Chapter 44
44
Back at the table, I said to Joey, “He’s a dote, isn’t he?”
Joey smiled. “Yep…Oh, here we go, an Ed Sheeran, what took them so long?”
Next was a girl singing something that the younger audience were loving but I had never before heard .
Quietly, Joey asked, “Do you know this?”
“Oh thank God,” I exclaimed. “I don’t. Joey, we’ve crossed that line. We’re old. It’s awful.”
“It’s not great,” he said. “But being young is marginally worse.”
Was it? Maybe. Here came Tipper Mahon, doing “Born to Run.” Bellowing, throwing shapes, kicking invisible things…
Helen stretched towards me. “Can I boo him?”
“No! Helen, you can’t boo anyone. Not here.”
“Calm down, I won’t. Although I don’t like that man.”
“You don’t like anyone,” Mum called.
“But I especially don’t like him.”
“Why not?” I was curious to hear her answer: Helen could be very astute.
“His beard is…” Helen said. “His eyes are…Look, I just don’t like him.” She added, “Maybe because he’s only pretending to like you.”
That gave me an unpleasant little jolt. “Why do you say that?”
“Dunno. But it’s obvious. The way he looked at you earlier.”
I believed Helen entirely: as soon as she’d said it, something inside me had clicked in agreement.
Did it matter that Tipper Mahon wasn’t a fan? Probably not. But my head played a quick round of What did I ever do to him? Had I not haha’d enthusiastically enough at his relentless stories?
“Hey, Anna.” A warm voice spoke into my ear.
It was Ben Mendoza! I jumped up, turned around, hugged him and exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”
“Night out. Same as you.” Then, “Hey.” He nodded at Mum, Rachel, the whole group.
“This is my friend Ben Mendoza.” I was embarrassingly excited. “And this is my sister Claire, another sister Rachel…”
Politely, Ben greeted them all. When he got to Joey, he became more focused. “Back in town? Great to meet you. Thanks for what you’ve done for Brigit and Colm.”
“So?” I forced Ben’s attention back to me. “Will you be treading the boards tonight?” You see, this was how out of control I was. “Treading the boards,” I ask you! Good job I’d stopped drinking.
“Naw. Gotta get back.”
“Conference call with the Dallas office?”
“You know it!”
I didn’t. But whatever.
“Nice to meet you all.” Ben slipped away.
Joey leaned towards me. “I only left yesterday,” he said. “What the hell have you been up to?”
In the aftermath of Ben, my stomach began churning and the low-down draggy pain had started up again. It was shocking to think I’d endured this every month for thirty years. It really was no fun at all.
“Anna, it’s your pals!” Mum said as Peadar Brady and the tilers appeared on stage to deliver a high-pitched, melodramatic “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
It was well-nigh impossible to not laugh. When it ended, the stunned silence was broken only by spots of muffled choking.
“They enjoyed themselves.” Margaret eventually spoke. “And that’s the main thing.”
“Next,” Ferne called, “we have Claire Walsh.”
Her chin held high, Claire smiled her way to the stage. Where she killed “Oops, I Did It Again.” A natural performer, she moved with sinuous confidence, involved the audience in steamy eye contact and generally brought the house down.
Through the clapping and cheering, I heard Mum say, her voice warm with pride, “She was always a show-off.”
God, I really didn’t feel well.
Luke and Joey were having another terse exchange, whatever it was about. “I said okay,” I heard Joey say. “You don’t have to—yeah, I said okay!”
“Next to sing for us,” Ferne announced, “is Joey Armstrong.”
“No, he’s not,” we protested.
But Luke, his hand on Joey’s back, pushed him towards the stage and called, “He’s on his way.”
“He’s doing it? Okay! G’wan, Joey! G’wan, the go-boy!”
“What song’s he doing?” Mum asked.
“Gotta be some sort of ‘rawk,’?” Helen said.
We were all in agreement on that.
Waiting for the music, Joey seemed self-conscious. Nervously, he moved from one side of the small stage to the other, the savagely bright spotlights bleaching his hair to a pale blond.
Then the unmistakeable opener of “The Real Slim Shady” filled the hall.
Joey? Rapping? Oh my God, no, this would be horrible. I wanted to climb under the table.
Luke had his phone up, filming it. To blackmail him at a later date? That could be the only reason.
