Marian Keyes - Watermelon (22 page)

"Look, Adam," I said sharply as soon as I could hear Helen, Mum and Dad arguing in the living room and I knew that it was safe to speak. "I don't really know how to say this. In fact, I don't even know what I should say."

"For God's sake, what?" he interjected forcefully.

Go on, you tell him, I encouraged myself.

You have every right to know.

But I was already starting to lose my nerve.

"Look, maybe it's none of my business, but are you Helen's boyfriend?" I finally managed.

A silence followed.

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Oh God, I thought. He is going out with Helen. And he was just being nice to me because I'm Helen's reject older sister. And now he knows that I like him. Damn, damn, damn. I should have kept my fool mouth shut. I've ruined everything because I have no patience.

"Claire," he eventually said, sounding stunned, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"You know," I said. I felt highly foolish, but even more relieved.

"No," he said, sounding a bit cold. "I don't know."

"Oh," I said, really embarrassed now.

"So you think I'm Helen's boyfriend?" he said stonily.

"Well, I thought you might be..." I said, mortified.

"And just what exactly did you think I was doing by asking if I could see you?" he continued, sounding almost contemptuous. "Well?" he prompted as I remained silent.

"Either you think I'm extremely thick or extremely cynical," he said. "And I'm not sure which one I'm more offended by."

I still said nothing.

Mostly because I didn't know what to say.

I felt terrible. Adam had been nothing but decent and respectful to me. I had no proof that he was having anything at all to do with Helen, and now I had hurt him by doubting his motives.

"Claire," he said, sounding exhausted. "Claire, Claire, Claire, listen to me. I am not now, nor have I ever in the past been, your sister Helen's boyfriend. And I don't want to be either.

"She's a lovely girl," he added hastily. "But she's not for me."

"Look, Adam," I stammered. "I'm really sorry, but I didn't know..."

"I'm sorry too," he said. "I keep forgetting what you've just been through. You've been badly hurt. Who could blame you for thinking that we're all a crowd of two-timing bastards?"

My hero, I thought, melting.

"Claire," he continued, "I don't know what kind of impres-

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sion you've formed of me, but it's obviously not the one I was hoping for."

"No...Adam..." I protested weakly. I had so much to say and I didn't know where to start.

"Just give me a minute," he said. "Just listen to me. Will you?"

He sounded so earnest and boyish, how could I resist? "Of course," I said.

"I have lots of women friends but I don't do the romance thing a lot. Hardly ever, in fact. Well, hardly ever compared with the other people in my year in college, but maybe they're just especially prolific."

"That's fine," I said, anxious for him to shut up now. You don't have to explain anything to me, I wanted to tell him.

I had established that he wasn't Helen's boyfriend and that was plenty for now. Mortified by my earlier histrionics and accusations, I just wanted to forget the whole thing now. The poor guy! He only knew me a few days and already we'd had several mini-fights.

What on earth made him think that I was worth the bother?

But before I got to think about this, Dad reappeared in the hall with a face like thunder.

"Claire!" he yelled. "Off the phone, now!"

"You've got to go?" Adam asked.

"Yes," I said. "I'm sorry."

I didn't want to end the conversation until I knew that everything was all right. That Adam wasn't annoyed with me for thinking that he was some kind of home-wrecking Lothario. I also wouldn't have minded some kind of indication that, apart from not wanting to do the romance thing, as he so delicately put it, with Helen, he might want to do the romance thing with me.

As Mum would say, I wanted jam on it.

"Oh, I nearly forgot why I actually rang you," he said.

"Why's that?" I asked. Tell me that you really like me. Go on, go on, I urged him silently.

"There's a good film on at eleven o'clock. I'm sure you'd like it. You should watch it if you're not too tired."

"Oh," I said, the wind having been surgically removed from my sails. "Well thanks."

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"See you soon," he said.

No wait, I wanted to shout, don't go just yet. Talk to me for one more minute. Give me your number so that I can call you. Can I see you tomor- row? Never mind tomorrow, can I see you tonight?

"Claire," Dad rumbled threateningly from the living room.

"Okay, bye," I said, hanging up.

Feeling, among other things, completely exhausted.

