The One I Love Read online

  “No, he’s going to sing at the exhibition. Jane says it will increase media interest.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of new friends, so why did you call me?”

  “I missed you.” He wasn’t lying. He had become very fond of Jeanette during the four years they had worked together, and if he was really honest with himself, he missed the attention she gave him. He missed feeling like a man, a sexual being, and even though he promised himself that he would never allow what had happened before to happen again it was nice to be around someone who was attracted to him. Tom missed many things about his wife and one of the things he missed most was being wanted.

  “I missed you too,” she said, and in her head she was singing, “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white …”

  Later, after they’d indulged in passionate sex, the kind of sex that Jeanette had always suspected Tom was capable of, they lay in silence and darkness just breathing. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “It’s blissfully quiet in here,” he said, pointing to his head.

  She smiled at him, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome,” she said.

  She went into the bathroom and he could hear the shower running and he reminisced about the last time he’d lain in bed and listened to the shower running and his wife was singing “I Can’t Stand The Rain”, attempting a very bad impression of Tina Turner. Tom closed his eyes, just as he had when he was having sex, and for the second time that night he pretended the woman who had been in his bed and was now in the shower was his wife. For the first time in thirty weeks and one day Tom slept peacefully.

  Chapter 6

  Little Man

  Take the world off your shoulders,

  little man, little man, little man.

  Jack L, Universe

  February 2008

  Elle had been lying in bed for twenty days. Twelve days after New Year’s Eve she had taken a taxi to a hotel in Kildare. When she arrived someone took her bag out of the car as she paid the fare. She signed her name on the form that the receptionist handed her, took her key and followed the man with her bag up to the third floor and into her room. She tipped him and he left.

  She undressed, put a do-not-disturb sign on the door, and got into bed with the curtains drawn. The only time she had got out of bed in those twenty days was to pee, apart from when the maids came in. They knocked every second or third day and she’d get out of her bed and sit on the toilet while they cleaned the room. When they were finished she’d get back into bed while they cleaned the bathroom. Some days she ate something small and some days she didn’t eat at all. The television remained off and days and nights blended into one. Some days she was numb and without any kind of coherent thought; other days her mind raced so much that her head hurt and she felt the need to put pressure on her ears. Her phone remained off. There were days that she cried rivers, other days she simply breathed in and out, in and out, in and out, each breath becoming more and more laborious until every cell in her body hurt, so that even lifting her arm was almost impossible.

  The manager knocked on her door after she’d refused the maids access for the sixth day in a row. He waited for a response but was met with silence so he knocked again. She was either ignoring him or sleeping so he knocked a third time and louder, and in her head, for the second time, she screamed at him to go away. As the manager didn’t read minds he made the decision to enter the room. He was accompanied by one of the receptionists to ensure that there was no misunderstanding as to the intention of his visit. He entered slowly with the girl following. Elle was lying on her side. He called to her. She remained still. The girl seemed to be of a nervous dispos-ition so the manager smiled at her to reassure her everything was fine. He walked around the side of the bed and Elle’s eyes were open and staring. She was pale and because the blankets were tucked under her neck it was unclear whether or not she was breathing. The girl mistook her for a corpse and screamed. Elle moved her eyes to focus on the screaming girl, whose nervous disposition had been blamed long ago on her twin brother, who had often chased her while pretending to be a zombie. Seeing the corpse’s eyes move sent her over the edge so she screamed again loudly and ran out of the room, down the hall and stairs and out of the front door of the hotel, leaving the manager alone and decidedly uncomfortable.Thanks for nothing, Sheena.

  “Are you all right, Miss Moore?” he asked.

  “How many times have I told you to leave me alone today?”

  “None.”

  “Are you deaf?”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “I just told you to leave me alone at least twice if not three times.”

  The manager decided not to argue. “Is there someone I can call?”

  Elle slowly raised herself up in the bed; the blanket dropped, revealing her naked breasts. The manager turned red and looked away.

  “If I wanted you to call someone I would have asked you to call someone,” she said, leaving the blanket at her waist.

  The manager turned from red to a funny purple colour. He covered his eyes because he could still see her in the mirror and she knew he could still see her because she was watching him through that same mirror. “Do you like what you see?” she asked.

  “Sorry?” he said, in a voice that had gone up one octave.

  “My tits,” she said. “Do you like them?”

  The manager did like them. She had a lovely, rounded, pert, full pair but there was no way in the world he was going to say that and he wasn’t going to tell her he didn’t like them either so instead he did what any man in his right mind would do: he ignored the question. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but we need to know that you are okay.”

  “Now you know.”

  “If there’s anything we can do for you?”

  “You can go away.”

  He nodded and left the room.

  She lay down, tucking the blanket up around her chin, and she lay perfectly still in absolute darkness.

