Chapter Twenty-One
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: HONORIA’S HOUSE
‘Are you alone?’ I whisper.
It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning, and Roo has finally emerged from her room and joined me in the kitchen.
‘What?’ says Roo. ‘Of course I— Oh, I see. Yes, I’m alone.’
‘So?’ I say. ‘How did it go?’
‘Well, he’s not a clown,’ says Roo, filling the kettle. ‘So that was good.’
‘And?’ I say.
‘And it turns out humanity reached peak hotness in 1936 when Marlene and Gary starred in Desire …’
‘Roo!’
‘Okay, okay,’ says Roo. ‘Daragh was lovely. And cute in real life. And almost as tall as his profile said he was.’
‘And, and?’
‘And … we went for a drink before the film and we got on pretty well,’ says Roo. ‘We both loved the movie, so he really does have good taste. And then we went for food. And then we had another drink.’
‘But did you get the shift?’ I say impatiently.
‘And you said I have a mind like a sewer.’ Roo sighs. Then she grins at me. ‘But yes, we kissed. When I was waiting for my taxi.’
‘Hurrah!’ I clap my hands in glee. ‘How was it?’
‘It was … good,’ says Roo. ‘It was a bit weird. Not that he was weird. It’s just that I haven’t kissed anyone but Justin in four years.’
‘So it was weird in a good way?’ I say.
‘Definitely,’ says Roo. ‘I feel like … like my palate has been cleansed.’
‘Literally,’ I say. ‘Heh-heh-heh. So are you going to see him again?’
‘I think so,’ says Roo. ‘But …’
‘But what?’ Oh God, please don’t say he has an obsession with vintage erotica or a collection of porcelain dolls from many lands or some other creepy red flag.
‘But I think I’m going to keep my options open,’ says Roo.
‘I’ve been on one good date and … I dunno.
I was with Justin for four years. I don’t need to settle down straight away.
’ She smiles at me and, for the first time since I came home, she looks …
carefree. It’s very nice to see. ‘Maybe I should just have some fun for a while.’
I certainly can’t argue with that. I raise my teacup.
‘To having a lot of fun,’ I say.
After breakfast Roo goes off to prepare for some online tarot clients and I spend the rest of the morning faffing around with my script. I’m taking a break and have just brewed a pot of herbal tea when Roo returns.
‘You haven’t forgotten Francesca and Nadia are coming over today, have you?’ she says.
‘I had, actually,’ I admit. Nadia is another of Roo’s scarily glossy, cool PR friends.
‘Francesca’s launching a Japanese beauty brand and they suggested giving guests these gorgeous little sashiko embroidery kits at the launch next week,’ says Roo, ‘so we’re going to try them out.’
‘How very wholesome!’ I say.
‘I am very wholesome.’ Roo looks down at her black chiffon frock, beneath which an expensive black corset can clearly be seen. ‘Even if I don’t always look it.’
The doorbell rings. It’s a good twenty minutes before I was expecting Art to arrive.
‘I’ll get it!’ Before I can stop her, Roo’s rushed out into the hall.
Oh well. I knew she would never have let me slip away without her meeting Art, which is fair enough given how much she’s had to listen to me talking about him.
But what if they really clash with each other?
What if Art says something stupid about Roo’s job?
Or her clothes? And what if Roo accidentally reveals how much she knows about Art?
I don’t want him to know how much I’ve been talking about him.
Why do I care so much about all this?
The front door opens and I hear Art say, ‘Oh! Hi. Is Annie there?’
‘You must be Art,’ says Roo. ‘I’m Roo. Come in.’
A moment later there he is, in our kitchen.
‘Morning,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Did I get the time wrong?’
‘Sorry, I’m very early,’ says Art apologetically. ‘I thought the traffic would be worse because there’s a match on in Croke Park today but I got here in, like, a minute.’
‘That’s grand,’ I say.
For once I can’t think of anything to say to him. This clash between our weird work bubble and my real life seems to have short-circuited my brain. Then Roo holds up the teapot and says, ‘There’s herbal tea if you want some. It’s one of my own tisanes.’
I know this isn’t a test – Roo doesn’t play games like that – but as far as I’m concerned it feels like a test.
‘That sounds great,’ says Art. ‘Thanks.’
As Roo pours the fragrant liquid into a mug, she and Art are clearly sussing each other out.
Maybe if I hadn’t spent so much time with him over the last few weeks I’d think he was totally at ease, but I can sense a slight guardedness in his manner that makes me think he’s actually nervous.
Does he actually care what my friend thinks of him?
Or is he just worried the spooky tarot lady will put a curse on him?
Roo hands him the mug and as he takes in the full scent his expression changes. ‘Whoa. This smells amazing.’
‘It’s my Apfelstrudel tisane,’ says Roo. ‘It’s meant to make you feel more hopeful.’
