Chapter 9 #2
We continue working until lunchtime rolls around.
Outside, the end-of-summer sun shines a brilliant, blinding yellow; waves of heat spiral up from the tarmac roads adjacent to the building.
The heat in the conference room is thick, heavy.
I loosen my tie and screw open the top button of my shirt.
Ben abandons his suit jacket. In doing so, his shirt untucks from his trousers and exposes a section of his soft, hairy belly.
His skin is pale, contrasting with the slight tan on his face, and the dark, thin, curly hairs on his abdomen almost tickle me from afar.
I fight hard to not stare, but I can’t help myself.
My cheeks flush when I awkwardly make eye contact with Ben afterwards.
Thankfully, a loud knock on the conference room door comes before I can stutter a lazily concocted, inadequate excuse for my ogling.
“Ye… yes?” I cough. I shift my gaze towards the door, away from Ben and his abdomen.
The door creaks open. Without waiting for a formal invitation, the person behind the door lets themself in. Within seconds, a balding man is peeping through a crack in the door. It’s James Adams.
“Jesus!” he yells. “Ben Kehoe. How are you, man?” James’s eyes are bulging with excitement at seeing Ben. He steps past me to pat Ben on the shoulder. “Long time no see, buddy. How’s life been treating you? Fair play in that appeal you won.”
Ben rises from his seat and shakes James’s hand. “Not too bad. Tippin’ away as always, sure.” He rolls up his sleeves, and I try my best not to gawk at the veins pulsing in his arms. “And yourself?”
“Ah, sure. You know yourself. Can’t complain.”
“No one would listen to you if you did.” Ben laughs.
“Spot on.”
While the two of them continue their conversation – James speaks about his son and the difficulties with shared custody while Ben listens with open ears – I ball my hands into fists and squeeze.
The voice inside my head is screaming Pull yourself together for God’s sake!
What are you doing? Just speak to them, Nick!
As a queer man, talking to heterosexual males, especially ones like James Adams, can be quite daunting for me.
I tend to not have much in common with these kinds of people.
Also, these are the kinds of people that would’ve bullied me in school for being too feminine; for example, choosing to study home economics instead of woodwork.
Eventually, the voice in my head wins me over. I shrug, expelling all anxious energy with a deep exhalation, and move closer to the two men.
“Fine weather out there, isn’t it?” I can’t bear to look at either of them, so my eyes are glued to a chip in the wooden desk.
“It’s gorgeous weather,” James replies. “It’s like we’re in Spain.”
Validated, I can now bear to look at them.
Ben peers out the window. “You can say that again.”
James turns to me after a moment. “Do you work here?”
The question shocks me; it’s like someone has just punched me in the gut, winding me. I’m so stunned I can only stammer in response.
“Ah, James,” Ben butts in while readjusting his crisp shirt. It’s white and because of the stains of perspiration, some sections of his skin can be seen through it. It’s hard to peel my eyes away from this. “That’s Nick Carthy you’re talking to. The solicitor. You know… from the Murray case?”
James’s eyes open wide with recognition, and his jaw goes slack. “Oh, yes. You’re the solicitor that lost the Murray case.”
Again James’s words feel like a slap to my face. Another cruel reminder of my failings.
James doesn’t give me the chance to defend myself. He studies me from head to toe, bites the nail on his chubby thumb and then returns his attention to Ben.
Twitching his head in my direction, James says, “I hear his lot aren’t great at getting the job done anyway.”
My lot? The brass neck on James to say this. Unfortunately, I know exactly what James is referring to. He means the minority group to which I belong, the box I tick when I’m filling out a form that unnecessarily asks for my sexual orientation. He means ‘the gays’.
I hate the fact that he’s done this. It’s cruel, ignorant. First, he pretends that he doesn’t know who I am, and then he insults an entire minority group. I’m going to make him sweat for this.
“What do you mean by that, James?”
“You know.” Predictably, he whispers the next part. “The fags.”
I step back with disbelief. I hate that cruel, insensitive, demeaning word. Honestly, in this day and age, I didn’t think people still used it. “‘The fags’?” I repeat.
