Marian Keyes - Watermelon (17 page)

"Yes." She laughed. "But it's a disaster really. He never has a penny so all we can afford to do is have sex."

"But couldn't you pay for the two of you to go out?" I asked.

"I could, I suppose," she said. "But I'd be too ashamed to bring him anywhere."

"Is he always covered in paint?" I asked.

"He is," she said. "But it's not just that. He seems to have only one sweater. And no socks. And the less said about his jocks, the better."

"Ugh," I said. "That sounds awful."

"Ah no, it's not really," Laura assured me. "He's crazy about me. He thinks I'm gorgeous. And my ego could do with it."

"So do you really just have sex?" I asked, intrigued. "I mean, don't you talk and that?"

"Not really," she said. "Honestly, we have nothing in common. He's from a different generation. He comes over. We have sex and a bit of a laugh. He tells me I'm the most beautiful woman he's ever met--I'm probably the only woman he's ever met--and he leaves in the morning--usu- ally taking a pair

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of my socks with him--asks me for his bus fare and off he goes. It's great!"

Gosh, I thought, looking at Laura with frank admiration. "You're such a nineties woman," I told her. "You're so cool."

"Not really," she said. "I'm just keeping the wolf from the door. Any port in a storm, that kind of thing."

"So is he your boyfriend?" I asked. "I mean, would you walk down Grafton Street holding his hand?"

"Lord no!" she said, looking horrified. "What if I met someone I knew? No, no, the little angel is purely a temporary measure. Keeping the bed warm until Mr. Right gets here. Although I can't think what's taking him so long."

Although I was very happy to see Laura, I was very aware that this was actually my first social outing as a single woman in over five years.

And it was my first social outing without my wedding ring. I felt very vulnerable and naked without it. It was only when I wasn't wearing it that I realized how secure I felt when I was wearing it. You know, it makes a statement, it says something like "I'm not desperate for a man, because I already have one. No, really, I do. Just look at my wedding ring."

Laura had split up with her boyfriend, Frank, about a year or so before.

So, in spite of Laura's teenaged lover, we were, to all intents and pur- poses, two single women sipping wine in a crowded downtown pub on a Thursday night in March.

I wondered if men could smell desperation from us.

I wondered if there was desperation to be smelled.

Was I giving Laura my undivided attention? Or was one part of my at- tention scanning the crowd for attractive men? Was I keeping tabs on how many men had given me admiring glances since I arrived?

None, actually, just for the record.

Not, of course, that I was counting or anything.

I laughed at something Laura told me. But I couldn't be sure that I was really laughing. Maybe I just wanted to show the men in the pub that I was perfectly happy and well-adjusted and not feeling like a quarter of a person without a man.

My God, but I was really starting to feel depressed. I felt as if I was wearing a neon sign over my head that said "Recently

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Dumped" in flashing pink and purple lights, and then "Worthless Without a Man" in orange and red lights.

All my confidence in myself had gone.

Laura noticed that I had started to droop like a dying plant and made routine inquiries. I tearfully tried to tell her how I was feeling.

"Don't worry," she told me kindly. "When Frank left me for the twenty- year-old I felt so ashamed. Like it was all my fault that he had run off. And I felt that I was worth less than nothing without him. But that passes."

"Does it?" I asked her, my eyes brimming with tears.

"Honestly, it does," she promised me.

"I feel like such a reject," I tried to explain to her.

"I know, I know," she said. "And you feel like everyone else knows it."

"Exactly," I said, feeling thankful that I wasn't the only person who'd ever felt like this.

"All right," I said, drying my eyes. "Time for more drinks."

I fought my way through the happy crowds of people and finally got to the bar. I stood there, being jostled and having elbows stuck in my face and drinks spilled down my back as I tried to attract the bartender's atten- tion. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I would have to lift up my dress and show him my boobs before he would notice me, someone put his hands on my waist and squeezed.

This was all I needed! Someone taking advantage of a single woman of a certain age!

