chapter 15 The Clash
"Well that was just... most edifying to be sure, most edifying indeed. Who'd have ever imagined twenty-first century Dublin to be so fascinating? Amazing. Truly amazing it was. If I got this right then, this highfaluting carry-on is going to hell in a handbasket and not a moment too soon so there you have it folks, right here right now, epiphanies of the Celtic Tiger dance on a volcano according to our very own Lifestyle Correspondent Lily Monagan. Thank you Lily. That was Lily Monaghan on One-oh-One FM and you're listening to the O'Arnlan Show where the time has gone... 57 past seventeen. 57 past seventeen which means today's edition is sadly coming to an end I'm afraid. We'll now have a few messages of a commercial nature, and then it will be time for the six o'clock news-bulletin. You're listening to One-oh-One, this is Timothy O'Arnlan thanking you for listening, thank you. Until tomorrow... Have a very good evening."
Phat Paul brings the programme to an end. As the jingle kicks in, I jump out of my seat. I hardly wait for "Mr. Pops" to start extolling the virtues of Rapiiiido Laxative (TM) before I let loose on Tim:
"Now wait a second before you dash off Timothy, what on earth was that about just now?? What were you trying to do Mister? Shoot me down live on air?? Make me look like a clueless bimbo?? I can't believe what you just said! What the bleedin' hell is wrong wid cha??"
But Mr. O'Arnlan is having none of it and -despite conceding an uncharacteristically raised eyebrow- continues to gather his papers, his precious papers, which he then slips into his spotless attaché-case.
"Timothy did you hear me?? I just asked you what's going on -What 'you trying to do to me just now, blow me over??"
Gentle Marina, sat smack in the middle, is caught in the crossfire. The poor thing freezes, ducks her head under the assault, and then carefully steps back suddenly engrossed in her shoes. It would seem she's attempting fusion with the wallpaper behind her.
Tim glares at me furiously, then clasps his very own Little Red Box shut ("Clasp!"). The click resounds like a gunshot. He unfolds from his chair, all seven feet of him, and proceeds to carefully unpeel his jacket from the seat, albeit with visible tetchiness.
-"I, I'm not really sure you want to be taking this tone of voice Lily. You might be led to say things you will regret later."
-"Wow, gee, patronise me some more Timothy just in case I didn't get the message 'first time round! You clearly don't think too much of me do you?"
Marina has just about morphed into the wall now.
-Tim: "Lily... Please don't embarrass yourself any further. May I suggest you drop the matter? I am willing to disregard your latest remark as an unfortunate one-off it was clearly borne out of anger."
-Me: "Borne out of anger? Borne out of anger? You fecking bet it's borne out of anger! I am feckin' raging I am and I don't care who knows it too! It's like I said: What 'you trying to do to me, not showing any support on air instead coming across all sarky sanctimonious! What game 'you playing at mister? You wanna make me look the complete eejit that's what!!"
Meanwhile the ads have run their course, the saintly Michael O' Flannaghan in the adjoining room has just about managed to adjust his headphones over his hairy ears, and the wide-eyed techno in the fishbowl separating the two studios is on his feet waving at us. The geek's going spazzy, imparting the universal technical message of "Shut-the-feck-up!!!".
Which we do so. Momentarily.
The saintly Michael O' Flannaghan expertly clears his throat in under a full three seconds ("rrrRRRRRRckkkk! xxXXXX!xXXXXX!rrRRRRRRR! cough cough spit bbrRRRRREEUUGHAA !! Aaaaahhh...") ...and trills away gaily to the great Irish audience in his next breath:
"Ah here yous are, and what a wonderful day, wonderful day indeed, it is to be back here with yous all at dis hour: Good evening, good evening." His theme tune picks up ("I Hate You So Much Right Now") (not).
-Tim, lowering his voice in a growl not a hundred miles away from Clint Eastwood's:
"Lily, I'm not sure now is the time to be having this discussion. Let's please forget about it shall we?"
-Me, trying my best to match him on the decibel level -and almost succeeding, too:
"Now's not the time eh, now's not the time...? And when will it be good for you then? Would you like me to make an appointment 's that it? Please cut the crap about having it off another time Timothy"
(having it off? what da?!)
"If you 'got sommit to say to me, why don't you tell me to my face!"
Your man stares at me furiously for another second (that will be twice in the space of one day then), opens his mouth and... catches himself in extremis. 'Bastard turns his back on me and makes his way out of Studio One.
I'm not having this. I am most certainly not having this, me. I palm my stuff down in my bag (papers, pens, cup of tea) and storm off after him.
"Tim! Tim! Don't you be turning your back on me mister -I have a bone to pick with you!"
My decibel level has markedly risen and I'm thinking: That's just too bad, sod the fragrant Michael O' Flannaghan! I'm on a mission here!! Brief pause to check though. Has the venerable one caught any of my bile? ... Doesn't sound like he has:
"...And dem wee sparrows were a-singin' you know? singin' deir merry merry melody by our princely Liffey" (discreet chuckle here) "Dear aul' Liffey... -Oh but she is our national pride and joy so she is! A-stretching a-flowing her way to da majestic sea of emerald, and I was after thinking, I was after a-thinking to meself..."
-Me: "What a rotten thing to do to someone on air, so you just slag them, you just slag them and then... and then you run away, 's that it? You run away! You turn the table on me and then -hurrah!- you're saved by the bell? Oh but you're very cute sometime, you're very cute Mr. O'Arnlan!"
Tim may be on the athletic side but Ben Johnson himself would have no chance escaping a Lily scorned. See me catch up with the bleeding coward: Collared!
"Lily..." sighs he. Tim looks around, focuses on behind me, and then tugs me by the arm. "Here. Get in there." He shoves me into a cupboard.
Shoved Into A Cupboard!
…
We
find ourselves in a utility room of some sort. Reams upon reams of A4s, gallons
of ink, boxes of tapes, odds and sods, kicks and knacks, promotional tat, spare
mike stands... A poster of Daniel O'Connell lovingly turned into a darts target
completes the picture. Hold it right there! Is this a closet? For sure it is!
Your man's only gone and hid in a closet! Knew it!!
Tim pushes me firmly against the door. Now not being much space in the first place, for two people to fit in, that's mighty tight. Looking shocked at his own display of anger, Tim backs as far as he can into the ink supplies. Which would be about one foot away.
"Lily you just can't... be stomping around, shouting your head off -You need to get a hold of yourself!" (Look who's talking.) "It is mission critical we have a responsibility towards our listeners -and towards our colleagues too, they're our Internal Customers don't you forget! What if your little outburst right now had been caught by Michael's mike eh? What if the nation'd heard you? I'd have assumed you were aware of your responsibilities!"
-"Hang on hang on, just hold it there Tim: We have "a responsibility towards our colleagues", a responsibility?? Too fecking right we have!! And who's the one messin' with it? Who's been slagging me on the show, taking aim at me humble efforts and generally acting like the complete bollix?"
-"Hold on hold on Lily, these are serious allegations you're ma"
-"It's like that, these last few weeks you've shown me no support, no respect, no respect whatsoever -Instead you always sound sore, pissed, bored, mad at me like I'm an embarrassing spanner who shouldn't be allowed on the programme!"
-"Hang on there hang on, that's not, you can't"
-"What's the matter widcha? 'Think I'm cramping your style? 'Think I'm useless?"
-"Wait a second will you"
-"I'm bursting me guts don't you know, going out there trying to find"
-"Shut UP! Lily shut UP!! Will you let me answer yes? Yes? Will you? ... Thank you kindly.
Now then. Now then since you ask, you want to know, well I'll tell you. I will tell you right now. Yes it's no big secret I'm not the biggest fan of your er... your idiosyncratic brand of humour. It's not my cup of tea, that much I admit -but I'm only acting for the benefit of our listeners!"
-"Well our listeners"
-"Listen will you!! I was saying... I'm only acting in the interest of diversity. Diversity. See, the principle of our little on-air interaction Lily, its cornerstone, why we invite various contributors onto the show, it's that they're expected to bring a touch of contradiction into the mix. To "stir it up" you see? To keep it fresh. Our talk-show can't be allowed to go stale and stiff -we need dissenting voices and differing personalities. Now I'm very sorry to hear how you feel about my recent teasing, benign as it is -but I'm afraid that it's part and parcel of the package Lily. You need to accept it."
Tim pushes me firmly against the door. Now not being much space in the first place, for two people to fit in, that's mighty tight. Looking shocked at his own display of anger, Tim backs as far as he can into the ink supplies. Which would be about one foot away.
"Lily you just can't... be stomping around, shouting your head off -You need to get a hold of yourself!" (Look who's talking.) "It is mission critical we have a responsibility towards our listeners -and towards our colleagues too, they're our Internal Customers don't you forget! What if your little outburst right now had been caught by Michael's mike eh? What if the nation'd heard you? I'd have assumed you were aware of your responsibilities!"
-"Hang on hang on, just hold it there Tim: We have "a responsibility towards our colleagues", a responsibility?? Too fecking right we have!! And who's the one messin' with it? Who's been slagging me on the show, taking aim at me humble efforts and generally acting like the complete bollix?"
-"Hold on hold on Lily, these are serious allegations you're ma"
-"It's like that, these last few weeks you've shown me no support, no respect, no respect whatsoever -Instead you always sound sore, pissed, bored, mad at me like I'm an embarrassing spanner who shouldn't be allowed on the programme!"
-"Hang on there hang on, that's not, you can't"
-"What's the matter widcha? 'Think I'm cramping your style? 'Think I'm useless?"
-"Wait a second will you"
-"I'm bursting me guts don't you know, going out there trying to find"
-"Shut UP! Lily shut UP!! Will you let me answer yes? Yes? Will you? ... Thank you kindly.
Now then. Now then since you ask, you want to know, well I'll tell you. I will tell you right now. Yes it's no big secret I'm not the biggest fan of your er... your idiosyncratic brand of humour. It's not my cup of tea, that much I admit -but I'm only acting for the benefit of our listeners!"
-"Well our listeners"
-"Listen will you!! I was saying... I'm only acting in the interest of diversity. Diversity. See, the principle of our little on-air interaction Lily, its cornerstone, why we invite various contributors onto the show, it's that they're expected to bring a touch of contradiction into the mix. To "stir it up" you see? To keep it fresh. Our talk-show can't be allowed to go stale and stiff -we need dissenting voices and differing personalities. Now I'm very sorry to hear how you feel about my recent teasing, benign as it is -but I'm afraid that it's part and parcel of the package Lily. You need to accept it."