…But wait a minute, Joey actually wasn’t bad. Looking not entirely mortified and he was all over the rapid-fire lyrics. How? When?
Rapt with anxiety, I couldn’t take my eyes from him. Was it just me or was he picking up confidence…?
“That escalated fast,” I heard Mum say.
“That’s not what that means, you old fool,” Helen said.
The crowd seemed to be on Joey’s side, singing along, shouting encouragement. He was definitely getting into it. Had I ever before seen him dancing? Not that this was actual dancing but his body was loose and fluid and, in some invisible way, very much on the beat.
“Holy fuck,” Helen yelled, above the furor. “He’s grooving . In a good way.”
And he knew it. All at once, he owned it, smirking, prowling, making us scream—but also with a twinkle at his own ridiculousness.
By the time the song ended, we were on our feet, clapping and yelling. He was applauded all the way back to the table where, with weird intensity, he and Luke hugged, as if he’d just returned from war.
“How did we not know you could do this?” Rachel yelled.
He shook his head; his smile was shy. “Don’t.”
“Why Eminem?” Rachel asked.
“Trea.”
“TikTok!” Rachel exclaimed.
“What?” I was bewildered .
“The TikTokkers have revived Eminem,” Rachel said.
“Trea and I listen to a lot of nineties stuff.”
Splitting my attention, Ferne summoned Rachel and Luke to the stage. Luke was the kind of man who caused a stir wherever he went—the hair, the height, the tight jeans—and the parish hall in M’town was no exception.
The audience stilled expectantly. But I’d say no one had anticipated that Rachel and Luke would do “You’re the One That I Want.” In the words of the song, it was electrifying .
If you had to be picky, neither Rachel nor Luke were great singers. But their connection was undeniable and it was such fun. From a PR perspective, my sisters were doing me proud. Thank the Lord that Muireann had shut down Helen.
But, courtesy of my prodigal period, I wouldn’t be singing tonight. Lying in bed, a hot-water bottle on my stomach, was all I felt able for. Which meant that going to Ike’s was also off tonight’s agenda. I really fancied him but felt too unwell to navigate sex with someone new.
Not to mention the furor it would cause among my sisters if I disappeared. They’d be delighted for me, a lot of whooping and “You go, girl’s.” It would be horrific.
At the side of the stage I told Ferne I was out.
“That’s a pity,” she said. “But every cloud. You’re the last person on the list, which means I can go home and take off this effing dress.”
“You’re stunning, though.”
“I haven’t been able to breathe for three long hours.”
In a burst of solidarity I exclaimed, “Isn’t it terrible how women aren’t allowed to have visible stomachs!”
That made her laugh. “I hear you’re off home on Monday? Come in to me before you go.”
“To Fine Irish Knits?” I didn’t want a cut-price fine Irish knit but how could I refuse?
“I’ll let you into a little secret.” Ferne’s eyes sparkled. “If you promise to not tell a soul . I own Heather she elected to share with Margaret. Helen, Regan and I were on one pull-out sofa, Claire and Francesca on the other. Between skincare and dental regimes, it was a long time before we were settled.
As she pulled on her nightie, Mum remarked, “Could you imagine if we’d had to share with Luke Costello?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Claire said.
“I wouldn’t sleep a wink,” Mum countered.
Finally, Claire turned out the lights and silence fell. One of us, probably Margaret, had begun to snore softly when Mum’s voice asked, “Do you think he sleeps in his jocks?”
Helen said, “I know for a fact that he doesn’t.”
Mum gasped, “Have you seen him? It , like?”
“Haha, no, you pervert.”
“You can’t shame me! It’s not…” Mum hesitated over the word. “…‘cool.’ As an older woman I can fancy whoever I want.”
“We meant us ,” Helen said. “Me, Anna, us . We’re the older women who can fancy whoever we like. Not you, you ancient pervert.”
Claire interrupted, “Helen, how do you know about the no jocks?”
“Rachel said one night she was chilly so she put on a T-shirt. He put the foot down. No clothes in bed. Ever. He said he’d get her more blankets. He’d put the heat back on. But no clothes.”
“I find that…” Claire’s voice was strangled. “…extremely hot. The nudiness. The foot being put down.”
“Go to sleep,” Regan commanded. And we were so startled that we did.