2000 - The Feng-Shui Junkie (35 page)

“Have you any guts, Ronan?”

“Okay – yes.”

“Yes what? You have guts?”

He sighs.

“I see: Ronan has fallen out of love. Strange for someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the word. For you, love is just a snooker pocket. Something you fall into if you’re lucky. And like a snooker pocket it leaves you the same before and after: empty.”

“Excellent metaphor.”

“You’ve no conception of trust. Of loyalty. You have no conception of caring. Of sacrifice…”

“I know what I feel.”

“Size 36D tits?”

He stops as if I’ve just shot him. “How did you know that?” he demands, as if he owned them.

He’s asking me how I knew his piece of history wears size 36D tits. It’s a fair question. So I tell him. About everything except my liaison with Nicole. I tell him that I returned from holiday to an empty apartment last Thursday and found their clothes scattered all over the kitchen floor. I tell him about the lemon-yellow Wonderbra on the doorknob and in passing I throw in the fact of his being a total moronic idiot for getting caught.

He paces around a bit, pinching his nose, thinking. “How did you link her to the painting?”

“You’re determined to make me admit I burnt that painting.”

“Well, did you?”

“Of course I did, you thickhead.”

“How did you know it was her painting?”

I pause. “I didn’t. I just wanted to destroy something you liked.”

“I see.” He sighs, appearing relieved.

“A work of art,” I mock. “That painting was
brutal
.”

He tells me I clearly have no appreciation for art. I tell him not to be such a stuck-up prat. He replies that he’s not saying anything radical here: people who grill paintings, he explains, clearly have no appreciation for art. I accuse him of putting the cart before the horse and he boomerangs that at least he doesn’t put the
art
before the horse, and I slam back that not only is he suffering from personality failure, hair failure and marriage failure, but to cap it all, sense-of-humour failure as well.

“Still,” says I, “at least we’re communicating.”

“Honestly, for once.”

“Says the consummate liar. The whole Cliff Castle Hotel idea. What a joke. You just wanted to try that woman out in our bed.”

“She wasn’t in our bed.”

“You know, Ronan, lying has become so inbred with you that to stop would require surgery. Your pathetic attempt to short-circuit me at La Boheme’s last Thursday evening. Guess where I was? In the car park, Ronan! Watching you ogle your ridiculous banjaxed Porsche. God love your innocence.”

He eyes me sternly.

“And that whole circus you made up about the laundry! How could you do it to me, Ronan? Do you feel good about it? Did it even occur to you that, gosh, perhaps I’m being a bit of a shit here?”

He shrugs. “We all make mistakes.”

“Like hell we do!”

“On a scale of one to ten, I think car-smashing and destroying paintings scores higher.”

“He’s moralizing, for a change.”

“Besides destroying my means of livelihood.”

“Ronan, I told you that was not me. It was probably that woman’s partner.”

“Julie.”

“What?”

“We made a mistake.”

“How?”

“We just…made a mistake.”

“Oh, I see. You mean getting married was a mistake.”

He looks away.

I approach him. “Well? Answer me. Tell me that getting married was a mistake.”

Please don’t think I’m particularly trying to hold on to him. I’m not. I’m just determined to make him suffer.

“Go on, say it.”

“What’s the point? You’ll only go berserk.”

“Say it, shithead!”

He starts pacing now, colour high, nerves frazzled, asking the kitchen floor whether I want my mother to hear us or not.

“Say it!”

“Maybe it was, okay?”

Now I can hear the clock ticking.

I point towards the bedroom with a strong, raised arm. “If that’s how you feel, then why don’t you pack your bags? I mean it. Go now. I won’t stop you.”

“You want me to pack my bags.”

He’s daring me.

“If you think our marriage was a mistake.”

“Hold on. Did you just say you wanted me to pack my bags?”

“Wash your ears, you thick piece of dogshit. I’m talking about you having the guts to take a decision about your future.”

“You’re a part of this too,” says the coward.

“Why, how thoughtful of you.”

“If you want me to go I’ll go.”

I walk up to him and smack him hard across the face.