-"I
accept it, I accept it, I totally understand that"
-"Shush!
You need to accept it and you'd be well advised to keep it in mind until next
time. Blowing your top in public is not the way we operate 'round here! Now
then, I'll tell you what Lily, let me put this to you: When you and I get back
on air next time, you are very welcome to respond in kind -and in character,
naturally- should you feel unfairly jostled."
-"Unfairly jostled, unfairly jostled? What cha talking about?! You are continuously knocking me down, continuously slagging me one way or another -Don't imagine I haven't noticed Tim. This is no package -This is two opposite points of view, pure and simple! You're constantly ignoring the point of my cheerful little reports -Of course they're daft, of course they bring the tone down! That's the whole point!! I'm only trying to cheer up people here, what d'you expect!!"
-"Unfairly jostled, unfairly jostled? What cha talking about?! You are continuously knocking me down, continuously slagging me one way or another -Don't imagine I haven't noticed Tim. This is no package -This is two opposite points of view, pure and simple! You're constantly ignoring the point of my cheerful little reports -Of course they're daft, of course they bring the tone down! That's the whole point!! I'm only trying to cheer up people here, what d'you expect!!"
-"Precisely,
I was just"
-"Everyone
knows the score I would have thought -except for you, oh Timothy! You're just
not playing ball, you don't want to! You're always, like, so disapproving -You
always ruin my best efforts, man! Call that team-work? I don't see no support
here Timothy, I don't see no respect, instead it's all frown frown frown! Now
let me ask you, let me ask you this Mr. Package: Why d'you have to be so
reasonable all of the time?"
Tim considers me closely, then does exactly that: he breaks into a frown.
-"Right so, if I may be allowed to reply -and let me address your concerns which you're clearly so exercised about- what you're employed to do, what your brief consists of, hasn't entirely escaped my attention no (after all, I did play some part in recommending you for this position I'll have you know); I like to think I know the point of comic relief and am aware of its social usefulness and so -let me make it absolutely clear here- I completely take on board the fact you want to entertain our audience, that's grand that. So you see Lily, it would appear you're quite mistaken here, I most certainly don't have a problem with your little japes, I totally accept they're highly commendable"
-"Too right they are so why? why these put-downs?"
-"They're not put-downs, they're not put-downs! It's just that -and since you've asked, I was about to get to this- it's just, of late, I can't have helped feeling... -how shall I say?- slightly let down yes. Slightly let down, if not frankly disappointed at times to be honest with you. Yes, disappointed. 'Much as it pains me to say."
!!! A-ha, at last the truth comes out, at last we're getting somewhere! The cat's peering out of the bag and Tim won't be able to shove it back in! Now then. 'Turns out his highness's feeling "disappointed" eh...? And how so, pray? I decide to gently probe.
-"Disappointed, what's that supposed to mean disappointed! Disappointed with me, 'swho you mean? Huh? Well off with it then! Why don't you tell me straight! 'Think I'm slacking on the job? That's it, 'think I don't work on my segments? 'think I don't write them all careful, then redraft them, redraft them again, redraft them another time, revise them just to make sure, read them out loud -and then redraft them one more last time? Huh? 'Think I make it all up on the spot? I'll tell you what Tim, I so wish I could, I so wish I could just scribble them down and get away with it hell yeah! But actually I don't, no. I don't: 'Takes bloody hard work to sound so natural!"
-"No no Lily, don't be putting words in my mouth here, I didn't say that I never did: I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that you thoroughly apply yourself to your homework, that's understood, and I can see by your notes (terrible handwriting you have by the way, just terrible) that you come duly prepared. No. Your professionalism is not what I have misgivings about."
My body chooses this juncture to betray me: I feel my cheeks hot up big time. Actually huh, I don't really fancy getting on the subject of my professionalism. Professionalism right? is such a catch-all term... Proper dangerous, it is. Encompasses all sorts, can be used to describe all kinds! I mean, who has never cut a few corners at times eh? Who has never made additions to their segments in the last minute? True that, when one is pressed for time or laughs, one has to improvise and professionalism be damned! (Cough cough.) Now I know what I've just told J. re the rewrites and all -and it's all true- but there's also been a couple of sticky occasions I'd rather not be drawn onto. You have to admit though, in all fairness, asking me to pass comment on Benazir Bhutto's murder the very morning after me birthday... That was never going to enter the annals of geopolitical analysis!
"Yes you can't be faulted in that respect, I'll vouch for that. All of the time we've worked together, you've shown great professional conscience, of the kind expected from us all -including myself of course."
He lets the semblance of appraisal hang over us for a while.
I wait for the "but" to fall.
"What I do have trouble with though, is I can't help being somewhat disappointed with your, er, actual motivation."
-"My what?"
-"Actual motivation. Your self-appraisal. Your intrinsic sense of worth. You see Lily, I can't help feeling that -should we need to venture into the mooted subject of quality- it's not so much your audience you would appear to be selling unaccountably short ...but in fact yourself."
?!!? If I expected that one! What does he mean myself?
-"Myself, what do you mean myself? 'You accusing me of disrespecting my audience? I love my audience me, I fecking love them, and I sure want them to love me too! Why would I want to sell myself short?!"
Tim takes on a pained expression: ah sure, he doesn't enjoy being taken to task by one of them harpies! Well if you can't take the heat pal... don't go messing with the girl Monahan!
-(Sighs) "Look, you're undoubtedly a clever girl Lily, even a bright one; don't imagine I didn't study your CV when you applied, I'm well aware of where you're coming from... (your background, that is) That mustn't have been easy growing up under someone's shadow, you will have wanted to make a name for yourself and I respect that -Fair play to you!"
-"So?"
-"So now I fear, the reality of the situation is... you seem to have lost some of your drive, Lily. Some of your edge. Or maybe you've just lost it for us -for Radio 101. I am aware of the fact you've been chasing gigs all over town -Yes yes I know, don't deny it: I have contacts you know, and Dublin's such a small place. You've been touting yourself all over town."
-"I ain't denying it! This is my own business!"
-"You've been chasing odd jobs and as a result are spreading yourself thin. Now you contributing to various media organs I don't have a problem with. No problem here."
-"So what? I 'gotta make a living!"
-"You certainly do Lily -and don't we all, if I may add- but all that socialising, that multitasking... it must get pretty taxing in the long run no? it must be pretty demanding having to attend all these events... Let me put this to you: Could it be your social commitments are catching up?"
Do I not like this train of thought, it feels so wrong, so ominous... I have this queer feeling he's holding back, like he's squirting round the issue...
-"First no they don't. Second you still haven't answered. What did you mean "selling myself short"?"
Tim lets off a sigh -though not in my face, thankfully.
-"Well you... It's hard to put it diplomatically but since you ask, it seems to me -and I've had this impression for quite a while now- it seems to me you're not living up to your original promise, Lily. You're coasting it is what, you don't actually deliver on your promise, your potential. It seems to me, if I think back to your earlier skits, you've seriously eased off lately, you've given up on your initial drive, what made you so vibrant, so inventive; it seems to me you're wasting your natural talent is what, I just don't recognise your previous knack for a nice turn of phrase anymore, I don't hear it."
Tim considers me closely, then does exactly that: he breaks into a frown.
-"Right so, if I may be allowed to reply -and let me address your concerns which you're clearly so exercised about- what you're employed to do, what your brief consists of, hasn't entirely escaped my attention no (after all, I did play some part in recommending you for this position I'll have you know); I like to think I know the point of comic relief and am aware of its social usefulness and so -let me make it absolutely clear here- I completely take on board the fact you want to entertain our audience, that's grand that. So you see Lily, it would appear you're quite mistaken here, I most certainly don't have a problem with your little japes, I totally accept they're highly commendable"
-"Too right they are so why? why these put-downs?"
-"They're not put-downs, they're not put-downs! It's just that -and since you've asked, I was about to get to this- it's just, of late, I can't have helped feeling... -how shall I say?- slightly let down yes. Slightly let down, if not frankly disappointed at times to be honest with you. Yes, disappointed. 'Much as it pains me to say."
!!! A-ha, at last the truth comes out, at last we're getting somewhere! The cat's peering out of the bag and Tim won't be able to shove it back in! Now then. 'Turns out his highness's feeling "disappointed" eh...? And how so, pray? I decide to gently probe.
-"Disappointed, what's that supposed to mean disappointed! Disappointed with me, 'swho you mean? Huh? Well off with it then! Why don't you tell me straight! 'Think I'm slacking on the job? That's it, 'think I don't work on my segments? 'think I don't write them all careful, then redraft them, redraft them again, redraft them another time, revise them just to make sure, read them out loud -and then redraft them one more last time? Huh? 'Think I make it all up on the spot? I'll tell you what Tim, I so wish I could, I so wish I could just scribble them down and get away with it hell yeah! But actually I don't, no. I don't: 'Takes bloody hard work to sound so natural!"
-"No no Lily, don't be putting words in my mouth here, I didn't say that I never did: I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that you thoroughly apply yourself to your homework, that's understood, and I can see by your notes (terrible handwriting you have by the way, just terrible) that you come duly prepared. No. Your professionalism is not what I have misgivings about."
My body chooses this juncture to betray me: I feel my cheeks hot up big time. Actually huh, I don't really fancy getting on the subject of my professionalism. Professionalism right? is such a catch-all term... Proper dangerous, it is. Encompasses all sorts, can be used to describe all kinds! I mean, who has never cut a few corners at times eh? Who has never made additions to their segments in the last minute? True that, when one is pressed for time or laughs, one has to improvise and professionalism be damned! (Cough cough.) Now I know what I've just told J. re the rewrites and all -and it's all true- but there's also been a couple of sticky occasions I'd rather not be drawn onto. You have to admit though, in all fairness, asking me to pass comment on Benazir Bhutto's murder the very morning after me birthday... That was never going to enter the annals of geopolitical analysis!
"Yes you can't be faulted in that respect, I'll vouch for that. All of the time we've worked together, you've shown great professional conscience, of the kind expected from us all -including myself of course."
He lets the semblance of appraisal hang over us for a while.
I wait for the "but" to fall.
"What I do have trouble with though, is I can't help being somewhat disappointed with your, er, actual motivation."
-"My what?"
-"Actual motivation. Your self-appraisal. Your intrinsic sense of worth. You see Lily, I can't help feeling that -should we need to venture into the mooted subject of quality- it's not so much your audience you would appear to be selling unaccountably short ...but in fact yourself."
?!!? If I expected that one! What does he mean myself?
