Love & The Goddess (8 page)

E
mails on the dating website were mostly ridiculous but for the first time in my life I was placated by empty flattery, partly due to the
fact I didn’t necessarily have to deal with the person behind it. Strangers telling me I sounded interesting or looked great was the ego boost I craved, irrespective of whether it carried
less substance than a sickly-sweet giant lollipop. It had become increasingly compulsive to log on and see if anyone interesting had contacted me. Although from now on, I would be more careful
about baring my inner thoughts. I had learnt my lesson.

After entering my password, the site highlighted that I had five emails in my inbox. I opened the first one to find “
Iwanttofly”
now telling me I looked like a flower and
asking if I would meet him for coffee. I really didn’t see that as a runner.

The next few were all inane small talk. I opened the final one:
“How about you and I meet to explore the hidden world beneath the sheets?”
I flushed hotly. Who did this man
think he was to address me as though I was a hooker for hire? A look at his profile told me he was a hypnotist from Bulgaria living in Dublin. With a curly moustache, he looked like a circus
ringmaster – a right control freak with glinty eyes under thick dark brows. I was in the middle of blocking him when a new email popped up. To my utter astonishment it was a reply from
“Serotonin”,
aka the doctor Ella and I had spotted on the first night.

Inbox:

Hi Kate,

Delighted to hear from you. I would love to take you out to dinner the next time you are in Dublin. Just let me know. I attach my contact details. Maybe you could text me yours and we can
arrange to meet up.

Eddie

Reply:

Hi Eddie,

Great to hear from you. I will be in Dublin next Friday night if that suits. What part of Dublin do you live in? Maybe we could chat on the phone beforehand? I will text you my
number.

Kate

Since Ella had warned me about men not being who they said they were, I decided to conduct an internet search for the doctor. Up came three pages on a cosmetic surgeon in
Dublin. My initial reaction was to think this could not possibly be him, as nobody in that position would ever go on a dating site. Then Ella’s voice rang in my head, telling me to stop being
so prejudicial.

I checked his details and clicked on his clinic’s website,
cosmosclinic.com
. Scrolling down their list of specialists, I found him listed with a photograph – undeniably the
same person with whom I was in correspondence. A press release issued by the clinic cited it as one of the top centres for cosmetic surgery in Ireland, with Dr Commins’s speciality being
facial reconstruction after accidents.
How noble
, I thought,
but it probably means he’s totally out of my league
. I was sure he must have an endless supply of young women
running after him. But there was no harm in trying. At least I could find out if I could possibly be a contender at my age.

Late Friday afternoon, I arrived at my parents’ house in Dublin with my hair freshly blow-dried in loose curls. I’d done my make-up before leaving and was wearing a
deceptively simple silk dress with an overall print in subtle shades of smokey brown and tan. With leggings underneath it looked quite casual teamed with brown ballerina pumps. It would be easy to
swap the flats for higher heels before heading out on my date. The fabric made me feel feminine and flirty and it felt good to make an effort to dress up. I would get my mojo back and prove to
myself that Trevor had been wrong to turf me out.

It was oddly consoling to be back among the familiar walls of my parents’ simple four-storey house, with the comforting scent of lavender, geranium and lemon pervading every room –
my mother had a penchant for making her own pot-pourri.

“Kate, you’re looking very glamorous,” my mother said, taking me in from head to toe before kissing me on the cheek. She looked well after her holiday. The sun had faded her
auburn highlights somewhat and her skin was turning from sunburned to lightly tanned. Judging by the fit of her floral blouse, she had recently gained a little weight around her once-slim
waist.

“This is the new me, Mam,” I said, twirling. “I’ve changed my style since the break- up. They say looking well is the best revenge and I feel freer dressing like this
rather than in the suits Trevor liked me wearing.”

“Hello, Kate,” my father said, as I walked through the kitchen door. “You look very pretty. Is there a new man on the scene?”

“Don’t be silly – what on earth are you asking her that for?” My mother still hoped I would get back with Trevor. I was the dreamer she had constantly worried about. The
day I’d announced my engagement to Trevor, she’d felt all her prayers were answered in one fell swoop. At long last, her youngest daughter had someone to take care of her and save her
from herself. She’d always worried about me ending up with an out-of-work artist or musician.

“No-one apart from you, Daddy.” I pecked him on the cheek. Flattery always worked with my father, although, more rebellious than my older sister Liz, I had almost always resisted
pandering to him. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to start now, as a means of deflecting attention away from myself and at the same time making an old man happy. Slightly taken aback by my change in
attitude, he smiled bashfully before beaming his trademark megawatt smile. Though my father was reserved he had a natural charm which came forth whenever he felt relaxed. For a handsome man, I
could never understand his innate lack of confidence. Taking a tin foil container from my shopping bag, I placed it on the table in front of him. “I made you a Bailey’s cheesecake, Dad.
Forgive the tin foil, but it travels best this way. Tastes the same as always.” I’d learned at fourteen that the way to his heart was definitely via his taste buds. He’d started
praising me for the first time in my life, when I cooked for him during the week my mother was in hospital with pneumonia. His words had stuck in my head until now:
“You’re an
alchemist, capable of transforming base ingredients into ambrosia, food of the Gods.”
This was proof that finally I had come to exist as a viable person in my father’s world.