  When capable of coherent thought Elle reminisced about all the things in Vincent she had loved. His face: she had fallen in love with his face the first time she’d seen him across a crowded bar. It was a strong and pretty face and he had old man’s eyes, deep, dark, chocolate eyes, nestled behind lush eyelashes so thick and long that any woman or drag act would sell themselves for them. His curly brown hair: she loved that it was always messy and sexy and soft, putting her hands through it, playing with it. She loved his height: he was taller than her but not too tall, and they could always kiss comfortably even on the rare occasion she wore flats. She loved his hands: soft and manicured and always perfectly clean. She loved the things he did with his hands and how those hands made her feel. His laugh: when he laughed his eyes leaked water and he threw back his head and slapped his thigh and it was a throaty, giggly laugh that encouraged her to join in. His mind: she missed him reading passages out of newspapers and books to her, she missed watching him read his books and the way he screwed up his face when fully concentrating and bit at his thumb before changing the page. Vincent was never without a book and all his jackets had pockets big enough to hold at least one. She missed the poetry that loving him brought into her life. She missed the fights where they’d scream and roar at one another, where she’d smash a plate and he’d stamp his foot and punch the wall. She missed making up, ripping at one another’s clothes and the heat between them and the way he often bit her lip and the feel of him inside her, his rhythm and the way he looked at her afterwards when they lay still and sticky. She missed herself: the silly, giddy part of her that she shared only with him.

  He had tried to end it in China and, deep down, she had known that he loved what she represented rather than who she was. He was an out-of-work model, studying design by night, and she was a successful artist – and with success came a lifestyle he had become accustomed to. In a small city like Dublin, Elle was a big fish ensuring minor celebrity status and entrance to every VIP room. Vince
nt loved the champagne lifestyle, not Elle. He had never loved Elle, just as the note had said. He had wanted her, she had always been certain of that, he most definitely had needed her, as she had paid for his lifestyle for years, but he was never going to love her, no matter what she did to keep him. China had been a reprieve and ever since she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Elle’s love had died and it was all she could do to keep breathing.

  The hairdresser put her hands through Leslie’s short crop, and when Leslie confirmed that she had cut her own hair for quite a few years, the hairdresser admitted that the thought had certainly crossed her mind, then called over a fellow professional so that they could confer on the best course of action to minimize the damage Leslie had done.

  “God almighty, did you use a bowl?” the other woman said.

  “No.”

  “Well, you might as well have. I’ve seen Trappist monks with better hair.”

  “What’s your name?” Leslie asked.

  “Sophie.”

  “Well, Sophie, if I wanted to be insulted I’d sing for Simon Cowell. As it is, I just want my hair restyled.”

  “Fine,” Sophie said curtly.

  “And, Sophie?”

  “Yes?”

  “No talking.”

  “So you don’t want me to tell you what we’re going to do?”

  Leslie could tell that Sophie wanted to slap her. “After that,” she said.

  The first woman walked away, leaving Sophie to it. Sophie then explained to Leslie that she could no longer get away with black hair because of her age and the pallor of her skin, but she could give her a nice copper tone. Leslie was fine with that. Sophie called over the two young girls, Esther and Julie, and after she’d spent a minute explaining what she wanted them to do she walked away and they got to work. As instructed, they didn’t address Leslie. Instead they chatted among themselves about an apartment block that had gone up near the salon and whether or not Julie should buy a one-bed apartment in the inner city with her boyfriend Joseph for €390,000, especially as it was only possible with a 100 per cent mortgage.

  “You should just go for it,” Esther said.

  “Yeah, I mean, what have I got to lose?” Julie said.

  “Are you insane?” Leslie asked, and the two girls looked at her in the mirror.

  “What do you mean?” Julie asked.

  “How long have you been with Joseph?”

  “A year.”

  “What age are you?”

  “Twenty-one. I’ll be twenty-two in April.”

  “What rate are you buying your mortgage at?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How much will you be paying back per month?”

  “No clue.”

  “What’s your rush?”

  “I need to get on the property ladder.”

  “You’re twenty-one. You’ve got another ten years to get on the property ladder.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to do it now.”

  “Look, it’s none of my business but around here, well, let’s be honest, it’s a kip. You don’t want to pay three hundred and ninety K for a one-bed apartment in a kip, especially when you’re paying back a hundred per cent mortgage, no doubt on a non-competitive rate and with a boy you’ve only been with for one year. It’s madness.”

  “It’s not a kip around here,” Julie said indignantly. “I grew up around here. My ma lives around the corner.”

  “What happens if you can’t afford the mortgage?”

  “But we can.”

  “What happens if mortgage rates go up and you can’t afford the mortgage?”

  “We’re going for a fixed-rate mortgage,” Julie said, delighted she could answer at least one of the annoying woman’s questions.

  “What if you lose your job?” Leslie asked.

  “I’m not going to,” Julie said, looking around uncomfortably.

  “What if you split up with your boyfriend?”

  “We’re happy.”

  “Happy now, but in six months’ time with a ridiculously large mortgage to pay in an apartment the size of a box of matches you might not be. In fact, if I was a betting woman I’d put a hundred euro on it not lasting the year.”

  Julie started to cry.

