Marian Keyes - Watermelon (13 page)

"Thanks very much, Mrs. Walsh," he said politely.

He was so nice. And I'm not just saying that because he was the only one who ate the dinner I made. He was so boyish in a manly kind of way. But even though he was alarmingly good-looking I felt very relaxed with him, because I knew that he must be only about eighteen or so. Although he looked and behaved with a lot more maturity.

To be honest, I nearly felt a little bit jealous of Helen, landing herself such a hunk. I remembered vaguely what it was like to be young and in love. But I told myself not to be so silly. I'd fix things with James. Or else I'd meet someone else as nice.

(Nice? I thought in alarm. Did I just say nice? That was hardly the right word to describe James at that moment.)

But Adam, the hero, saved the conversation.

Mum asked him where he lived.

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This was part of a routine inquiry and was the first question in a set of two that Mum religiously asked gentlemen callers. The second question involved finding out from the young man what his father did for a living.

And thereby assessing the approximate wealth of the family just in case Helen happened to marry into it. And so that Mum would have a rough idea of how much she would be expected to spend on the "mother-of-the- bride" dress.

But Adam managed to head Mum off at the pass and avoid being asked to produce a recent copy of his father's payslip by entertaining us all with snippets of his life story. Apparently he was from America. Both his parents had recently returned to New York, so he lived in an apartment in Rathmines. Although both his parents were Irish and he had lived in Ireland since he was twelve, he still looked American.

It must be something they put in the air in America, I thought. Fluoride, or something, that made them grow so big and beefy.

Adam amused us all with stories of what it was like for him when he first moved from New York to Dublin. And how the native children wel- comed him by calling him "fascist imperialist Yank" and acting as though he was personally responsible for the U.S. invasion of Grenada, and beating the crap out of him for calling tomatoes "tom-ay-toes" and for calling his mother "Mom" instead of "Mammy."

And how, when he tried to defend himself by beating up some of the native children he got called a bully because he was so much bigger than the other boys.

We all nodded sympathetically, sitting around with our elbows on the kitchen table, looking at Adam, our hearts breaking for the poor lonely twelve-year-old boy who couldn't do anything right. You could have heard a pin drop. The mood had suddenly changed from a lighthearted one to a somber one.

Even Dad looked on the verge of tears. He was obviously thinking, "He might not play rugby but that's still no way to treat the lad."

Then Adam turned the full force of his attention onto me. He twisted around in his chair and fixed me with an intense

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look. In a funny way, he made me feel as if I were the only person in the room.

He was so eager and enthusiastic about everything. Like a little puppy. Well, like an enormous puppy, actually.

"So, Claire, tell me about your job," he said. "Helen tells me that you've got a really important job working for a charity."

I bloomed under the warmth of his interest--like a flower in the sun--and started to tell him.

But before I could, Helen interrupted. "I didn't say it was important," she said sourly. "I just said it was a job. And anyway, she had to give it up when she had the baby."

"Oh, the baby," he said. "Can I see her?"

"Of course," I said, delighted, but wondering why Helen was being so nasty. Why she was being even nastier than usual, I mean.

"Kate's asleep at the moment but she'll be awake in about half an hour so you can see her then."

"Great," he said, looking at me.

Honestly, he was gorgeous. His eyes were a kind of navy blue. And he had the most beautiful body. I thought this purely from an objective point of view. He was my sister's boyfriend, so it was all right for me to admire his beauty just aesthetically speaking, as it were.

I felt a bit like a wise old woman admiring the handsome young men. Realizing how gorgeous they were while acknowledging that my day of dalliance with them was long gone.

For dessert I produced the chocolate mousse, which was greeted with a great deal more enthusiasm than the dinner was. The jostling and scuffling that broke out among Anna, Helen and Dad for the biggest piece was nothing short of shameful, and us with a visitor in the house.

But Adam just laughed good-naturedly.

After a while I took him to see Kate.

We tiptoed into the room.

"Can I hold her?" he asked reverently.

"Of course." I smiled, very touched by his awe.

I thought it was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard that such a big tough man wanted to see my baby, sort of like a huge burly truck driver crying at country and western songs. Incon-

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gruous and touching. I handed Kate gently to him and he took her and held her gingerly.

She didn't even wake up.

The idiot! What kind of daughter was I rearing? Being held, for the first time, by a beautiful man and she slept through it. It made such a beautiful picture. The huge young man holding the perfect little baby.