James looks at me, dumbfounded. He furrows his brow. “Yeah. The boys who like boys. The faggots. You know – they’re always more worried about their outfits than actually getting the job done properly.”
I cross my arms over my chest and audibly exhale.
My heart starts to thump, and I’m suddenly very aware of my surroundings.
I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry.
All at once, everything on my person feels far too tight: the tie around my neck, the laces in my shoes, the belt around my waist, the faux leather strap of the watch on my wrist. I feel like a ticking time bomb seconds away from exploding.
I sneak a glance towards Ben out of the corner of my eye. He looks astounded by James’s brazen words.
I then look downwards, too afraid to meet anyone’s gaze.
Tears are welling in my eyes, and my lip is starting to quiver.
I feel so small, insignificant. I bolt out of the room before the tears can start to fall.
James doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing what he’s done to me, what he’s reduced me to.
As I sprint back to my desk, James’s vile words echo around me. ‘The fags’.
I wish Melissa were here. She’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better. She’d remind me of my worth, belittle James Adams by calling him a ‘tiny man’, and offer me a bar of chocolate from one of her many tote bags. It’s a pity she’s still stuck in court.
If this had happened a few weeks ago, I’d have called Tom.
“James Adams is a tiny man,” I whisper.
I’m back at my desk. My hands are placed at the top of my swivel chair, and I’m leaning over, counting my slow, precise breaths.
My counting is interrupted by a shout of “Nick!” I never thought I’d say this but, thank God, the voice belongs to Ben. “Nick, you forgot your things,” he says, jogging towards my desk while holding up my laptop and notebook.
I straighten up, cracking my spine in doing so. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
Ben hands over my materials. “Are you alright? It wasn’t fair what James said to you. I knew he was a bit of an asshole, but I never thought he was a bigot too.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” My voice has a watery sound thanks to the concealed tears.
“That’s fine, Nick.” He extends his arm towards my back; his intentions are unclear to me. Is he going to pat me on the back and say ‘There, there’? Before I can decipher the situation further, Ben pulls his hand back, imprisoning it in his pocket.
I start to pack up my things, stuffing them violently into my satchel. I just want to get out of this office, this building. I’ll go anywhere as long as it’s far away from James Adams.
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t you tell?” My tone is harsher than I’d intended. “I’m going home. I’ll work from home for the rest of the day.”
“I understand.” Ben’s voice is smooth, comforting. “I can give you a lift if you need it. We’re headed in the same direction.”
I’m taken aback by this. Unintentionally, my brow wrinkles and my head tilts. “Same direction?”
“Yeah. You said you’re in Donnybrook, right? Well, I’m renting out in Carrickmines, so I’m headed in that direction. I can drop you off on my way.”
Damn it. Yesterday’s lie has come back to bite me. No, I don’t live in Donnybrook, not since Tom decided we weren’t happy together anymore. Now I live two counties away.
I know Ben’s been kind to me so far, but I don’t want to accept a favour from him. I don’t want to owe him anything. “That’s fine. You don’t need to drive me. I can take the bus.”
“Nick… I’m going in your direction anyway. It’ll save you having to wait for the next bus.”
Ben isn’t going to back down; I’m sure of this. So I try a different tactic. “I’m actually staying with Brendan this week. He needs help with painting his house.”
“And where’s Brendan’s house?”
“Gorey.”
“Do you want a lift to Connolly station, then?”
I throw my satchel over my shoulder. “I’ll take the Luas. But thanks for the offer.”
Ben’s clearly vexed. “Nick…”
“It’s fine, Ben. I don’t want you sitting in traffic all afternoon.” Why can’t he take the hint? I just want to go back to Brendan’s and collapse into his spare bed.
Neutrally, Ben says, “I don’t mind sitting in traffic.”
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
A stare-down ensues. His sparkling eyes are narrowed and so are mine. It’s brought to an abrupt halt when both of our phones ping. The alert has come from a social media application. It reads:
All Luas services to Connolly station have been suspended until further notice due to an operational error. Please use alternative transport. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.