There was a disorderly surge from the living room the moment the phone was hung up.

Dad and Helen scuffled at the door.

Dad wanted to get straight on to Auntie Julia to see if the inferno was under control.

While Helen had other plans for the phone.

"I have to call Anthony," she shouted. "I need a lift to Belfast on Tues- day."

"Well, Julia's fire is more important," insisted Dad.

"Let her house burn down," said Helen, "That'd teach her."

Charitable to the end, that was Helen.

I walked away from the battle by the phone.

I went upstairs and moved Kate's bassinet into Mum's room and settled down to watch the recommended film on the little television there. It was the least I could do after I had been so mean to Adam. I'll be able to discuss it with him the next time I see him, I thought.

If there is a next time.

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Time had slowed to a standstill while I had been the Alcoholic Mother from Hell (and the Alcoholic Daughter from Hell and the Alcoholic Sister from Hell, if I'm to be strictly accurate). But now that I had started living again it had started to trot briskly, and before I knew it, it had broken into a sprint.

The days had started to fly past the way they do in films when the dir- ector wants to convey time passing quickly--i.e., the pages of a calendar turning over very speedily in a high wind. And tearing off and blowing away. With brown leaves blowing with the pages to indicate autumnal days and then a few flurries of snow to indicate winter's arrival.

The weekend was over before I knew it, and suddenly it was Monday morning.

James would be back from the Caribbean. Or Mustique. Or from a small, privately owned island just off the coast of Heaven. Or wherever he'd gone to, the faithless bastard.

So I was going to have to call him.

But I felt quite calm about it. What must be done must be done. Of course it was very easy for me to be calm about James when I was worried sick about Adam--it was kind of difficult to be in a mess about the two of them at the one time. Transference of affection, etc., and a big hand for Dr. Freud. But before I got to call James I had another treat in store for me on Monday morning.

My six-week, postnatal checkup with the doctor. The fun just never seemed to stop in my life.

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This was a kind of symbolic, watershed type of event. It was a form of recognition that the birth had been a success. Sort of like the launch party they have after the release of a new film. Except at the party after the release of a new film, members of the cast and crew don't have to go around putting their feet in stirrups and have strange men examine their private parts.

Not unless they really want to, of course.

Kate also had an appointment, at the Baby Clinic, so off the pair of us went in the car.

My parents had taken Kate to the clinic a couple of times already, so it was old hat to her. But I wasn't really prepared for the cacophony of crying that greeted us on arrival. There seemed to be several thousand bawling babies with harassed and distraught mothers in the waiting room.

In fact, some of the mothers were crying louder than their children. "If only he'd stop crying," one women was saying tearfully to no one in par- ticular. "Just for five minutes."

"My God," I thought in horror. I suddenly realized how lucky I was.

Kate had her checkup before me, so I carried her in her car seat into the examination room. The nurse was a glamorous red-haired young woman from Galway. Why are nurses always good-looking and sexy?

I'm sure there's some old legend that explains it.

Long, long ago there was a tribe of women who were excessively beau- tiful. The men were maddened by lust for them and they made all the other women feel inadequate and horrible. All kinds of riots and outbreaks of violence occurred. Homes broke up as previously happily married men fell in love with these babes. Women from the non-good-looking tribes killed themselves because they could never compete with these sirens.

Something had to be done.

So God decreed that all the good-looking women had to become nurses and wear truly awful lace-up shoes and revolting A-line dresses that make their butts look huge, so that their attractiveness would be toned down considerably. And to this very day good-looking women have to become nurses so that their beauty is diluted by the hideous uniforms. Although how

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this little fable of mine squares with supermodels and their revealing and flattering clothes, I'm at a loss to explain.

Anyway, never mind.

The nurse closed the door firmly behind us, but the noise of the roaring children in the waiting room was still perfectly audible, interspersed now and again with wails of "Just five minutes, that's all I ask."

"Doesn't the noise drive you mad?" I asked her curiously.

"Not at all," she said as she examined Kate. "I don't even hear it any- more."

Kate was so good, she didn't even cry.

I was very proud of her.

