Stung?
Oh fuck. I dropped the bottle, let my head back and howled like a son of a bitch.
Put on my suit and checked my reflection. Looked like a minor league mob-guy. Bottom feeder and not connected.
Went down to the kitchen, smelt good aromas. Jordan was at the stove, asked,
‘Hungry?’
‘Like a wolf.’
I pulled up a chair and he poured me a scalding hot coffee.
The aroma was so wonderful. I was afraid to taste it. How could it measure up? He put a plate before me. It was eggs over-easy, with crispy bacon interwoven. Got a wedge of that with heavily buttered toast, bit down. Ah man, like a childhood you never had. Jordan sat down, dug into his. He ate like a demon, as if he’d a fire that couldn’t be fed. He finished fast. I said,
‘Jeez, you needed that.’
He gave a cold nod. I added,
‘You’re not a morning type, right?’
‘I have a busy schedule.’
Stood up, went to a drawer, took out a thick envelope, said,
‘You haven’t been collecting your wages.’
‘What?’
‘You are still on the payroll.’
Then he looked at me, slow, asked,
‘Unless you are considering resignation.’
It crossed my mind to tell him I was outta there, in jig time. I said,
‘Course not.’
As he cleared the plates, he said,
‘Madam and I will be out all day next Friday, can I rely on you to care for the house?’
‘That’s what you guys pay me for. What is it, a hot date?’
‘Madam is being interviewed by HELLO, in preparation for her return.’
‘It’s supposed to be unlucky.’
‘I don’t believe in luck.’
‘Course not... do you believe in anything?’
He was surprised, said,
‘Madam, I believe only in Madam.’
As before, he was telling me exactly how it was. As usual, I wasn’t listening properly.
I drove to Kensington High Street. Despite the BMW’s colour, I loved that motor. Went and got the registry office squared away. In ten days we’d be married.
To celebrate, I went into Waterstone’s and bought Derek Raymond’s ‘The Devil’s Home On Leave’.
It fit.
Then to a coffee shop and ordered a large cappuccino, no sprinkle. Got a comfortable seat next to the window and settled in to read. Nodded in full agreement at:
One of those West End hotels where they scrape the shit off your voice as soon as you speak.
Fuck, I loved that.
Or a dream he had, like this. His dead Father speaks:
‘Take the rain out of the names on our graves up at the church,’ he said gently, ‘with your forefinger: you’ll be sure to son, won’t you?’
Other people watched us from chairs high up on a terrace, they too were dead.
I put the book down, sipped at the coffee, thought of Briony. As a little girl, she used to say,
‘Won’t you mind me, Mitch?’
I’d promise with all the empty power and earnestness of a seven-year-old boy.
Got up quickly and left, drove to Aisling.
Derek Raymond said when you dream of rain it’s a sign of death. It was raining now. Briony, at twelve years old, crying,
‘I’d stand in the snow, with no clothes on, to look at you.’
Phew.
Only later, did I realise I’d left Derek Raymond in the window on High St Ken. Maybe he would have liked that, listening to the rain, the rich aroma of fresh brew all round.
I spent the afternoon in bed with Aisling. Later, I asked,
‘Was it good?’
‘Ish.’
‘What?’
‘Just kidding, it was magic. I just want to lie here, feeling like the cat who got the cream.’
The rain lashed down on the roof. I said,
‘Good thing we’re in.’
‘Better that we’re in each other.’
Argue that.
Aisling held her left hand up to the light, said,
‘See my ring, how the light bounces off it?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Notice the very top of the heart?’
I looked. Seemed like a small golden heart. So? I said,
‘So?’
‘It’s chipped.’
I sat up.
‘You’re kidding. I’ll have Chris’s ass.’
‘No... no, I love it like that. It’s perfect that it has a tiny blemish.’
‘What?’
‘The flaw makes it ideal.’
I didn’t get this, said,
‘Is this an Irish thing?’
She laughed out loud, said,
‘It’s a girl thing.’
‘Right!’
I took her in my arms, could feel her heart beating against my chest. I was about to say — ‘I love you.’
It was right there, my brain and tongue in sync to deliver the words I had never used, when she said,
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘I’ll give it my best shot.’
‘Peter Gabriel has a song called “I Grieve”.’
‘And?’
‘Will you listen to it with me?’
‘Like... now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay... but... are you unhappy?’
‘This is the best moment of my life.’
‘Phew! Let’s give Pete a turn then.’
As we listened, she held my hand in both of hers, her face in rapt concentration. I’ve no beef with Peter Gabriel, in fact I love ‘Biko’, but this just didn’t fit. The sadness and pain of his voice and the lyrics made you reach for a lethal scotch. Finally, it was done and she turned her face to me, eagerness electric. I said,
‘Now, that is an Irish thing’
I GOT BACK to Holland Park late on Tuesday night. Watched ‘South Park’ and wouldn’t have balked at adopting Kenny.
The actress appeared at my door, asked,
‘Can I visit?’
‘I’m a little beat, Lillian.’
‘As in beating your meat?’
Closer than she could imagine. In her left hand was a bottle and two glasses. Held by the neck as they do in the movies.
Scratch that, as they do in old movies. She asked,
‘Can a girl buy her fellah a drink?’
Jesus!
I said, ‘Maybe a nightcap.’
She handed me the booze, said,
‘It’s Dom Perignon.’
‘Whatever.’
I popped the cork pretty good. As is mandatory, most of the champagne went on the floor. People seem to regard that as part of the deal. Some deal.
Lillian was wearing a silver ball-gown. I’m not kidding — she told me. I asked,
‘Why?’
‘I thought a little ballroom dancing would be novel.’
‘And you hired a band?’
‘An orchestra.’
I looked at her face, said,
‘I can only hope you’re kidding.’
Sly smile, then: ‘I don’t do kidding.’
‘What, they’re huddled in the hall?’
I indicated my room, added,
‘Gonna be a tight squeeze for the guys.’
‘They’re in the ballroom.’
I didn’t even ask where it was, but thought, ‘How fuckin’ big is the house?’
I’d never explored it and come Friday, when they were hello-ing, I’d go through it like a dervish. Yeah, shake them branches, see what shook free.
We clinked glasses and I said,
‘Slàinte.’
She asked, ‘What is that?’
‘Irish.’
She shook herself in mock disgust, uttered,
‘A nation of buffoons and blarney.’
‘Gee, how English of you.’
She moved closer, said,