Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (30 page)

She follows me out to the hall and we bump into Philip, searching for his coat at the hatstand with Jamie still bending his ear.

‘So can I send my CV and headshot straight to you then, Philip? Or I could drop it into your office on Monday, if that would suit you better …'

‘I have to go,' Philip says to me, ignoring Jamie. ‘It's been a very … interesting evening.'

The doorbell goes again and I answer.

Am I seeing things? He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken.
Looking cool and casual, as if I'd been expecting him all along.

‘Hi there. You're having a party then?'

I can't answer him. I'm too shocked.

‘What do you want?' says Jamie in an ice-cold tone.
He puts a protective arm around my waist for good measure and I find myself clinging to him.

‘Jamie, good to see you, how are you, man?'

‘I said,
what do you WANT
?'

God, Jamie's good when he's angry. Even I'm a bit intimidated.

‘Hey, take it easy, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just saw that you had people over and I wondered if I could borrow a corkscrew. If it's not too much bother.'

Now, I've always said that I'd be better in a fight than Jamie any day, but now I have to admit that I was one hundred per cent wrong. Jamie reacts as if he'd been asked for the loan of a kidney. ‘Is there a sign above the door that says “lying, cheating, bastard ex-boyfriends welcome”?', he snarls. ‘I don't think so. Now get the hell out of here or I'll kick you all the way back to Stab City. You are not welcome here. Do you understand? The reason God invented deadbolts, spy-holes and intercom systems was to keep people like you away. Got it? Good.'

And with that, Jamie slams the door in his face. ‘Jeez, Amelia, I just thought you needed a hand with the catering. Didn't think I'd end up doing bouncer as well. I should charge extra.'

Caroline has invited us all over for Sunday lunch the next day, bless her, so we can all catch up on what's been happening in each other's lives over the last few days. Or, more correctly, so we can all have a good laugh at my disastrous treasure/trash party, I think, depressed beyond all reason as I pull the duvet over my head.

Now, ordinarily I'd be first in the queue to tell funny stories about last night and some of the shenanigans that went on, were it not for the last few, excruciating minutes of the evening.

Oh God.

I honestly don't know which is worse. That
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
seems to think it's absolutely OK casually to drop into my apartment looking for corkscrews at eleven o'clock at night or that Jamie had to come the heavy just to get rid of him.

In front of Philip Burke.

He probably thought he'd walked in on a traveller wedding by accident.

The phone rings and it's Caroline. ‘Hi, pet, I know I'll be seeing you later on but just a quick word to the wise. Absolutely no one is to say
anything
to Rachel about
anything
and I specifically told Jamie he's to back off and leave her alone. What she got up to last night is entirely her own affair—'

‘
What?
'

‘JOSHUA!' she screams. ‘Take your fingers out of that plug socket THIS MINUTE! I have to go, honey, emergency, I'll see you at one.'

Then my mobile rings. Jamie. ‘Well, sweetie, it's your lucky day. It seems you will not be the sole focus of attention over lunch later on.'

‘What is going on? Did something happen to Rachel? Is she OK?'

‘Put it this way. Our dearest, acid-tongued friend is seriously straining to do some explaining this morning.'

OK, now I'm starting to think she was in a drugs bust last night … ‘Jamie, stop talking in sound bites. Tell me everything!'

‘Gormless Gordon scored a home run. For definite.'

‘
WHAT?
'

‘Too true, my angel. I called her ten minutes ago and he answered her landline.'

‘Oh, come on, Jamie, that doesn't mean anything
… does it? You've put two and two together and made five thousand.'

‘My beautiful idiotic innocent, will you let me finish? She was in the shower so I did a KGB on him and got the full low-down. The poor kamikaze bastard said he'd managed to drag her to a pub after work yesterday and then went back to her place for a nightcap and
then
he said they had a physical connection which I'm guessing didn't involve working out together.'

‘You are
joking
!'

‘How could you make this up? So I said to him, “Well, you're about to find out what it's like to have slept with a praying mantis. When it comes to Rachel's men, the survivors envy the dead.” '

‘I can't believe it. I'm in total shock.'