"What color are her eyes?" he asked.

"Blue," I said. "But all babies have blue eyes first. Then they usually change to another color."

He continued to stare at her with an expression of wonder on his face.

"You know, if you and I had a baby its eyes would definitely be blue," he mused, sounding almost as if he was talking to himself.

I jumped with shock. Was he flirting with me? I felt a surge of rage.

I had thought he was so innocent and nice. A sweet young man.

The nerve of him!

Not only was I old enough to be his mother...Well, very nearly. But he was here with my sister and was doing a very good impression of being her boyfriend.

Had he no respect?

No sense of decency?

But I was wrong. I looked at him and our eyes locked for a minute. I could see that he was really deathly embarrassed.

He definitely knew that he had made a faux pas.

The room was full of tension and embarrassment.

"Well, I'd better get back to Helen and the essay," he said hurriedly, practically flinging Kate back to me and rushing from the room without a second glance.

I sat on the bed feeling a bit funny.

Was I feeling foolish for overreacting?

Was I feeling sad at my cynicism for just jumping to the wrong conclu- sion?

Was I feeling...God forbid...disappointed?

No, I decided. Definitely not disappointed. But certainly a bit foolish. You've been away from men too long, I told myself sternly. You'd better get back into circulation. So that the next

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time you meet an attractive one you won't be jumping to any ridiculous conclusions.

But at the same time I must admit that I was slightly piqued by the way he'd reacted at the suggestion that we have a baby. There was no need for him to look quite so horrified.

God, but it was typical.

In time-honored tradition I had gone from being furious at the suggestion that he did like me to being furious at the suggestion that he didn't like me in about thirty seconds. Being rational was never my strong point.

I mean, I might well be an "older woman" but I wasn't exactly the Bride of Dracula. I'd have him know, plenty of men found me attractive. Well, I was sure there must be some somewhere who did. There were three billion people on this planet. Out of that lot I was sure I could have rustled up a few poor misfortunates who liked the look of me.

The nerve of the guy. Just because he happened to be extremely good- looking didn't give him any right to make me feel like a horror.

And I might not have been quite as beautiful as Helen.

In fact, I wasn't even remotely as beautiful as Helen.

But I was a kind person.

Not that anyone ever liked someone because they were a kind person.

I fed Kate and put her back to bed.

Then I went downstairs to Mum.

I passed Helen's bedroom on the way and the door was firmly shut. The pair of them were obviously well ensconced in there. Easy writing, indeed! Mum and Dad might have bought that line, but I've used it enough times myself to know what it really means.

But at the same time, if they were having sex, they were doing it very quietly. Not, of course, that I was listening at the door or anything. And not, of course, that it had anything, in the whole wide world, to do with me.

Helen could screw whomever she liked.

With great purpose I watched television with Mum.

Much later we heard Helen and Adam in the kitchen.

Then we heard her saying good-bye to him.

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He stuck his head around the door and thanked us for the lovely dinner and said that he hoped to see us again soon.

Mum and I smiled our good-byes at him.

"Lovely polite lad," said Mum in a satisfied fashion.

I didn't answer her. I was thinking that he didn't look too disheveled for someone who had just been having sex. And wondering why I cared.

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After Adam left, and Helen had sent him out into the wet and wild March night to make his way home to Rathmines, she closed the front door behind him and came into the television room and sat down with Mum and me.

"He seemed like a lovely lad," said Mum approvingly.

"Did he?" said Helen distantly.

"Lovely," said Mum emphatically.

"Oh, don't go on like you usually do," snapped Helen irritably.

There was a little bit of an awkward pause.

Then I spoke.

"How old is Adam?" I asked Helen casually.

"Why?" she asked without looking away from the television screen. "Do you like him?"

"No," I protested, blushing hotly.

"Oh, really?" she said. "Everyone else does. The whole college does. Mum does."

Mum looked a little bit taken aback and startled and like she was about to defend herself. Before she could, though, Helen started talking again to me.

"And you looked like you fancied him. Giggling and smiling at him. You're worse than Anna. I was mortified."

"I was being polite," I insisted.

"You weren't being polite," she told me tonelessly, still looking at the screen. "You fancied him."

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"Helen, for God's sake, did you expect me to ignore him and not talk to him?" I asked her angrily.

"No," she said coldly. "But you didn't have to be so obvious about fancying him."

