I knew this to my cost. There was a boutique in Dublin with the same air, where I’d ended up buying an expensive chiffon skirt – that I’d never once worn – just to get out of the place. And I wouldn’t mind, but I’d only gone in because it had started to rain and I’d no umbrella/hood/hat/nice hair that looked better after it had been drenched in rainwater. I’d have been better off going to the small chemist’s next door and buying thrush ointment (or something else that involved a time-wasting question-and-answer session).
However, despite all of this, I felt an adrenalin rush as soon as we entered the swimshop; everything was so beautiful. Helen, Anna, Emily, Mum and I instantly split up and spread out, alighting on our favourite colours like bees on flowers. Dad hovered by the door, staring at his feet.
Within seconds, I was well on my way to talking myself into a swimsuit-wraparound skirt-visor ensemble, when my attention was caught by an exchange at the cabana-hut-style changing-room. From the number of discarded bikinis and fluttering assistants in evidence, a choosy customer was within.
‘Maria,’ a laden assistant called over the straw door, ‘is the DKNY totally great on you?’
‘Totally great,’ Maria’s disembodied voice said. ‘But my breasts are still too high.’
Too high? All of us out-of-towners ceased our browsing and turned, as one, to exchange what-on-earth? looks. What did she mean, ‘too high’? Too big?
We regrouped in the centre of the room – even Dad – and Helen went to the cabana hut for a gawk. ‘Too high,’ she confirmed on her return. ‘So lifted, her nipples are almost on her shoulders. A halter-neck is her only hope.’
‘Ah here,’ Dad murmured, squinting up from his feet, ‘I think I’ll just go to the pub and have a pint and read the paper.’
‘There aren’t any pubs round here,’ Emily said. ‘Just some strip joints.’
‘Don’t let any of the girls sit with you,’ Anna advised. ‘You’ll be charged for it.’
‘No,’ Mum said firmly. ‘Find a coffee shop, that’s good enough for you.’
‘It’s Saturday night tonight. I’d love a bit of glamour, girls,’ Mum sighed. ‘Where’s a good place to go?’
‘There’s the Bilderberg Room,’ Emily said doubtfully, but I shook my head. I knew where to bring Mum. I’d known it was her sort of place the first (and only) time I’d gone there: the Four Seasons, Beverly Hills.
Dad refused to go. ‘Feck this for a haircut, I’m sick of getting dickied up. I want to watch sport and eat peanuts.’
‘Fine. Stay at home then, we don’t care.’
I needed the horse-hair wax to fix my hair for the Four Seasons, so I picked my way through Emily’s bomb-site bedroom.
‘It’s on the dressing table,’ she said.
But the dressing table was crammed with stuff and when I lifted the wax, I dislodged a heap of photos, which slithered to the floor. ‘Sorry.’ As I gathered them up, I saw that they’d been taken at a party eighteen months before, when Emily had been home. Instantly intrigued – I love looking at photos – I shuffled through pictures of Emily and her friends in various states of disarray. One of her winking, another of me and her blowing kisses at the camera – ‘The state of us,’ I held it out to her. ‘And we thought we were gorgeous’ – Emily with Donna, Emily with Sinead. One of me, waving a bottle of Smirnoff Ice, my pink, shiny face and red, Satan eyes happy and carefree; me again, slightly more demure; then a picture of Emily with the cutest man. He had lovely cheekbones and shiny, dark hair flopping over his forehead and he was laughing mischievously into the camera.
‘Christ, who’s he?’ I asked in admiration. ‘He’s yum!’
‘Hahaha,’ Emily deadpanned.
Before she’d even finished, I’d recognized the man – of course I’d recognized him – and I started to shake with reaction. Emily was staring carefully at me. ‘Did you really not know who he was? Or were you joking?’
‘Joking,’ I said. ‘Of course I knew who he was.’
It was Garv.
I was almost afraid to turn to the next photo, because I suspected I knew who it was of – and it was: Garv and me, head-to-head, together and happy. And for a second I could remember what that felt like.
