Chapter 39
39
Check-in at the Broderick was at three o’clock. My family’s conviction that they were exempt from rules combined with their fondness for a bargain meant I was braced for Mum and Helen’s arrival from twelve thirty onwards.
My day had already been lively. As soon as Gannon’s had opened, I was in there, buying tampons, strong painkillers and my progesterone. (From Aoife Gallowglass, Emilien’s wife!) Back in bed, on a codeine high after two fizzy Solpadeine, I saw that Ike had texted, then Ben had texted, each asking if I was “doing okay.” Pleasantly dizzy, I imagined living here and having things with both men simultaneously. Not literally simultaneously…no, wait! Yes , literally simultaneously. The idea of the two of them tending to me in bed made me shiver. I hadn’t yet had a threesome and at my age, it was well overdue. It must crop up on those appalling lifestyle lists: By age forty-eight, you should have…
A) Bought your own home
B) Skied a black diamond at Val d’Isère
C) Piloted your personal helicopter
D) Been bitten by a dog
E) Had a threesome
But leaving Vivian out? No, she wouldn’t stand for it. So it wouldn’t be a threesome, but a foursome. Not a love triangle but a love square. Ah, what the hell. Why not?
A life of commitment-free sex with men I fancied seemed glorious . After a while I might start yearning for something deeper but in the short term, it would be so much fun.
Unfortunately, though, I was leaving on Monday. In an ideal world, Joey would pay me to stay here indefinitely, keeping a light eye on things. But the world was not ideal. Still, the few days here had done wonders for my confidence: I was hopeful that some decent work would come my way when I returned to Dublin.
I messaged Ike, told him I was slightly off my head from codeine, reminded him that my sister and mum were arriving soon but that generally I was available . While I waited to see what he’d suggest, I texted Ben, the tone markedly different. After all, he hadn’t snogged me in the cab of a pickup truck. But he had given me a glass of Sprite and a handful of wasabi nuts, so I went the “Beautiful home, generous hospitality, my appalling manners” route, finishing up with a warm reference to his bird feeder. I might have been slightly high but it was clear I’d composed a beauty of a text.
Still nothing from Vivian, though! I’d sent three messages now. She must be busy, probably in bed with someone. Ike perhaps? Or Ben? But it hadn’t stopped them from checking in on me.
Interesting that I wasn’t remotely jealous about Ike perhaps being with another woman. How evolved I was! Could this be adulthood? Or was M’town one big polygamous community, where everyone slept with everyone else and I had gone native?
No. That was just the Solpadeine talking. Any polygamous capers seemed to center on Vivian. The rest of the town was likely as monogamous as all other places (which is to say, never quite as monogamous as it appeared on the surface).
My phone pinged and my heart soared. A photo! From Ben! Of his bird feeder. Titled The Killing Fields . Then a voice-note. “Anna, heyyy.” His voice was delicious : deep with undertones of humor. “Hope you’re doing better today. Too bad about last night. But we’ve got to get you out here again. Aaaand, yeah, maybe see you in town over the weekend? Yeah…okay. Hopefully. Bye.”
Ooooooh! I hugged myself with delight—but had the good sense to hold off on an immediate reply. Between the excitement and the blood loss, I couldn’t trust myself.
While I thought of it, I googled Mary and Thornton Heffer. The internet told me that seven years ago, their first book had been a worldwide success, the second not so much and the third not at all. It was more than three years since they’d had anything published, which sounded tough. Not just the fall from being feted by the great and the good, but financially. Mary had probably had a lot on her mind last night. Thornton too, although I hadn’t met him before my abrupt departure.
I did another search and discovered that apparently their net worth was “ $50,000.” But that same site called Mary “he” and said “he” was 173 cm tall (she was shorter than me and I was 159 cm).
What about those paintings I’d seen at Ben’s? I must get the artist’s name. Not that I could spend money on anything right now. But perhaps they’d been done by a M’town amateur and cost almost nothing? But they should be expensive, I decided. They were special. Maybe Angelo could represent the artist, earning them a fortune and as a thank you, I’d be given a freebie. What a lovely thought!
I listened to Ben’s message again, then looked at the photo of the bird feeder—and the penny dropped: Ben Mendoza was the artist. How could I have been so stupid? He’d practically told me.