"Helen, I'm a married woman," I said, raising my voice at her. "Of course I didn't fancy him. And he's much younger than me."

"Hah!" she shouted back at me. "So you do fancy him. You're just afraid that he's too young. Well, don't worry, because Professor Staunton is married and she's in love with him and got drunk and was crying in the bar and saying she'd leave her husband and everything. We were all in fits laughing. And she's ancient. Even older than you!"

At that Helen jumped up and ran out of the room, slamming the door thunderously behind her. No doubt dislodging the last few remaining slates from the roof.

"Oh God," sighed Mum wearily. "It's like a bloody relay race around here. No sooner does one daughter stop behaving like an Antichrist than another one starts. How did you all get to be so temperamental? You're like a pack of Italians."

"What's wrong with her?" I asked Mum. "Why is she getting all touchy about Adam?"

"Oh, I suppose she's in love with him," said Mum vaguely. "Or at least she thinks she might be."

"What?" I asked, aghast. "Helen in love? Are you out of your mind? The only person Helen is in love with is herself."

"That's a very unkind thing to say about your sister," said Mum, looking at me thoughtfully.

"Well, I don't mean it unkindly," I explained hurriedly. "I just mean that everyone's always in love with her. It's never the other way around."

"There's a first time for everything," said Mum wisely.

We sat quietly.

Mum broke the silence.

"Anyway, she was right."

"About what?" I asked her, wondering what she was talking about.

"You did like him."

"I did not like him," I said indignantly.

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Mum turned to me with raised eyebrows and a knowing look.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "He was gorgeous! I liked him myself. If I was twenty years younger I'd give him a run for his money."

I said nothing. I was feeling a bit upset.

"And what's more," Mum continued, "he liked you. No wonder Helen's nose is out of joint."

"That's crap!" I protested loudly.

"It's not," said Mum calmly. "It was obvious that he liked you. Although, then again," she continued doubtfully, "I thought he liked me too. Maybe he's just one of those men who make every women feel beautiful."

Now I was feeling very confused indeed.

"But Mum," I tried to explain, "I'm married to James and I love him and I want to fix my marriage."

"I know that," she said. "But maybe a little fling is exactly what you need. To get your self-confidence back. And to get your feelings for James in perspective."

I stared at Mum in horror. What was she talking about? This was my mother, for God's sake. What on earth was she doing encouraging me to have a fling, and me a married woman? And with my younger sister's boyfriend, of all people.

"Mum!" I said. "Get a grip. You're scaring me. I mean, I'm not eighteen anymore. I no longer think that the best way to get over one man is to get under another!"

Too late, I realized what I had said. I could have bitten my tongue off.

Mum looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"I don't know where you heard a vulgar expression like that," she hissed. "But it certainly wasn't in this house. Is that the way they talk in London?"

"Sorry, Mum," I mumbled, feeling mortified and ashamed but at least back on familiar territory.

I sat on the couch beside her feeling awful.

"Well," she said after a while in a more conciliatory tone, "we'll say no more about what you just said."

"Okay," I said, feeling relieved.

Thank God! I was just about to start packing my bags for my move back to London.

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"Anyway," she said, "he's twenty-four."

"How do you know?" I asked her, amazed.

"Aha." She winked at me, touching her nose. "I have my sources."

"You mean you asked him," I said. I knew my mother of old.

"I might have," she said coyly, giving nothing away.

"So you see," she continued, "he's not too young for you at all."

"Mum," I wailed in anguish. "What's this all about? Anyway, I'm nearly thirty and he's only twenty-four. So he's still far too young for me."

"Nonsense," said Mum briskly. "Look at Britt Ekland, always being photographed with that fellow who's young enough to be her grandson. Although maybe he is her grandson. And that other floozy, the one who goes around with no clothes on, what's her name?"

"Madonna?" I ventured cautiously.

"No, no, not her. You know the one. She has a tattoo on her backside."

"Oh, you mean Cher," I told her.

"Yes, that's the one," said Mum. "I mean, she must be my age if she's a day and look at the way she carries on. None of them a day over sixteen. I suppose Ike must have been the last man she was with who was older than her."

"Ike?" I asked her, my head swimming slightly.

"Yes, Ike. Her husband," said Mum impatiently.

"No Mum, I don't think Cher was married to Ike. Cher was married to Sonny. Ike was married to Tina," I told her.