‘Come on, then,’ I said, my heart rate returning to normal. ‘Fix my hair.’
Mum loved the Four Seasons, fingering the swagged curtains and saying with respect, ‘I’d say they didn’t come cheap.’ Next to be admired was the couch. ‘Isn’t it a bee-yoo-tiful shade?’ Then she asked in awe, ‘Would you say those statues are antiques?’
‘Pretty old,’ Helen said. ‘Not as old as you, obviously, but good and old.’
When the waiter came, Emily, Helen, Anna and I ordered Complicated Martinis and urged Mum to have one too. ‘Should I?’ Her eyes were alight at her daring. ‘All right, so. Lord above!’ Her attention had been hooked by a pair of high, enormous breasts, which had walked past attached to a child’s body. ‘She’s very well developed.’
Maybe it was because it was Saturday night, but the breast-implant girls were out in force.
‘It’s as good as a cabaret,’ Mum said, after a particularly ginormous pair passed us. ‘Just as well your father didn’t come. He’d probably banjax his neck again.’
‘Look at her,’ Emily said in an undertone, indicating a woman wearing HUGE big sunglasses.
What was it? Someone famous?
‘Nah, that Jackie O look is so over. No, she’s had her eyes done. Any time you see someone wearing those glasses indoors, they’ve just had their eyes lifted. Will we get another drink?’
We’d just embarked on our second round of Complicated Martinis when, across the room, I saw someone I recognized.
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘What? Who?’ Emily asked.
‘Look,’ I nudged her. On a nearby couch, no more than twelve feet away from us, sat Mort Russell. He was on his own, ostentatiously reading a script, just so everyone would know he was in the Business. Gobshite. He hadn’t noticed us.
‘Who’s he?’ Mum, Anna and Helen clamoured.
Maybe we shouldn’t have said anything but, like I said, we were garrulous to the tune of one and a half Complicated Martinis, so Emily and I spilled it all: the story of the pitch; the wild enthusiasm from Mort and his acolytes; the talk of Cameron Diaz and Julia Roberts; the possibility of opening on three thousand screens across America… and how it all came to nothing.
However, despite all of this, I felt an adrenalin rush as soon as we entered the swimshop; everything was so beautiful. Helen, Anna, Emily, Mum and I instantly split up and spread out, alighting on our favourite colours like bees on flowers. Dad hovered by the door, staring at his feet.
Within seconds, I was well on my way to talking myself into a swimsuit-wraparound skirt-visor ensemble, when my attention was caught by an exchange at the cabana-hut-style changing-room. From the number of discarded bikinis and fluttering assistants in evidence, a choosy customer was within.
‘Maria,’ a laden assistant called over the straw door, ‘is the DKNY totally great on you?’
‘Totally great,’ Maria’s disembodied voice said. ‘But my breasts are still too high.’
Too high? All of us out-of-towners ceased our browsing and turned, as one, to exchange what-on-earth? looks. What did she mean, ‘too high’? Too big?
We regrouped in the centre of the room – even Dad – and Helen went to the cabana hut for a gawk. ‘Too high,’ she confirmed on her return. ‘So lifted, her nipples are almost on her shoulders. A halter-neck is her only hope.’
‘Ah here,’ Dad murmured, squinting up from his feet, ‘I think I’ll just go to the pub and have a pint and read the paper.’
‘There aren’t any pubs round here,’ Emily said. ‘Just some strip joints.’
‘Don’t let any of the girls sit with you,’ Anna advised. ‘You’ll be charged for it.’
‘No,’ Mum said firmly. ‘Find a coffee shop, that’s good enough for you.’
‘It’s Saturday night tonight. I’d love a bit of glamour, girls,’ Mum sighed. ‘Where’s a good place to go?’
‘There’s the Bilderberg Room,’ Emily said doubtfully, but I shook my head. I knew where to bring Mum. I’d known it was her sort of place the first (and only) time I’d gone there: the Four Seasons, Beverly Hills.
