Painted Faces (11 page)

“
You've got one haven't you,” says Jonny crudely, his eyes all glazed over. I've stopped to chat with him a few times over the years when I've passed by here, and he strikes me as one of those people who started smoking marijuana way too young and now their brain doesn't work as fast as it should. It'll take him longer than average to answer a question, for example.

“
Didn't you know? I was born with a bit of a downstairs mix up,” I joke, but my voice is a little terse. People like Jonny piss me off, because he's pissing his life away. He frowns at what I've said. It takes him a minute to process the joke, then a sly grin forms on his face.

“
I always wondered why you never got with anyone at school, thought it was just because you were fat.”

Okay, so I know I've got a bit of meat on my bones, but it hurts when people point it out. My last boyfriend (the stalker one) told me I had the kind of body every man dreams about, and that real men aren't interested in stick insects. They want boobs, bums and hips. It was one of the nicer things he said to me. My cheeks are flaming red with embarrassment due to the fact that Nicholas is standing right beside me and has witnessed Jonny's remark. The teenage girls giggle.

I give them a massive smile and point at Jonny. “You do know he's forty, right?”

One girl instantly pales and asks, “What?”

“
Yep, he goes around telling everyone he's only twenty-five so that he can get off with younger girls.” I lean closer and whisper, “He's a bit of a paedo.”

“
Oh my God, gross,” says another member of the group, before dragging her friends away.

When I look at Nicholas I notice that he's frowning at Jonny, his blue eyes have narrowed to slits.

“
You really are a cunt Freda, now they'll go around telling everyone what you said. It's not even true.” Jonny gripes.

“
You should have thought about that before you called me fat. Besides, can't you find women your own age to hang around with? Those girls can't be any older than seventeen. You should steer clear, you don't want to go getting a name for yourself.”

He takes a drag out of his joint and then throws it to the ground. “I couldn't give two shits Fred,” he eyes Nicholas. “Who's this?”

Nicholas suddenly wraps his arm around my waist and announces, “I'm Fred's boyfriend, and I don't appreciate you speaking to her like that.”

Oh my goodness. My heart is going ninety. Fred's boyfriend? He's clearly trying to help me save face in front of Jonny.

Jonny lets out a big crooning, “Ooooh, so sorry to offend. I shan’t speak to your precious girlfriend like that then.” He looks back at me, shaking his head. “See ya Freda. Tell that Nora friend of yours I said hello. She's hot.”

And with that he hops over to a group of guys, grabbing one of them around the neck to get him in a head lock. Some people never grow up.

I turn back to Nicholas. “You didn't have to say that, you know. Jonny's an idiot, always has been. I don't care what he thinks of me.”

“
How do you know him anyway?” Nicholas asks, ignoring what I've said.

“
We went to school together. He was the resident trouble maker.”

We start walking again and go in through the front door of the Starbucks. Nicholas holds it open for me and I duck under his arm to get by. My chest brushes off his and a small smile makes his blue eyes crinkle.

“
I thought he might have been an ex of yours,” says Nicholas.

I give him a look of mock outrage. “I might not have the highest of standards, but the ones I do have certainly surpass Jonny O'Connor. You saw him preying on those teenage girls, he's a total creep.”

I order my white mocha and Nicholas asks for a latte. The girl goes to make our coffees and a silence ensues. For some reason I can't think of anything to say and Nicholas is standing all too close, his arm braced against the glass display cabinets. I can smell his shower gel and it makes me want to run my hand over the bit of dark stubble growing on his jaw.

“
So you're not seeing anyone then,” he says, breaking the silence. I hadn't realised he was still pondering my relationship status.

“
Um, no. My last boyfriend was three and a half years ago,” I reply, and then regret having been so honest. I'm kind of embarrassed about my lack of a love life. Nicholas strikes me as the kind of person who, when the urge comes upon him, simply goes to a bar, picks up a woman and takes her home to have his wicked way with her.

He lets out a long whistle. “That's some dry spell Fred. I'd be worried you might have grown back your virginity.”

“
I'm just picky,” I reply defensively. “And I wish it was possible to grow back your virginity. The first time I had sex can be summed up in two words beginning with A: awkward and awful.”

“
Yep, first times are a bastard,” he says. “Probably because we haven't a clue what we're supposed to be doing. We're all fingers and thumbs.”

The girl puts our coffees down on the counter and Nicholas insists on paying. “Fingers and thumbs eh? Sounds...dirty.” I reply.

The girl comes back to give Nicholas his change and looks at me funnily, having heard what I said. I give her a wide grin. She can do what she will with that.

“
It's filthy,” Nicholas goes on. “I can't wait to show you what I can achieve with my fingers.”

I almost choke on the creamy white mocha as I take a gulp. My face must look like a strawberry right about now.

He pats me on the back, laughing. “Easy there, Fred. I don't want to have to give you the Heimlich manoeuvre. Oh wait a minute, I kind of do. It might give me the chance to cop a feel.”

I regain my composure and throw back, “You're fucking obsessed Viv. If you're that keen on them then by all means go ahead and have a squeeze. Get it out of your system.”

I'm trying to be breezy.
Breezy, breezy, breezy
. When really if he did touch me I'd melt into a jittery mess of flesh and bones.