-"Myself, what do you mean myself? 'You accusing me of disrespecting my audience? I love my audience me, I fecking love them, and I sure want them to love me too! Why would I want to sell myself short?!"
Tim takes on a pained expression: ah sure, he doesn't enjoy being taken to task by one of them harpies! Well if you can't take the heat pal... don't go messing with the girl Monahan!
-(Sighs) "Look, you're undoubtedly a clever girl Lily, even a bright one; don't imagine I didn't study your CV when you applied, I'm well aware of where you're coming from... (your background, that is) That mustn't have been easy growing up under someone's shadow, you will have wanted to make a name for yourself and I respect that -Fair play to you!"
-"So?"
-"So now I fear, the reality of the situation is... you seem to have lost some of your drive, Lily. Some of your edge. Or maybe you've just lost it for us -for Radio 101. I am aware of the fact you've been chasing gigs all over town -Yes yes I know, don't deny it: I have contacts you know, and Dublin's such a small place. You've been touting yourself all over town."
-"I ain't denying it! This is my own business!"
-"You've been chasing odd jobs and as a result are spreading yourself thin. Now you contributing to various media organs I don't have a problem with. No problem here."
-"So what? I 'gotta make a living!"
-"You certainly do Lily -and don't we all, if I may add- but all that socialising, that multitasking... it must get pretty taxing in the long run no? it must be pretty demanding having to attend all these events... Let me put this to you: Could it be your social commitments are catching up?"
Do I not like this train of thought, it feels so wrong, so ominous... I have this queer feeling he's holding back, like he's squirting round the issue...
-"First no they don't. Second you still haven't answered. What did you mean "selling myself short"?"
Tim lets off a sigh -though not in my face, thankfully.
-"Well you... It's hard to put it diplomatically but since you ask, it seems to me -and I've had this impression for quite a while now- it seems to me you're not living up to your original promise, Lily. You're coasting it is what, you don't actually deliver on your promise, your potential. It seems to me, if I think back to your earlier skits, you've seriously eased off lately, you've given up on your initial drive, what made you so vibrant, so inventive; it seems to me you're wasting your natural talent is what, I just don't recognise your previous knack for a nice turn of phrase anymore, I don't hear it."
Vlam!
Take that!
"The
way you come across nowadays for those of us who know your true talent... well.
Well, you come across like you're happy to slip into your comfort zone. You
behave as if you've already peaked. Well you haven't peaked Lily.
You
could do so much better, I have no doubt, and the only person holding you back
is yourself. Why, you're not even thirty and -on this programme at least- don't
seem to show any ambition anymore.
Now it's not for me to tell you how to lead your life Lily -you do what you see best-, what is of concern to me though is the quality of your contributions to our programme. So far they're good enough. But that's about it: they're good enough. I would expect so much better from you though, I know you could manage ...with the right attitude."
Now it's not for me to tell you how to lead your life Lily -you do what you see best-, what is of concern to me though is the quality of your contributions to our programme. So far they're good enough. But that's about it: they're good enough. I would expect so much better from you though, I know you could manage ...with the right attitude."
Enough,
enough already!
"Now don't get me wrong Lily, how you choose to go about your task is your own business. I totally accept I have no right to push you or motivate you -You have to motivate yourself. Truly it's up to you. It's up to you to pick up the gauntlet and look at the bigger picture. I can't do that for you.
"Now don't get me wrong Lily, how you choose to go about your task is your own business. I totally accept I have no right to push you or motivate you -You have to motivate yourself. Truly it's up to you. It's up to you to pick up the gauntlet and look at the bigger picture. I can't do that for you.
Now if
you can't find it in yourself to -if you can't be bothered and don't accept to
stretch yourself and knuckle down, well... Well ask yourself. How long you
'been living on your one-liners already? Think you can carry on much
further?"
I
can't hear any more of this, I make for the door (translation: I lift my arm).
"It's been -what, a couple of years already?- and you haven't clinched a bigger timeslot. 'You ever asked yourself why?"
-"Enough already! That's enough now enough! 'You happy yet? Huh? Now that you've now completely demolished me, 'sthat it then? 'Sthat what it's all about? ‘Think I'm lazy?"
-"I didn't say that."
-"Think I'm lazy or complacent or -Just do you think you are Mr??"
-"Only someone who's on your side. Except who's grown disappointed."
Take that -part two.
"And don't run away now" He grabs me by the arm again -Jaysus, this is becoming quite the custom for men in this town! Feel free to manhandle ragdoll Lily! "Don't go running away and burying your head in the sand, you wanted to know what's going on Lily? I've just broke it to you! You need to face up now -Buck up your ideas! Have a good think about it"
I hear him, I hear him alright, but like feck I'm going to comply! Does he seriously want me to discuss this right here right now ("Obviously we need to draw the lesson from this defeat and learn from it")? I feel shell-shocked, I feel gutted ("totally devastated") and I'm certainly not going to mull this over in front of his highness ("We need to move on from here"). All I need, if anything, is time on my own to digest it ("need to take it one at a time" blah blah blah, book of clichés under constant re-edition)!
I storm off the closet -as much as someone can storm off one- and make straight for the lift. Somewhere behind the arrogant know-it-all adds another layer:
-"Don't waste this opportunity to be taking stock Lily!"
To be sticking it up his erse more like! Stab stab stab! And I notice in the lift's mirror two snail streaks of mascara running down my cheeks.
"It's been -what, a couple of years already?- and you haven't clinched a bigger timeslot. 'You ever asked yourself why?"
-"Enough already! That's enough now enough! 'You happy yet? Huh? Now that you've now completely demolished me, 'sthat it then? 'Sthat what it's all about? ‘Think I'm lazy?"
-"I didn't say that."
-"Think I'm lazy or complacent or -Just do you think you are Mr??"
-"Only someone who's on your side. Except who's grown disappointed."
Take that -part two.
"And don't run away now" He grabs me by the arm again -Jaysus, this is becoming quite the custom for men in this town! Feel free to manhandle ragdoll Lily! "Don't go running away and burying your head in the sand, you wanted to know what's going on Lily? I've just broke it to you! You need to face up now -Buck up your ideas! Have a good think about it"
I hear him, I hear him alright, but like feck I'm going to comply! Does he seriously want me to discuss this right here right now ("Obviously we need to draw the lesson from this defeat and learn from it")? I feel shell-shocked, I feel gutted ("totally devastated") and I'm certainly not going to mull this over in front of his highness ("We need to move on from here"). All I need, if anything, is time on my own to digest it ("need to take it one at a time" blah blah blah, book of clichés under constant re-edition)!
I storm off the closet -as much as someone can storm off one- and make straight for the lift. Somewhere behind the arrogant know-it-all adds another layer:
-"Don't waste this opportunity to be taking stock Lily!"
To be sticking it up his erse more like! Stab stab stab! And I notice in the lift's mirror two snail streaks of mascara running down my cheeks.
Entr’acte!
-"Hey
babe, it's me"
-"Hey
you"
-"I'm
afraid I have some bad news so I'll tell you straight: May not be able to make
it tonight, 'have tons of work"
-"Oh
nooo, oh what a shame"
-"I
know, bummer! But we desperately need a new subject and no-one's popped theirs
this week, we need to come up with something"
-"Oh
nooo"
-"I
know I know, you were so looking forward to it, I am sorry. But can't be
helped!"
-"'Yous
ever thought of making easier on yourselves and maybe taking the matter in your
own hands?"
-"Ha ha! Nice one! Oh yes the thought's entered our minds many a time but... the Law may have something to say about that! No no, we're pretty stuck now, we had a couple of leads, we were hopeful, didn't pan out. Bleeding oxygen thieves, who do they think they are! 'Think they're of use to anyone? Ah well, if we can't have a funeral I guess we'll have to find someone or something else, a new angle..."
-"Ha ha! Nice one! Oh yes the thought's entered our minds many a time but... the Law may have something to say about that! No no, we're pretty stuck now, we had a couple of leads, we were hopeful, didn't pan out. Bleeding oxygen thieves, who do they think they are! 'Think they're of use to anyone? Ah well, if we can't have a funeral I guess we'll have to find someone or something else, a new angle..."
-"Oh
that's a shame, I can't believe... 'You sure you can't excuse yourself? 'let
them deal with it on their own?"
-"You
bet I wished! If only it was that simple, if only they could be relied upon to
come up with the goods, that useless bunch... Nah nah, they need me here, we
need to find something, some new angle... May be some time to be honest, so
don't wait up"
-"Hmm"
-"What
can I say, I'll make it up to you! Promise!"
-"Right
right"
-"In
the meantime, trust me: I'll find something, I always do!"
-"OK
then... Just don't stay up too late."
-"I
won't. OK, must go."
-"Bye
now."
-"OK
love you! Bye bye bye." (Click) "Now then, where were we?"
-"You
said you "fix" with immigration yes?"
-"Ah
sure I will! Trust me, I know people. Now then, how about I slip into something
more comfortable ...like you for instance? You take 'em off young lady, let the
ginger see the nut!"
"Destroy Before Reading"
Status update: I am going through a bag of "kettle chips", I am methodically demolishing a 150g bag of "cheddar and Caerphilly" -whatever Caerphilly is- in which I am assured "absolutely NOTHING (is) artificial". There's a good one, "nothing artificial", last time I checked the garden, slices of fried potato coated in salt and sprinkled with spices were nowhere to be seen. "Nothing artificial" me erse...
Anyhoo,
mission underway.
First,
tear open the bag. A delicious thrill of panic always accompanies this delicate
operation as, more often than, the said bag explodes and you gasp in mock
alarm: Will the crisps fly off in all directions? Will there be anything left?
...Yes, amusement and solace can be found in the most mundane.
I knew the outcome as soon as I grabbed the bag and so be it: Demolish, demolish away! Wolf down - gorge - fill. Lick dry and retch later. Methodical as can be, I shall follow the procedure, I will give in to the routine. The first step is discovery: I savour the crisps one by one, taking time to properly taste them and letting them dissolve on my tongue. Then I build a rhythm. From one at a time I move on to a couple pinched together, then a few more altogether. By three, by four, by what turns into a fistful, I shovel them in my mouth and embark on a quest to fill myself up. It's a losing battle, really: by now the taste buds have lost their sharpness. They need more to effect recognition, and even more to achieve satisfaction. The original tingle has gone and the threshold is receding ever further. A right avalanche of salt, that's what is needed. I must move on to the next imperative: satiation.