I brace myself for a smart remark but Art takes a sip, smiles back at her and says, ‘Well, it’s certainly making me feel more cheerful.’
‘I’ll take that,’ says Roo. They look at each other in a friendly fashion and my shoulders relax a little.
‘So,’ says Art. ‘Annie told me you’re a tarot card reader?’
My shoulders tense up again.
‘I am.’ I know Roo’s bracing herself to hear something stupid. So am I.
‘How did you end up doing that?’ he says.
Okay, so far so polite.
‘I was doing a psychology postgrad and doing readings on the side,’ says Roo. ‘And then I realised I didn’t want to be a clinical psychologist after all.’
‘There are lots of links between tarot and psychology, right?’ says Art. ‘Jungian archetypes and all that?’
I look at him in surprise. Roo’s face brightens. ‘Yes, there are! But try explaining that to my mother. She doesn’t think I have a real job.’
‘Oh, my parents never thought I had a real job either,’ says Art. ‘My brother’s a solicitor. My mum thinks that’s a real job.’
‘Mine’s a software engineer,’ says Roo. ‘Which I’m not sure is actually a real job.’
‘Probably regular hours, though.’ Art grins at me. ‘Unlike our work.’
‘And mine,’ says Roo. ‘I’ve just been doing some readings.’ She gestures at her frock. ‘Which is why I’m so dressed up, by the way. I’m not normally like this on a Saturday morning.’
Art laughs. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to say anything …’
He asks Roo how her online readings work and she tells him. They’re getting on like a house on fire and I’m surprised at how relieved I am. But then I spot the time.
‘Art, shouldn’t we be leaving soon, if there’s match traffic?’
I don’t want to be late for Honoria Quigley.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Art smiles at Roo. Fuck, he does have a nice smile when he turns it on. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Roo’s great,’ says Art when we’re in his mum’s car. ‘And not as scary as I thought she’d be.’ He glances at me. ‘Did you use up all your household’s colour ration?’
I laugh despite myself. ‘She told me I’d betrayed my roots when I started dressing like this. And she was only half joking. Actually, I’m amazed you restrained yourself from making a joke about her job.’
‘Jesus, McDermott.’ Art looks genuinely affronted. ‘What do you take me for? I do have some manners, you know.’
‘I know you do,’ I say. ‘Sometimes. Where did all the Jungian stuff come from?’
‘I googled tarot and psychology and that’s the first thing that came up,’ says Art. ‘It’s genuinely interesting. I mean, I still think tarot’s a load of bollocks, obviously, but—’
‘Art,’ I say. ‘Just quit while you’re ahead.’
The traffic gets heavy and for the next half hour we’re both preoccupied with finding the least busy route to Honoria’s house. At one o’clock exactly the car rolls into the gravelled drive of an enormous Victorian red-brick villa.
‘Wow,’ says Art. ‘Soaps clearly paid pretty well in Honoria’s day.’
‘Her wife’s a retired oncologist,’ I say. ‘And Honoria did a lot of big theatre work after Northside.’
I ring the bell and a minute later the door is opened by a very chic older woman with a blunt grey fringe and large glasses.
‘Ah!’ she says. ‘Honoria’s visitors. Come in, come in. I’m her wife, Maureen.’
Art and I introduce ourselves and follow Maureen down a corridor and out through a glass door into a huge sunny back garden.
‘Darlings!’ says Honoria Quigley.
She doesn’t look like Ma Cusack. I mean, she does, obviously.
Those big green eyes, those high cheekbones, that wide smile are all instantly recognisable.
But while Ma Cusack was known for her sky-high updo and trademark tight zebra-print ensembles, Honoria is an elegant pastel vision in silk palazzo pants and a kimono-esque jacket.
Her hair is a chic, artfully tousled blonde pixie cut with clearly expensive highlights.
She advances towards us, arms outstretched.
‘You must be Arthur! Why, you’re absolutely delicious. You remind me of a beautiful sailor I knew in the ?le de Ré in the seventies.’
I stifle a laugh. So it’s not just me who thinks he looks like a French fisherman.
‘And you’re Annie! What wonderful hair! And your dress is exquisite. The colours! Like a gorgeous sunset. You’re utterly radiant.’
‘She is quite dazzling.’ Art looks highly amused.
‘Maureen darling!’ Honoria beams at her wife. ‘Would you mind bringing out the sandwiches?’ She turns back to us. ‘I ordered in some lunch, I hope you don’t mind.’
We sit down at a large table, and Honoria pours out glasses of iced water.
‘Now!’ she says. ‘Tell me all about yourselves. How long have you been writing for Northside?’
‘Just a few weeks,’ I say. ‘It’s been … It’s been a baptism of fire.’
‘I can imagine,’ says Honoria. ‘And before that?’
‘I’ve been in LA since I left college,’ says Art.
Honoria raises a single eyebrow. ‘Heavens! What were you doing over there?’