Champagne Kisses (12 page)

Like a stroppy teenager, I dragged my well-smacked ass and my few belongings to the nearest taxi rank and prayed for news of a bomb scare at the airport. For once, I had no such luck.

Much to my annoyance, the train was crammed with people with oversized jackets and fake-fur-rimmed hoods. But my diminishing luck somehow allowed me to find a seat; a small sanctuary where I could obsess about my phone with two hands.

Unable to concentrate, I clasped it tight and continually flicked through the few precious photos of us with stupid cheesy grins, which we had taken while lying in bed.

By the time I had reached the airport, I had texted his ‘cell’ several times, but had got no reply. He must have fallen back asleep.

It had been seven days and seven nights of utter debauchery.

My bones ached. My skin was blemished, and my nails looked like they had tried to scrape their way out of a cave.

I felt and looked a wreck.

But it had been wild.

It had been an adventure of the rock ’n’ roll variety, and one to tell the grandkids. Well, a watered-down version anyway.

But my week away from home had nearly killed me. And as I approached the Ryanair check-in desk, queuing alongside the businessmen with their cheapo laptop cases, the hassled mothers with their irritable children and the young professionals with their iPods, I realized I had become an outlaw to society, a vagrant, a person without purpose or use. OK, so I’m sounding a little dramatic. But that’s how I felt.

Numbed by the alcohol in my system, I mulled over all the problems I would face when I arrived home. I had been putting it to the back of my mind, but money matters had become critical. Rent was due. My MBNA credit card was maxed at about €12,000.
And
bills from Bupa, Eircom, the TV licence crowd and Vodafone had been shoved in a pile at the back of the microwave. It was better than putting them straight in the recycling, I thought.

But how could I forget Annette? Crap. I had been admiring how glossy a woman’s blonde hair was in the adjacent line when I remembered the text from Barron’s wife, threatening me. Get a solicitor, eh? This should be interesting. I own nothing apart from a few designer labels and some jewellery. If she can squeeze blood out of this stone I’ll kiss her myself!

Another wave of depression hit me. Although I was a girl who was attracted to wealth, I had amassed none of my own, and had frittered away all my previous earnings on frivolous things like entertainment, taxis and holidays to Marbella. My mother was forever nagging me about saving for a house, or the possibility of putting some money aside for a rainy day. Unfortunately this week the outlook was for a monsoon, and the kitty had not only been spent, the bottom of the barrel had been licked clean.

Knowing my luck, there will be nothing more than a tin of chick peas and Weight Watchers’ rice pudding in the cupboard, and I’ll be left thinking, why did I buy this stuff? I don’t even eat it.

Things would have to change. But then I glanced back down at my phone, its battery power was running dangerously low now, and proudly smiled at the happy screensaver of Michael and myself.

Would I have swapped the last week of terrific sex
with
such a hunk for a sensible millennium of work and early nights in Dublin? No chance!

With just enough cash to grab a Tropical Twist smoothie and a bag of popcorn, I sat at Gate 82 waiting to board. Feeling a renewed sense of excitement I couldn’t wait to get home and fill Maddie in on all the nitty-gritty details of my true romance.

She’d be waiting for me in Dublin Airport arrivals at 1.30 to take me home. Shame I only had a token menu from the Ivy to say thank you …

The lift home with Maddie was strained. She looked worse than me, but every time I asked her if she was OK, she’d just bark back at me, ‘
I’m fine!
’

She hadn’t seemed remotely interested in the fact that I had met Paul O’Grady at 6a.m. in some restaurant place that still served us champagne.

‘I didn’t know both his parents are Irish,’ I rambled. ‘Now, I think his mother is from Gardiner Street, or did he say his dad was from Gardiner Street? Either way one of them is from Dublin and the other is from Mayo. He was great craic, you know. Really friendly when he heard the Irish accent.’

But I might as well have been reading her the shipping forecast, for the interest she showed.

The real alarm bells started ringing when I said that I had bumped into Chris Evans at Zilli Fish and that he’d bummed money off us for a bottle of wine.

Many moons ago, Maddie had met him at Renards
with
me, when he had just signed that massive £75 million deal with Virgin. That was before he had fallen in love and married Billie Piper, and they had only shared a quick snog, but she always thought that if she had played easier to get, she might have been the one with the red Porsche birthday presents and the Vegas wedding.

