This Charming Man (67 page)

‘What wonderful idea! Let me just take off apron.’

Of course, was simply being kindly person. Considine needed excuse to go out and get mouldy drunk to drown pain of ferret betrayal, and was dressing it up as gift to me. However was – yes,
proud
– he had picked me over his potholing buddies. Mind you, knowing those macho types, I expect they would mock him something ferocious. ‘Ha ha, you hear about Considine? So crap in bed his girl ran off with suicide bomber. HAHAHAHA!’

Standing in Knockavoy main street
‘Which pub?’ I asked.

‘The Oak.’

The Oak
? You blame me for expecting boycott of the Oak?

Fair play to him. Man of forgiveness. Unless he planning to deck Osama?

No. No decking. Purchased drinks from Osama. Aspect civil. Impressive. Rossa Considine like Gandhi! Osama, on other hand, was creeping about, eyes lowered with remorse. No sparkling, pruney-eyed smiles this evening.

Couple of drinks in, Considine cracked and told me about Gillian and Osama. I behaved as if was first had heard of it.

‘Is tragedy,’ I said. Meant it. Other people’s break-ups give me pain, almost like it’s happening to me. ‘How you feel?’

‘Is end of an era,’ he said. ‘But had run its course. We should never have got back together after first time we broke up. Reasons we broke up were all still there – I had no interest in her depressing films and she had no interest in my, what you call it? Trannie-ism. Or potholing. And they’re happy, the pair of them.’

‘Not pleasant to be rejected,’ I prompted. Just little bit sick of men denying their feelings.

‘No. Stings. You’re right. But will survive.’

‘No need to put on brave face. Being cuckolded’ (Margery Allingham) ‘is
humiliating.’

He twisted round to look at me. In amazement he said, ‘You
want
me to be depressed?’

‘No. Want you to be honest.’

‘Am being honest.’

‘No, you not.’

‘Am, Lola, am. Me and Gillian, gone bad ages ago and me too… too… whatever… to do something about it. Hoped it would get better. Or hoped… just hoped wouldn’t have to do hard thing.’

‘Don’t tell me you relieved!’

‘Not relieved. Not so simple. But decision was pending. Now decision made. Actually, yes, now that you mention it,
am
relieved.’

‘God’s sake.’ Tutted to self. ‘Another drink?’

Still in the Oak
‘How you feeling now, Considine?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse.’

‘Wrong usage of phrase. We are not meant to feel rough as badger’s arse now! We are meant to feel rough as badger’s arse tomorrow morning.’

‘I know, I know.’ Surprisingly attractive smile. For moment he looked so like Chloe! ‘But will not see each other tomorrow morning.’ Little stumble in mutual eye contact. ‘So let’s say it now.’

‘… Er…’ Took me moment to recover from the eye awkwardness, then cried gaily, ‘Okay. Rough as badger’s arse it is!’

Still in the Oak
Brandon and Kelly came in for post-work libation. Expressions wary when they saw me and Considine – news of the cuckolding had obviously reached them.

‘Lola, Rossa. How are you?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse!’

Still in the Oak
Cecile popped over to say ’ello. ‘God bless all ’ere,’ she chirruped.

‘’Ow’s she cuttin’?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse!’

We told everyone we met we were ‘rough as badger’s arse.’ Was crying with laughter. Really very funny and, of course, was quite drunk.

‘We are the badger’s arse gang!’ Considine declared.

‘The
notorious
badger’s arse gang. Let’s go and see Mrs Butterly before she goes to bed.’

Mrs Butterly’s
‘Oh hello, Lola, Rossa, how are ye both?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse, Mrs Butterly!’

‘No need for language. Or shouting.’ She looked almost alarmed as Considine and I clambered onto breakfast bar stools, gripped by weeping-style hilarity. ‘Or unbridled mirth without letting me in on the joke.’

Tried explaining to her. But laughing too much. Also, what is funny about saying ‘rough as badger’s arse’ eight hundred times? She tried hard to understand but much shaking of head and saying, ‘No, still not funny to me. Now, Eddie Murphy,
he
is funny. You see him in
Big Momma’s House?’

