скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Which one?’
Justin sighs. ‘Trinity.’
‘You the janitor?’ Those green eyes twinkle playfully at him in the mirror.
‘I’m a lecturer on Art and Architecture,’ he says defensively, folding his arms and blowing his floppy fringe from his eyes.
‘Architecture, huh? I used to be a builder.’
Justin doesn’t respond and hopes the conversation will end there.
‘So where are ye off to? Off on holiday?’
‘Nope.’
‘What is it then?
‘I live in London.’ And my US social security number is …
‘And you work here?’
‘Yep.’
‘Would you not just live here?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because I’m a guest lecturer here. A previous colleague of mine invited me to give a seminar once a month.’
‘Ah.’ The driver smiles at him in the mirror as though he’d been trying to fool him. ‘So what do you do in London?’ His eyes interrogate him.
I’m a serial killer who preys on inquisitive cab drivers.
‘Lots of different things.’ Justin sighs and caves in as the driver waits for more. ‘I’m the editor of the Art and ArchitecturalReview, the only truly international art and architectural publication,’ he says proudly. ‘I started it ten years ago and still we’re unrivalled. Highest selling magazine of its kind.’ Twenty thousand subscribers, you liar.
There’s no reaction.
‘I’m also a curator.’
The driver winces. ‘You’ve to touch dead bodies?’
Justin scrunches his face in confusion. ‘What? No.’ Then adds unnecessarily, ‘I’m also a regular panelist on a BBC art and culture show.’
Twice in five years doesn’t quite constitute regular, Justin. Oh, shut up.
The driver studies Justin now, in the rearview mirror. ‘You’re on TV?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘I don’t recognise you.’
‘Well, do you watch the show?’
‘No.’
Well, then.
Justin rolls his eyes. He throws off his suit jacket, opens another of his shirt buttons and lowers the window. His hair sticks to his forehead. Still. A few weeks have gone by and he still hasn’t been to the barber. He blows his fringe out of his eyes.
They stop at a red light and Justin looks to his left. A hair salon.
‘Hey, would you mind pulling over on the left just for a few minutes?’
‘Look, Conor, don’t worry about it. Stop apologising,’ I say into the phone tiredly. He exhausts me. Every little word with him drains me. ‘Dad is here with me now and we’re going to get a taxi to the house together, even though I’m perfectly capable of sitting in a car by myself.’
Outside the hospital, Dad holds the door open for me and I climb into the taxi. Finally I’m going home but I don’t feel the relief I was hoping for. There’s nothing but dread. I dread meeting people I know and having to explain what has happened, over and over again. I dread walking into my house and having to face the half-decorated nursery. I dread having to get rid of the nursery, having to replace it with a spare bed and filling the wardrobes with my own overflow of shoes and bags I’ll never wear. As though a bedroom for them alone is as good a replacement as a child. I dread having to go to work instead of taking the leave I had planned. I dread seeing Conor. I dread going back to a loveless marriage with no baby to distract us. I dread living every day of the rest of my life while Conor drones on and on down the phone about wanting to be here for me, when it seems my telling him not to come home has been my mantra for the past few days. I know it would be common sense for me to want my husband to come rushing home to me – in fact, for my husband to want to come rushing home to me – but there are many buts in our marriage and this incident is not a regular normal occurrence. It deserves outlandish behaviour. To behave the right way, to do the adult thing feels wrong to me because I don’t want anybody around me. I’ve been poked and prodded psychologically and physically. I want to be on my own to grieve. I want to feel sorry for myself without sympathetic words and clinical explanations. I want to be illogical, self-pitying, self-examining, bitter and lost for just a few more days, please, world, and I want to do it alone.
Though that is not unusual in our marriage.
Conor’s an engineer. He travels abroad to work for months before coming home for one month and going off again. I used to get so used to my own company and routine that for the first week of him being home I’d be irritable and wish he’d go back. That changed over time, of course. Now that irritability stretches to the entire month of him being home. And it’s become glaringly obvious I’m not alone in that feeling.
When Conor took the job all those years ago, it was difficult being away from one another for so long. I used to visit him as much as I could but it was difficult to keep taking time off work. The visits got shorter, rarer, then stopped.
I always thought our marriage could survive anything as long as we both tried. But then I found myself having to try to try. I dug beneath the new layers of complexities we’d created over the years to get to the beginning of the relationship. What was it, I wondered, that we had then that we could revive? What was the thing that could make two people want to promise one another to spend every day of the rest of their lives together? Ah, I found it. It was a thing called love. A small simple word. If only it didn’t mean so much, our marriage would be flawless.
