Chapter 36
36
“Ordinary-looking, yes, I grant you,” I babbled at Courtney. “But immensely…what’s the word? Likable?”
“Okay.” Courtney seemed…not interested?
But, high from meeting Ben Mendoza, I was unstoppable. “Hard to know if he ‘seems likable’ simply because he’s so talented. Talented folk so often get a pass. Or if he actually is sound?…Courtney.” A weird feeling had come over me. “I feel dizzy.”
“Wouldja stop . You lived in Manhattan where the streets are lined with celebrities! In 2003 even I —Courtney Nobody Burke—cut ahead of Mandy Patinkin in a coffee shop. Oh, what? You thought I’d never left M’town?”
Too late, I saw she was pissed off. “…Courts? What’s up?”
“I’ve lived in this town for thirty-nine years and I’ve never been over Ben Mendoza’s threshold. You’re here five effing minutes and you’re in like Flynn.”
These chastening facts snuffed out all gaiety. “Oh my God, Courtney, that’s horribly unfair. I’m so sorry.” A watery rearrangement of my emotions was under way, bringing me to the edge of tears.
Courtney’s stare was nonplussed. “Are you okay?”
“Just really sad about how badly you’ve been treated. The world is a cruel place.” Registering her evident unease, I said, “I’m fine. Still light-headed, though. Any chance of a Sprite—for the sugar? And chocolate?”
“Emilien!” Courtney got his attention, yelled my requirements, then said to me, “Have you PMT?”
“ Me? I haven’t had a period in, cripes, nearly two years—”
“Now I hate you even more.”
“Please don’t hate me, Courtney. It’s only because of the HRT.”
“Ah, how could I hate you? This is the most fun I’ve had in the last twenty years. But…How’s your menopause? Didn’t Dr Olive give you the stuff? You should be on the mend.”
“I started the estrogen last night. But they’d no progesterone. Maybe I’m out of balance? Oh, thanks, Emilien.” A glass of Sprite was placed on the table, as well as a big bag of Minstrels.
“There is a guest!” Lyudmila was in the doorway, looking harried.
“I’ve to go,” Courtney said. “Why don’t you have a lie-down? You’ve had a busy few days.”
A lie-down would be bliss. Upstairs, I discovered that Courtney had decanted Joey’s flowers into several vases, which were dotted around the room. Again, I welled up at Courtney’s goodness, how little she was appreciated, how she wanted to see Ben Mendoza’s house and had never been invited.
Sliding under the duvet, I surrendered to the tears, the first time since I’d left New York, grieving the self I’d left behind, the people who were no longer in my life, the person I’d been at fifteen, at twenty-nine, at thirty-seven. Mourning all the hopes I’d once had for myself—and where I was now.
Which was nowhere. Life’s waiting room. It happened to all of us, probably several times, finding ourselves alone, at a deserted crossroads. Thinking, Seriously? I’m back here again ?
The tears were tailing off until I thought of Joey. At different points in the past twenty years I’d fancied him, found him laughable, despised him and reluctantly respected him. But for a while I’d loved him. Keeping a lid on it all over the past few days had been exhausting; it was no wonder I was letting loose now.
Merciful sleep overtook me. I woke a couple of hours later, still tired but much more cheerful—the healing properties of a good cry. Right now, this no-man’s-land was my life. The advice I’d give another person in my place was: Grow where you’re planted.
Lunch was a purloined scone and an equally purloined banana. Emilien had said that room service was temporarily reinstated until Tuesday but only a fool would believe him.
Right then! Time to go down to the beach for some bracing-ness. But the window was spattered with raindrops. Promptly my plans were abandoned. There was a vital difference between being braced and being drenched .
This was my chance to watch some shite on Netflix. Although, with the Wi-Fi being the way it was…So, savoring the chance to do things at a leisurely pace, I washed my hair and tried to put order on my dreadful feet—Ben Mendoza was pretending to be regular folks but it was mannerly to make an effort. Life in the old dog yet.