I felt like opening the door and saying, in schoolmarm fashion, to all the children out there, "Look, this is how you're supposed to behave. Observe this model child in here and imitate."

I watched the nurse as she inspected Kate and her vital signs.

"She's putting on weight just fine," said the nurse.

"Thank you." I beamed proudly.

"She's a perfectly healthy baby." The nurse smiled.

"Thank you," I said again.

I opened the door to leave and a fresh wave of screeching sent me reeling. We fought our way back through the throng of red-faced and yelling chil- dren. From what I could gather, a bunch of them were getting their shots and this was contributing to the general upset.

I picked my way carefully through the deafening crowd, carrying Kate. As I thankfully closed the door on the racket behind me, the last thing I heard was that poor woman wailing "Even three minutes. I'd settle for three."

Then we had to wait for a while until it was my turn to see the doctor. I read a copy of Woman's Own that dated from sometime around the turn of the century ("Crinolines are definitely out this autumn"). Kate had a little sleep.

Eventually I was called and in we went.

The doctor was a nice old codger. Gray suit, gray hair, vague kindly manner.

"Hello, ah yes, Claire, yes Claire and baby er Catherine,"

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he said, reading from the notes on his desk. "Come in and sit down."

After a moment he looked up at the chair in front of him and when I wasn't there his glance darted anxiously around the room, wondering where I had gone.

I had placed Kate's car seat on the floor and I was over at the examining couch with my underwear off and my feet in the stirrups with a speed that left his head spinning.

Old habits die hard.

The next time I'd have to go to the doctor, no matter what my complaint, from an earache to a sprained wrist, I'd be hard-pressed to stop myself from whipping off my underwear and clambering up onto the couch.

The doctor did whatever it was he did, involving that old friend of mine, the lubricated glove.

I'm sorry if I'm being revolting.

There was a time when I would have felt faint at even the thought of having a Pap smear. But after being pregnant and giving birth, I think I could have a hysterectomy under just local anesthetic and still be sitting up and cheerfully discussing last night's TV with the surgeon.

Hell, why bother with the anesthetic?

"You've healed beautifully," he told me, making it sound like a great achievement.

"Thank you," I said, glowing, smiling up at him from between my legs.

I felt as though I was five years old and had got all my math homework right at school.

"Yes, no complications there at all," he continued. "Has all the bleeding stopped yet?"

(sorry about this, I won't go on about it for long.)

"Yes, it stopped about a week ago," I told him.

"And the stitches have healed perfectly," he said, continuing to peer and poke.

"Thank you." I smiled again.

"Right, you can get down now," he told me.

"So is everything else all right?" he asked as I got dressed.

"Fine," I said. "Fine."

"Um, when can I have sex again?" I suddenly blurted out.

(Now why did I ask that?)

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"Well, your six weeks are up, so anytime you like," he said genially. "You could start right now." He threw back his head and guffawed loudly. Then he stopped abruptly as--I assume--visions of the medical council hearings and motions to have him fired began to swim before him.

There's a very fine line between an acceptable bedside manner and a lewd suggestion. Perhaps Dr. Keating hadn't quite grasped the difference yet.

"Ahem," he said, calming himself down. "Yes, anytime you like."

"Will it hurt?" I asked anxiously.

"It may feel a little bit uncomfortable at first, but it shouldn't feel painful as such. Ask your husband to be particularly gentle with you."

"My husband?" I asked the doctor, in surprise.

I hadn't even been thinking of my husband.

"Yes, your husband," he said, sounding equally surprised. "You are a married woman, aren't you, Mrs., ah, Mrs. Webster," he said, consulting my notes.

"Yes, of course I am," I said, blushing. "But I was, er, you know, just making general inquiries. I wasn't actually planning on having intercourse with anyone." I thought if I said the word intercourse instead of the word sex it might help to neutralize this embarrassing and awkward atmosphere that seemed to have suddenly developed.

"Oh," he said baldly.

Silence and Dr. Keating's bewilderment hung heavy in the air.

Time to leave, I thought.

Come on, Kate.

"How did it go?" asked Mum as she answered the door to us.

"Fine," I said. "Fine. Kate's putting on weight nicely, the nurse says."

"And how are you?" she asked.

