Fur Coat No Knickers (26 page)

Stealing myself for my appointment and needing to feel better after Laura’s lecture, I decided to read back some of the
(admittedly few) filthy, dirty text messages Travis had sent me. My insides started racing and dancing with desire again. He was just so exciting and unpredictable. But
yes,
I sighed to myself,
maybe Laura did have a very minor point about his inconsistencies.

Sitting in the hospital waiting room, I slid my phone out from my handbag and stared at the blank screen.
No new messages.
The aching for him to contact me was never-ending. My heart descended ever deeper into the achy land of limbo. Reluctantly, I looked at the clock. I had been in this poxy hospital for two hours now. I was far from meeting the hunky ‘Dr. White Coat’ - so far I had just met a bored-looking, grumpy nurse who ordered me to go upstairs for blood tests.

‘It’s on a first-come, first-
served basis,’ she said, as she handed me a form, barely looking at me. ‘You might have a bit of a wait. When you’ve done that, come back down here and the nurse will go through the rest with you.’

I sighed heavily. I really couldn't be bothered to hang around any
more. But I had to go; I had been feeling too poorly for too long.

It had been 13 days, 3 hours and 23 minutes since I had last received a text from Travis
, but even that was only to confirm he was meeting me at the Salon for our ‘date’.  Having said that, this was the longest he had ever gone without contacting me. It was nearly two whole weeks of crippling uncertainty. It had been nearly 14 long, wine-indulging, nail-biting, comfort-eating, uncontrollably sobbing
‘bastard-I-hate-him - fuck-it-I-love-him’
days of hell.

Clutching my phone close to my heart, I decided it was time to have another go at
bargaining with the Big-Man upstairs.

‘Please, let him contact me today and I promise
- in fact - I swear on everything I own, I’ll say a decade of the Rosary and I’ll go to your house and light a candle for St. Jude, the patron Saint of lost causes,’ I muttered.
This has surely got to work, hasn’t it?
Mum always said that if we did this, we would have our request granted.

‘
Now, I know it seems that I only talk to you when I want something,’ I continued, oblivious to the looks I was getting from the elderly man sitting beside me.
Feckin’ hell, I was only whispering, why doesn’t he mind his own business?
‘I know that you’re busy, with at least a million other requests from all your real fans who actually attend mass every week, but to hear from him now would really be good for me. A call, or even a lousy text with just an ‘x’ is all I ask for’.

I drew a slow, quivering breath. Moments
passed, but there were no immediate results. Maybe I wouldn’t see the results right away, or my request was waiting in line and would come through shortly. Mind you, the Big-Man hadn’t even got to my prayer from this morning. Strikes me, he might need a few angels to sort out his admin for him. I counted to three, then to ten, then to thirty very slowly. Nothing. I stared at my phone willing it to stir into life. Giving it a shake, I performed my now obsessive switch-off/ switch-on routine. This was now becoming a fully-fledged compulsive disorder.
Okay then, your Holiness, when you’re ready then… but can it please be today?

Travis’
silence was eating me up from the inside out. Come to think of it, my phone had been very quiet in general. Maybe there was something wrong with my network. Craving some form of acknowledgment, I decided to give it a test.

[Text to Siobhan]

I’m testing my phone - I think its broken, did you get this? And if you did, can you text me back ASAP? Thanks Xx

[Text from Siobhan]

Testin testin! I like 2 b wined dined & 69nd. I take it u haven’t heard from him then? Did u get this?? xxxx

Disgusted, I threw my phone into my handbag and headed towards the ladies. I’d been dying for a pee for ages and couldn’t hold on any longer. If my appointment with the nurse came up, they’d just have to wait.

‘Jesus!’
A flash look in the grubby hospital mirror made me jump. My peroxide blonde hair, recently extended by ten inches, had settled itself into a shape that could only be described as resembling that of a cat’s arse perched on top of my head. It had a mind of its own. What was happening to me? I also had started to notice that the growth of my leg hair had slowed down in recent days too.
Excellent,
you may think - Wrong! It seemed all my leg hair had actually decided to migrate to my upper lip. Adding to that, my newly acquired ‘retained water’ look left me with a permanently jutting tummy. It was safe to say - I was not looking my best. It was no wonder Travis wasn’t returning my calls.

Forgetting all about my pee, I stepped up close to the mirror and began my routine facial inspection; pulling the skin by my hairline tightly upwards
, momentarily taking away ten years worth of the effects of gravity. Of course, this only ever lasts about a nanosecond. As I let go, ten years came flopping back.

‘I don’t remember
that
line in my face,’ I gasped. This was becoming a regular catchphrase of mine.
It certainly wasn’t there yesterday.
Frantically I tried smoothing it away with the tips of my fingers, hoping it might be a crease mark from frowning so much. No such luck, it was most definitely a new wrinkle that had crept up on me.