Shock. Twice in five minutes. This time his dental eyes gleam with fury.

He storms out. I slam the door after him shouting ‘good riddance’. I start pacing the kitchen like a starved jaguar, trying to resist grabbing a bowl or a pot and hurling it against something stainless.

The doorbell goes.

That’s the taximan. I go out to the hall, pass the bathroom where Mother is and storm into the bedroom. Ronan is bending over a huge suitcase opened out on the bed, flinging clothes in.

“You can send the taxi back. Mother is not going anywhere.”

“You’re right, she’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am.”

He zips up his suitcase and hauls it off the bed.

“Where are you going?” says I more faintly.

“It doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Julie.”

He walks straight into the hall, opens the front door and slams it behind him.

Crying, I shout after him and follow him out, down eight flights of steps in pursuit. But by the time I reach the sunlit car park his taxi has disappeared.

That’s the last straw.

I can’t stand it any longer.

I am going to get them both together.

I dive on to the balcony, grab the box containing Max’s decomposing body and shove it into a black bin bag. I tear out of the apartment and down into my car, where I hurl it in the boot. Then I get in and start the car, skid out and head in the direction of Nicole’s B & B.

I call her on the way. When she answers she’s all happiness and jollity. Really chuffed to hear from me.

“Has Ronan called you yet?” I pant.

“No, he hasn’t…” she says. “Why?”

“I have to see you Nicole. Now! You’re not to make any appointments. You’re seeing
me
, is that clear? Where are you now?”

“I’m just leaving the B & B. I’d love to, Julianne, but…”

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

S
he’s waiting for me at five minutes to midday, standing at the gate in front of her B & B, holding a black artist’s canvas case under her arm. She’s wearing a pair of light-brown knee-high leather boots (the ones I saw her buy in town), a colour-coordinating tan miniskirt, a light-lemon-yellow sweater. Around her neck is a gold chain. She seems to have added orange highlights to her golden hair, which drapes in long curls round her shoulders and back.

When I see her with those long, tanned, sexy legs of hers – beaming heartfully at me – it gets so underneath my skin that I want to bite my tongue off.

Instead, I buzz down the window and smile nicely.

“It’s lovely to see you, Julianne.”

She strokes the side of my car with her right hand like it’s some kind of cat substitute. It’s sort of ironic to think that Max lies just a few feet behind me, in another world. “It’s an amazing car.”

“Yes. And it’s green. One of your favourite colours.”

“Is it yours?”

“It’s my granny’s. Nicole – something’s come up. I need you to come over to my place.”

She pulls this pained face. “I’d love to. But the thing is, I’m being photographed this afternoon for my new career and I have to get my hair done…”

“It’s urgent.”

“It’s just that Ronan arranged the photo session himself and I can’t let him down.”

I gape at her. “What does
he
know about photography?”

“He’s actually very professional. He took some photos of us in Paris on Tuesday and I’ve just had them developed. They’re in my bag…do you want to see them?”

“At my place.”

“Oh, Julianne! I wish I could, but I have to meet him at the zoo at three.”

“You’re joking.”

But she’s not. “There’s a lovely aquarium there. He said it would be a nice publicity gimmick to shoot me standing next to the tropical fish. What do you think?”

I stare straight ahead. “He’s right. You’d look hilarious.”

“And that’s why I have to get my hair done first.”

She’s feeling it now like it’s some sort of live animal.

“Nicole, come out to my place. Invite Ronan. Seriously! I’d love to meet him. Invite him for lunch. We can do a nice French salad with avocado and mango. I’m sure he’d like that.”

“He loves avocado and mango, but I don’t know…”

“And then you can go to the zoo where you both belong.”

She laughs a lot at this.

When she recovers she asks me why I want her to come out to my place precisely now and not some other time.

“It’s Max,” I reply, looking away.

“Max? Is he okay?”

“He’s not in great form, Nicole. I think he’s been sick. I can’t guarantee his health any more. You need to come over and check him out.”

This gets her concerned. She wants to know more. She starts firing these questions at me about what he’s been eating, whether he’s been allowed to roam, whether there were any chemicals etc. he might have had access to.