While I was at it, I did some internet prying into Mr Mendoza. Born in Minneapolis forty-six years ago, showed an early interest in film, made his first feature…yes, yesyesyesgettothegoodstuff…aha! Married fourteen years ago to a woman called Hannah Black—and divorced six years later. No children. That was sad. Although they were still “best buds” according to several interviews…Aaaany chance of seeing said woman? Oho! Photos! Looking fun, smiley, gorgeous but no swollen, starlet lips or fakery in the chest area. Good for her! It’s got to be hard resisting that stuff when you’re in Hollywood. Buried in the small print was the fact that Ben was five years younger than her—this made me like them both more. She was a physiotherapist, they’d met when Ben did something to his hamstring. Seriously, how wholesome was that meet-cute. Here was Hannah, with her parents. Her mother looked great , good genes—or perhaps she’d had Hannah at sixteen? When I found myself embarking on a quest to discover the mother’s date of birth, I made myself stop.
Emerging from the Mendoza rabbit hole, I realized I missed Joey. After all my worry, things had gone okay. Except…I still hadn’t apologized to him. But I couldn’t have, not while we were trying to manage the work situation here. It could have derailed everything.
Joey had known me during several incarnations. I was privy to information about him that almost no other person was. But our unique connection was bound up in pain. Better to park it in the past where it couldn’t hurt us.
Even though my job here had ended, I took a quick look at the email account. Nine new messages. My old friend AubergineDick was back with another tempting offer. As was ProudIrishPatriot1916.
From: [email protected]
Next time we’ll burn the houses won’t be just paint
Was this a genuine threat? Or just a keyboard warrior entertaining himself? Should I tell Joey? Or perhaps talk to Helen? She knew people who could trace IP addresses—although it was costly and illegal.
Pause it for the moment, I decided. It might be nothing.
The other seven people had “heard” Kearney’s Farm would generate so much rubbish that a landfill site was planned for the waste ground behind the school.
I wondered what their source was. As one of the seven was Aber Skerett, I gave him a call.
“Anna.” Oh, he had such a gentle voice.
“Aber. Thanks for your email. There’s no truth to the rumor. But can I ask where you heard about this landfill business?”
“Local Hero posted on Facebook—”
“Who now? Local Hero? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know his name, if that’s what you mean. He posts a fair bit about Kearney’s Farm, though. I think he might be a journalist.”
“Where does he post? Maumtully Conservation? Mau—”
“Maum Notice Board. Maum Chats too.”
“Thanks!” I was itching to embark on a search for this Local Hero but good manners dictated that I engage in chat about me, Aber, his mother, my mother, the plans for the weekend, etc. To be fair, it was no hardship.
Then I began scrolling through literal miles of Facebook stuff about second-hand wedding dresses, badly parked cars—and there we were! Local Hero posting about landfill. The photo was of a masked superhero, so no chance of identifying him visually. He claimed his information was “solid and verified.” Further back I went and came across a post from yesterday claiming that Aldi was doing four bottles of rosé for the price of three but stock was limited. On Monday, he’d posted a story about the dolphins being poisoned by the runoff from Kearney’s Farm. Again, he claimed his info was “solid and verified.” Obviously, his info was complete bullshit and—my phone rang. An unidentified Irish mobile. “Hello?”
“This is Ike. Blakely? Got your number from Courtney.”
Instantly, Local Hero was forgotten and last night’s sexy fantasy was front and center in my mind.
Clearing my throat with effort, I said, “What can I do you for, Ike?”
“Sky Head? Cliff top. About ten kilometers out the road. I mentioned it to you before. You in the mood for a climb?”
“No.” Then, “But I’m never in the mood for a climb.”
“A drive, then?”
My back hurt and despite my snooze, I still felt exhausted. “Not today.”
“I hear you’re invited to Ben’s tonight.”
All of a sudden, my fatigue lifted. I felt reckless and alive. “You’re going?”
“Yep. You want a lift?”
“Yes.”
Right. Tonight, I was going to sleep with him.