Mile High Guy (6 page)

‘He could have it,’ she gives a dirty laugh. ‘Over and over again.’

‘Do you not think a man like that would be impossible to trust though?’

‘
All
men are impossible to trust.’ Debbie is adamant about that and shakes her head as if to confirm her point.

At this stage I feel people looking over at us and I’m conscious that we’re probably being very loud, so I suggest we try somewhere else. We step outside and I’m immediately struck by how bright it is. The sun is dazzling and we’ve probably had too much to drink. I hope we don’t meet anyone we know. After all, it’s not Christmas or either of our birthdays. And as far as I know, Ireland hasn’t won a
match today, so we’re going to look pretty sad stumbling around Grafton Street in this state. I suggest we get a taxi back to Debbie’s flat where we can get something to eat and open another bottle of wine. She seems to think that’s a good idea and suggests ringing a few more people so they can join us. I’m not so sure about that last part.

We stumble out of the taxi at Debbie’s Rathmines flat where her flatmate looks slightly bemused to see us in such high spirits. Her name is Fiona and she works as a customer service agent in town and thinks our job is really glamorous even though
we’ve already told her all the horror airline stories.

But I suppose if I was stuck in an office all day dealing with customer complaints, I’d think we were lucky too. Isn’t it amazing though that some people still think we spend our lives on beaches and shops
and stuff?

Debbie puts on Eminem’s latest CD. She turns up the music and then draws the curtains. It’s raining outside and suddenly I’m glad we came home when we did. Debbie finds a disco ball and places it in the middle of the floor so we can dance around it.

Fiona declines to join us on our makeshift dance floor. She also suggests turning down the music, as she doesn’t want the neighbours complaining yet
again. She insists she doesn’t want to miss her evening PR class, even though Debbie tries to persuade her not to go. But Fiona has been here and done that a few times now and still thinks she should go to her PR class. She disappears with her umbrella into the dark miserable evening and the two of us are left alone bopping to Eminem.

‘She’s not as much fun as she used to be,’ Debbie laments once Fiona has disappeared down the front steps. ‘She’s always working or studying. But there’s more to life.’

‘Mmm.’

‘What’s the point in life if you don’t have fun?’

‘Well I suppose it
is
only Wednesday,’ I point out.

‘Is it really?’

‘Yep.’

‘I still think there’s more to life though. Will we open a bottle of wine?’

‘Why not? And let’s turn off Eminem. He’s always in a bad mood.’

Debbie takes Eminem out of the CD player and sticks on Christina Aguilera.
 

After a few songs I need to go to the bathroom. Clumsily I try to find it and open the

hot press door instead. I must be mad. What on earth am I doing drinking midweek when I’ve a million things to do? I should really be writing my script. After all, nobody else is ever going to write it for me. However I’m only young once, I reason
with myself, eventually finding the right door.

When I come back into the kitchen Debbie is on the phone telling someone to fuck off. I actually think it’s quite funny until I realise it’s my phone. Then horror sets in rapidly.

‘What are you doing?’ I shriek.

‘Don’t worry, it was just a crank call,’ Debbie laughs. ‘The guy said his name was Adam Kirrane. Yeah
right
. Funny guy. How many people did you tell about him, Katie?’

I’m shocked. I can’t believe Adam just rang and Debbie told him to fuck off. How could she
do
that to me?

‘How do you know it wasn’t Adam himself?’ I splutter.

Debbie nearly cracks up laughing. ‘How do I know haha? Sure you told me yourself you didn’t ring him so how on earth would he have your mobile number? It
must
have been Tim. Hang on; Tim’s not that funny, is he? Maybe it
was
someone else.’

I feel nauseous. I cannot believe that Adam is at some big award ceremony in London tonight and that he actually took time out of his busy schedule to ring me, and was insulted by my best friend.

Debbie is still chuckling. She thinks it’s hysterical
that someone has rung pretending to be Adam Kirrane. She thinks it might be a guy called Shane, who is Tim’s friend and is quite good-looking and kind of funny. I know Debbie’s kind of fancied him for a while. My phone rings again. This time it’s
not Adam, it’s Tim.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Where are you?’

‘Debbie’s.’

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Just hanging out.’

‘You drinking?’

‘I’ve just had a glass of wine.’

He doesn’t believe I’ve had just one glass but I don’t care. He wants to come over. I don’t think this is a good idea. Debbie thinks this is a great idea however. She grabs my phone and tells him to come over and bring his friend Shane.

I groan. I
know
this isn’t a good idea but of course Tim agrees to come over straight away. He hates when I’m out drinking without him. I know he’s just coming over to take me home. And spoil our little party.

The two lads arrive about an hour later and Debbie opens another bottle of wine. Tim isn’t cross with me for some strange reason. Maybe he knows I’m going off him and therefore is being extra attentive. Men are funny like that. They often start loving
you the very minute you decide to stop loving them.

Shane seems delighted with the attention Debbie is lavishing on him. She’s making it really obvious she fancies him and they’ve already started dancing. I don’t get it. I mean I know she’s tipsy but
he’s supposed to be sober! Debbie gets away with throwing herself at men. She just does it so effortlessly. If I do it, they always run a mile. It’s so unfair!

Suddenly I hear Shane denying he ever rang pretending he was Adam Kirrane. Tim wonders what the fuss is all about. I shoot Debbie a warning look and thankfully she shuts up. The
last
thing I want is for Tim to find out about Adam.

After a while Tim reckons we should go home. I don’t want to leave though. I’ve just got going. I
feel like I’m a child at a birthday party and my mother is the first parent to arrive to take me home. I point this out but Tim suggests we should leave Debbie and Shane alone.

