Anybody Out There?
Page 55

“I called Ireland, they said you were back in the city. Can you call me. We should talk about the…ash…ash-es.” Her voice broke on the word. I heard her try to get herself under control, but squeaking noises kept escaping her. Abruptly she hung up.
Feck, I thought. I’ll have to ring her. I’d rather have gnawed my own ear off.
The park was jammers with people. I found a spot on the grass and a few minutes later Jacqui came gangling along. She was in a really short denim dress, her blond hair was in a ponytail, and her red-rimmed eyes were hidden behind massive Gucci shades. She looked great.
“He’s a horrible, horrible man,” I said by way of hello. “He’s got a stupid car and I’m sure he wears mascara.”
“But it’s more than six months since we broke up. How come I’m so upset? I hadn’t even thought about him for ages.”
Wearily, she stretched out on the grass, her face toward the sun.
“For your next boyfriend you wouldn’t consider a Feathery Stroker, would you?” I asked. “At least they’d never try to make you have a three-some with a prostitute.”
“Couldn’t. I’d puke.”
“But all these non–Feathery Strokers…,” I said helplessly. “They’re terrible.”
Buzz was non–Feathery Strokeryism personified and he was vile.
She shrugged. “I like what I like. Can’t help that. D’you think I could risk having a fag without getting stoned by fresh-air fascists? Sure, I’ll chance it.” She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, exhaled even more deeply, then said dreamily, “Anyway, I’ll never have another boyfriend.”
“Of course you will.”
“I don’t even want to,” she said. “And that’s never happened before. I’ve always been desperate for a boyfriend. But now I just couldn’t be arsed. They always start out nice, so how do you know they’re fuckers? I mean look at Buzz. At the beginning he sent me so many flowers, I could have opened a shop! How could I have guessed that he’d turn out to be the greatest prick of all time.”
“But—”
“I’m going to get a dog instead. I saw these really really cute ones called Labradoodles, they’re a cross between Labradors and poodles and, Anna, they’re the cutest things. They’re small like poodles, but shaggy, and they’ve got Labrador faces. They’re the perfect town dog, everyone’s getting one.”
“Don’t get a dog,” I said. “It’s only one step away from getting forty cats. Don’t lose faith. Please.”
“Too late. I have. Buzz let me down too often. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust a man again.” Putting on an overearnest tone, she said, “He damaged me.” She started to laugh. “Listen to me! I sound like Rachel. Ah, fuck it. Let’s cheer ourselves up. When I’ve finished my cig, let’s get ice cream.”
“Okay.”
She never ceased to amaze me. If I could have only a hundredth of her bounce-back ability, I’d be a very different person.
We stayed in the park until the heat of the sun faded, then went back to my place, ordered in Thai food, watched Moonstruck, and quoted most of the lines.
It was like old times.
In a way.
37
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
So like I said, two burly bozos came into office and one says: Are you Helen Walsh?
Me: Too right I am!
(Anna, at this point, must tell you I will be reporting many conversations. They may not be word-for-word but let me make this clear—I am parrot-phrasing, but NOT EXAGGERATING.)
Bozo Number One: A certain gentleman of our acquaintance would like a word. We have instructions to bring you to him. Get in the car.
Me (laughing head off): I’m not getting in a car with two men I’ve never met before—try me again on Saturday night when I’ve had sixteen drinks—and I’m certainly not getting in a car with Austrian blinds. (Remember, I told you there were awful pink ruched yokes on back windows.)
Bozo Number One throws wad of money on table, proper neatly counted bundle with paper band holding it together, like they do in the bank, and says: Now will you get in the car?
Me: How much is there?
Him (rolling eyes, because you should be able to tell from thickness of it): One K.
Me: One K? Do you mean a thousand euro?
Him: Yeah.
Ding fucking dong! Counted it and really was a grand there.
Him: Now will you get in the car?
Me: Depends. Where are we going?
Him: We’re going to see Mr. Big.
Me (excited): Mr. Big?! From Sex and the City?
Him (wearily): That bleedin’ show has caused trouble for local crime lords around the world. The name Mr. Big is meant to inspire dread and terror and instead everyone thinks of this well-dressed debonair man—
Me (interrupting): Who does phone sex. And owns a vineyard in Napa.
Bozo Number Two (opening mouth for first time): He’s selling it.
Me and Bozo Number One turn to stare.
Bozo Number Two: He’s selling the vineyard and moving back to Manhattan, and buying a place with Carrie.
Looked like he might start clubbing me if I disagreed, so agreed. Anyway, he’s right.
Bozo Number One: We’ve tried out a couple of new names. For a while we tried Mr. Huge, but it never really caught on. And Mr. Ginormous only lasted a day. So we’re back to Mr. Big but we have to go through the bleedin’ Sex and the City scenario every time we get a new job. Get in the car.
Me: Not until you tell me exactly where we’re going. And just because I’m small don’t think you can push me around. I can do tae kwon do. [Well, been for one lesson with Mum.]
Him: Oh, do you? Where do you go? Wicklow Street? I teach there, funny I haven’t seen you there before. Anyway, we’re going to a pool hall in Gardiner Street, where the most powerful man in Dublin crime wants to talk to you.
Well, who could resist an invitation like that?
I stopped reading. Was this for real? It sounded just like Helen’s short-lived screenplay. Well, actually, far better. I e-mailed her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]