I knew the outcome as soon as I grabbed the bag and so be it: Demolish, demolish away! Wolf down - gorge - fill. Lick dry and retch later. Methodical as can be, I shall follow the procedure, I will give in to the routine. The first step is discovery: I savour the crisps one by one, taking time to properly taste them and letting them dissolve on my tongue. Then I build a rhythm. From one at a time I move on to a couple pinched together, then a few more altogether. By three, by four, by what turns into a fistful, I shovel them in my mouth and embark on a quest to fill myself up. It's a losing battle, really: by now the taste buds have lost their sharpness. They need more to effect recognition, and even more to achieve satisfaction. The original tingle has gone and the threshold is receding ever further. A right avalanche of salt, that's what is needed. I must move on to the next imperative: satiation.
I
gorge myself on salt and let the crisps crrrack under my teeth -this is the one
crunching sound perfectly attuned to human jaw, I would argue:
"crrrRRrack" -repeat and enjoy. I work through a hefty 150 grams of
fried and refried goodness, making sure to lick my fingers at regular intervals
for maximum enjoyment: let no grease go to waste, overdo it as overdo can. I
even wash my fingers episodically, before plunging them back inside the sticky
aluminium. Yes, I knew exactly how events would proceed as soon as they got
underway. This one is a satisfying given: there is no stopping now, and no
turning back till satiated emptiness.
You open them, you finish them. Saltiness calls for more of the same, I switch off and give in.
Halfway through the pack I inevitably reach for the fridge and extract a generic bottle of fizzy pop chemicals: "Whizzz", "Pops", "xtra", "Faz", "Blurp", "pFuit!" -whatever ingenuous name research groups have hovered up millions to come up with. Ultimately though, brands shouldn't matter. This is a soda -it'll do the job. I grab the bottle from behind the celery sticks which I won't eat but keep buying and plop it on the table. I improve it with a dash of vodka, and a generous one too, to give it some bite. Liquid acid explosion calls in turn for esophageal activation and I instantly need more of them salty treats. Crisps - drink, drink - crisps, crisps - more drink. Before I know it, it's time for a refill, and the kitchen cocktail gets a couple more dashes of vodka or whatever's at hand. It's a work in progress alright: a finger of this, a measure of that. Final taste? Unknown. In more ways than one, it's a very private recipe, and must never be divulged: as sensations degrade, so must the infernal mixture. It's getting sickly sweet now in fact, and probably on the wrong side of safety. The perfect accompaniment to crisps then -or is it the other way round. I remember Dolores off The Cranberries, how she said she once went through twelve bags of crisps... She got through twelve of them in one mad sitting, couldn't get enough. I understood her then, and I understand her now.
I pig myself.
I am looking for satiation.
I note the passing of time by the decrease in volume of the bag. I also note it by the swelling in my stomach.
Just as taste evolves, quality also takes a turn for the worst. Some might say that crisps get increasingly manky as you go down the pack but that would be soooo mistaken. What depressing disregard for what truly constitutes happiness this attitude would constitute. Crisps are meant to be a riot, they're meant to be a guilty pleasure -Down with this health obsession, "comfort food" wasn't invented to fill this purpose! Scraping the barrel, see: this is precisely when it gets to a whole new level of interesting.
You open them, you finish them. Saltiness calls for more of the same, I switch off and give in.
Halfway through the pack I inevitably reach for the fridge and extract a generic bottle of fizzy pop chemicals: "Whizzz", "Pops", "xtra", "Faz", "Blurp", "pFuit!" -whatever ingenuous name research groups have hovered up millions to come up with. Ultimately though, brands shouldn't matter. This is a soda -it'll do the job. I grab the bottle from behind the celery sticks which I won't eat but keep buying and plop it on the table. I improve it with a dash of vodka, and a generous one too, to give it some bite. Liquid acid explosion calls in turn for esophageal activation and I instantly need more of them salty treats. Crisps - drink, drink - crisps, crisps - more drink. Before I know it, it's time for a refill, and the kitchen cocktail gets a couple more dashes of vodka or whatever's at hand. It's a work in progress alright: a finger of this, a measure of that. Final taste? Unknown. In more ways than one, it's a very private recipe, and must never be divulged: as sensations degrade, so must the infernal mixture. It's getting sickly sweet now in fact, and probably on the wrong side of safety. The perfect accompaniment to crisps then -or is it the other way round. I remember Dolores off The Cranberries, how she said she once went through twelve bags of crisps... She got through twelve of them in one mad sitting, couldn't get enough. I understood her then, and I understand her now.
I pig myself.
I am looking for satiation.
I note the passing of time by the decrease in volume of the bag. I also note it by the swelling in my stomach.
Just as taste evolves, quality also takes a turn for the worst. Some might say that crisps get increasingly manky as you go down the pack but that would be soooo mistaken. What depressing disregard for what truly constitutes happiness this attitude would constitute. Crisps are meant to be a riot, they're meant to be a guilty pleasure -Down with this health obsession, "comfort food" wasn't invented to fill this purpose! Scraping the barrel, see: this is precisely when it gets to a whole new level of interesting.
What
happens is all the good ones are gone when you reach the bottom. Lording it at
the top and first to be dispatched were the least imperfectly formed crisps.
It's only natural, see: it is their very shape that made them available above
all others. Here comes the science bit now. With every rattle and shake, the
contents of the bag reposition themselves and so the smaller crisps (the more
accommodating ones one might say), they slip under their perfectly formed and
undamaged betters. Those of inferior quality sink to the bottom like cereals
do. At the base of your bag is where the crumbs will have ended. The crumbs,
the broken bits. The least attractive and most unhealthy. I don't see it that
way though; I'd say these ones are the very essence of crisps, with maximum
badness concentration. These are the super oily in this symphony of oiliness,
the ones the rest have sweated on. At the bottom is where true taste resides.
The salty residues glued to the salty deposits, the apocalypse of the senses.
There's no more need for subtlety here, it's time for OTT: lick up the dregs
and just shiver... A bit like when you're having fish in a restaurant and they
always give you some bleedin' lemon and you save it for a mighty Mother of God
bite afterwards. ...Yikes.
The
shards are getting smaller. By now they've turned to spikes, and turned to
sparks. Soon enough they'll be mere flakes. Dust. Globules of vinegar. Salt
level has gone beyond noticeable and oil has overcome any last semblance of
texture -this is "No No" territory. Lick and suck. Taste buds have
been forsaken some time ago along with dignity and I'm only interested in
completing the mission. Finish the task to its bitter end and disappear the
last crystals of salt. That's nearly it. I drain my glass and give the bag one
last good shake: evil bits gather in a corner and I pour the corner into my
gullet.
I hope noone's watching.
I know noone's watching me, alone in my flat on a Saturday night.
I hope noone's watching.
I know noone's watching me, alone in my flat on a Saturday night.
chapter 16 "Abattoir Blues"
After an initial period of uncertainty, the weather has finally settled. Our daily companions the clouds have dispersed, allowing the sunrays to pierce the sky and expose everything at ground level. Everything will be revealed, all is crystal clear. With the clouds departed, steam evaporates, heat dissipates. Crisp cold bites, and everything under the sky shines anew. What looked once precious is now revealed for what it is: castles made of sand, sand made of dirt. Winds of change are given free rein over a city made of hopes and the air itself feels different, it feels so clean it tastes of metal. No more perturbations are to be expected in the foreseeable future.
...
The sun is high and I am driving down to meet Mathieu. I am on my way to confront him and if needs must be break up with him. I have no burning wish to break up with him; I wouldn't have entertained let alone considered the thought only a couple of hours ago, but things being as they are now, finish is what we might do. I have to be strong and face up to the truth. Definition of truth: what is hiding in plain sight. I'm all torn up apart inside, and yet feel resolute. I did promise myself I wouldn't be walked all over again and I won't be; it's all so laser-clear now. I won't be taken for granted, not by anyone and nor by Mathieu. It's a silly thing really, it's a matter of principle. Now's precisely the time when principles impact on reality, now's when they're put to the test. Stick or twist? Put up or get rid? A certain Frenchman is about to find out whether this resolution still stands.
Now I'm not looking forward to this -would would aspire to be alone?- I'm not licking my chops at the prospect. It's just inevitable. It's just pay-back. 'Bleedin' eejit pushed his luck, went too far.
It's
such a shame really; myself and him, we had something. Nothing massive maybe,
nothing ever-after -but something good nevertheless. We had something going
-that now's been shot to hell.
I am driving down to meet with him and yet feel very calm. Surreally calm, considering.
The moment Georgie dropped her bombshell I won't forget in a hurry. Everything froze like someone had pressed the "pause" button and I missed a heartbeat. Instant imprint, snapshot in time. I remember reeling from the flash of the revelation, hit full-on by the sudden realization. All thought-processes instantly suspended, I remember standing there, fixing the wall as G.'s words registered in my brain, irretrievably boring their way through. And then echoing there. Echoing there some more. Stuck on repeat, once heard impossible to forget.
I am driving down to meet with him and yet feel very calm. Surreally calm, considering.
The moment Georgie dropped her bombshell I won't forget in a hurry. Everything froze like someone had pressed the "pause" button and I missed a heartbeat. Instant imprint, snapshot in time. I remember reeling from the flash of the revelation, hit full-on by the sudden realization. All thought-processes instantly suspended, I remember standing there, fixing the wall as G.'s words registered in my brain, irretrievably boring their way through. And then echoing there. Echoing there some more. Stuck on repeat, once heard impossible to forget.
It
couldn't be... it had to be.
It was so credible -and that's the thing, it was so obvious. How could I had failed to get it? How could I had been so stupid?? Their similar rantings, their funny little ways, it was such a match! Such a match with his trademark inane banter! Like, dead-on, pure mule, insultingly blatant. Oh, the textbook macho bravado these two characters came up with... it was the stuff of gutter snipe high tales usually heard from teenage wannabes let loose on a class trip abroad if anything -Of course it had to be him! How many dashing Frenchies with a cute mouth and effortless charm could reasonably be expected to hang around these streets at any one time! How could I have been so fecking d-u-m-b and not connect the dots??
...How didn't I see it coming.
"Well yeah actually, he's got a beauty spot right under the left eye -How did you know that?"
I'm on my way to see Third Grade Loverboy. Now he wasn't expecting me today; well he'll sure wish I hadn't decided to call round.
I remember the potato starch smell of freshly vacuumed carpet, I remember the faint buzz of the phone. I remember staring at the wall for quite a while, "a while" being the correct measure of time for these moments when reality shifts and senses escape you altogether -welcome to the twilight zone. You stare at the wall and you're like, locked in a spiral. This impact will never let up and you can't really move. You feel like it will never let up. ...........