My mind has wandered much while lying in that hospital bed. At times it has stalled in its wandering, like when entering a room and then forgetting what for. It stands alone dumbstruck. At those times it has been numb, and when staring at the pink walls I have thought of nothing but of the fact that I am staring at pink walls.
My mind has bounced from numbness to feeling too much, but on an occasion while wandering far, I dug deep to find a memory of when I was six years old and I had a favourite tea set given to me by my grandmother Betty. She kept it in her house for me to play with when I called over on Saturdays, and during the afternoons when my grandmother was ‘taking tea’ with her friends I would dress in one of my mother’s pretty dresses from when she was a child and have afternoon tea with Aunt Jemima, the cat. The dresses never quite fit but I wore them all the same, and Aunt Jemima and I never did take to tea but we were both polite enough to keep up the pretence until my parents came to collect me at the end of the day. I told this story to Conor a few years ago and he laughed, missing the point.
It was an easy point to miss – I won’t hold him accountable for that – but what my mind was shouting at him to understand was that I’ve increasingly found that people never truly tire of playing games and dressing up, no matter how many years pass. Our lies now are just more sophisticated; our words to deceive, more eloquent. From cowboys and Indians, doctors and nurses, to husband and wife, we’ve never stopped pretending. Sitting in the taxi beside Dad, while listening to Conor over the phone, I realise I’ve stopped pretending.
‘Where is Conor?’ Dad asks as soon as I’ve hung up.
He opens the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie. He dresses in a shirt and tie every time he leaves his house, never forgets his cap. He looks for the handle on the car door, to roll the window down.
‘It’s electronic, Dad. There’s the button. He’s still in Japan. He’ll be home in a few days.’
‘I thought he was coming back yesterday.’ He puts the window all the way down and is almost blown away. His cap topples off his head and the few strands of hair left on his head stick up. He fixes the cap back on his head, has a mini battle with the button before finally figuring out how to leave a small gap at the top for air to enter the stuffy taxi.
‘Ha! Gotcha,’ he smiles victoriously, thumping his fist at the window.
I wait until he’s finished fighting with the window to answer. ‘I told him not to.’
‘You told who what, love?’
‘Conor. You were asking about Conor, Dad.’
‘Ah, that’s right, I was. Home soon, is he?’
I nod.
The day is hot and I blow my fringe up from my sticky forehead. I feel my hair sticking to the back of my clammy neck. Suddenly it feels heavy and greasy on my head. Brown and scraggy, it weighs me down and once again I have the overwhelming urge to shave it all off. I become agitated in my seat and Dad, sensing it again, knows not to say anything. I’ve been doing that all week: experiencing anger beyond comprehension, so that I want to drive my fists through the walls and punch the nurses. Then I become weepy and feel such loss inside me it’s as if I’ll never be filled again. I prefer the anger. Anger is better. Anger is hot and filling and gives me something to cling on to.
We stop at a set of traffic lights and I look to my left. A hair salon.
‘Pull over here, please.’
‘What are you doing, Joyce?’
‘Wait in the car, Dad. I’ll be ten minutes. I’m just going to get a quick haircut. I can’t take it any more.’
Dad looks at the salon and then to the taxi driver and they both know not to say anything. The taxi directly on front of us indicates and moves over to the side of the road too. We pull up behind it.
A man ahead of us gets out of the car and I freeze with one foot out of the car, to watch him. He’s familiar and I think I know him. He pauses and looks at me. We stare at one another for a while. Search each other’s face. He scratches at his left arm; something that holds my attention for far too long. The moment is unusual and goose bumps rise on my skin. The last thing I want is to see somebody I know, and I look away quickly.
He looks away from me too and begins to walk.
‘What are you doing?’ Dad asks far too loudly, and I finally get out of the car.
I start walking towards the hair salon and it becomes clear that our destination is the same. My walk becomes mechanical, awkward, self-conscious. Something about him makes me disjointed. Unsettled. Perhaps it’s the possibility of having to tell somebody there will be no baby. Yes, a month of nonstop baby talk and there will be no baby to show for it. Sorry, guys. I feel guilty for it, as though I’ve cheated my friends and family. The longest tease of all. A baby that will never be. My heart is twisted at the thought of it.
He holds open the door to the salon and smiles. Handsome. Fresh-faced. Tall. Broad. Athletic. Perfect. Is he glowing? I must know him.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome.’