You
, little bastard, are going to get filled tomorrow
, I said to myself, wagging my finger at the offending wrinkle. I pulled my face this way and that, lifted my brows up with my fingers and tilted my head at different angles. God I looked rough. I need a face-lift. I’ll have to put that on my
want-it - need-it - must-have-it
list.
Oh, I wish my Botox would hurry up and kick in,
I thought, as I continued scanning the rest of my ageing body. I hated this cruel mirror. I was almost certain that it was faulty.
Hang on a minute.
I staggered back from the mirror in horror.

No. It can’t be. It’s not possible. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?
I could actually see my own arse without even turning round. Bloody fantastic.
I am definitely going to demand a refund on my poxy gym membership.
Could things get any worse?

Miserably, I walked over to the l
oo and had my long awaited pee; hovering as far away from the porcelain as was physically possible without peeing on my shoes (which wasn’t easy now I could apparently no longer pee straight). Thankfully, I managed to wash my hands and exit the room without catching another glance of myself in the
Mirror of Horrible Truth.

As I headed towards an empty seat, I heard an exasperated voice shouting my name.

‘Tara Ryan?
Tara
Ryan?’

‘That’s me,’ I shouted, rather too loudly.

I’m sure I saw her tut and shake her head as she motioned me to follow her into the brightly lit consulting room. Everything about her demeanor screamed that she didn’t want any small talk.
That’s fine by me. I’ll save my sweet talk for Dr. White Coat. I don’t need to impress her
. The wrinkly old camel.
She needs a good old rodgering,
I thought.
I bet she hasn't had sex in years. Mind you, who would want to, with a face like that?

Anyway, back to the point in hand, I mused.
How would I go about giving Travis our wonderful news?

I would
wear a white, virginal diaphanous flowing gown and cook a candlelit dinner for two (okay, actually I can’t cook, but I can certainly order food in that will look like I’ve cooked it).

Then I would make my announcement:

‘We are with child.’

No.

‘We are pregnant.’

No.

‘You’ve scored.’

Hmm
… maybe I might need to work on that line. I’m so not going to let myself go while I am pregnant either. No way.

MENTAL
NOTE TO PREGNANT SELF:

1. No puking - it’s very unflattering. Morning sickness, if applicable, must wait till Travis has left the house.
   
2. No leggings, no anoraks and absolutely no lesbian haircuts.
   
3. No stretch marks. I will bathe in Bio-Oil for at least two hours every day.
   
4. Buy a sexy Agent Provocateur Babydoll nightie to give birth in; with fully-matching mules piped in their classic colours with the initials ‘TC’ (Tara Coleman) on them.
   
5. No screaming or howling during labour. I will breath like a Buddha; controlled and in a peaceful manner.
   
6. Must schedule tightening of lady-garden immediately after birth of our perfect baby.
   
7. Breast is best. Hmm… not sure I want to have my silicones removed. I will definitely have to think about that one. I will miss my chin-hitting friends.
   
8. Caressing of breast area will only resume once
   re-inflated with new ‘sticky up bosoms’.
   
9. Book
   a tummy tuck. And throw in a sneaky facelift for good measure (they might do buy one, get one free!)
   
10. Must ask Travis to give me a list of his celebrity buddies, need to choose suitable Godparents.
    

Satisfied with my to-do list, I began to picture what I would wear whilst pregnant. I would definitely need to wear sexy skintight dresses to show off my long-awaited event. I would wear my beautiful Louboutin heels and look every part the radiant mummy to be.

Meanwhile, we would keep up a strict regime of mind-blowing sex daily, maybe even three times a day, or for as long as is possible.  

Lost in my dreams, I stuck out my arm and let Nurse Ratchet tap on my veins till she announced she had found a juicy one.

‘Nearly done,’ she said grabbing another vial to fill. ‘Right, that’s it. We’ll call you soon with the results.’

And that was that.

I drove home in a trance.
I can’t believe I had to spend three hours in hospital for nothing. No big announcement. No ‘congratulations, Miss Ryan’. Nothing. I should have gone feckin’ private. Then, I wouldn’t have to wait to hear what was plainly obvious to all. I am pregnant. I must be, mustn’t I?

This should be the happiest time of my life, but it just stubbornly wouldn’t fall into place. Nothing was going to plan. Why was everything so complicated? And why did I have to
fall in love with someone who is in the public eye? And why couldn't he be seen out with me and have a normal life?

Most importantly,
why can’t he simply get in touch with me?

I just had to send him one more text.
Now, I know all the self-help books tell you not to chase a man.
(I had cleared the shelves at Waterstones in the past two weeks in a bid to understand Travis better).
And
I get that you are supposed to leave them alone once they've gone into their cave.
(Thank you, Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus)
.
But come on, he’s been in his ‘cave’ way too long now. And surely, even if a man is padding about in a cold, dark cave, he’ll at least bring along some boys toys in with him? Like his phone for example?

Maybe one more text won’t hurt, will it?