His eyes sparkle with delight. “Can I hold you to that? I want to do it at a time when I can give them my full attention. Some place private.” His grin is a mixture of anticipation and mischief.

My eyes almost bug out of their sockets, and I try to remember to be breezy. Breezy I say! “Oh, of course. Just give me some warning before you dive in. I can't guarantee I won't throw a punch if you catch me off guard.”

He laughs and takes a sip of his latte. “So where to now? I was looking for Stephen's Green the other day on my explorations, but couldn't seem to find it. I ended up at some train station.”

“
You must be fairly bad with directions, because you can't really miss it. Come on, I'll show you.”

I lead him towards Grafton Street, where it's all bustle and noise. The buskers are out in full swing, trying to lure a few sheckles from the tourists.

There's a living statue dressed in yellow from head to foot with his face painted gold. When a little girl throws a Euro into the basket at his feet he springs to life. He gives her a wide smile and a slow bow. She giggles and runs shyly back to her mother who's waiting close by.

“
It must be stifling in all that fabric and paint,” I mention to Nicholas as I peer up at the living statue, before dumping my empty coffee cup in a rubbish bin.

“
We all paint on a face to show the world,” Nicholas replies philosophically. “For some of us, that's quite literal.” He takes a brief pause. “When you're passionate about something, you don't mind suffering a little discomfort.”

I give him a wry glance. “Have you had to suffer for your passion?”

He nods gently, his eyes roving over the crowds as they push by us. “More than you would think.”

There's some sort of sadness tingeing his words. I keep looking at him, wondering what kind of suffering he might have endured.

But then he plasters on a bright smile and jokes, “Those high heels can give you blisters like you wouldn't believe.”

I accept his change of tone, because I hardly know him well enough to probe for details. “Tell me about it, that's why I avoid them like the plague.”

Nicholas quirks an eyebrow at me. “You never wear heels?”

“
Not if I can help it. Me in heels never leads anywhere good, usually it ends up with me injuring myself and others,” I laugh.

“
It's all about practice and technique, you know. I'll teach you, that way I'll get to see those shapely legs of yours in a pair of stilettos someday.”

“
Never going to happen. And I take it that by “shapely” you mean legs eight-eight as opposed to eleven.”

Nicholas shakes his head at me like I'm a naïve child. “You really do have pathological self-deprecation, don't you,” he comments. “When I saw you weren't wearing any tights last night I had to do a good job of keeping from slipping my hands beneath the hem of your dress to see if your skin feels as soft as it looks.”

I shove him away from me, flattered but indignant. “You have sex on the brain twenty-four seven Viv. I think you might need therapy.”

“
Perhaps I do,” he grins. “Don't get me wrong I'm no Russell Brand, but I do have quite an avid interest in shagging.”

“
Enough said, I'll be steering clear of you and the myriad of sexually transmitted diseases you might have contracted over the years.”

“
No need to worry. The closest I've ever come to an STD was a kidney infection,” he replies humorously. “I always put a rain coat on the little fella before heading into a storm.”

At his words, I let out a long snort followed by furious giggles. Yes, a snort. God help me. I cover my mouth with both hands and try to gain some composure. “You do realise you just referred to your penis as “the little fella”, that's not very reassuring Viv.” Although from the view I got of him in those hot pants last night, I don't think he has anything to be worried about.

He shrugs, his eyes all alight at having made me laugh so hard. “Perhaps you
should
be reassured. If I had a small
appendage
I'd be too self-conscious to even broach the topic of size.”

“
Fair point,” I say, just as we reach the top of Grafton Street, where a crowd has gathered to listen to Dave McSavage belt out a few jokes.

If you're not Irish then you've probably never heard of this piece of work. He's a semi-famous comedian who regularly busks around Dublin, singing songs and making fun of the people who pass him by. I never stop to watch him for fear of him making a joke about big boobs and/or well endowed bottoms.

One time when I was walking by he made the wrong joke about the wrong guy, a guy who stopped walking, turned around, approached McSavage and gave him a punch smack dab on the nose. Needless to say, the man has a pair of balls on him to keep on doing what he does after that episode. At the moment he's accusing a dad with two little kids of being a kidnapper to the swift tune of his acoustic guitar. The dad hurries away looking embarrassed as the crowd laughs uproariously.

Nicholas laughs quietly by my side. He has a lovely low and husky sort of laugh. He folds his arms over his chest, creating a delightful strain in the t-shirt fabric across his pecs. I only realise that I'm staring when I hear him give a short cough to garner my attention.

My eyes flick up to his. “What?” I ask, my voice containing all the guilt of a murderer caught with a bloody knife in her hands.

“
Enjoying the view, Fred?” he replies.

“
Um, no. Yes. Maybe,” I sputter like a complete and total fool.

He leans in close to whisper in my ear, “If you play your cards right, I'll let you cop a feel some time too.”

I notice that we've just arrived at the entrance to the park at Stephen's Green, so I quickly take advantage of that fact by announcing, “Well, here we are,” while in my head I'm hearing his words repeat over and over,
I'll let you cop a feel, I'll let you cop a feel
.

“
So we are,” says Nicholas.

There are people everywhere, soaking up the bit of heat. There's something you should know about Irish people, once there's even a hint of sun in the sky we'll be out in our fucking droves, our pasty pale skin all on show.