"Couldn't be better, apparently," I said. "I'm in tip-top condition. I've a vagina to be proud of."

Mum gave me a look of distaste.

"There's no need to be vulgar," she tisked at me.

"I wasn't being vulgar," I protested.

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"Come and have a cup of tea with me before Neighbours comes on," said Mum.

"Er, did anyone call for me while I was out?" I inquired of her, oh-so- casually, as I traipsed behind her into the kitchen.

"No."

"Oh."

"Why, who were you expecting to call?" she asked, looking at me closely.

"No one," I said, setting Kate's car seat down on the kitchen table.

"Well, why did you ask, in that case?" she said in a tone of voice which reminded me that, however much she might act like one, my mother was no fool.

"And take the child off the table!" she said, whacking my arm with a tea towel. "People have to eat off that."

"She's perfectly clean!" I protested, outraged.

How dare she.

So Adam hasn't called, I mused as I drank my tea. I wondered if he was still annoyed with me. Maybe he was never going to call me again. Not that I'd have blamed him, with me behaving all neurotic and argumentative.

And I didn't have his number, so I couldn't call him.

So that was probably the end of that.

The fling that never was.

The passionate affair that was never consummated.

The soulmates who were divided by circumstances.

The lovers who loved from afar.

Although then again it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

Give the guy a chance.

But he didn't call.

I hung around all afternoon feeling bored and dissatisfied.

I didn't want to do anything.

I couldn't be bothered reading.

And Kate was whining and crying and I didn't feel very patient with her.

I halfheartedly watched the afternoon soaps with Mum, because I couldn't come up with a good reason for why I shouldn't.

I think I would have preferred to sit through several third-

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rate Antipodean dramas, with the same actors reappearing in each success- ive program, than get into another conversation with Mum on how my university education had made me a snob.

And she knew that something was wrong.

"You're very gloomy-looking," she said.

(Although her actual words were "Claire, you're like a tree over a blessed well.")

"Why the hell wouldn't I be?" I snapped back.

"Sorry," she said. "God knows it's not easy for you."

Well, she was quite right, it was not. But she was obviously referring to my situation with James. And not my lack of one with Adam.

"No, I'm sorry," I told her, feeling rotten for biting her head off.

It was six o'clock and Dad's key was in the door before I realized with horror that I hadn't called James.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I really had meant to do it but because of all the things going on--the big event of going to the doctor and the major event of Adam's not call- ing--I had just totally forgotten.

I resolved to do it first thing in the morning.

The debacle that was dinnertime took my mind off things for a while.

Helen came home with Dad and was demanding McDonald's.

"No, Helen," shouted Dad. "We only eat McDonald's on holidays."

"Well that's stupid," she shouted back. "Other families, normal families, eat there on ordinary days."

Oh, but she could be very cruel.

So the upshot was that Helen got her way as usual and Dad drove off like a Grand Prix driver with a long and complicated order to McDonald's.

Helen roared after him, "No pickles on the Quarter Pounder!"

But he was already gone.

I shamelessly latched onto Helen for most of the evening,

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hoping that she might say something about Adam. Of course, I could have taken the bull by the horns and just asked her for his number, seeing as she wasn't going out with him or anything. But I still couldn't bring myself to do it. Although I had established that he had no interest in her, I wasn't at all sure how Helen felt about him.

After dinner, which by the way, poor Dad had got all wrong--pickles on Mum's apple pie, cheeseburgers instead of Quarter Pounders with cheese (which, of course, gave rise to the accusation of "Cheapskate"), Coke instead of diet Coke--Dad ordered Helen to go to her room and study.

Poor Dad.

He must have been doing some kind of assertiveness training.

Amazingly enough, Helen went with only the most cursory of protests.

She called Dad a bastard and made references to the regime in the house being similar to the one in Nazi Germany. But she actually went to her room.

That was nothing short of miraculous.

I gave her a few minutes, then I took Kate and we went up and knocked on her door. There was a major scuffling. She seemed to be stuffing some- thing down the side of the bed.

"Oh Jesus, Claire, don't do that! I thought you were Dad," she exclaimed, her eyes big and wide in her white face.