Dad refused to go. ‘Feck this for a haircut, I’m sick of getting dickied up. I want to watch sport and eat peanuts.’
‘Fine. Stay at home then, we don’t care.’
I needed the horse-hair wax to fix my hair for the Four Seasons, so I picked my way through Emily’s bomb-site bedroom.
‘It’s on the dressing table,’ she said.
But the dressing table was crammed with stuff and when I lifted the wax, I dislodged a heap of photos, which slithered to the floor. ‘Sorry.’ As I gathered them up, I saw that they’d been taken at a party eighteen months before, when Emily had been home. Instantly intrigued – I love looking at photos – I shuffled through pictures of Emily and her friends in various states of disarray. One of her winking, another of me and her blowing kisses at the camera – ‘The state of us,’ I held it out to her. ‘And we thought we were gorgeous’ – Emily with Donna, Emily with Sinead. One of me, waving a bottle of Smirnoff Ice, my pink, shiny face and red, Satan eyes happy and carefree; me again, slightly more demure; then a picture of Emily with the cutest man. He had lovely cheekbones and shiny, dark hair flopping over his forehead and he was laughing mischievously into the camera.
‘Christ, who’s he?’ I asked in admiration. ‘He’s yum!’
‘Hahaha,’ Emily deadpanned.
Before she’d even finished, I’d recognized the man – of course I’d recognized him – and I started to shake with reaction. Emily was staring carefully at me. ‘Did you really not know who he was? Or were you joking?’
‘Joking,’ I said. ‘Of course I knew who he was.’
It was Garv.
I was almost afraid to turn to the next photo, because I suspected I knew who it was of – and it was: Garv and me, head-to-head, together and happy. And for a second I could remember what that felt like.
‘Come on, then,’ I said, my heart rate returning to normal. ‘Fix my hair.’
Mum loved the Four Seasons, fingering the swagged curtains and saying with respect, ‘I’d say they didn’t come cheap.’ Next to be admired was the couch. ‘Isn’t it a bee-yoo-tiful shade?’ Then she asked in awe, ‘Would you say those statues are antiques?’
‘Pretty old,’ Helen said. ‘Not as old as you, obviously, but good and old.’
When the waiter came, Emily, Helen, Anna and I ordered Complicated Martinis and urged Mum to have one too. ‘Should I?’ Her eyes were alight at her daring. ‘All right, so. Lord above!’ Her attention had been hooked by a pair of high, enormous breasts, which had walked past attached to a child’s body. ‘She’s very well developed.’
Maybe it was because it was Saturday night, but the breast-implant girls were out in force.
‘It’s as good as a cabaret,’ Mum said, after a particularly ginormous pair passed us. ‘Just as well your father didn’t come. He’d probably banjax his neck again.’
‘Look at her,’ Emily said in an undertone, indicating a woman wearing HUGE big sunglasses.
What was it? Someone famous?
‘Nah, that Jackie O look is so over. No, she’s had her eyes done. Any time you see someone wearing those glasses indoors, they’ve just had their eyes lifted. Will we get another drink?’
We’d just embarked on our second round of Complicated Martinis when, across the room, I saw someone I recognized.
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘What? Who?’ Emily asked.
‘Look,’ I nudged her. On a nearby couch, no more than twelve feet away from us, sat Mort Russell. He was on his own, ostentatiously reading a script, just so everyone would know he was in the Business. Gobshite. He hadn’t noticed us.
‘Who’s he?’ Mum, Anna and Helen clamoured.
Maybe we shouldn’t have said anything but, like I said, we were garrulous to the tune of one and a half Complicated Martinis, so Emily and I spilled it all: the story of the pitch; the wild enthusiasm from Mort and his acolytes; the talk of Cameron Diaz and Julia Roberts; the possibility of opening on three thousand screens across America… and how it all came to nothing.
