Chapter 9
AL
When Al was a child growing up in Moate, County Westmeath, his dad was a quiet man who never seemed to make a decision one way or another, as if a family conversation didn’t apply to him.
He was there but not there, a provider but not an engager.
When his dad gave out, it was a kind of irritated, mumbled narration, a hum of unhappiness that largely went ignored.
Whereas Al’s mother. She was present, in the trenches, sending dispatchers left, right and centre.
When she lost her temper, it put the fear of god in them all and they all shut up and listened.
Men shouted all the time; at football matches, watching it and while playing, in gyms, at school, and none of it scared him.
But a woman – an angry woman – is a voice to be listened to.
Alanis Morissette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ is today’s anthem.
The only way for Al’s heart to be heard today is to jump on the bandwagon of a woman’s tortured heart. By god they’ll listen now.
He receives a look on the tram from another passenger and he immediately turns his music down. His iPhone is already about to explode with the amount of audio warnings. His heart might be broken but if he bursts his eardrums too then where will he be?
When he arrives at work, Natasha is in reception, her coat still on, standing at the lifts. He pushes his headphones back and allows them to sit around his neck, music blasting as if Alanis is live in the reception. He fumbles with his phone to turn the music down.
‘Good morning. What’s wrong? You look like you’re going to combust.’
‘I am, I’m so excited,’ she squeals.
‘You got back with Pedro.’
‘No.’ Her face darkens. ‘But now I know why we broke up thanks to my absolute favourite podcast in the world. Night and Day. Prunella and Melody. You are the reason me and Pedro broke up.’ She can’t continue with the bad vibes, because excitement is clearly bubbling inside her.
‘You got a mention in the podcast. You have been blamed for everyone’s break-ups. ’
He shakes his head, confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Melody Yates and Prunella Maguire,’ she says slowly. ‘Night Owl and New Day aka the Night and Day podcast?’
Of course he knows who Prunella Maguire is.
Tara is a fan, follows her on Instagram and tries to copy her looks.
He’d bought Prunella’s cookbook as a subtle attempt to get Tara cooking but she’d spent more time looking at the photos of Prunella holding dishes that he’d like to eat, and commenting on her clothes, hair, jewellery and cookware and deciding they needed a new kitchen like hers.
‘I know who they are, why did Prunella Maguire mention me? And how did I break you and Pedro up?’
‘Prunella didn’t mention you exactly.’
He’s immediately disappointed; he’d imagined Tara listening to the podcast, and hearing Al’s name from her lips. It would want to make her call him, wouldn’t it? It would at least make her think of him.
‘It was Melody who said your name. In fact she asked everybody to write you a letter.’
They step into the lift.
‘She’s a dead famous dance DJ, and she’s on the TV and radio too. She hosts the summer music festivals? You’d know her voice. She’s massive.’
He understands this to mean that Melody’s not physically huge but that she’s great. He’s slowly but surely starting to understand Natasha’s Dublin lingo after two years working with her.
‘They were talking about the Grace Plunkett Bridge and the love locks that you got rid of. She said your name but you’re mostly referred to as “the bridge guy”. You should listen to it, it’s the latest episode. Do you want to hear?’
She offers him an AirPod.
‘No, thanks,’ he says, moving away though he will listen to it as soon as he’s alone in his office.
‘It’s the most recent episode, you can’t hear it if you don’t subscribe. Otherwise you’ll get it for free next week.’
‘You’re a fan then.’
‘They’re the best. Prunella is so romantic and believes in love and wants the whole nine yards, and the other one, Melody, is kind of cool and hates romance and doesn’t believe in love.’
He’s team Melody.
They’re out of the lift and walking through the office.
‘Is it good or bad?’ he asks, before entering his office. She hadn’t said. ‘Do I need to alert Tony about it?’
She pauses. ‘You listen for yourself. I’ll hold your calls.’
He subscribes to Night and Day. He puts his headphones on and turns his chair to face the River Liffey.
He recognises Melody’s voice, it’s husky, as if she has a chest infection, and needs to cough.