The
wall was blank. Vaguely peach-coloured, no wallpaper to speak of. Being blank,
at least it didn't offer any picture of the aggravating kind such as sickening
snaps of smily people or teasing testimonies of happier times. Just
your basic wall going yellow under the electric light.
I let Georgie's words replay in my head a number of times although once had been enough thankyouverymuch, and then made a casual check about "Nicolas"'s jacket just to make sure. I already knew the answer.
"That's right, silver parka and Converse boots -'Met him then?"
I asked her whether he had a tendency to find everything "er... interesting" and whether he was partial to a jug or three -not in itself a dramatically distinctive trait I know, but a few more stones in the rapidly rising edifice. I asked her about his quiff, I asked her if he hailed from Paris and sounded inordinately proud of that fact, I finally asked her if she reckoned he was the kind whose looks could reduce her or anyone else for that matter to a quivering mess only capable of believing any rank bollix a wind-up merchant might serve and she said "yeah".
I didn't need to ask her any more question.
Poor Georgie didn't need to ask me one in particular either.
We both observed another "while" of silence, the two of us startled and hurt in our respective ways, and then I remember telling her I'd call her back later, one has to mind one's phone bill right? Gallows humour and face saving in one, that's me.
I let Georgie's words replay in my head a number of times although once had been enough thankyouverymuch, and then made a casual check about "Nicolas"'s jacket just to make sure. I already knew the answer.
"That's right, silver parka and Converse boots -'Met him then?"
I asked her whether he had a tendency to find everything "er... interesting" and whether he was partial to a jug or three -not in itself a dramatically distinctive trait I know, but a few more stones in the rapidly rising edifice. I asked her about his quiff, I asked her if he hailed from Paris and sounded inordinately proud of that fact, I finally asked her if she reckoned he was the kind whose looks could reduce her or anyone else for that matter to a quivering mess only capable of believing any rank bollix a wind-up merchant might serve and she said "yeah".
I didn't need to ask her any more question.
Poor Georgie didn't need to ask me one in particular either.
We both observed another "while" of silence, the two of us startled and hurt in our respective ways, and then I remember telling her I'd call her back later, one has to mind one's phone bill right? Gallows humour and face saving in one, that's me.
...When I listed the qualities required for a bessie,
maybe I should have born in mind that she isn't in fact more attractive than
you.
Visions of vengeance twirled in my head, fantasies of proper slaps for his face and spankings at football for his beloved PSG team -don't even know which one would hit the fecker most! How do people rate themselves anyway? By who they are, or by whose exalted company they crave? I spent more time standing there, surveying the wall... "Well yeah actually, he's got a beauty spot right under the left eye -How did you know that?" I knew. I knew, and also that it was time to go grab the bull by the proverbial. So I made one last check. "That's right, he wears a silver parka and Converse boots -So you've met him then?" I had met him alright.
Visions of vengeance twirled in my head, fantasies of proper slaps for his face and spankings at football for his beloved PSG team -don't even know which one would hit the fecker most! How do people rate themselves anyway? By who they are, or by whose exalted company they crave? I spent more time standing there, surveying the wall... "Well yeah actually, he's got a beauty spot right under the left eye -How did you know that?" I knew. I knew, and also that it was time to go grab the bull by the proverbial. So I made one last check. "That's right, he wears a silver parka and Converse boots -So you've met him then?" I had met him alright.
I'm in the car now, and on my way. On my way to...
well the thing is, I still don't know. I still don't know. How exactly I'll
address the situation I haven't figured out yet. Didn't form a plan for sure,
couldn't think ahead -Know diddly squat in fact! At this stage, driving to the
café, I still don't know what's up ahead. Don't know how to confront him, don't
know what attitude to take, don't even know what to throw to his face. In fact
-and that's the worst bit- I don't even know if I should bother at all! Delete
his number pure and simple? Forget about it altogether? Self-doubts are making
their poisonous appearance and my determination's almost wilting but I mustn't
let them take hold, I mustn't let my resolve flag. A fierce battle is raging in
me: What will I actually say? To what end anyway? At the end of the day, is
there any purpose to a confrontation when the stabbing's already been done??
Hmm... It's off we go into the great unknown. It's all rhetorical. Rhetorical
doesn't mean pointless though. Even if no good comes out of it, I still can't
take it lying down, I mustn't let him get away with it. I need to make a stand.
A pointless confrontation it may turn out to be, but it'll be one for the show.
It's a matter of principle. When all is said and done, maybe yes I've gone too
soft, maybe yes I've lost the plot. Was too naive, was too trusting. "Sold
myself short" eh? We'll see about that!
I am driving. I am making my way there, and I wonder. I wonder whether I'll be able to look the rat right in the eye. Cos' that's the thing though: How will I feel once in his presence? Will I crumble, could I take the easy way out and pretend that I don't know? Could I forgive him and swallow my dignity? ...Or will I get it together for once in my life and let it the feck out, summoning my hurt pride and hurling it straight back in his face -With interests, too! Arise, my anger, there'll be tea cups flying before the morning's over! Tea cups, china, spoons, accusations, insults, all manners of kitchen appliances possibly including bottles of house red. Truly I tell yous, bystanders: Prepare to take cover for Hell hath no fury! The tail between his legs, I promise!
I am driving. I am making my way there, and I wonder. I wonder whether I'll be able to look the rat right in the eye. Cos' that's the thing though: How will I feel once in his presence? Will I crumble, could I take the easy way out and pretend that I don't know? Could I forgive him and swallow my dignity? ...Or will I get it together for once in my life and let it the feck out, summoning my hurt pride and hurling it straight back in his face -With interests, too! Arise, my anger, there'll be tea cups flying before the morning's over! Tea cups, china, spoons, accusations, insults, all manners of kitchen appliances possibly including bottles of house red. Truly I tell yous, bystanders: Prepare to take cover for Hell hath no fury! The tail between his legs, I promise!
(Baggot Street.) I feel slightly chipper at the
prospect. Mind you, your man's probably dead pleased with his duplicity, being
the gloating type. I can well imagine him giving it large to his pals back home
-"happy like the devil in France", the
Germans say- and my blood pressure instantly bounces back up. What will he have
been saying about me? What will he have blabbed about, making me look even more
the complete air-head?
And then it hits me. Carrying on this train of thought, I have this revelation -it's a sick one! It's like a brand new dimension altogether that reveals itself, oh my. ... It's even worse that I'd have thought. Take Mathieu’s true nature so, I think we can safely exclude "monogamy" from his vocabulary, the question then has to be... how many girls has he actually got on the go? How many is he seeing? Given his track record, there's no reason to believe that myself and G. should be the only "lucky ones"! How many more could the rat possibly be keeping on the side?? How many wide-eyed innocents is the playah juggling at any given moment? There's no way of knowing! Could be quite a few more! It's not about Georgie and me, it never was! We were just... par for the course, flicks on the list, notches on the bed-post and so on. I realise, there could be a whole harem out there, a whole harem and all of whom as clueless as I have been. Let's say there is a nice little ride for his Saturday night, and one for the Sunday afternoon flick; one for the mid-week, and one for these short breaks in County Wicklow; one for cooking him nice scones, and one for booty calls... anything goes, really! Anything's possible! It's probably a question of playing his cards right and no-one'll be the wiser. Definition of possibilities: they are endless.
And then it hits me. Carrying on this train of thought, I have this revelation -it's a sick one! It's like a brand new dimension altogether that reveals itself, oh my. ... It's even worse that I'd have thought. Take Mathieu’s true nature so, I think we can safely exclude "monogamy" from his vocabulary, the question then has to be... how many girls has he actually got on the go? How many is he seeing? Given his track record, there's no reason to believe that myself and G. should be the only "lucky ones"! How many more could the rat possibly be keeping on the side?? How many wide-eyed innocents is the playah juggling at any given moment? There's no way of knowing! Could be quite a few more! It's not about Georgie and me, it never was! We were just... par for the course, flicks on the list, notches on the bed-post and so on. I realise, there could be a whole harem out there, a whole harem and all of whom as clueless as I have been. Let's say there is a nice little ride for his Saturday night, and one for the Sunday afternoon flick; one for the mid-week, and one for these short breaks in County Wicklow; one for cooking him nice scones, and one for booty calls... anything goes, really! Anything's possible! It's probably a question of playing his cards right and no-one'll be the wiser. Definition of possibilities: they are endless.
Of course he'd have to play the
phone. Ah yes, the new phone tricks... All hail this grand technological world
we live in! Maybe he's got several, maybe he uses various email identities
-Wouldn't it be just like him to avail himself of different contact numbers! Personalised
rings. Alternative emails. A whole array of aliases. That's how it works
nowadays.
(Change lanes, try not to run over that pram.) I
probably shouldn't indulge in green-eyed scenarios but the seed has been
planted. The more I think of it... the more I try not to imagine. Revenge
fantasies have been replaced with less welcome visions. Visions of him at it
with other girls, that is. Ah yes I can picture it already, is this how he goes
about it? A girl for every mood and different styles for different fancies?
He'd have a blonde naturally, then a brunette... maybe someone bold after his
heart, maybe a sensitive soul for the challenge... a good aul' Irish lass, then
a French one... a Polish girl maybe? naturally a Chinese one... chubby cheeks
one day, on the flat side the next... a right cougar, a sweet sixteen -Oh that's
enough! Enough already!! These visions, they can't be good for me, they're
tearing me up from the inside. In my head, I can see him flashing his teeth at
them and amusing them with strangely familiar "brilliant" ideas, I
can hear him using on them the same lines he once reserved for me -and this is
where it hurts the most.
Here is what hurts the worst. It's probably the fact that your other half is deliberately recycling what you thought was yours and yours alone. Off he goes, repeating to The Other Woman the very words you had thought were meant for you; these sweet nothings, which you had assumed were yours and no-one else's; these amorous glances, that surely couldn't be directed at anyone else -Well, they just came in handy with someone else! All you held dear has been denied. Your "specialness" is not so special anymore, it's been shown up for what it is. It always was a lie, a mere pretence ...an opportunistic strike from a player. Time to cop on, you've been played like a 12 year old.
This is betrayal, no more no less, and betrayal makes a fool of your entire person. It reverses everything. News flash, sister: you are expendable; how does it feel to realise you're totally replaceable after all?