  “What is wrong with you?” Esther asked Leslie, and she took Julie into the break room.

  Sophie reappeared and silently resumed dyeing Leslie’s hair.

  “Is Julie okay?” Leslie asked. “I was only trying to help.”

  “No talking,” Sophie said.

  Leslie shook her head. Fair enough.

  When the dye was finally washed out, after what seemed an eternity, the girl who’d originally consulted with her returned, scissors in hand. She worked quickly and silently and Leslie relaxed. She blow-dried and fixed with a little wax. Then she stood back and Leslie looked at herself.

  Although she was forty and had a few age spots on her face and chest, she still had a tight jawline and protruding cheekbones. The copper worked against her brown eyes and the short, elfin style suited her features. The girl was smiling. Some other girls, not Julie, came over and all said they had done a fantastic job and Leslie agreed. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  Bolstered by her new look she stopped at a makeup counter in Brown Thomas. The girl did her makeup while describing to her what she was using to cover her troublesome areas. She’d asked for something natural and the girl did as instructed: dark eyes, light lips, flawless skin. By the end of it she looked and felt like a new woman and was so impressed she ended up spending more than two hundred euro on the products the girl recommended even though she would never be able to re-create the look at home.

  She checked her watch and it was after five. She decided to grab something quick to eat upstairs in BT’s before she’d head to the pub where Jim would be waiting. When she’d asked him to Elle’s opening she’d felt good about it, but now that the time had come she felt slightly regretful. It had been so long since she’d seen him, almost a lifetime had passed, and they had never really been that close. What the hell am I at? she thought, as she queued for a table.

  Jane spent the day running around. She started by picking up boxes of wine from the wine merchants. She dropped them off at the catering company, then went to the gallery and hung the paintings. After that she went to a music shop and picked up some music that fitted the theme of the exhibition, “Angels and Demons”. As most of the angels and demons were copulating, she chose a mix of metal and classical. After that she got her hair done, and after that she returned to the gallery to set out tables and to load the CD player. When the place was spick and span, the paintings secure on the walls and the tables ready for the caterer, she drove home to shower and change.

  She heard Kurt laugh in the kitchen and then she heard Dominic’s voice and he was laughing too, and she couldn’t remember the last time she and her son had laughed together. She entered the kitchen and Dominic stood up and surveyed her before hugging her. “You look great.”

  She smiled and told him he didn’t look so bad himself. She inquired as to what was so funny but neither her son nor his father was willing to share the joke. In-joke bastards.

  “Are you hungry?” Dominic asked.

  “I’m not cooking for you. I’m too busy.”

  “I know. Kurt told me you have the exhibition tonight so I brought pizza.”

  “Ah, thanks but no, I’ll just have a coffee.”

  Kurt got up and checked the pizza, which was cooking in the oven. It was ready so he plated up. Dominic and Kurt ate their pizza and Jane drank her coffee.

  “So, Elle’s gone fishing?” Dominic said.

  “Afraid so. Still, it’s probably for the best. I’ve heard a rumour that Pat Hogan is coming.”

  “Who’s Pat Hogan?” Kurt said, with his mouth full.

  “Don’t talk with a full mouth,” she said. “He’s a critic that Elle threatened to stab when she was at art college.”

  “Yeah, we
ll, that wasn’t yesterday,” said Dominic. “I’m sure it’s all forgotten.”

  “No – it’s funny, he loves her work but, my God, she hates him.”

  “Dad, tell Mum about your new bike,” Kurt said, and then he opened his mouth wide to show his mother that it had been empty before he spoke.

  “Funny,” she said. “What’s this about a bike?”

  Dominic was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “It’s a Harley.”

  “A road king,” Kurt said.

  “Black cherry.”

  “And black pearl.”

  “It’s a real beaut.”

  “I’d swap my dick for one,” Kurt said.

  Dominic laughed, while Jane covered her ears and smiled.

  “How’s Bella?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, she’s not talking to me,” Dominic said.

  “Because you’re a selfish prick who nearly killed himself on a motorbike a year ago and, having promised faithfully that you would never get on a bike again, you’ve gone behind her back and bought a Harley?”

  “Got it in one.”

  “Jesus, Dominic, what is wrong with you?”

  He grinned at her. “Ah, come on, Janey, Bella’s already giving me hell. Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  She smiled at him. “Okay, I’ll be happy for you. Congratulations on your new bike. Please don’t cripple or kill yourself.”

  “Ah, thanks for worrying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.” He winked at her.

  She smiled and blushed a little. Oh, grow up, Jane.

  “Jane? Jane? Jane? Are you there? Jane?” Rose’s voice came over the intercom.

  Dominic stood up and pressed the button. “Hi, Rose.”

  “Who let you in?” Rose asked.

  “My son.” Dominic smiled.

  “I want Jane.”

  “I’m sorry. Jane is currently not available. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “You can go back under the rock you’ve climbed out from.”

  “I miss you too, Rose.”

  “I want Jane.”

  Jane stood up and pushed Dominic out of the way. “Yes, Rose.”