We both pause, look at one another, back to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the pavement and back to one another. I think he’s about to say something else but I quickly look away and step inside.
The salon is empty and two staff members are sitting down chatting. They are two men; one has a mullet, the other is bleached blond. They see us and spring to attention.
‘Which one do you want?’ the American says out of the side of his mouth.
‘The blond,’ I smile.
‘The mullet it is then,’ he says.
My mouth falls open but I laugh.
‘Hello there, loves.’ The mullet man approaches us. ‘How can I help you?’ He looks back and forth from the American to me. ‘Who is getting their hair done today?’
‘Well, both of us, I assume, right?’ American man looks at me and I nod.
‘Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.’
I realise we are so close our hips are almost touching. We both look down at our adjoined hips, then up to join eyes and then we both take one step away in the opposite direction.
‘You two should try synchronised swimming,’ the hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. ‘Ashley, you take the lovely lady. Now come with me.’ He leads his client to a chair. The American makes a face at me while being led away and I laugh again.
‘Right, I just want two inches off, please,’ the American says. ‘The last time I got it done they took, like, twenty off. Please, just two inches,’ he stresses. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to take me to the airport, so as quick as possible too, please.’
His hairdresser laughs. ‘Sure, no problem. Are you going back to America?’
The man rolls his eyes. ‘No, I’m not going to America, I’m not going on holiday and I’m not going to meet anyone at arrivals. I’m just going to take a flight. Away. Out of here. You Irish ask a lot of questions.’
‘Do we?’
‘Y—’ he stalls and narrows his eyes at the hairdresser.
‘Gotcha,’ the hairdresser smiles, pointing the scissors at him.
‘Yes you did.’ Gritted teeth. ‘You got me good.’
I chuckle aloud and he immediately looks at me. He seems slightly confused. Maybe we do know each other. Maybe he works with Conor. Maybe I went to school with him. Or college. Perhaps he’s in the property business and I’ve worked with him. I can’t have; he’s American. Maybe I showed him a property. Maybe he’s famous and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed and I turn away again quickly.
My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me and I steal another glance at the man beside me, in the mirror. He looks at me. I look away, then back at him. He looks away. And our tennis match of glances is played out for the duration of our visit.
‘So what will it be for you, madam?’
‘All off,’ I say, trying to avoid my reflection but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks, raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face to face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. You can lie to yourself, to your mind and in your mind all of the time but when you look yourself in the face, well, you know that you’re lying. I am not OK. That, I did not hide from myself, and the truth of it stared me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black rings below my eyes, red lines like eyeliner still sting from my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. I don’t know what I’d expected. A totally changed woman, someone that people would look at and just know had been through a traumatic experience. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know by looking at someone.
I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that lands on my shoulders. My hair colour is midway between blonde and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. Not fat, not skinny; I exercise twice a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to excess, nothing not enough. Not obsessed, addicted to anything. I’m neither out-going nor shy, but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I never overdo anything and enjoy most things I do. I’m seldom bored and rarely whine. When I drink I get tipsy but never fall over or get ill. I like my job, don’t love it. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; don’t expect too much, am never too disappointed. I’m never overwhelmed or under it either; just nicely whelmed. I’m OK. Nothing spectacular but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I look to the man beside me and I see the same.
‘Excuse me?’ the hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. ‘You want it all off? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.’ He runs his fingers through it. ‘Is this your natural colour?’
‘Yes, I used to put a little colour in it but I stopped because of the—’ I’m about to say ‘baby’. My eyes fill and I look down but he thinks I’m nodding to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.
‘Stopped because of what?’ he asks.
I continue to look at my feet, pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle manoeuvre. I can’t think of anything to say to him and so I pretend not to hear him. ‘Huh?’
‘You were saying you stopped because of something?’
‘Oh, em …’ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now you will never stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. ‘Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.’
‘Right, this is what it’ll look like,’ he takes my hair and ties it back. ‘How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss?’ He pulls hairs out in all directions and I look like I’ve stuck my fingers in an electric socket. ‘It’s the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.’ He messes about with my hair some more.
‘Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.’ I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.
‘O … K. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.’
‘It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.’ I look back to the car.
‘Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.’ He directs my face back towards the mirror. ‘We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?’
I don’t care about my cheekbones. I want it all off.
‘Actually, how about we just do this?’ I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him.
He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. ‘Or we could do that. A … bob.’
