Mr Right for the Night

If you ran after men they ran away.

They were like dogs, Anna’s granny had once said.

If you chased a dog he ran off.

If you stopped he stopped.

If you turned slowly so did he.

If you ran away he panicked and ran after you.

Apparently.

Anna Allstone had chased her mother’s dog once for five hours up and down Sandymount Strand. People had stared at her like she was some kind of dog thief. He’d glared at her from a safe distance pretending he’d never seen her before in his life. And even when she bought a tin of Chum in the garage across the road and rapped it with her pocket-knife like a madman, he still refused to cooperate. It was only later, when she finally gave up, got into her mother’s car and prepared to drive off, that he ran after her like his life depended on it. If only she’d used the same tactics on Emmet Dirave last week.

If only she hadn’t called round to his house with a bottle of red wine and the Sunday papers to find an unfamiliar blue Fiat parked in the drive. If only she hadn’t rung the doorbell seven times, eventually shouting desperately through the letter box, ‘I know you’re in there, you prick.’ If only she hadn’t left several life-threatening messages on his answering machine telling him he’d be sorry, that he’d never meet anyone like her ever again. If only she hadn’t changed her tone later on in a tearful ‘call me please and we can talk about this’ message. If only . . .

Anna dutifully blew out the thirty candles her mother had clumsily stuck on a strawberry flan. She smiled into her dad’s camera. CLICK. There, captured on camera for ever. It would be placed carefully on the sitting-room wall along with all the other twenty-nine.

‘Will you have a piece, Anna?’ Her mother slapped a generous slice onto a plate in front of her. With a huge dollop of cream. Anna gave it a disdainful look.
There were at least a thousand calories in that.

‘Your mam went to an awful lot of trouble so she did,’ Grandad croaked from behind the
Irish Times
. ‘She’s been baking all afternoon.’

‘That was very
nice of her,’ Anna tried to look
cheerful. She glanced from her overweight mother
to her lean father to her live-in grandfather. ‘So any
other news?’

‘Your brother got promoted,’ her mother said proudly.

‘Didn’t he just get promoted recently?’

‘Yes, and he just got promoted again,’ her father
added, looking like he was about to explode with
pride.

‘Great, he must be nearly running the bank by
now,’ Anna’s voice was dry.

‘Have another piece of cake, Anna.’

‘No, honestly I’m full and er . . . it’s getting late. I
don’t want to be wandering the streets late at night.
Dublin’s becoming quite dangerous, you know.’

‘I’ll drive you home so.’ Her father stood up
wearily and picked his car keys up from the kitchen
table.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind, Dad?’ Anna grinned.

He shook his head. ‘I know you’ve just turned
thirty, love, but you haven’t changed a bit. You’d
still do anything for a lift. When are you going to
get your own car?’

‘Soon, Dad, soon,’ Anna promised as she kissed
her mother and Grandad goodnight.

Thank God that was over with, she told herself
as her father drove her home to Ranelagh. Next
year she’d organize something more exciting. Like
a party, say. Not with her family though. No, with
young people. Then again thirty wasn’t very young.
Not if you wanted to be a ballerina or a model or
something. Or a tennis star. But it didn’t matter
because she didn’t want to be any of those things
anyway. You had to think positive in life. Thirty was
very young in some professions. Like thirty would be
extremely young for a bishop. Or a chief executive of
a major company. Or a famous poet or professor. Or
a headmaster or, God forbid, a grandmother! Stop
it, she scolded herself. There was no point in going
round in circles about this. She could weigh up the
pros and cons till the cows came home but nothing
could change the fact that she’d hit the big three oh.
Period.

Anna,

It’s hard to believe it’s been twelve years!
Are you still as mad as ever? I’m sure you’re
wondering what this is all about. Well, Vincent
and I (we tied the knot in June) are throwing
a joint thirtieth bash. Sounds so old, doesn’t
it? We’d be absolutely thrilled if you and your
partner could come along, Saturday, 8 April,
8.00 p.m.

Victoria Reddin (ne´e Reilly)

Anna stared at the note before attacking the second
half of her King Size Mars. The pot of pasta had just
started to boil but she couldn’t possibly wait another
twenty minutes to eat. She read the note again. And
again. Then she washed the rest of the Mars down
with Diet Coke. The whole thing was bizarre. Damn
this silly note. It was mind-boggling. She turned the
pasta down to one, half wishing she hadn’t eaten the
entire Mars. It would take a good few
Mr Motivators
to work all that off. She blamed Victoria. It was all
her fault. The invitation had completely thrown her.
She dialled Claire’s number. Claire was always great
in a crisis. Sensible and settled, married to a solid
man called Simon who sold shares, Claire would
have all the answers.