Considine’s mobile rang. ‘Is Gillian,’ he whispered conspiratorially, even though had not yet answered phone so Gillian could hear nothing. ‘Wanting to know how I am. You ready?’

‘Yes!’

He opened phone. ‘Gillian?’ Listened for moment. ‘Will tell you how I am.’

Gleefully gave me the nod and we both yelled into mouthpiece, ‘ROUGH AS BADGER’S ARSE!’

‘Go home, the pair of ye,’ Mrs Butterly said. Irritable. Had had enough. ‘Am going to bed.’

‘To watch Eddie Murphy in
Dr Doolittle!’
Considine snorted.

‘Or
Beverly Hills Cop!’

Considine and I almost incapable with merriment, as she ushered us down from our breakfast bar stools and towards door.

Knockavoy main street
We staggered up road. Staggering not from drunkenness but from howling with laughter. Progress slow, as had to stop every four seconds to double over.

‘Ho, Lola Daly, Rossa Considine! Heard ye were on the rampage!’

A summons from sulphurous interior of the Dungeon.

In we went. Were bought many, many, oh
many
drinks.

Bloody great night.

Only one way to describe how I felt – as rough as a badger’s arse. Worst hangover had had for long time.

Concerned for Considine. Good chance last night’s badger’s arse glee had worn off and he was in the horrors – part hangover, part cuckoldage. Nothing worse than waking up morning after the day before when you were dumped. Especially if you had got mouldy drunk to drown sorrows.

Texted him. Seemed silly urban thing to do, to text someone living next door, when could just get out of bed and communicate in person, but didn’t want to barge in on his sorrow.

Also feared might vomit if I stood upright.

Reply came quickly.

Sent another.

Speedy reply.

Had meant real one, but this was leading question.

Immediate reply.

Fecking men! Just when you think they’re opening up to you!

Decided to go back to sleep.

BEE-BEEP BEE-BEEP. Text noise woke me. Groped for phone. Message from Considine.

Novel notion – painkillers, flat Coke, expensive crisps, couch and duvet the normal person’s response to hangover. Nevertheless, replied:

There he was, in serious-looking fleece and stampy-style boots. Hair uncombed, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed, and pale, oh yes, really quite pale. As soon as saw him and his pale-green fizzog, I was seized by paralysing mirth. Forward propulsion halted by it.

He too was in grip of spasm of hilarity so powerful he was clutching his sides. When – eventually – able to speak, he called, ‘How you feel, Lola Daly?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse, Rossa Considine. You?’

‘Rough as badger’s arse.’

One of those hangovers where everything seems funny.

Walk over, thanks be to cripes.

‘Feeling miles better,’ Considine said happily. ‘You?’

‘No. Have pain in ear from wind and nothing will fix hangover except glass of Fanta and plate of chips.’

‘The Oak?’

‘Why we not try somewhere different?’ Wanted to save him from own macho posturing, insisting by his very presence in the Oak that he didn’t mind at all,
at all,
that his girlfriend had left him for Osama. ‘The Hole in One?’

‘Would rather set my face on fire.’

The Oak
On second Fanta. Plate of chips in front of me. Planned to have cheesecake of day (strawberry) next.

Considine’s phone beeped.

‘Text from Gillian,’ he said. ‘Checking I haven’t topped myself.’

I guilt-flinched. Will it happen every time Gillian Kilbert is mentioned, till the end of my days?

Considine noticed. ‘What’s up?’

Had to ask. Needed to know. Made self ask question, like squeezing icing out of cone-shaped force bag. ‘… Did you… and Gillian… split up because of… that business with Chloe and me just before Christmas?’

‘No. Keep telling you. Has been dead on its feet for the last Christ knows how long.’

‘Did Gillian ever… say anything about me?’

‘No,’ he said, but hesitation was there.

‘She did!’ I cried. ‘She did! Tell me.’

‘What? So you can feel even more guilty?’

‘Just tell me, Considine.’

‘She said, you know that day of the plunger? That there was… tension, like sexual tension, between us.’

What? Gillian Kilbert, cheeky bitch! ‘Thinking she can deflect attention from her own adulterous liaison by accusing you and me of tension of a sexual nature!’ I said. ‘Don’t mean to kick a man when he’s down, Considine, but don’t fancy you.’