Ben? You’re the artist of the beautiful bird paintings? I’m such a thicko.
Hey, don’t talk about my friend Anna like that! I just mess around with paint, to try to relax.
There was so much I wanted to ask: Were they for sale? Would he sell one to me? Did he have a dealer? Would he like me to put in a good word with a moderately successful one in New York? Because I could…
But at least I knew I was in the grip of strong emotions, ranging from embarrassment to the need to impress a famous person to greed (for a bird painting). Not to mention the codeine. I was not reliable. So I sent a reply full of praise and didn’t ask for anything .
Still in top form from the drugs, I found myself very proud of how Angelo and I had transitioned to friends. It was mostly down to him. He was a rare person, who loved deeply but with a light touch. In our early days, still torn up with guilt about Aidan, the space Angelo had given me was what made it all work.
It was only towards the end that I’d realized there was a detachment to him. And I had also changed, that was obvious now: I no longer wanted a relationship where I had limitless freedom. If I ever became serious about another man—and I wasn’t sure I was even bothered—I wanted to love and be loved in a different way.
Right then! Time to go downstairs to await the premature arrival of Mum and Helen. At ten to one, barely two hours early, in they came. Despite my misgivings, happiness surged at the sight of Mum with her cauliflower perm and “good” coat and Helen in her habitual black Lycra, looking like a Special Forces operative.
Then I noticed Regan, a solemn-eyed, dark-haired girl pulling a black Trunki. This was unexpected but fine; not only did I adore her but she was a tiny little thing. She could sleep in a drawer.
But, wait a minute, Margaret was bringing up the rear. Two seconds later, Claire strode through the doors, a fabulous figure, shoulder-robing a white coat. And she was flanked by her youngest daughter Francesca.
Suddenly Mum was right in my face. “I know what you’re thinking!” She held my arm too tightly. “But we’re here out of concern. All of your sisters, your nieces and of course myself and your poor frail father have been sick with worry about you. Staying in bed all day, not even wearing foundation ! Then you high-tail off to the wilds of County Galway with Narky Joey to ‘flush out’ vandals. You think we wanted to come down here? On a bank holiday?”
“You said you did. You went on about the ceili and the funfair.”
“We were trying not to embarrass you.”
“Is that right?” I glared.
“Yes, missy, it is right.”
But there was no point. I’d only been her daughter for forty-eight years but I knew she’d never admit to being in the wrong.
Sure enough, two seconds later, she dropped her bags and declared, “C’mon! Let’s go down the town and laugh at the crappy shops! Then we’ll tie Margaret to a pole and cover her in candy floss! We’ll get chips! And win a fortune on the Penny Falls. I know a ‘hack’ to make all the money fall out. After that, we’ll go for cocktails and…”
“Let’s check in first,” Margaret said, nodding at an unreadable Courtney.
I was terrified they’d booked one room between all six of them. They weren’t short of money, especially Mum and Claire, but they liked living on top of each other. Poor Courtney would have to put order on them. Already I was dreading the outraged hubbub, as they exclaimed, wheedled and generally made an absolute show of us all in the lobby while normal families came and went.
Another concern was that Mum had got wind of Joey’s magic credit card. Because she lacked boundaries, she could easily tell Courtney that Joey was “practically my son” and to charge any rooms to him.
My worst fear—and the most likely outcome—was that they’d all be in with me. But in a stroke of clemency, only Mum, Margaret, Helen and Regan proposed to share my quarters.
Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, Claire had managed to book herself and Francesca into the Fassbender Suite. That was the thing about Claire, she was comfortable slumming it if she thought it would be a laugh but she was never afraid to spend money.
“Photo!” Mum said.
“I’ll take it,” I said quickly. They couldn’t keep disrupting Courtney or Lyudmila.
Bringing the glitz were Claire and Francesca: Claire in the magnificent coat, magnificent boots and magnificent hair which fell in a laminated sheet past her shoulders; dark Francesca in a lot of luxe metal—ear-cuffs, piercings and a series of silver zigzags on the fingers of her right hand which gave me geometry-class flashbacks.
Moving along, we had Margaret, keeping it real. Then Helen, Regan and Mum, keeping it unsettling.