After an unsure moment, I made up my mind. I’d take the risk. I’ll just give him a gentle reminder, whilst not directly addressing his lack of contact (okay, I didn't say that I had read those self-help books to the end).

Scrolling through my contact list
, I looked for a name that would make my text to Travis appear like an innocent mistake. It has to be someone with a name beginning with a ‘T’ I thought, deviously. I felt delighted with myself for having thought of such an ingenious way of provoking a text from him.

[Text to Travis]

Hi Teresa, here’s your requested reminder of your appointment at 4:30pm today. Please confirm back with Glamma-Puss Salon. Tara.

My heart pounded as I pressed the send button.
Clever Tara. Now Travis will have to respond and let me know that I have sent him a text that was obviously meant for someone else.
Knowing I would surely get some kind of response before the appointment momentarily made me feel devilishly empowered. I now even felt like I might be able to muster the energy to go to the gym (to refund my membership, of course). But I didn't.

I settled down to wait.

The witching hour of 4:30pm came and went at a snail’s pace. Nothing. Not a peep. I could barely believe it. I sat on my sofa, rooted to the spot, staring into space.
What the feck will it take to make him react?

I don’t know how long I sat there, hours maybe, but suddenly I was overcome by a hidden rage. I was
now a woman on the edge. I couldn't take anymore. I was consumed by a mentalist idea that only a woman in desperate need would consider. Acting like an automaton, I withheld my number and called the bastard’s phone.

I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say, but I had to do something.

To my complete astonishment, the line at the other end clicked. My heart banged as he answered. I instantly hung up.

I was utterly traumatised. The fecker was clearly alive and had not lost his phone. After all my wild allegations and imagined disasters, nothing was wrong at all. He was, in fact, completely ignoring me.

I flopped back onto the sofa and started retching. I could barely breathe. My heart was in pieces. I honestly thought I might pass out with the sheer agony of how I felt. My phone suddenly pinged a text in my shaking hand - I could see it was from him.

[Text from Travis]

Tara, it’s over. Never contact me again.

‘OH - MY- GOD… He’s finished with me!’ I screamed in disbelief.

I read and re-read the devastating message. My insides collapsed with such a force that another boiling hot wave of nausea pricked and prodded my entire body. Without warning
, I threw up all over the sofa and myself.

Those
ensuing minutes I experienced were, what I can only explain as a complete mental and physical breakdown.

I
t felt like my eyes were popping out as I desperately tried to catch my breath. My face contorted into the ugliest expression imaginable, while I pointlessly waved my arms in the air. I was left panting and sobbing; trying desperately to find a position on the vomit-riddled sofa where my heart didn’t feel like it was about to explode from my body.

I don’t remember much about the next few hours. Piecing it together later, I think I began to hysterically phone anyone who would listen. They didn’t listen for long though, because I was blubbering an incomprehensible language that nobody could understand. ‘They said
not
to go into his cave but I
did,
’ I screamed, like a woman possessed. ‘The dragon has burnt me.’

Call after call, I wailed and repeated the verbal diarrhea like a mantra. I bemoaned my absolute failure i
n life, love, and everything in-between before clicking the red button and phoning the next number. Siobhan was call number four. Actually, she’d been call number one, but I hadn’t given her a moment to respond.  

‘Calm down and breathe,’ Siobhan interrupted, the second I got through. ‘Who has burnt you? A dragon? Tara, are you hallucinating? You haven’t
had a party without inviting me… have you?!’

I didn’t reply. I just wiped the dribbling snotty mess from my face to my sleeve and
forcibly lobbed my phone at the wall.

W
atching the object of my addiction explode mid-air made me change my mind. Frantically, I began searching on my hands and knees for the scattered remains of my phone.

‘What if he thinks he has made a terrible mistake?’
 I wailed, as I struggled to piece the various pieces of my phone back together. My world was tipping and crashing on its side at a rate that I couldn’t control. I felt like my life support had been cut off. My emotional stability was hanging by a thread, as I rocked myself back and forth curled up in a ball on the floor, cradling my burning, tear-stained face.
What the hell had I done so wrong that he could do this… and by text?

I dug my nails deep into my head
, howling and raging like a wounded animal. My heart hammered and thumped so loud I thought I was dying - I was now vaguely aware that I was on the verge of self-destructive melt down.

Forcing myself to stand up, I wiped my face with grim determination.
‘I’m worth more than this!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs. ‘Feck the world… Feck everyone… Feck what’s right and what’s wrong!’

Engulfed with toxic rage, accompanied by waves
of intense despair, I raced upstairs to the bathroom mirror and searched my tangled, twisted face.

Come on, Tara. You are better than this. You are not going to lie down and take this one.
I was going to win that bastard back if it killed me. I knew he still loved me. I just needed to remind him of that fact.

‘I have to fight for him,’ I told my distorted, tear-stained reflection. ‘I have to fight for
us
.’ I have no idea how I made it to the bottom of the stairs, or really how I planned to ‘win’ him back. The last thing I remember was booking the first available flight to Dublin.