“Fuck it,” I snarl.
Looking up from his phone, the corners of Ben’s mouth turn upwards to create a smirk. “Do you want that lift now? The walk could take at least half an hour. And in this heat, you’ll surely melt.”
Unable to formulate any further excuses, I surrender to him. “Fine.” I point to the elevator doors, while Ben roots through his pockets for his keys. “Lead the way.”
Ben’s car is massive. It’s a huge, brown Mitsubishi pickup truck.
The tyres are thick, and the wheels are giant.
The pickup easily eats up two car parking spaces in O’Leary and Adams’s tiny carpark.
It’s so huge, it makes my little red hatchback look like a Hot Wheel.
Of course Ben would drive something like this, something this eye-catching. It suits him perfectly.
I jump into his passenger seat, and Ben shuts the door behind me. He hops into the driver’s seat, shaking the truck in doing so. He easily switches his engine to a roaring start and turns on the air conditioning.
I don’t want to have to show gratitude to Ben Kehoe, but the manners my parents beat into me are screaming. ‘Now remember’, they would say before Brendan and me were sent to play with another classmate at their house, ‘always say please and thank you’.
“Thanks, Ben,” I say quietly.
“What?” Ben replies, turning his ear closer to me. I know he heard me the first time.
I tighten my jaw. “Thanks.”
He gives me a charming smirk. “It’s my pleasure.”
Ben fiddles with the radio while I examine the inside of his pickup. It’s not dirty, but it’s not clean either. There are mucky stains on the carpet, and in the back are stacks of disorganised papers.
The radio screams ‘The Bluetooth device is connected successfully’. This startles me, interrupting my investigation of his pickup.
“Finally,” Ben says to his phone. “Took your time, didn’t you?” He taps the screen in the centre of his dashboard and opens a music app. While it’s loading, he instructs me to “Put on anything you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll just listen to whatever you want.”
At my side, where Ben cannot see, I pull out my phone and check Iarnród éireann’s (Irish Rail) website. A flashing red notice appears on the website’s homepage. I don’t have time to read it before Ben starts to talk again.
“You’re the guest. You pick.”
“I’ll listen to anything.”
The music app powers on, sending a wave of green light through the car. The most recently played song is blasted through the speakers, and I cover my ears; it’s so ear-splittingly loud. Ben rushes to decrease the volume. For the first time ever, I see Ben’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles.
Astonishingly, the song that is blasted is Britney Spears’ ‘Sometimes’. “I didn’t have you pegged as a Britney fan.”
“She’s won all those awards for a reason you know.”
I clap and put my hand to my heart. “Amen.”
Ben lets the song continue at a much lower volume. My ears thank him for this.
Hiding my phone at my thigh, I try to read the flashing notice on Irish Rail’s website once again.
Ben tries to peer round me. “What are you checking down there?”
I smack my phone against my thigh. “Nothing,” I say, my tone far too chipper, overcompensating.
“It’s not nothing. You can tell me, Nick.”
In fairness, Ben is being kind to me. This is his car, after all, and I shouldn’t lie to him inside of it.
I hold up my phone and read the flashing notice aloud.
“‘All southbound trains have been delayed due to a medical emergency at Tara Street Station. We will update customers with further information as soon as it is available to us. We apologise for any inconvenience. Thank you for using Iarnród éireann.’” Seriously?
This has to be some sort of joke. How does this day manage to keep getting worse and worse?
I huff, clench my jaw, and cross my arms over my chest. “For fuck’s sake.
” I’m so angry, so annoyed by everything that’s happened today, that I could cry.
Likely sensing my upset, Ben suggests, “Why don’t we go for a coffee while we wait? I know a great place close to Connolly. What do you think? Would you like that, Nick?”
My eyes are still tightly closed when I murmur, “That would be lovely.”
With a purring engine and Britney Spears playing in the background, Ben releases the clutch and slams down on the accelerator. We bullet out of O’Leary and Adams’s Dublin office, heading far away from James Adams.