I make up this whole pile of bull about me having spotted Max chewing vegetation in my neighbours’ roof garden just feet away from an open-top cannister of weedkiller.

Now Nicole looks dangerously worried.

“And when you’re there you could always give me one of those
Feng Shui
consultations. We need one badly.”

She is torn. Ripped apart, in an anguished dilemma of indecision. On the one side you’ve got Max plus
Feng Shui
consultation. On the other you’ve got hair. How on earth is one supposed to choose?

In a sudden flash she agrees to a brief visit.

Brief is all I need. It’s all I need to lock her out on the balcony, get Ronan over and sort out the issue once and for all. With Sylvana, perhaps, hidden in the background.

“Should we go in your MG?” she says, excited now.

Thinking about it, I realize this is not such a good idea. I’m worried about this stink in the boot, percolating through the crevices in the back seat. I’m not saying Nicole would recognize the scent: after all, Max alive is a totally different smell from Max dead. But I’m just a bit afraid she’ll start interrogating me about whether I left the boot open and, say, a hedgehog accidentally hopped in and set up camp for the night. It would be just like her to think up an angle like that on hedgehogs.

“Look, I’ve a better idea: you take your car and I’ll take mine.”

“All right.”

“Just follow me.”

On the way to my new penthouse apartment, I pull up behind a yellow skip on the side of the road. Nicole stops just behind me. I get out and open the boot. Thankfully, Nicole does not get out. I lift out the bin-bag-enclosed cat box, carry it over and dump it into the skip.

I get back in and drive off.

Nicole resumes following me.

When she sees my new apartment she throws a wobbly. “It’s lovely here, Julianne. Your hallway is a real confluence of energies.”

“Thank you.”

“Max is so lucky.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder where he is?”

“That’s a nice gold necklace you’re wearing, Nicole.”

“Ronan gave it to me.”

She starts giving me a potted history of the chain Ronan bought her, where he got it, where they were when he gave it to her, but I just walk into the lounge, leaving her in the hall talking about Ronan and when she’s finished that, prattling on about what a nice harmonious atmosphere there is in my new apartment and how the glass doors into the kitchen and lounge make the place lovely and bright.

I begin uncorking a bottle of brandy from the drinks cabinet.

Still in the hall, she points out that the spiral staircase leading upwards from the bedroom passageway is a lovely design, but in
Feng Shui
terms it is ‘counterindicated because of the way it chokes and represses the energies of a house’.

It’s not that I particularly disagree with this fascinating piece of information, it’s just that I’m really not in the mood. I pour a triple brandy to calm myself down.

“There’s very little clutter,” she continues from the hall. “That’s good. Clutter makes you feel all blocked; it stops the flow.”

“Aha.”

“Some chrysanthemums would be lovely,” she says, walking in. “They bring laughter and peace to a house.”

I start sipping. Why did I have to mention that thing about a
Feng Shui
consultation? I should have just told her Max was making these odd choking noises and left it at that. Let’s hope she doesn’t accidentally wander into my bedroom. If she catches sight of that magnolia plant I’ll never shut her up.

“Do you intend to keep the walls white, Julianne?”

I don’t bother answering. I can’t get it out of my mind that Ronan has, for the last several months, been laying Nicole like a dual carriageway.

She explains that colour is an important cure: different colour combinations can affect your health as well as your mood – as we all know from the colour of the clothes we wear.

“White is the colour of innocence and openness,” she infinitely ad-nauseates. “It can make it hard for you to have definite opinions because it opens up too many possibilities.”

“I have no problem having opinions, Nicole. The only problem is when other people disagree with them. What can I get you? Cointreau? I got in a new bottle; some person drained the last one on me.”

She wonders if I have any fruit juice, saying that she’s into the ‘healthy option’.

“I’m afraid we don’t carry healthy options here.” I stick my hand inside the cabinet and grab the Cointreau. “We only stock stuff that seriously damages your health.”

I know I shouldn’t be drinking brandy. But I’m wary of resolutions to give up alcohol, or anything else (sex, drugs, glue, et cetera) that has the obvious capacity to keep you alive.