‘Claire, you won’t believe what hap––’

‘Oh Anna, can I ring you back, this isn’t a good
time.’

‘But it’s an emergency.’

‘Your house is on fire?’

‘No.’

‘Someone’s dead?’

‘No, nothing like that . . .’

‘Well then, Anna, it’s not an emergency. I’ll ring
you back, bye.’

Anna sighed, the phone feeling like a dead weight
i
n her right hand. What had happened to good
old friendship? Huh! They said a friend in need
was a friend indeed. Well, Anna was in need and
indeed Claire was not being supportive. But since
Claire had got married, the only thing she loved
to talk about was other people’s marriages. Recent
marriages. Broken marriages (that was a favourite).
Annulled marriages (though to be honest you didn’t
get too many of them in Ireland). Yet. Gay marriages.
Hello!
marriages. Second and third marriages . . . It
was just oh so dull.

Anna couldn’t understand it all. She supposed
it made Claire feel part of the most dangerous
and furiously fast-growing society in Ireland – the
ARMPITTS – Annoying Rich Married People In
Their Thirties Society. Anna missed the old Claire.
The one who got plastered every Saturday, fired
every second Monday, stood up every Thursday
and dumped every Friday. God, she used to be
so much fun! These days Claire was an ARMPITT
with an armful of advice for her few remaining single
f
riends. And although she meant well, all the ‘tips’
got to you after a while. The phone rang suddenly.
Anna cleared her throat.

‘Hello?’ she answered softly in case it was a man.

‘Anna, it’s all right it’s me, we can talk now.’

‘Oh good. Am I being timed?’

‘Wait till you have kids and you’ll know all about
time management.’

‘You’ll never guess who got in contact with me.’
Like a crime correspondent Anna spoke in a low
throaty voice.

‘Victoria Reilly.’

‘Oh, how did you know?’ Anna could hardly
contain her disappointment.

‘She sent me a card as well.’

‘Did she?’

‘Apparently she sent one to everyone in the class.’

‘So it’s like a reunion.’

‘Something like that. What else did you want?’

‘That’s it.’

‘God, Anna, you’re the biggest drama queen,’
Claire laughed.

‘She asked in mine if I was still as mad as ever?’

‘That’s weird, she must be mixing you up with
someone else.’

‘I bet she doesn’t even remember me,’ Anna
sniffed.

‘Well, it’s been twelve years.’

‘I don’t care how long it’s been. I haven’t forgotten
how she made our lives hell. Don’t you remember
the way she called us
Little
and
Large
to make the
others laugh?’

‘Oh kids will be kids.’

‘It wasn’t as traumatic for you.’

‘Huh?’

‘You were
Little
, I was
Large
. . .’

‘Oh God, Anna, stop being paranoid. Was there
anything else?’

‘Anything else? I don’t think you quite understand

what’s going on here.’

‘Listen, Anna, it’s really not such a big deal. Now

I really have to go, I . . .’

‘You can’t go.’

‘I’ve something in the oven.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I’ll call round later.’

‘Great, I’ll open a bottle of wine.’

‘Yes, that should solve all our problems.’ Anna
removed all her clothes, including shoes and underwear.
She stepped on the weighing scales as slowly
as she could and peered at the dial. Oh God, that
couldn’t be right. She discarded her earrings and hair
clip. It still didn’t make any difference. Sugar. This
was bad. She got dressed again and ambled towards
the kitchen. She was starving and, besides, a few
more bars of chocolate wouldn’t make a difference.
She reached for a packet of Maltesers. They were
light, weren’t they? Remember the ad with the thin
girl rowing the boat?

She was looking forward to Claire coming over. It
was about time Simon babysat for a change. Claire
was like a prisoner sometimes.
Not that it was such a terrible complaint
. Anna frowned. After all being as
free as a bird wasn’t all it was cracked up to be either.
She uncorked the bottle of red just as the doorbell
rang. Great. Perfect timing.

Claire looked super for a mother, Anna thought.
Her long dark wavy hair was shining and her cheeks
had a healthy pink glow. Anna let her into the
f
reezing communal hallway.