Here is what hurts the worst. It's probably the fact that your other half is deliberately recycling what you thought was yours and yours alone. Off he goes, repeating to The Other Woman the very words you had thought were meant for you; these sweet nothings, which you had assumed were yours and no-one else's; these amorous glances, that surely couldn't be directed at anyone else -Well, they just came in handy with someone else! All you held dear has been denied. Your "specialness" is not so special anymore, it's been shown up for what it is. It always was a lie, a mere pretence ...an opportunistic strike from a player. Time to cop on, you've been played like a 12 year old.
This is betrayal, no more no less, and betrayal makes a fool of your entire person. It reverses everything. News flash, sister: you are expendable; how does it feel to realise you're totally replaceable after all?
The sun is high, and I'm on my way to the abattoir. There's no escaping it, this thing must be seen through.
The more I try not to, the more clearly I can see it. It's so obvious now isn't it, it's so obvious how he proceeds... he must fall back on the same tricks! Don't I know them: "I am from Paaaree, do you know where is a good place in zis city?" Then, right on cue, he'll be flashing his goofy smile. Time to go through his repertoire and fire on all cylinders: "Oh la la but zis is really interesting, oui! Love your accent, it is so, er... interesting! Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? What d'you mean I am so bold?? You don't know zat song? It is a song, I assuuure you! Here, let me play for it on my eePod". Of course he must. That's his modus operandi, his comedy act. Not only that, but a tenner says he must serve them the same crock of would-be wacky observations he's regaled me with. Huh huh, now let me guess: Something about the size of Dublin buildiiings as opposed to Paree's, something about the continental way of drinkiiing ("totally diff'rent from your bingeeng"), and by the by something about his own undiscovered genius.
Ah yes, these funny little ways of his, these
endearing sweet nothings which I swallowed line hook and sinker, well I was
wrong about them too. They never were endearing nor off-the-cuff. They always
were but a precise set of weapons in his armoury, and a right bunch of shite
ready to be reheated for the next willing victim. Ah yes his compliments... I
can hear them again. His tender words are replaying in my mind like meat on a skewer
and I wonder: How did he used to call Georgie in private? ...by my pet name?
(One-way traffic, go round the square and carry on. Mind you don't get stuck behind one of them horse-carts that ferry unsuspecting couples up and down, round and round, and back to square one on the road to nowhere.)
(One-way traffic, go round the square and carry on. Mind you don't get stuck behind one of them horse-carts that ferry unsuspecting couples up and down, round and round, and back to square one on the road to nowhere.)
Now I am chewing on this, I am pondering about that,
and then -wham!- I realise something else. Is this some hell of a morning or
what! I realise something that doesn't exactly make me proud. Because, if I
follow this train of thought like, if this has to be the way he basically lets
himself get jumped by every piece of skirt crossing his way then...
Then by the same token, I myself must have taken someone else's place!!
Think about it. After all, what did I know about M.'s situation in the first place? Back to when we met, how could I possibly tell whether he was "plus one" or not? Chances are he was single ...chances are he most certainly wasn't. So what's the story if he was seeing someone at the time? What does that make me? I remember his episodic absences -to think I never twitched! What if there was another gullible soul in the background then?
Cold sweat washes all over me and I get a little sick in my mouth.
Then by the same token, I myself must have taken someone else's place!!
Think about it. After all, what did I know about M.'s situation in the first place? Back to when we met, how could I possibly tell whether he was "plus one" or not? Chances are he was single ...chances are he most certainly wasn't. So what's the story if he was seeing someone at the time? What does that make me? I remember his episodic absences -to think I never twitched! What if there was another gullible soul in the background then?
Cold sweat washes all over me and I get a little sick in my mouth.
-Gobshite pulls up alongside at the red light. Rolls
down his window and barks: "'Dawson Street?" Doesn't bother
with pleasantries, no time to lose, people to see, etc..
-So I roll down mine and reply: "My turn now!
'Clarendon Street?"
-Gobshite stares at me dumbfounded, expletes and takes
off.
I am getting closer now, it's inexorable. Every corner
I turn, every light I pass, every boyracer I simply ignore is taking me closer
to resolution.
I still haven't got a clue though. It's so unlike me! So what the options, realistically?
I still haven't got a clue though. It's so unlike me! So what the options, realistically?
-Top off my head, play it like they do in the movies.
Make it a right scene.
Ah sure I could... and then risk breaking down for real, cue floodgates and hysterics. Huh. Do I really want to make an eejit of myself in front of him or everyone in attendance? That'd only make it worse in his eyes. Cross that one out.
Ah sure I could... and then risk breaking down for real, cue floodgates and hysterics. Huh. Do I really want to make an eejit of myself in front of him or everyone in attendance? That'd only make it worse in his eyes. Cross that one out.
-Throw a glass at him. Either full or not.
Much better, but first would need to get hold of one. So do I get in there and -like- take my place in a queue to buy a drink just for the privilege of throwing it away five seconds later?
Much better, but first would need to get hold of one. So do I get in there and -like- take my place in a queue to buy a drink just for the privilege of throwing it away five seconds later?
("-That will be three Euro ninety.
-Oh, 'only have a fiver.
-I'll get your change.
-Ah don't bother. Oh here you are, you dirty rotten
weasel... Com' here till I tell you, you little bollix! 'Thought you could fool
me? Huh? Now would do you think I am? Your doormat? Well suck on that, yee
bastard!! ... Oops. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry Ma'am, didn't mean to splash you, he
-he just ducked out of the way!")
-Slap him.
Right in the smacker, like; action speaks louder than words and all that. Just turn up and land him one, girl. Surely he wouldn't hit back ... would he?
Right in the smacker, like; action speaks louder than words and all that. Just turn up and land him one, girl. Surely he wouldn't hit back ... would he?
-Crash in all guns blazing shrieking like a boiling
kettle: "Mathieu -It's over!"
Right-oh. Hmm... Not so sure about this one, mind... does sound a bit wrong century: What am I, a pennydreadful chesty shrew tearing her petticoats to pieces? Nah, doesn't feel right... Too much on the soapy side like. Wouldn't it make me sound a bit touched if I tore into him in this manner? What if he started laughing at me? Why not call him a "love-rat" and faint all dramatic while I'm at it, that'd sure work like a treat... Nah, nah, can't take that chance now.
Right-oh. Hmm... Not so sure about this one, mind... does sound a bit wrong century: What am I, a pennydreadful chesty shrew tearing her petticoats to pieces? Nah, doesn't feel right... Too much on the soapy side like. Wouldn't it make me sound a bit touched if I tore into him in this manner? What if he started laughing at me? Why not call him a "love-rat" and faint all dramatic while I'm at it, that'd sure work like a treat... Nah, nah, can't take that chance now.
-"Oi! You! Yes, you! Know someone called
Georgina by any chance? Huh??" and confront him with a picture of G.'s
on my mobile to gage his reaction.
Now this is more like it. This is doable. Suitably direct, technologically down with the times. But first would need to make sure it's a suitable pic -not one of those when we got down with the squaddies, was it Malta or Lanzarote again? anyway right lethal night it was, mad stuff altogether, much fun was had by all I seem to remember and hmmm, er... oh. Right. Had forgotten about these ones I did (heh!) -Deffo need to copy them somewhere more private. Will do ASAP. So. Should I go along with this option, must first make sure to find a safe portrait then.
...But what if the bastard doesn't blink?
Now this is more like it. This is doable. Suitably direct, technologically down with the times. But first would need to make sure it's a suitable pic -not one of those when we got down with the squaddies, was it Malta or Lanzarote again? anyway right lethal night it was, mad stuff altogether, much fun was had by all I seem to remember and hmmm, er... oh. Right. Had forgotten about these ones I did (heh!) -Deffo need to copy them somewhere more private. Will do ASAP. So. Should I go along with this option, must first make sure to find a safe portrait then.
...But what if the bastard doesn't blink?
What if he doesn't even bleush? "Ooh la la, I
don't know what you're meaning non! Just who iiis she, who is zis gueurl?
Neveur seen heur before in my life! She's quite pretty actually, what is heur
name? She looks, er, interesting -You want to introduce me, oui?" I
sense potential backfire here.
-Radio in Georgie for
strategic support, meet up with her, and let's double-up on him.
Some merit here... double whammy, like. But this is mine, this has to be my payback time!
Some merit here... double whammy, like. But this is mine, this has to be my payback time!
-Denounce the rat live on the show.
Whey hey! Now wouldn't this be appropriate! Like straight out of "Frasier" or.
Whey hey! Now wouldn't this be appropriate! Like straight out of "Frasier" or.
....Actually no. Dangerous idea; splashback potential
here. If anything, public embarrassment; humiliation cranked up. Not to mention
I fail to see how it would impress Timothy... Oh aye, that would deffo win him
over to my cause! Silly idea, I decide. Apply bazooka to foot and pull trigger?
No thanks!
All sorts of mad suggestions flash up / fizzle down,
each one more counterproductive than the last. I've reached the carpark now,
look for a space -only twenty more minutes to come up with a plan, then-
actually find a space! I park the car.
-Shall I sprinkle itching powder on his boxer shorts
like they do in them totally credible mags stories? ... If so, it would only
give him more cause to drop them!
-Take scissors to his ties? ...He doesn't wear ties.
-Mock his manhood / scratch his PlayStation / swipe
his jazz mags collection and mail it to his mam / casually drop that
"English guys make better lovers" / publish his contact details on
Gaydar?
Suggestions, suggestions; still no satisfaction.
I check the doors to buy me ten more seconds then I Ieave the carpark. I cross Clarendon Street, negotiate my way across Grafton. I take Nassau Street and the Alliance Francaise comes into view, its tormented balconies towering above the sandwich men who stand all day at the corner with signs that read "golf sale this way", "new sandwich bar open", and "I've really got the hang of this life thing". The Alliance is where I would expect him to be on a Tuesday morning, busy catching up with the weekend papers from France (the place is not open on Mondays). He always is / does, so he told me.
I remember everything he once told me.
I soldier on towards the place, feeling like it's me and not him who's the condemned one. I try to rid myself of emotions, get back to basics and simple functions. Walk, target, only engage when in position. This way will make it easier, it'll do away with the crippling doubts and other hesitations. One foot in front of the other like an automat. I'm closing in and your man has no idea. I'm pushing through the mandatory backpacks, ignore the bubbly TCD youth, move on past the plaintive women in shawls. No one’s allowed to stand in my way, I'm homing in like a missile ("Hey there! Can I interest you in a totally revolutionary phone-card?"); hustle, bustle, everyone's but an extra in our unfolding life drama. What must he be thinking? In all likelihood nothing. He's probably lost to the world, living his last moments in peace with his paper... I suppose at this stage of the game, my existence is the last thing on his mind -After all, he's already moved on to the next one! Still, though. Still must be done, no mercy allowed. No more faffing about and rose-tinted glasses -this is hubris in motion we're witnessing. Or nemesis (can never remember which one's which). It's resolution. It's reckoning. I feel white with anger and pale as a ghost.