Outraged, I turned around as quickly as I could in the confined space, ready to apprehend someone for sexual harassment.

And came face-to-face, as it were, with someone's chest.

It was the beautiful Adam.

Adam, who might or might not be Helen's boyfriend.

The jury was still out.

"Hello." He smiled charmingly. "I saw you from the other side of the bar. Do you need a hand?"

"Oh hello," I said, maintaining my composure but feeling delighted to meet him. What a stroke of luck that Laura chose this pub, I thought.

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"Am I damn glad to see you?" I said. "I haven't even placed my order yet. The bartender hates me."

He laughed.

And I laughed. I had completely forgotten that we were supposed to be feeling awkward with each other after the little scene in my bedroom where he practically suggested that we make babies.

Adam said, "I'll order the drinks for you."

I gave him the money and told him to get two glasses of red wine and whatever he was having. I took pride in remembering where I came from--I too was once a penniless student. I remembered watching people practically lighting their cigarettes with fivers and wishing enviously that they would buy me a pint of Carlsberg, just one pint.

Adam squashed into the bar. My check was practically resting on his chest. I could faintly smell him. Soap. He smelled so fresh and clean.

I wryly told myself to get a grip on myself. I was starting to behave like Blanche Du Bois. Or the mad old alcoholic from Sunset Boulevard, whatever her name is. Or any of the myriad old hags featured in any story about Beverly Hills, face-lifted to within an inch of their lives, consumed with lust for much younger men. Sad and pathetic. And I didn't want to be like that.

Naturally, in no time at all Adam had got the drinks. Bartenders treat guys like him with respect. They have no time at all for women like me. Especially ones whose husbands have run off on them.

Like every other man in the universe, the bartender obviously knew I was a loser.

Adam handed me the two glasses of wine and then he said, "Here's your change."

"Oh, I've no free hands," I said, indicating the two glasses of wine.

"No problem," he said, and slid his hand into a pocket on the side of the dress I was wearing. Just for a second his hand rested on my hipbone. I could feel the heat of it through the fabric of the dress.

I held my breath.

I think he did too.

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Then he let go of the money and it jangled into my pocket.

What did you expect me to do? Slap him for taking liberties? I mean, the boy had to give me my change and I had no free hands. He did exactly the right thing.

Although I did think that people that attractive should carry permits. They should have to take some kind of exam to prove that they can be trusted to behave responsibly out on the streets looking so gorgeous. And it wasn't just that he was so handsome. Which he undeniably was. But he was so big and manly.

He made me feel like such a feminine little woman.

It was the large nightgown syndrome all over again.

He said, "Who are you here with?"

And I said, "My friend Laura."

He said, "Can I join you?"

I said, "Of course."

Why not, I thought. He's entertaining and sweet and Laura will enjoy him.

Although he might be a bit old for her.

He steered me through the packed pub. I must say, people treated me with a lot more respect with him around.

I don't think I had more than one drop of alcohol spilled on me on my journey back from the bar as opposed to an entire brewery-full on the outward journey.

Very unfair, of course, but there we are.

We passed a crowd of people who seemed to know Adam.

"Adam, where are you going?" demanded one of the girls. Blond. Pink pouty mouth. Very young. Very pretty.

"I've met an old friend," he told her. "I'm going to have a drink with her."

I quickly scanned the crowd to make sure that Helen wasn't there. Thankfully, I couldn't see her.

However, I did notice an older woman in among them, looking very anxious as Adam bypassed their little group. Could this be the poor lovesick Professor Staunton?

I was aware of several hostile looks. All from girls. It was almost funny. Fuck them, I thought cheerfully. If only they knew, they have nothing to fear from me. My husband dumped me, I wanted to tell them, and he was only average good-looking.

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I brought Adam over and introduced him to Laura.

She blushed.

So he did have this effect on every woman he met, I observed. And not just on the women in my family.

Somehow Adam found a spare seat.

He was that kind of guy.