Reluctantly I agree, although I’m pretty annoyed about Tim dictating to me. However, I do realise that my head will thank me for not drinking any more, so I say goodbye to Debbie. Tim was right – she seems clearly delighted to see the back of me.
Some friend, huh?

As soon as the cold air hits me I realise how drunk I am. It’s not a nice feeling. Thank God, tomorrow’s a day off. I’ll be able to have a nice lie-in.
Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat. The car window is open slightly and Tim is caressing my thigh. I’m kind of glad I’m on my way home. At least it has saved me getting a taxi later. Anyway if Tim hadn’t arrived with Shane, Debbie and I probably
would have hit Leeson Street or something. Perish the thought . . .

Tim parks outside my house and leans over to snog me. I kiss him back passionately because I’m drunk. But in the middle of the kiss I think of Adam and immediately feel ashamed of myself. Because I would hate someone to kiss me while fantasizing
about someone else.

‘I love you,’ Tim tells me when we stop kissing.

‘I love you too,’ I say back. Just out of habit really. I don’t even really realise when I’m saying it.

It takes an age to get my key in the door. Tim waits outside patiently to see I get in safely. Once inside I take the stairs as quickly as I can to avoid having a conversation with my parents. I hear the news on in the sitting room and can’t believe it’s
only nine o’clock. Because we’ve been drinking all day, it feels like the middle of the night. In my room, I take out my mobile. I know I really shouldn’t ring Adam in the state I’m in but I do anyway. I just don’t want him to think I’m the type of girl who
tells people to fuck off. I ring but don’t get through. His phone is switched off. I kick off my shoes and lie down on the bed. I just want a few minutes to relax before removing all my make-up and clothes. Then I’ll try ringing him again.

Within five minutes I’m asleep.

With the light still on.

Dad is playing the piano.

He’s playing
The Blue Danube
and has been playing
it now for the last six months.

His version is still awful.

Dad retired six months ago. And took up the piano the next day. We’ve been paying the price ever since. My father, bless him, had all these great plans. He was going to take up hill-walking and
cooking, gardening and fishing. And the piano of course. The hill-walking dream ended after his first excursion. The poor man got lost in the Dublin mountains and they had to send out the rescue service to look for him. He was on TV and everything
afterwards, but the experience put him off for life.

Dreams of being a whiz in the kitchen were shattered when he tried to make a dessert called an upside-down cake from an old cookbook. The photo on the cookbook was lovely but Dad’s version
looked nothing like the photo and we all got sick after eating it. Even the dog did. He is no longer my dad’s most loyal friend.

When Dad took up fishing he spent a fortune on state-of-the-art equipment and bought brightly-coloured baits to lure the fish. Then he took himself off to Connemara to fish with another retired gentleman. Unfortunately though, a great big fish took his expensive, gaudy-looking bait and swam away with it.

I felt sorry for him at the time. All those years when Dad worked in his insurance company, he dreamed of doing fun things one day. Then when
he got the time, he still couldn’t do any of them. Poor Dad. At least he’s still sticking at the piano. Even though it’s pretty torturous for the rest of us.

I get out of bed and head down to the kitchen. Dad has his head bent over the piano and is banging it with just two fingers. To annoy him I start singing
The Blue Danube
off-key. I’m sure Strauss is turning in his grave.

‘There’s no food in the house,’ Dad tells me. ‘I have to go out to the shops and get something for the tea.’

‘Okay.’ I answer. I am not really listening. I am quite glad he’s going out to give me some peace so that I can write my script.

My mum has already gone out to play tennis today with her three friends who do nothing but talk about their offspring, weddings, children and grandchildren. They often ask my mum if there’s any sign of me getting married, which she doesn’t particularly like. I tell her to take no notice. Tell them to mind their own business, I say. But Mum won’t. She’s dying for me to get engaged to Tim. Or anyone at this stage. I’ve a horrible feeling she has a mother-of-the bride dress picked out and Dad has already written a wedding speech. It’s probably gathering dust in the garage along with the gardening tools he never uses.

Anyway it’s great to have the house to myself for once. I sit down at the computer all set to write. I feel very businesslike. Switching on the computer I wait for inspiration to strike.

And wait . . . and wait . . .

Then I stand up.

I need a strong black coffee. Now. After all no serious writer can work without coffee. What was I thinking? As I wait for the kettle to boil I sit back down again. Eventually I start writing SCENE ONE. I feel a rush of blood to the head as my fingers tap the keyboard. The words flow and keep
flowing. God, I wish I’d started writing my script a long time ago.

At scene two I’m stuck.

Again.

I stare at the screen blankly and try to concentrate. Something is missing. I really need a cat. No serious writer writes without a sleeping cat nearby.

Right. No more excuses. I seriously am going to write all day today because I don’t want to end up like all those people out there who always say they’d like to be a writer, if only they could find the time. Those same people, unsurprisingly, are the very ones
who find time to sit in the pub, watch endless TV, gossip for hours and go for long drives in the country. I admit that up until now, I’ve been one of those people. Not any more though. Today I turn over a new leaf.

I write SCENE TWO. It looks impressive on the computer screen. But what happens next? Suddenly I’m away again as my imagination takes over. Characters come to life as I write about a violent father and his terrified young son. The father is extremely drunk and he’s accusing his son of stealing money from under his bed. The son is cowering in the corner and the father undoes his thick leather belt. The child begs for mercy . . .

Oh God, I’m not enjoying this at all. It’s horrible and brings back memories of when I was in school and sometimes the headmaster would cane me. That was before corporal punishment was
banned. I feel kind of gloomy and depressed writing this stuff but I reckon the film will be huge, especially in the States. Because Americans love all this kind of stuff, don’t they? I mean Frank McCourt’s
Angela’s Ashes
was a roaring success and that can’t have been much fun to write.