‘OK, stop the car,’ I ordered. ‘Something’s up, so just spit it out!’

‘If you don’t shut up you can get out and walk.’

Maddie’s tone was so serious I believed her.

We spent the next fifteen minutes in silence.

When we pulled up outside my little house in Stoneybatter, we sat for another moment in deafening silence. I hated to see Maddie upset. But I was afraid to say anything that might to make her worse.

Eventually, Maddie spoke. But she kept her eyes focused directly above her as if keeping watch for passing birds that might shit on her car.

‘So how are you fixed for money these days?’ Her question sounded loaded.

‘I’m screwed,’ I told her honestly.

‘Hmmm. Me too,’ she whispered, almost as if she wasn’t speaking to me, but to herself.

Worried she’d fly off the handle if I asked her if she was all right again, I patted her hand, which was all tensed up and almost decapitating the gearstick, and asked her, ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, hon?’

Realizing her bad mood, Maddie strained a fake
smile
and declined my offer. ‘I’ll catch you later, babes. I’ve a job at 3.30.’

‘Call me later when you get a chance?’ I pushed, but with a quick ‘Yeah’ she had pushed me on to the path and screeched off down the road in her super-sexy silver 3 Series BMW.

I then spent the next ten minutes scrapping through dirty underwear and old razors in the side panels of my Samsonite to find my house keys.

Suffering with a bad case of ringxiety, I felt emotionally dependent on my phone.

It was Monday morning and there was still no word from Michael.

So far I had growled at Parker, my sister Ruth and some young PR twit who was wondering did I have a contact number for the model Glenda Gilson and had made the fatal error of ringing me.

I hadn’t held, smelt, kissed or spoken to my boy in forty-eight hours. The frustration was positively killing me. Why hadn’t he phoned? Was he OK? Maybe his plane crashed? No, I would have heard on the news. But maybe he was in a car crash and he’s in hospital injured with amnesia? That wouldn’t have made the news.

I know, I’m being stupid. He’s probably just been busy, or playing hard to get. That must be it. Blokes always have their own rule-book for how many days they should leave it before they call a girl.

Hmmm, I wasn’t happy.

Then again, maybe he left his phone by mistake in Frankie’s place and that’s why it keeps ringing out. My mind kept racing, thinking of the endless reasons why he hadn’t got in touch.

Damn him anyway …

Tuesday night, Valentine’s night –
and
supposedly my wedding night – the Bitches of Eastwick found themselves slouched on Parker’s couch, stuffing their faces with aromatic duck, ribs, sweet ’n’ sour chicken and far too many prawn crackers, while struggling to stay focused on Woody Allen’s
Match Point
.

‘This is shit,’ groaned Parker, with his usual attention span of an ant.

Maybe it was just because I was in such a foul mood, but I had to agree with him. I hated everything about this movie – the cinematography, the weak acting, Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s irritating English accent. Even the way the very gorgeous Scarlett Johansson pouted annoyed me.

‘I hate to admit it, but you’re right,’ I sighed. ‘This is possibly the worst movie I’ve
ever
seen!’

‘It’s drivel. It’s not just shit, it’s about as exciting as our sex lives right now,’ declared Maddie as she sucked on a spare rib bone suggestively.

‘What you mean is it’s lacking in spunk?’ teased Parker.

‘Ha, very droll, Mr Pink,’ snarled Maddie, ‘but not everyone gets as excited about body fluids as you, my dear.’

Feeling the need to interrupt Parker before he embarked on a rant, I offered, ‘Anyone for more chicken balls?’ But of course that just set Parker off on another tangent. ‘Chicken balls … Tennis balls … I need hunky male balls, Goddamn it. What are we doing here apart from dribbling Hoi Sin sauce all over my suede couch? Thank you very much, Eva. But come on, this is depressing. Let’s go out and play.’ Parker’s eyes bulged passionately.

Like a man on a mission, he gave his best hurtful truth justification for why we should entertain his impulse demand.

‘Look, face it, Eva, he’s just not that into you. That’s how the saying goes. If he was, Michael would have called you by now. So put it down to a cute holiday romance and let’s hope you didn’t catch any STDs off him.’