I reach the Alliance and, almost with the inevitability of a cheap novel, his bearded pals appear at the door, pack of ciggies at the ready. No sight of him.
"'Hey there. ... Mathieu around, by any chance?"
The beardos exchange a worried look, they must have noted my expression. They hesitate.
-"Er, yes he's here yes... But not in the mediatheque..."
-"Doesn't matter -In the café then?"
Now then these two, they deffo look less than comfy, don't they? They look shifty. I smell guilt and no mistake, something about their eyes, sudden perspiration... Sometimes secrets are so obvious, they are pungent. These two's conscience writes itself all over their faces and no matter how hard, they've given themselves away. They know something. The beardos are desperate to confer in private -cue panicky glances at each other that even a blind man would spot.
The taller one casually strikes a match to give himself some countenance. Fails in the task. Then brightens up.
-"Oh I don't know but -Hey, I tell you what: maybe I can go and check huh? Where Mathieu is. Just wait for me, I'll be right back!"
Cheeky monkey, does he seriously imagine I'll fall for that? Your man must think I came up the Liffey on a pushbike!? At the same time, I could almost commend him for his intention, I recognise his intention: caught in the crossfire and covering up. Aw shucks, isn't it cute... but you know what? No fecking dice.
-"Oh there's no need, thanks a million -'think I'll look for him myself. Just yous stand back, enjoy your fag..."
And on these words I push my way into the bowels of the building.
Suggestions, suggestions; still no satisfaction.
I check the doors to buy me ten more seconds then I Ieave the carpark. I cross Clarendon Street, negotiate my way across Grafton. I take Nassau Street and the Alliance Francaise comes into view, its tormented balconies towering above the sandwich men who stand all day at the corner with signs that read "golf sale this way", "new sandwich bar open", and "I've really got the hang of this life thing". The Alliance is where I would expect him to be on a Tuesday morning, busy catching up with the weekend papers from France (the place is not open on Mondays). He always is / does, so he told me.
I remember everything he once told me.
I soldier on towards the place, feeling like it's me and not him who's the condemned one. I try to rid myself of emotions, get back to basics and simple functions. Walk, target, only engage when in position. This way will make it easier, it'll do away with the crippling doubts and other hesitations. One foot in front of the other like an automat. I'm closing in and your man has no idea. I'm pushing through the mandatory backpacks, ignore the bubbly TCD youth, move on past the plaintive women in shawls. No one’s allowed to stand in my way, I'm homing in like a missile ("Hey there! Can I interest you in a totally revolutionary phone-card?"); hustle, bustle, everyone's but an extra in our unfolding life drama. What must he be thinking? In all likelihood nothing. He's probably lost to the world, living his last moments in peace with his paper... I suppose at this stage of the game, my existence is the last thing on his mind -After all, he's already moved on to the next one! Still, though. Still must be done, no mercy allowed. No more faffing about and rose-tinted glasses -this is hubris in motion we're witnessing. Or nemesis (can never remember which one's which). It's resolution. It's reckoning. I feel white with anger and pale as a ghost.
I reach the Alliance and, almost with the inevitability of a cheap novel, his bearded pals appear at the door, pack of ciggies at the ready. No sight of him.
"'Hey there. ... Mathieu around, by any chance?"
The beardos exchange a worried look, they must have noted my expression. They hesitate.
-"Er, yes he's here yes... But not in the mediatheque..."
-"Doesn't matter -In the café then?"
Now then these two, they deffo look less than comfy, don't they? They look shifty. I smell guilt and no mistake, something about their eyes, sudden perspiration... Sometimes secrets are so obvious, they are pungent. These two's conscience writes itself all over their faces and no matter how hard, they've given themselves away. They know something. The beardos are desperate to confer in private -cue panicky glances at each other that even a blind man would spot.
The taller one casually strikes a match to give himself some countenance. Fails in the task. Then brightens up.
-"Oh I don't know but -Hey, I tell you what: maybe I can go and check huh? Where Mathieu is. Just wait for me, I'll be right back!"
Cheeky monkey, does he seriously imagine I'll fall for that? Your man must think I came up the Liffey on a pushbike!? At the same time, I could almost commend him for his intention, I recognise his intention: caught in the crossfire and covering up. Aw shucks, isn't it cute... but you know what? No fecking dice.
-"Oh there's no need, thanks a million -'think I'll look for him myself. Just yous stand back, enjoy your fag..."
And on these words I push my way into the bowels of the building.
"Oh this is not going to end well..."
First you hit the stairs and on the left is a counter: that will be the reception. A kindly old lady is sitting there, who smiles at you and asks whether she can be of help. You ignore her and continue. You regret having been rude to the kindly old lady; still, you continue. Straight ahead you find a door that opens up to a staircase -but you don't want to take the stairs. On your right there is a lift and further still, you'll find a wall. The wall encloses the space and completes the hall. Up on the wall is a panel on which are pinned brochures, posters, presentations of language courses, inevitable advertising, and instructions on how not to panic when faced with a French speaking biped.
I had appraised myself of them last time I came, oh how you would enjoy their tone. Except right now is not the time. Right now you ignore the academic propaganda and carry on. With a rough idea of where the matter is bound to come to a head, you continue up the hall and then turn left. This is where the café is. You grab the door. You stop:
You have spotted your fellow chatting up a girl.
From where I stand, they sit almost directly in line with me. There may be a lot of customers in the joint but, undoubtedly interesting as each and everyone of them must be in their own right, nobody registers. I can only see these two. That's The Man Himself so, and who is she... Why of course, I recognise her: She's the girl I saw before, the one who's working here! Mind you, the miss doesn't appear to be doing an awful lot of work right now, or not according to anyone expecting diligent service. She is presently perched upon a stool, one neverending leg idly swinging, mock-sipping from a straw and offering Romeo the classic "Go on go on, try 'n impress me" expression not usually associated with the demeanour of a bona fide waitress on duty. French culture in its thought-provoking complexity my erse.
!!! Come here to up catch with ze weekend papeurs, come here to up catch with ze weekend papeurs eh? How blind was I! Am I really so naive? (Yes.) He called that looking up the headlines, I call it looking down her cleavage!
Still holding the door, I am morto + 1.
So I was right then -even more so that I imagined. Any lingering hope I may have tripped the OTT earlier's just bit the dust. Turns out he is what he is. Turns out there is yet another wan thrown into the equation. ... But why? Why?? Hers are not even bigger than mine!! To be sure she's nice alright, long legs and all but... But what does he see in her I don't offer? That I don't offer -and Georgie either, let's not forget Georgie! Is she like good for the sauce? Does she swallow the smoke? Ewww no, 'don't wanna know, let's not go there!! Erase - Rewind. To think she's every bit the victim herself in her own right... Like would she remember me? my last visit with him? Would it had registered at all? ...Most surely not. Oh she has no idea I'd bet, no idea who's she dealing with ...that is, who's playing her.
Going through these emotions and chewing over my bile, I am still standing, right at the door. Holding the door, even. If anything, I am transfixed. Transfixed by the spectacle of my actual humiliation playing out in the open, right here right now, in this glorified canteen for bespectacled ponces -Beat that for a treat! It soon gets worse. See M., looking for all the world like a dog with two dicks, get even more chatty and squinting of eye with the mademoiselle, resting a hand on her leg as he bends forward to impart an apparent urgent confession. The miss responds. It's not reassuring for me: she joins him in a hearty laugh.
I'm only helpless, a mere witness. Oh the sound of their shared happiness...
He genuinely doesn't care, does he? He genuinely
doesn’t give a monkey. Proud, loud, brazen, brash, flash, flaunting it –there
ain’t no modesty here. No, it clearly is all a game to him, Dublin is his
oyster and womenfolk his battleground. We're just a pastime for rainy days -and
rain we know about, round here...- ah yes we're just a number to enter and
delete, an opportunity to take and enjoy before its sell-by date. It almost
makes sense in its sick way: everything transient, everyone disposable. "You
treat hearts like a hotel...".
So anyway I'm still standing, still holding the door, and all the while he's leaning towards her -leaning into her more like- and he's clearly pushing the right buttons. See how she responds, she’s responding alright, and now indulges him, oh what a charmer he is, eyes and wit relentlessly trained on her...
So anyway I'm still standing, still holding the door, and all the while he's leaning towards her -leaning into her more like- and he's clearly pushing the right buttons. See how she responds, she’s responding alright, and now indulges him, oh what a charmer he is, eyes and wit relentlessly trained on her...
Fittingly enough, Mathieu's sitting away from me like
three quarters turned, and I can just about make out his profile (but then the
quiff’s a give-away). He's turned his back on me, literally. As for her, she is
facing my general direction, legs boobs and all. She stops laughing.
That's when she notices me.
Now the thing is, I still don't know. I still don't know how to skin the cat.
I fix her, she fixes me. We lock eyes. She knits her brow, taken aback: "Now who's that girl, what 'she doing?" Me not letting up, her breaking into a frown. She is puzzled. I stare at her some more and she stares back, ever harder. By now this must have gone on, what... a full five seconds, and she must be starting to wonder for real. "What the enfer is gueuing on here, who is this girl and why is she giving me the eye?" We've pretty much chained now, with neither of us ready to concede. This is turning into something else. This is when someone usually gives up and looks away but neither of us is ready to quit. And so it goes, it goes on for an increasingly disconcerting while, with both parties equally unsure as to what attitude to take: Friend or foe? Allies or rivals? And who the feck is she anyway! To her credit, your woman still doesn't flinch. Could it be I underrated her...? She's no lightweight. She's no floozie. She clearly wants to know. "Haven't I seen heur around? Heur face is vaguely familiar..." (-And if I may interject, what a right absolute stunner she is!) "Is she D4-It-Girl Glenda Gilson? One of the Cheeky Gueurls? Vanessa “Joe le Taxi” Paradis? …No. Is she a dissatisfied customeur then? ... Could she be the new manageur after checking on my work when I ought to be baking zem petits pains for the coffee reush? Still no idea! (Oh, zut alors mon ami.) One thing is sure though, I am not liking this meuch moi."