‘Ring her if you don't believe me. Oh, and can you pick me up on your way to Caroline's?'

‘What? Oh … ehh … sure.' I hang up, stunned. Naturally, Rachel's not answering her phone, and I'm wide awake now anyway, so I get up. Besides, I'm unable to start into the big apartment clean-up without (
a
) a very strong coffee inside me and (
b
) a quick scan of the Sunday papers. In between trying to call Rachel every two minutes, that is.

Eventually she answers her mobile.

‘Just give me a one-word answer,' I say. ‘Is it true?'

‘I will plaster Jamie's brains all over a wall for
spreading this,' she snarls. ‘I was drunk; I had nothing better on last night; it was only sex; if he ever comes near me again, I'll set fire to him.'

‘Who, Jamie or Gorm— sorry, I mean Gordon.'

‘Either of them. Tell me honestly,' she says and I can hear her lighting up a fag, ‘is everyone talking about this?'

‘Jamie's talking, everyone's listening.'

‘Right. Hang up, I have to go. Damage limitation. See you at one.' And she's gone.

This is
unbelievable
. This is
shocking.
This is … oh God, this is one of those days that I really miss having a partner: Sundays and bank holidays, and occasions when there's super-hot gossip to be discussed; especially when my friend scored last night and I didn't. It's the little things, you know, like waking up in someone's arms, taking turns to make brekkie, playfully bickering over whose turn it is to get out of bed and go and get the papers. All the normal stuff.

Life is not designed to be gone through alone; you're
supposed
to have a partner. Even if it's someone you're initially not interested in, like Gormless Gordon, who is actually all right, it's just that Jamie saddled him with that horrific moniker and now it's stuck.

No wonder I'm going a bit off my head, I think, pulling on my jeans and a T-shirt and running out of the door.

I head for my local Italian deli, Dunne and Crezenci's, which is one of those fab places that every single person should have right on their doorstep. It caters absolutely one hundred per cent for people like me who, although we have state-of-the-art kitchens, only ever seem to use the microwave. Or else just eat out all the time.

I'm barely in the door when the aroma of deep-flavoured Italian coffee hits me. Yummmmmm. That and the very cheering sight of Giorgio, the drop-dead-gorgeous manager, who looks like he's just stepped off a catwalk in Milan during fashion week. Double yummmmmmmm.

I often think it would be worth my while to get caught shoplifting, just so he could feel me up. By now, I must look a bit like Homer Simpson with drool coming down the side of my mouth as I grab the papers and order a ham and melted cheese croissant with a cappuccino to go.

I glance at the headlines as I'm waiting to pay. ‘
PLIGHT OF LOTTO WINNER. “SINCE I WON THREE MILLION, MEN ARE PLAGUING ME TO WED. I HAD THREE PROPOSALS LAST WEEK ALONE
.” '

‘Don't suppose you sell Lotto tickets, do you, Giorgio?' I ask, hopefully.

‘Sorry, Amelia, try the newsagent's next door.' He laughs. ‘So you wanna be a millionaire and have men chase you like that lady?' he asks, glancing down at my paper.

I smile at him in what I hope is a beguiling/mysterious way, but which I'm afraid only makes me look like a consumptive in dire need of a blood transfusion, because then he asks me if I'm feeling all right and did I have a very late night last night?

‘Yeah, yeah,' I mutter, mortified, ‘I had
way
too much to drink, you know. Anyway, thanks for brekkie. See you soon!'

I scarper out of the door and barely get three paces down the road when a jeep pulls up. A black jeep.

Where have I seen that car before?

Oh no, no, no, fate couldn't be that cruel, could it? Lightning doesn't strike twice on the same weekend – does it?

Unfortunately, in my life, the answer always seems to be yes …

‘Hey, Amelia, good morning!'

It's him.
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
, all dressed in Sunday morning casual jeans and denim shirt, as cool and relaxed as if we were the best of buddies, about to go on a fun-filled hiking day out up the Sugarloaf mountain.