I managed to force out ‘Ah, thanks darlin’,’ before my eyes welled up with tears and my heart felt like it was pounding from my throat.

As Maddie pushed her plate aside to comfort me, Parker swung his attention to her and unleashed his tongue in a similar attack.

‘And as for you, Missy, you’ve been more ho lately than all the hookers on Leeson Street put together. It’s about time you left some straight men for us gay boys and pointed your friend here in the direction of your STD guy, Dr Freedman.’

Totally gobsmacked, Maddie and I sat holding hands on the edge of our seat in total silence. We both
knew
he had valid points, but we couldn’t believe he could be so hurtful.

‘Jaysus, Parker, you’re some bitch. I’m kinda getting the hint that Michael – the bastard – isn’t going to ring me, but do you really need to be such a bully about it?’ My voice quivered as I spoke.

‘Sorry,’ conceded Parker, ‘but you’ve been moping about him since you’ve got back. He’s obviously moved on.’

‘Oh,
all
of three days, jeez, I’m so sorry for being such a thorn in your side.’ My response shifted quickly from self-pity to anger.

Temporarily Parker was left speechless, he knew he’d gone too far, and he could sense that neither of us was in the mood to entertain his cynical monologues.

After an awkward silence while both Maddie and I just snarled at him menacingly, he took a deep intake of breath, rearranged his shirt over the large G of his Gucci belt and then huffed his way towards the hall and disappeared into the bathroom. Maddie and I took one look at each other and at the same time whispered, ‘Let’s get outta here.’

Practised Houdini artists, we had slipped out of Parker’s apartment in seconds, closing the door gently behind us, before screaming like escaped mental patients as we ran down the back stairs.

By the time we skulked out the front door we were totally out of breath, but energized by the exertion.

‘What now?’ I asked, ready to take on any possibility.
Reaching
for inspiration, Maddie’s face curled up in one of her cute frowns. A wave of devilment flashed in her eyes.

‘Let’s go to a dirty pub and get drunk,’ she said, but in a tone that indicated: this is what we’re doing so don’t argue with me.

Happy to oblige I offered up a few potential boozers, but Maddie had decided exactly where she wanted to go. With a strut that was more gangster than catwalk, she began dragging me in the direction of Pearse Street in predatory fashion. If she’d been an animal she would have been frothing at the mouth. Instead she was a model, so she just flared her nostrils and flicked her mane of hair in a spirited manner.

After several pint bottles of Bulmers, which Maddie bought since I’d nothing but shrapnel in my pocket, our problems inevitably got worse.

For some reason Maddie hadn’t pandered to my frustration with Michael, and in fact had been nothing but a bitch to me for no apparent reason. Finding ourselves in a grotty pub, just as she had wished, had done nothing to improve her mood. Then again, she hardly got the welcome she’d been hoping for.

Her efforts to flirt with the middle-aged barman who looked like Brendan Gleeson in
The General
were rebuffed.

Then she tried to make friends with the locals with a playful toast that consisted of her winking like a
pirate
and putting on the worst Dub accent to ask, ‘All right bud?’

But her greetings were as welcome as a bloody 12-ounce Angus steak at a dinner party for vegans and eventually she gave up trying to be popular and turned her heightened anxiety towards me.

Despite several sloppy texts to Michael, I received no reply. And just as my tolerance level of Maddie had reached its limit, a gorgeous guy walked in the door.

He was tall and blond. Best of all, he had a mate.

Two days later I’m sitting staring at a text from my landlord to say that he was sorry to have missed me yesterday, and that he’d be over at 6.30p.m. to collect his rent, when my mate from
So Now
magazine, Elizabeth, rang.

‘Hey stranger,’ she asked, all bright and breezy. ‘How’s unemployment treating you?’

‘Comedian is it now?’ I snapped back, unnecessarily cold.

‘Sorry, hon, not funny I know. Anyhoo, what’s the diddly dory on Robert?’

‘Who’s he? The man with my winning Lottery ticket?’

‘Eh, Robert. The sex-tremely shy guy who rang the office just two minutes ago, asking for your number. He said he met you in some pub on Valentine’s night and that he wanted to ring you to find out if you were OK? And to see if he could take you out for a drink?’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope, he sounds cute. What happened?’