Painted Faces (18 page)

Apology Cupcakes and High Heels

About a half an hour later I hear people leaving, then my bedroom door opens and Nora and Harry come in. Nora sits down on the edge of my bed and Harry sits at the end of it.

“
Nicholas and Sean have gone home,” Nora says, breaking the silence. “Do you want to tell us exactly why you slapped Nicholas? Because he was keeping pretty much schtum about it once you left.”

I turn over onto my side and huff, “I don't want to talk about it.”

Harry pulls on the toe of my sock. “Come on, spill the beans Fred, you didn't just slap him for no reason.”

I tug on a curl, making it go straight for a second before allowing it to bounce back to its natural state. “Ugh you guys, this is
so
embarrassing.” I pause, looking each of them in the eye. “He told me, and I quote, that when he was inside Dorotea last night he closed his eyes and pretended it was me.”

Nora makes a confused face. “Inside?” she asks, slow on the uptake, before her eyes widen in shock and realisation. If I wasn't so depressed I'd have a good old laugh at her reaction. “Wow, I'm not surprised you slapped him,” she finally says.

“
Maybe he's one of those sexy psychos,” says Harry. “You know like the vampires out of
True Blood
. They talk all explicit and then they drink your blood and give you the best sex of your life.” He lets out an evil cackle.

“
He's not a sexy psycho, Harry. He just wants to have his way with me before leaving me high and dry.”

Harry smirks. “I don't think he'll be leaving you dry...” he trails off.

I crawl forward to slap him upside the head. “Hey! I thought you were supposed to be squeamish about vaginas.”

“
As if.” He rolls his eyes. “I was trying to come across all innocent for Sean's benefit.”

“
That's devious,” I say. “I like your style. So tell me, what's the story between you two?”

“
They had a night of wild drunken passion and now they're madly in love,” Nora answers sarcastically.

“
Shut up Nora, just because
you're
a dried up old hag,” Harry quips.

Nora is
not
happy with that statement. Her expression has gone icy. She turns her attention back to me. “Seriously though Fred, I think Nicholas really might be into you in a big way. He was talking about you a lot while we were having pizza before you got home.”

My curiosity peaks. “Oh really, what did he say?”

“
He was just asking questions about you, what sort of music do you like, what's your favourite movie, who was your last boyfriend, the kind of questions that show he's interested in you. He was also gushing over what a great job you did as his assistant last night, and that he's thinking of keeping you on.”

“
He was probably just being nosy,” I tell her flippantly, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

“
Ugh, if you want to be all modest then fine. I've told you what I think, so take it or leave it.” Nora brushes some lint off her lap.

“
Oh, I was going to ask you,” Harry puts in, “if you'd be interested in coming to Electric Picnic at the end of August. Sean and I are organising a group trip.”

“
You and Sean really are diving in head first, aren't you,” I muse wryly. “Organising events and what not. Who have you invited so far?”

Electric Picnic is an arty farty music festival that goes on in Stradbally Hall in County Laois at the end of the summer. I went once about two years ago, drank too much and ended up being sick half the time. It served me right. I wouldn't mind giving it another chance though; I haven't been to a good festival in ages.

“
So far on the list is yours truly, Sean, Nora and my brother Colm. Oh and I asked Nicholas if he'd like to come earlier and he said he was in.” The idea of Nicholas going further peaks my interest.

“
You know your brother irritates the pants off me Harry,” I say.

Harry's older brother Colm is his complete and total opposite. He's very straight laced and works in some high end financial services job down in the IFSC, which is Dublin's premium financial district, inhabited mainly by posh wankers who have a very high opinion of themselves. Harry's parents are always comparing him to his brother, since he only works as a lowly bank teller and Colm's a high flyer.

Harry let's out an amused laugh. “He only irritates you because he's always asking you out on dates, and you're always shutting him down.”

Oh yeah, did I fail to mention that? Harry's brother also has a bit of a thing for me. I probably would have given him a chance by now if it weren't for the fact that he bores the tits off me. He once talked to me for a half an hour about a new tie he bought for work in some fancy men's boutique on Dawson Street, lamenting whether or not he should have allowed the shop girl to talk him into getting a pinkish shade of peach. He was worried his workmates would slag him off about it. Oh yeah, and he ogles my boobs every chance he gets. Not in a fun and flirty way like Nicholas does, but in an annoying, almost on the verge of drooling sort of way.

“
I suppose I could just try to ignore him for the duration,” I sigh. “I heard Crystal Castles are playing this year. I really want to see them live. Just make sure Colm's tent is set up far away from mine”

“
So you'll come then?” Harry asks excitedly.

“
Yes, when are you buying the tickets?”

“
I'll get them on my credit card next week. That will give everyone the chance to throw the cash my way.”

The idea of spending over two hundred Euros on a weekend ticket makes me feel slightly ill, but I need something to look forward to since I haven't got any sun holidays on the horizon. I suppose I can bring myself to part with the money.

Nora leaves to go and get ready for work, while Harry stays in my room and regales me with stories of his night of passion with Sean. I have a hard time holding in my laughter when he describes him as being “a little jockey with a big whip”. Sean's probably only about 5”2, but he has that whole sort of cute Frodo Baggins thing going on.

I get an early night and try to push thoughts of Nicholas and the things he said to me earlier in the evening out of my head. It's no use though. His words echo through my mind, making me feel like getting up and taking a cold shower.