He finds himself clearing his throat when listening to her.
Disappointingly it’s not Prunella who talks about the Grace Plunkett Bridge but Melody and she does mention Al by name, and Bridgespan.
He listens intently to see if this is something for him, and Bridgespan, to worry about.
‘Al!’ Someone shouts his name and he jumps with fright, spinning around in his chair.
It’s Walter, and he’s in Al’s office. He looks like crap, his eyes red-rimmed as though he’s been crying.
His face is gaunt, with black rings beneath his eyes.
Al wonders, with hope, if Walter and Tara had a love lock on the bridge after all and now they’ve split up.
Then he realises that’s a ridiculous thought because it’s a ridiculous theory.
He removes his headphones, Melody’s husky voice continuing her conspiracy theory.
‘What,’ he says, dully, in a petulant tone, like a sulky teenager who’s being bothered in his cave.
He notices Walter’s wearing a new shirt.
Of course he’d have to after Al had cut off every single one of his buttons from his shirts.
He remembers helping Walter put a suit together for the job interview, how Al had to tie all of Walter’s new ties and hang them on a hanger for him because he couldn’t figure it out.
He recalls how awkward Walter looked and felt wearing a tie; now he’s buying his own big-boy clothes, he wonders if Tara tied his tie for him this morning.
Walter swallows. He looks like he’s going to cry. Al’s heart surges at the hope of the news to come. The meltdown, the apology. She vomited when she saw me naked.
‘You need to give us back the house key.’ There’s a slight tremble in his voice and Al’s not sure if it’s nerves or anger.
Us. Give us back the key. Walter is doubling down on it, not backing away.
A rage-filled mist clouds Al’s retinas. ‘I already gave my key back, Walter.’ His voice is strangely calm.
Walter sniffs and scratches his nose. ‘So you have a spare key. Obviously. We’ll need that back too.’
Al sits back. ‘Will you both?’ He smiles. ‘I don’t think I do have a spare key. We gave that one to you when you moved in with us, so you have the spare key, Walter. You were the spare person, the invited guest.’
Walter kind of smiles. ‘That’s where we see things differently. I’ve paid my fair share of the mortgage, you didn’t do me any favours, Al. I wasn’t there for free.’
‘You paid us rent. I paid the mortgage,’ Al says, leaning forward and prodding the desk. ‘It was never your house.’
‘No, but it was my home,’ he says softly. ‘And I know it’s hard to take but it’s not your house anymore.’ He sighs, ‘I lie in bed—’
Al doesn’t want to know what Walter does when he lies in bed.
He doesn’t want to think of Walter and beds.
‘Get the fuck out of my office,’ Al says, standing up.
He will do it, he will rip the phone from his desk and wrap the wire around Walter’s neck multiple times until he turns blue.
If he doesn’t leave in ten, nine, eight, seven, six …
‘We’re telling people this weekend,’ Walter says. ‘We’ve given you more than enough time to come to terms with it. Seeing as you’ve started telling people here.’
He glances at Natasha. She must have told someone.
‘Come to terms with it?’ Al asks, feeling winded. ‘That will never happen. I don’t even know who you are. I don’t recognise you anymore. My best friend, my whole life. You’re a Judas.’
Walter has the decency to look ashamed, and like he wants to stay for a further conversation, but it won’t be happening.
‘Nice shirt by the way.’
Walter’s face darkens. ‘Give me the key.’
‘If I find one, I’ll make sure to drop it by your office.’
Which he does. Later, as he’s leaving for the evening.
He marches towards Walter’s office. Walter’s on the phone and looks at Al, charging at him, afraid.
Al doesn’t really know what he’s going to do, just that he has Alanis Morissette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ ringing in his ears.
The anger of a wronged woman. Vengeful lyrics, blended with anger and passion, spiteful, seething, pain. An anthem for men and women.
Once inside Walter’s office he doesn’t quite know what to do. Walter is blocking the phone as if he can protect the person on the other end from what’s about to happen.
What would Alanis do?
He drops the key in Walter’s mug of coffee, then leaves.