"Who's Tina?" she asked me, sounding baffled.

"Tina Turner," I gently explained.

"What's she got to do with anything?" said Mum, sounding outraged, looking at me as if I'd gone completely crazy.

"Nothing at all," I tried to explain, feeling that I was fast losing any grip on this conversation. "It's just that you said that Cher and Ike...Oh, never mind, never mind. Just forget it."

Mum sulkily muttered to herself that she didn't have to forget anything. That I was the one who had brought Tina Turner into the conversation.

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"Stop being angry, Mum," I told her in a placatory fashion. "I get your point. I see what you're saying. Adam isn't too young for me."

I glanced nervously at the door as soon as I had said this. I half expected Helen to come bursting through and shout, "I knew you fancied him, you horrible old lady." And then attempt to strangle me.

She didn't. But the fear still lingered.

"But anyway, Mum," I continued, "the age question aside, aren't you forgetting a couple of other vital points? Like the small fact that Adam is Helen's boyfriend."

"Aha!" she said, holding up her index finger and going all sagelike and wise-old-womanly on me. She practically put on a black headscarf and developed a squint, "but is he?"

"Well, why else was he here?" I asked, reasonably, I thought.

"To help her to write her essay," said Mum.

"And why would he do that if he's not her boyfriend? Or at least if he's not making a damn good attempt to be," I asked again, reasonably, I thought.

"Because he's a nice person?" said Mum. But she sounded a bit doubtful.

"Anyway," I said, "it was obvious that he really liked her."

"Was it?" she said, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Yes," I said, quite emphatically.

"But even if he is her boyfriend, he won't be for long," predicted Mum.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, wondering what other information she had gleaned from the beautiful Adam.

"Because of the way Helen is," said Mum. "Helen just wants to make him fall for her. Then she'll torment him for a while. And then she'll discard him," said Mum. "She was always like that. Even as a child. For months before Christmas she'd be pestering us for this doll and that bike. And the turkey wouldn't be even eaten before she had broken every single thing that Santa brought her. She wasn't happy until she had destroyed everything. Dolls' heads and legs and bicycle chains and saddles all over the place. You'd break your neck on them."

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"That's not a very nice way to talk about Helen," I said, echoing what Mum had said to me earlier.

"Maybe not," said Mum with a sigh. "But it's the truth. I love her and she's a good girl, really. She just needs to grow up a little bit. Well, a big bit, I suppose."

"But you said that Helen might be in love with Adam," I said.

"I said that Helen might think she's in love with him. An entirely different proposition," she said. "And even if she is in love with him, although if you ask me I think she's too immature to be capable of it," continued Mum, "it would do her no harm at all to be dealt a little bit of hardship by life. She's had everything far too easy. A little bit of heartbreak goes a long way. I mean, look at how good it's been for you. It gives you humility."

"So you want me to have a fling with Helen's boyfriend to give me back my confidence and to give Helen a bit of humility," I said, finally thinking that I had grasped what Mum was saying to me.

"Good God," said Mum, annoyed. "You're making me sound like that one out of Dynasty. Playing God with people's lives and all that. It sounds very cold-blooded when you say it like that."

"I'm not saying that I want anything to happen, exactly," she continued. "But I really did feel that Adam was very attracted to you. And that, if he is, and if anything was to happen, and if you survive Helen's attempts on your life--by Jingo, there's an awful lot of `ifs' there--then maybe you should just let what's going to happen happen."

"Oh, Mum," I sighed. "You've made me all confused."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said. "Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe he doesn't like you at all."

I've had enough, I thought.

"Well, I'm off to bed," I said.

"Sweet dreams," said Mum, squeezing my hand. "I'll be in to kiss Kate good-night."

And off I went to my bedroom and got ready for bed. My nightgown was obviously annoyed with me. It didn't take kindly to being neglected and left at home while I wore Helen's leggings and shirt to the shopping center. I was your

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friend, it told me. I saw you through the rough times, it reminded me. You're fickle and nothing but a foul weather friend. The minute things pick up, and you start feeling a bit more normal, you just discard me, throw me over.

Oh shut up, I thought, or I'll never wear you again. And then you really will have something to complain about.

I had more important things on my mind than disgruntled nighties and their grievances.

As I lay down I realized that I hadn't really thought of James in about three hours.

This was an absolute miracle.

All in all, it had been a most unusual day.

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