In the morning I deliver my cupcakes, before heading out to collect Mum and taking her to see her GP. The new doctor she doesn't like turns out to be a guy in his early thirties with a D4 accent. (D4 refers to “Dublin 4” which is an upper middle class area where people talk with pretentious, highly irritating accents, a whole lot of “loikes” and “oh my Gawds”) He cracks a few shit jokes, and I can immediately tell that he thinks he's in fucking
Scrubs
or something. His thinning brown hair is cut and styled into one of those wannabe David Beckham mullets. My mum looks at him as if he's an alien from another planet, it's comical.

“
So, what appears to be the problem, Mrs Wilson?” he asks, while scrolling down her file on his computer screen.

“
I had a fall last week and bruised my ankle,” Mum answers.

Dr Knobhead turns around in his swivel chair. “Well, we'd better have a look at that,” he says, before proceeding to poke and prod at Mum's bruise. He determines that nothing's been broken and prescribes her a few painkillers and some healing salve to put on it every morning and night.

The thing that annoys me throughout the whole process is that every time Mum lets out a whimper of pain as he's prodding her, he glances up at me and gives me an amused shake of his head, as though she's overreacting. It really pisses me off.

I find that a lot of doctors become fairly desensitised to other people's pain after a while. Years on the job, seeing sick people day in day out, turns them into emotionless automatons. I'm sure there are some truly caring doctors out there, but I haven't yet come across one if there are.

Their sympathy always seems so disingenuous. Dr Knobhead clearly got into the profession for the money and the ability to brag about devoting his life to a good and noble cause. If you hadn't noticed thus far, I'm partial to the odd rant every now and again.

On the short walk back to the house Mum tells me of the recent scandal with my sister Eileen, who's making her husband Jim sleep in the spare bedroom. I jump to the conclusion that she must have caught him having an affair, but apparently she's going through some kind of a crisis of identity.

She called Mum up the other night in tears, going on about how she's wasted half her life taking care of her kids and her husband. She wants to get away and do something new, have an adventure. It annoys me how she only ever calls our parents when she's got something to complain about.

“
Jesus, who does she think she is, Shirley Valentine?” I ask Mum jokingly.

Mum suppresses a grin and slaps me lightly on the arm. “Stop that Freda, you know Eileen's always been the sensitive type.”

“
Temperamental you mean,” I reply, thinking how it was a good thing she was in her teens by the time I was born, that way I didn't have to live through her dramas. Though I can imagine my toddler self giving her bemused looks whenever she went off on one.

Mum has her arm linked through mine, and we walk slowly to account for her ankle. I stay and have lunch at the house with her before catching a bus back to the city.

The next few days pass in their usual routine fashion. The weird thing is that I don't see hide nor hair of Nicholas and when Thursday comes around I begin to wonder if the slap I gave him made him think I was a nut job he should steer clear of. Now that the shock factor of what he said to me has worn off, I feel a little guilty. Perhaps he has the same issue with censoring himself as I do, and that's why he said what he did.

When I get home from my shift at the charity shop I grab the extra cupcakes that I set aside this morning, ice the word “sorry” onto them, put them on a plate and go to knock next door. Bringing baked goods as a gift for people tends to soften them up, even if they're supremely mad at you.

I made the effort with my appearance today, blow drying my hair and putting serum in it to make the curls extra silky. I'm also wearing the outfit Nora says suits my body the best; a little white vest top tucked into a high waisted navy pencil skirt. The skirt is made from good quality elasticated fabric, so it clings to the parts you want, while the dark colour hides any problem areas. In other words, the hips are emphasised and the stomach is disguised, providing an hour glass shape. If it weren't for Nora I wouldn't have a notion about any of this stuff.

I knock on Nicholas' door and when there's no answer I begin to feel a little sinking disappointment in my belly.

I press my ear against the wood and listen closely, and I'm almost certain I can hear faint music coming from within. With this piece of evidence that there's somebody inside, I continue knocking. Perhaps not a wise move if Nicholas really does hate me now, but I shrug and keep going. In for a penny, in for a pound.

A minute or two later I hear the lock flick over and the door opens. Nicholas stands before me with ruffled hair, wearing lounge pants, a t-shirt and a silky black Asian style kimono, the kind designed for women. It has pretty flower patterns all over. He looks like he's been in bed all day and it's almost three o'clock. His face seems haunted. I try to ignore his mismatched outfit and the fact that he's not looking his usual dapper self.

I cheerily lift the cupcakes up to show him. “Apology cupcakes, if you'll accept?”

“
Ah Fred, you're a sight for sore eyes, come in. And what's this about an apology? I wasn't aware we were having a quarrel.” He puts his hand on my lower back as he ushers me into the apartment. His touch burns right through to my skin.

“
Well, I thought that because I hadn't heard from you since the happy slapping incident you were giving me the cold shoulder,” I say, placing the cupcakes down on the kitchen counter.

“
Nonsense, a little bit of a slap between friends is all in good fun,” Nicholas teases.

I take the liberty of putting the kettle on to make tea, before going over and opening up one of the windows. The place feels muggy, as though he's been in here for days, wallowing in misery like a hermit. My ego would like to assume he's been depressed over my reluctance to hop into bed with him, but I'm clever enough to know that this is something else entirely.

Nicholas sits down on his
chaise longue
and rests his head on his red feathery pillow. He stares out the window I just opened, with some kind of torment in his eyes. I silently finish making the tea, before bringing it over to the coffee table, alongside two lemon cupcakes. One for each of us. Perhaps the bright yellow icing will lift his mood some.