‘She didn’t mean that,’ Considine said patiently. ‘Obviously she was talking about buzz between you and Chloe.’

‘But what Gillian base her statement on? Cripes alive, you didn’t
tell
her about the snog, did you?’ Hid my eyes with my hands.

‘No. Especially considering it hadn’t even happened on plunger day.’ He was laughing. ‘She said we were sarcastic to each other.’

‘What you say to that?’

‘That we were sarcastic to each other because didn’t really like each other. Most obvious solution is usually the correct one.’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Damien said.

I went cold all over.

‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said.

Christ alive. This was supposed to have been a lovely, romantic evening. I’d flown back from London this morning – I’d been there for ages, since Thursday, since Marnie made an alarmingly mad-in-the-head phone call – and Damien had insisted on cancelling his Monday-night poker game, so we could have some rare time together.

But even though I’d lit my precious Jasmine candle and we’d knocked back a bottle ofred, the romance hadn’t really kicked in. I was too tired and, as the couch was broken, I was in the only armchair and Damien was bolt upright on a hard kitchen chair.

By mutual unacknowledged consent, we’d eventually given up on conversation and turned on the telly. There was a documentary on about incredibly violent gangs in Brazilian prisons – the sort of thing we usually relished – but neither of us was paying attention to it.

I was thinking about Marnie, how she seemed to be getting worse, how she had started being a bit peculiar even when she was sober. I couldn’t shake this awful feeling that things were coming to a head.

Damien too was locked in his thoughts, obviously going through stuff, analysing, sorting and – it must have been because I was so knackered – instead of peppering him with questions like I usually would, I let him do it in peace.

‘Grace, I’ve to tell you something,’ he repeated. It sounded like he’d arrived at some sort of a decision and suddenly I was so frightened.

Was this really happening
?

I realized I’d been waiting for this, without even knowing consciously that I had.

When I’d let myselfinto the house this evening, I’d thought I felt that strange presence again. It was hard to know for certain, because I’d been flat-out looking for it. I’d wandered from room to room, flip-flopping
between thinking, Maybe yes, Maybe no. Unable to decide if something, someone, had been here over the weekend. Someone who shouldn’t have been.

Now Damien was going to tell me and the
fear,
I can’t tell you. I was suddenly drenched in sweat.

‘Is it…’ My voice was croaky and I cleared my throat. ‘It’s Juno?’

‘What?’
Damien frowned.
‘Juno
? No.’

It wasn’t Juno?

But then what was it? Who was it?

I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to feel any more afraid than I had twenty seconds previously, but there we are. I did.

‘I found out by accident…’ Damien said.

Found out what?

‘But now that I know…’

Know what?

‘It’s about Dee.’

I was so surprised I couldn’t speak for a few moments. ‘Dee
Rossini?’

‘Yeah. They’re putting a story together at work. Apparently she’s been harbouring illegals.’

‘Oh–’ I knew it was true. I’d seen it myself. But I couldn’t find the words. I was still in the fear.

‘They’re going massive on it,’ Damien said. ‘Ifit comes off, she’ll never come back from it.’

I stared into his eyes searching for… what? A second layer of truths? The stuff he hadn’t said?

‘That’s it?’ I said. ‘That’s all you wanted to tell me?’

‘I’ve taken the risk of my career telling you th – Why? What did you think I was going to say?’

‘… Nothing…’

‘Not Juno?’ he said in exasperation. ‘Not still? Didn’t I say that I wouldn’t see her?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘I don’t know why you think I would
ever
get involved with her.’

‘I know you love me –’

‘Yes, I love you, of course I love you. But even ifI didn’t, after what Juno did to me?’ His voice was high with frustration. ‘You know I’d never trust her again.’

He glared at me and I glared at him, then we both began to laugh.

‘Do you want to hear this or don’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

He set it all out for me. His paper, the
Press,
had a source who’d come with a story that Dee Rossini was part of a small, clandestine circle who were helping young women, mostly Moldovans, who had entered Ireland illegally. The women were living as slaves, were beaten, starved and pimped by the men who’d brought them into the country, but obviously they couldn’t look for help from the legal system because legally they didn’t exist.