That's when she notices me.
Now the thing is, I still don't know. I still don't know how to skin the cat.
I fix her, she fixes me. We lock eyes. She knits her brow, taken aback: "Now who's that girl, what 'she doing?" Me not letting up, her breaking into a frown. She is puzzled. I stare at her some more and she stares back, ever harder. By now this must have gone on, what... a full five seconds, and she must be starting to wonder for real. "What the enfer is gueuing on here, who is this girl and why is she giving me the eye?" We've pretty much chained now, with neither of us ready to concede. This is turning into something else. This is when someone usually gives up and looks away but neither of us is ready to quit. And so it goes, it goes on for an increasingly disconcerting while, with both parties equally unsure as to what attitude to take: Friend or foe? Allies or rivals? And who the feck is she anyway! To her credit, your woman still doesn't flinch. Could it be I underrated her...? She's no lightweight. She's no floozie. She clearly wants to know. "Haven't I seen heur around? Heur face is vaguely familiar..." (-And if I may interject, what a right absolute stunner she is!) "Is she D4-It-Girl Glenda Gilson? One of the Cheeky Gueurls? Vanessa “Joe le Taxi” Paradis? …No. Is she a dissatisfied customeur then? ... Could she be the new manageur after checking on my work when I ought to be baking zem petits pains for the coffee reush? Still no idea! (Oh, zut alors mon ami.) One thing is sure though, I am not liking this meuch moi."
By then your man in the middle has twigged, that is to
say he's realised he's
no longer the centre of attention -Ooh, this is going to hurt his pride mighty
bad, he ain't gonna like that one bit… "What le?! What's gueuing
on here? The daft bint’s no longer rewarding (him) with little shrieks of
delight, what's wrong with this picteure??" From the corner of my eye
I sense movement, I detect unease. M. fidgets on his seat, obviously trying to
catch the girl's eye but his efforts don't seem to meet with much success as
she still ignores him. Bust slinks forward, hands fly up, he's giving her the
full treatment but nothing doing, she still holds my gaze. Your man is
perplexed, your man develops an itchy scalp. He finally holds still, presumably
shuts up. Stares at her staring at me. She doesn't stare back at him. He
eventually gets it and follows her gaze. Turns round.
Mathieu spots me.
Well, hello there… I clock him right, he makes a quick jump and double take -Feck me if we haven't witnessed clear panic right now! A second of panic for all to recognise, a second too many -and his game is well and truly up. He's just blown it. Ever the charmer, the Gallic pla-yah tries to recover. Surely the last thing to do is look sheepish. When found out, always turn up the act. And so he surveys us both. Straightens up. Attempts a smile. His mouth engineers a upward curve, uncovers a few teeth, it's nearly there, nearly home safe -but it won't work. The rest of his face struggles to follow suit. It's all around the eyes see, these little riddles that give someone away. You can't fake it if only the mouth move and the rest of the face doesn't adjust, it's game over.
Mathieu spots me.
Well, hello there… I clock him right, he makes a quick jump and double take -Feck me if we haven't witnessed clear panic right now! A second of panic for all to recognise, a second too many -and his game is well and truly up. He's just blown it. Ever the charmer, the Gallic pla-yah tries to recover. Surely the last thing to do is look sheepish. When found out, always turn up the act. And so he surveys us both. Straightens up. Attempts a smile. His mouth engineers a upward curve, uncovers a few teeth, it's nearly there, nearly home safe -but it won't work. The rest of his face struggles to follow suit. It's all around the eyes see, these little riddles that give someone away. You can't fake it if only the mouth move and the rest of the face doesn't adjust, it's game over.
By now the girl's own expression has changed and she
no longer projects the flamboyant defiance of teenage beauty. She no longer
concentrates on me either: Mathieu is in her sights. She spits something to him
under her breath. Now I don't have to stand next to them or use much
imagination to guess the gist of it:
"And who’s that girl?"
"And who’s that girl?"
Romeo's nascent smile freezes midway up. Literally caught between us two with his neck craned one way and his body facing another, he has no choice but to swivel on his chair back to face her. He faces her. Only now the girl's lovely face is no longer lovely and has sealed itself solid. She slaps his hand off her leg. The atmosphere's so thick you could chew it and I swear the background noises have like vanished. This is our moment, what it comes down to, and it feels like the rest of the world has taken a diplomatic step back. She has him in her line of fire and he can't now excuse himself away after having snuck up so close. She fixes him long, she fixes him hard, and then she turns towards me. We don't need to talk. We don't need to resort to words and sentences and accusations and justifications and explanations and counter-explanations and etc. in order to express what is crystal clear. She gets it. He surely does too. We're all on the same page. Me and her exchange looks and that does it. In the end, that's all it took. I consider her one last sad time, refuse to look him over,
and then I leave.
As I make my way out, I hear a mighty slap.
"I could have told you!"
As I make my way out, I can't help but notice that the caff' behind has gone silent. Where once reigned the comforting din of clinking cups and posh accents, it's all gone dead I wonder why...
"Clack! Clack!" echo my boots as I take the stairs down, which makes for a nice clean sound. "Clack! Clack!" very martial, that. Like crisp, definitive. Then I remember. I head back to the reception booth and smile at the kindly old lady:
"Have yourself a nice day now, Ma'am!"
Out on the porch, the two smokers are busy furiously smoking themselves furious. Bejaysus if I don't even catch some of their mighty grumblings! These two sure can't hide anything from me today, can they?
-"Grumble grumble non, oui? Grumble mumble Mathieu, mumble -Sacrebleu la fille non? Ah oui, Mathieu grumble grumble yadda yadda yadda mumble whatever blah blah -Shasha Distel."
-"Ooh la la!" (speedy talk here) "Mais oui, oh non"
-"Papa? Nicole? Blah blah blah, ooh la la alors, mumble mumble après-ski chercher la femme -JeanPaulGaultier."
-"Moulin Rouge!"
-"Johnny
Hallyday!"
-"Ha ha eh eh -Plastic Bertrand! Ca plane pour moi yadda yadda, le Piat d'Or j'adorre, rreally monsieur l'ambassadeur, something mumble" (shoulder shrug)
-"Ha ha eh eh -Plastic Bertrand! Ca plane pour moi yadda yadda, le Piat d'Or j'adorre, rreally monsieur l'ambassadeur, something mumble" (shoulder shrug)
-"Comme
ci comme ca."
-"C'est la vie."
-"Hercule Poirot mais oui!" (unintelligible) "Something something something -Benelux: nul point."
-"Ah ha! inspecteur Clouzot je présume? mumble mumble mumble mumble, oui? ...Non."
-"Hercule Poirot mais oui!" (unintelligible) "Something something something -Benelux: nul point."
-"Ah ha! inspecteur Clouzot je présume? mumble mumble mumble mumble, oui? ...Non."
-"Non."
-"Aaaah... grumble grumble Mathieu" (more grumbling here) "La ploume de ma tante, grumble."
-"Ah? Interesting."
-"Le jardin de mon oncle" (grumble grumble) "Mathieu ooh la la, quiche lorraine, blah blah blah la fille, Eric Cantona, Général de Gaulle, mumble mumble -Attention!!"
The smokers have just caught sight of me and spring to attention, red-faced like bold little boys shopped swiping jazz mags up their sleeves. They're almost adorable.
The taller one takes on a casual tone. Almost succeeds. He catches himself in the act of lighting up a second cigarette.
-"Ah er... mademoiselle. So er, did you see Mathieu oui? Non? ...Anywhere?"
-"Oh yes, saw him I most certainly did. And he most assuredly saw me too."
-"Ah-ha." (pause) ... "Did he then? That's er... very interesting yes."
The other one picks up the baton.
-"You didn't, er, stay very long non? Did you, er, get to speak to Mathieu at all ...oui?"
-"As a matter of fact I didn't, non. Didn't need to."
-"Oh. I see." (???) "Well you know, it's like that, Mathieu he's a bit of a..... Er, he is... ...you know." Gets all apologetic.
-"I know. I get it now. 'Bit late for that though. Oh well I guess... so much for trusting anyone."
-"Aaaah... grumble grumble Mathieu" (more grumbling here) "La ploume de ma tante, grumble."
-"Ah? Interesting."
-"Le jardin de mon oncle" (grumble grumble) "Mathieu ooh la la, quiche lorraine, blah blah blah la fille, Eric Cantona, Général de Gaulle, mumble mumble -Attention!!"
The smokers have just caught sight of me and spring to attention, red-faced like bold little boys shopped swiping jazz mags up their sleeves. They're almost adorable.
The taller one takes on a casual tone. Almost succeeds. He catches himself in the act of lighting up a second cigarette.
-"Ah er... mademoiselle. So er, did you see Mathieu oui? Non? ...Anywhere?"
-"Oh yes, saw him I most certainly did. And he most assuredly saw me too."
-"Ah-ha." (pause) ... "Did he then? That's er... very interesting yes."
The other one picks up the baton.
-"You didn't, er, stay very long non? Did you, er, get to speak to Mathieu at all ...oui?"
-"As a matter of fact I didn't, non. Didn't need to."
-"Oh. I see." (???) "Well you know, it's like that, Mathieu he's a bit of a..... Er, he is... ...you know." Gets all apologetic.
-"I know. I get it now. 'Bit late for that though. Oh well I guess... so much for trusting anyone."
The
levee breaks.
-"Ah, but we're not all like 'im / we're not all like zat!" they exclaim as one, and I get the feeling I just got a glimpse into the true extent of their friendship with M..
-"Ah, but we're not all like 'im / we're not all like zat!" they exclaim as one, and I get the feeling I just got a glimpse into the true extent of their friendship with M..
"Interesting..."
as they would say; could it be they genuinely don't sing from the same sheet?
True, that; the two beardos don't seem too impressed with their fellow
countryman's attitude now that it's in the open. Oh no, they don't exactly
pretend they swing that way themselves:
"He is... you know,
his own man like. He does what he feels like but, er... that's how he is,
Mathieu -He's not us, you know?" Huh. Say that again. Now that I recall,
Mathieu used to be quite sarky about these two in fact, going on about how they
don't hail from Paree and therefore. -"Well, that may be so guys but... but I guess I'll have to take your word for it. I'm sure you're right though, I'm sure you're right -Good for yous! ... Still. Still looks like yous won't see me around for quite a while so. Not in this place like. Shame eh... good coffee that was, but there you go. Que sera sera -Now mind yourselves, you hear! Cheerio."
And that's me done.
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