Then a hot flush of anger and frustration comes over me. I swear to God, sometimes I know how it must feel to have an anger stroke coming on … The raw-faced, brazen
cheek
of him just to pull up outside of Dunne and Crezenci's as if he owned the place.

I hate to sound petulant and sulky but
I
was the one who introduced him to this place and if he and I had been married and if there had been a divorce settlement, then the right to frequent Dunne and Crezenci's would have been mine, particularly early on a Sunday morning, when he knows I'm always in there. Is that so unreasonable?

Bastard.

I mutter a greeting and quicken my pace to get out of there.
Does he even remember last night?

‘Amelia, don't walk off. I was kind of hoping I'd bump into you here this morning.'

I stop dead in my tracks.

‘I wanted to apologize to you for yesterday evening. For arriving at your apartment unannounced, I mean. I really am sorry, I shouldn't have. I just noticed that you were having a party and it looked like you were all having a great time.'

If you only knew the truth
, I think to myself, but say nothing.

‘I was on my own last night, you see, not that that excuses anything,' he adds, seeing the look of yeah-right-like-I-care flitter across my face. I'm trying to keep my expression bored and deadpan, but probably look more like a moody, hormonal teenager.

Another silence.

‘Well, anyway, it just looked like you and all your friends were really enjoying yourselves,' he trails off.
‘Certainly more fun than sitting at home on a Saturday night, drinking wine on your own.'

Now, this is the point where I should have bid him a polite, frosty good day and elegantly strolled away, dignity intact, the high moral ground effortlessly maintained. But sometimes I'm just too bloody nosey for my own good. I'm incapable of quitting when I'm ahead. ‘So where was your fiancée?'

He looks a bit shifty. ‘In Lillie's Bordello with her friends. They'd asked me along, but … well … it just isn't really my scene. Too old and too tired for all that. Half the time, I don't even understand what they're all talking about. And it really embarrasses me to have to go up to a bar and ask for a round of alcopops.'

Boy oh boy, aren't you in for a wonderful marriage …

‘Anyway, Amelia, I just want to say sorry. It won't happen again.' Then he looks at me hopefully. ‘Unless you want it to?'

I'm hearing things; I have to be hearing things …
‘Can we just get one thing straight?' I say, desperately trying to keep the wobble of emotion out of my voice. ‘I don't think you and I will ever have the kind of neighbourly relationship where we call into each other's homes borrowing cups of sugar.'

‘It was a corkscrew actually.'

‘Can I please finish? I really don't care if it's five in the morning and you need to borrow my car to drive yourself to an intensive-care unit, I'm not your
twenty-four-hour, on-call, girl next door, who you can just land in on whenever your bride-to-be is out at a rave with all the other Leaving Cert students. Not now, not anytime in the future. I didn't choose this situation, I didn't ask you to buy the house across the road from me; all I am asking is to be left in peace. OK?'

I walk off and try not to slop my cappuccino all over the pavement, I'm shaking that much. He doesn't even go into Dunne and Crezenci's, he just gets back into the jeep and drives off. I have a strong urge to shout after him, ‘Mind you don't drive over any landmines, now,' but I manage to restrain myself.

I've had quite enough for one weekend.

Unbelievable, just unbelievable.

An image flashes through my head: the day we finally broke up. I had come home early from work to find two packed suitcases sitting neatly in the hallway. He was wearing an overcoat, standing in the living room, scanning it as if double-checking to make sure he'd left nothing behind. To this day I still wonder what would have happened if I hadn't chanced to come home early. I think he hoped I'd just notice that all his stuff was gone and then cop on that we were finished without any discussion/post-mortem/explanation or any of those conversations men hate so much.

Cowardly bloody bastard had everything planned except his speech. ‘It's not you, it's me,' he kept repeating, like a hackneyed cliché you wouldn't even
hear on
Celtic Tigers
. ‘I need to be on my own right now.' And my personal favourite, ‘It's not that I don't want to commit to you, I don't want to commit to
anyone
.'