"You're a terrible fibber." I smiled at him.

"Why?" he asked, opening his blue eyes very wide and looking all inno- cent and little-boyish.

"Telling that poor girl that I'm an old friend," I told him.

"Well, you are," he said. "You're old."

"As in `older than me' kind of `old,'" he told me hastily as he noticed my eyes starting to narrow. "And I only know that because I asked Helen what age you were. I thought you were much younger."

I just looked at him, thinking, I've got to hand it to him.

"And," he continued, "even though we've only met once before I feel like you're a friend."

Yes, I thought, he's definitely redeemed himself.

It was at this stage, Laura later told me, that she took off her underpants and lifted her skirt but that neither of us noticed. I don't believe her for a second, but I do believe I understand the point she was making.

Laura asked Adam how he knew me and he said, "I'm in college with Helen."

Laura gave me a look that said a lot. Something like, "Oh God no, a bloody student. We'll have to pretend to be interested in whatever boring subject he's studying."

"It's okay." He smiled at Laura. "You don't have to ask me what I'm studying."

"Oh," she said, a bit embarrassed. "In that case I won't."

There was a little bit of a pause.

"Well," said Laura, "I'm actually curious now."

"That wasn't my intention." Adam laughed. "But seeing as you've asked, I'm in first year doing English, psychology and anthropology."

"First year?" asked Laura with a raise of her eyebrows, obviously alluding to his--what shall we say--less than boyish demeanor.

"Yes," said Adam. "I'm a mature student. Or so they tell

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me. I don't feel a bit mature. Only when I compare myself with my class- mates, I suppose."

"Are they awful?" I asked, willing him to say yes.

"Not awful," he said. "Just young. I suppose somebody has to be. I mean, they're all seventeen or eighteen and they're all just out of school and they're only going to college to put off being responsible for another couple of years. Not because they have any great interest in learning. Or love of their subjects."

Laura and I had the grace to look extremely shamefaced as he said this. Laura and Judy and I had been prime examples of the lazy, self-indulgent types he was describing.

"How awful for you," I murmured.

Laura and I smirked at each other.

"And how come you're going to college now?" I asked him.

"Well, I never wanted to go before. I never really knew what I wanted to do when I left school. So I did all the wrong things," he said intriguingly.

"And recently I've got my life back together. It was in a bit of a mess," he continued, even more intriguingly. "And now I'm ready for college. I really love it."

"Really?" I said, impressed by his maturity and his single-mindedness.

"Yes," he said.

Then he continued hesitantly, "I think I'm lucky to have waited until now. Because now I can really appreciate it. I think everyone should have to go and work for a couple of years before deciding whether they want to study some more."

"Is that what you did?" I asked him. "Did you work?"

"Sort of," he said abruptly, obviously not wanting to say anymore.

Curiouser and curiouser.

So squeaky-clean Adam has a Past.

Well, that's how he was making it sound.

I bet he's just trying to be all mysterious and create a myth around him- self, I thought uncharitably. He's probably worked in the civil service for the past six years. Probably in the least glamorous department, like the livestock licensing one, if there is such a thing.

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Laura asked Adam the second question that one always asks students. (The first being, What are you studying?) "What do you want to do when you get your degree?" she asked.

I waited with bated breath.

Please God, oh please God, don't let him say he wants to be a writer or a journalist, I begged.

It would be just too much of a clich�.

I was starting to like and respect him, and this would ruin it entirely.

I put my hands together in prayer and sent my eyes heavenward.

"I'd like to do something with the psychology," he said. (Phew! I thought.) "I'm interested in the way people's minds work. I might like to be some kind of counselor. Or I might like to get involved in advertising. And use the psychology that way," he explained. "Anyway, it's a long way away."

"And what about English?" I asked him nervously. "Don't you enjoy that?"

"Of course," he said. "It's my favorite. But I can't see myself getting a job out of it. Unless I want to try to become a writer or a journalist. And everybody wants to do that."