Now his face lit up like a little boy’s as he inhaled the aroma of the liqueur. “Nobody in the world makes it like you do, Liz. Thank you.”

“Kate. It’s Kate, Dad.”

“I know you’re Kate,” he said, looking at me oddly. His short-sleeved white shirt showed off his holiday tan, yet he looked more than usually tired. His grey hair was receding
further back at the temples, and his once-blue eyes were now pale grey in hollow sockets.

I was about to ask him if he was all right, when my mother burst in, “D’ya hear him going on about your cooking? I gave up after two attempts using your recipe for that cheesecake.
He kept asking me was it shop-bought. Liz has tried and failed – what are we doing wrong?”

“Haven’t a clue, Mam,” I said vaguely, still concerned about my father’s calling me by my sister’s name. Anyway, I wasn’t about to reveal that I threw in way
more Baileys than the recipe specified and then added a large dollop of old fashioned Irel coffee essence. Liz would turn up her nose at the notion of so much booze and condemn the Irel as silly.
No, I would retain the element of mystery, for the sake of gaining an innocent advantage.

“You’ll never guess who’s back in Ireland and asking for you?” My mother had a self-conscious snigger in her voice. “Billy. And like you his marriage is gone wrong.
It seems to be catching. Almost all our neighbours have at least one child with a broken marriage.”

Well, that was good to know, I thought (and was half inclined to say it, but decided to keep it to myself). Instead, I smiled brightly, “I must meet up with him. Do you know I was only
thinking about him recently? We used to be so close. I don’t know how we lost contact.”

“He’s wealthy, he’s been very successful. But he’s not your type, Kate.” That was my mother’s way of telling me to put on my chastity belt now that I was no
longer a respectable married woman. Time to change the subject.

“Home-made brown bread and scones for you in the other bag, Mam,” I said, cheerily pointing to the pink-striped plastic shopper I had left on the stained-pine table along with my
shoulder bag.

“You’re too good, Kate. Thanks, love. Do you know, I might just get some soup from the freezer and have it with that brown bread and some baked ham? How does that and a salad sound,
instead of cooking a hot dinner? There aren’t that many warm evenings, we should make the most of them.” My father nodded his agreement. As he approached retirement, my mother had been
taking charge more and more, with him seemingly happy to have her make all the decisions. It seemed my parents had come to fit together like the left and right of a comfortable pair of old
slippers, toes turning in to meet.

“Sorry, Mam. I’m meeting some old college friends in town this evening. We’re going for a meal.” I knew the truth would invite endless debate and concerns for my safety.
I didn’t want that.

“Oh, that’s nice. Have you got back in contact with them lately? That’s good for you. They were a lovely crowd.”

I left them both to excitedly fawn over the bag of goodies. They were like two children who’d managed to amass the contents of the local sweet shop. It was amazing what made people happy
as they got older – once a Michelin-starred restaurant would have failed to come up to my father’s exacting standards. Smiling, I left them sampling the brown bread as I went to freshen
up before going on my date.

Before setting out to meet Doctor Edward Commins, I gave him a quick call on his mobile. I’ve always been partial to a man with a nice speaking voice, so I was
disappointed when he proved to be an incoherent mumbler on the phone, forcing me to continuously ask him to speak up. I hoped it was just a bad line.

When I arrived into the packed bar of the Shelbourne Hotel, I couldn’t locate him in the crowd. As I made my way through the well-dressed throng, I was conscious of being a woman on my
own. In desperation I sent him a text, and he replied saying he was sitting in the rear left corner. When I found him, he was slumped there looking rather grouchy. As I approached, he half stood
up, flicking the back of his navy blazer to the sides before sitting back down again. Why did men imagine brass-buttoned navy blazers were classy? I registered that he was a lot shorter than the
six foot he had claimed in his profile. I greeted him with a warm smile. “Hi Eddie. How are you?”

“Fine,” he grunted. He gave me a slippery wet-fish handshake.

I was immediately aware this was not going to be easy. “Have you been here long?”

“No. Just arrived.” His voice was barely audible. The skin on his face was as smooth as a baby’s and his forehead bulged in parts as if it had suffered an overload of fillers.
It might photograph well, but in reality it looked plain weird.

“Oh, that’s good! So tell me about your job?” I tilted my head to the side, the way I would if I were coaxing a child to tell me something.