But there you go.’
He lets out something that’s almost a laugh but he looks very sad.
‘It’s not ridiculous,’ I say.
And without thinking, I take his hand and squeeze it. But he looks so taken aback I immediately pull away as if I’d been burned and almost knock over my water glass.
‘Um, thanks,’ says Art. ‘Anyway! We should probably get the bill. I think we’ve done enough immersing.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah, probably.’
We pay up and I’m about to head to the bus stop when Art orders a taxi and insists I let it take me home too.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s about to start raining,’ he says, ‘and the last thing we need is you getting caught in a shower and coming down with pneumonia.’
‘Do you think we’re in a Jane Austen novel?’ I say, but I don’t argue. We did have quite a long walk earlier and I’m tired now.
It starts raining heavily as soon as we get into the taxi, and I’m glad I accepted Art’s offer.
‘So,’ says Art, ‘has all this set your mind at rest?’ There’s a slight touch of condescension in his voice.
‘It has, actually.’ Walking these streets, noticing how things have changed, how I’ve changed, listening and watching the people around me – it all showed me I still feel at home here. I still feel part of this place. I can write about Dubliners. ‘How about you?’
‘Mine didn’t need to be set at rest,’ he says blithely. But I remember how defensive he was back in the office.
‘If you say so,’ I say.
As the taxi heads down the roads we walked just a few hours ago, I feel like I’m heading back to reality.
‘God,’ I say, ‘I’d almost forgotten about Bernard’s notes.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘it’s like you said earlier.’
We’ve reached Art’s house and the taxi pulls up across the road. ‘What did I say earlier?’
Art gets out of the taxi.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘we do our best.’
Do your best, Annie.
It’s what I tell myself the next day as I try to follow Bernard’s orders and ‘get more emotion’ out of the single line in which Sarah serves an extra glass of wine.
It’s what I tell myself an hour later as I try to obey his request to make Mozzer’s long-lost friend both ‘high energy’ and ‘subdued’ within the same sentence.
I worked more or less non-stop until midnight last night, but I feel like I’ve barely made any progress.
And it’s not getting any better today. By noon I want to sob with rage and frustration but I’ve got to keep it together, because if I break down now, if I break down here, well, I might totally fall apart.
And that simply isn’t going to happen. Not in this building.
I’m sure Bernard wants me to fail. He wants to break me. And I’m determined not to let him. But it’s not easy. If I felt on edge last week, well, this week I’m teetering over the abyss.
Art is all antsy too. Even with my headphones on, I can sense him pacing around the room. When my timer goes off at twenty past twelve and I stand up to stretch, he’s sitting at his desk but he’s drumming his fingers on his laptop in a manner I can only describe as a little bit manic.
I think of his blasé attitude during our first week. Well, well, well, not so chill now, are we? But that thought doesn’t give me any satisfaction at all.
He looks up at me. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Not great.’ I try – and fail – to relax my shoulders. It feels like they’re up past my ears. ‘I’m so tense I feel like I’m going to explode.’
‘I don’t exactly feel relaxed myself,’ says Art.
I sit down again and lay my head on the desk. Maybe banging my forehead off it would release some of this anxious tension. I let out a groan.
‘McDermott?’ says Art.
‘Uh-huh?’
‘If it’d be any help,’ he says, ‘I found out where the stationery cupboard is.’