Ordinary Miracles (31 page)

He was all man, that photographer in Madison County.
He moved like a leopard. It’s just as well he didn’t act like one, otherwise that woman might have looked up and found him crouching on the top of her wardrobe. The poignant thing was that they didn’t end up together.
But of course it also meant he didn’t have time to lie or long
for something else. In some ways that probably helped the
romance considerably.

It’s not just Bruce’s lies that hurt. It’s my own lies too. I’ve been trying to kid myself for quite a while now that
I’ve made these big changes. But I haven’t. Not really. I’m
frightened. I’m shit scared of asking myself what I really
want. Until recently even posing that question seemed an
impossible luxury. I knew what everybody else wanted and
that filled up my time.

Day-dreaming was my only form of subversion. And the
marvellous thing about Mell Nichols was that he understood
this completely. Even though he was, he is, a multi-million
dollar Hollywood star, in my fantasies he was capable of
enormous empathy. Our steamy sex in stalled hotel lifts was
an act of defiance against life’s more leaden regions. As he peeled off my clothes he peeled off my resignation. I was a
w
ild thing with him. Not quite a leopard, but certainly in
that sphere.

But they’re not enough any more – these fantasies about
Mell Nichols or my visualised Mediterranean. Life – real life
– involves a series of decisions and I’d better get started on
mine. The thing is I’m not quite sure how to go about it.

It’s like that time I went into a sports-shoe shop in
California
. There were hundreds of sports shoes displayed
on the wall, and they all looked the same to me. The
assistant said, defensively, that they were all very different.
They were all very different and very scientifically designed
and she could find the one that exactly matched my needs, if I knew them. Would I be using the shoes on grass, clay,
or tarmac? Did I have strong ankles? Would I wear them as
a fashion accessory? Would I walk in them to work? Would
I be jogging in them? Did I require extra cushioning at the
instep and deodorised insoles?

I didn’t know. As I stood there it occurred to me I hadn’t
thought much about the shoes at all. I looked around and
saw some white leather tennis ones on the floor. Someone
else must have just tried them on.

‘I’ll take those,’ I said, because I knew if I stood there much
longer I’d burst into tears.

My watch keeps going off. The watch Bruce gave me for
Christmas. It’s one of those digital jobs that measure many
types of time. I don’t use its more sophisticated features. I
just use it for the hours in a day. The problem is every time
an hour passes now it gives off a little bleep. It went off in the
newsagents some days ago and everyone froze for a second, as though I’d farted. I think I must have set the alarm when I
pressed the button that tells you the date. I don’t know why
I pressed that button because I knew the date anyway. I’ve
tried bashing it against the wall, but it still won’t shut up. I
have the instructions somewhere, so I suppose I’ll just have to read them. In the meantime I’ve left it under a cushion in the sitting-room.

Today the sleeve of my jumper keeps catching on the handle of the kitchen door. It’s a disconcerting feeling. It’s as though someone is grabbing me and hauling me backwards.

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I roar at the handle every time it happens. ‘Give me a break, will you!’

My neighbour, Mrs Anderson, has been over to tell me her cat, Tibby, has gone missing again.

‘I have no idea where he is,’ I told her frostily – I’d been in the bath when the doorbell rang. ‘He’s a tom-cat after all and they do tend to stray...have you thought of having him neutered?’

Mrs Anderson did not react favourably to this suggestion and stomped back across the road.

I’ve just put a Van Morrison song on the hi-fi. It’s one of his later CDs. ‘I forgot that love existed’ he sings.

I’ve turned up the volume. This song is one of Charlie’s favourites. I so much want to go to Charlie and have him hold me. But I can’t. I’m too terrified. If he turned out to be a liar too I just couldn’t deal with it. I want to keep him on the other side of the mountain, pristine and pure.

Susan must have told our mutual friends that I need some cheering up because the phone keeps ringing.

‘Are you all right, Jasmine?’ they ask. ‘Would you like to go to a film?’

‘Not just at the moment,’ I tell them. Then they usually ask if they can call round ‘for a chat’. I’ve been saying that I can’t meet them because I need to go to the hairdresser’s – which is in fact true. I do need to go to the hairdresser’s. The thing is I haven’t actually gone.

‘Let’s meet sometime next week,’ I say – because next week
feels like another world at the moment. I hope to God I’m
feeling better then because this house is going to be like
Piccadilly Circus
.

I wish I felt like talking to people, but I’m just not up to
it. The perfect companion for me now would be Rosie. We
could sit together and watch soaps and grunt at each other
occasionally. She wouldn’t need any explanations. Rosie can
sense shifts in mood, but she doesn’t pry.

Since Rosie is not around, I’ve taken to talking to Teddy.
‘My husband’s a liar and my daughter thinks she may be a
lesbian,’ I tell him.

Teddy looks at me sympathetically, but says nothing.

‘My marriage is over and I’m too scared to get involved with anyone else – even though there’s another man who’s
probably perfect for me.’

Teddy looks at me sympathetically but says nothing.

‘I need to go to the hairdresser’s and get the crack in the
sitting-room wall mended, but I don’t seem to care.’

Teddy remains non-judgemental.

‘I’ve got to work out what to do with my life before it’s
too late, and my watch keeps bleeping,’ I wail.

Teddy gives me his calm, reassuring stare.

I don’t mind that Teddy says nothing – especially not ‘Our
session is over – that will be 80 Euros please.’

After my latest talk with Teddy, I go to my father’s favourite
chair and sit on it. ‘Oh, Dad – what am I going to do?’ I ask.
Then I find myself getting up and going to the phone. I dial
Charlie’s number, then I hang up and stare at the crack in the sitting-room wall. I dial Charlie’s number again. My palms
start to sweat as I wait for him to answer. But Charlie’s not
there. He’s got his answering machine on. The message says
he’ll be at the studio until late this evening.

I’ve got to get out of this house. I decide I’ll drive over
to Charlie’s anyway and ride that horse he told me about.
I have a key to his place so I can go in and get the saddle
and bridle he’s borrowed. And I still have a pair of riding
boots and a hard hat from that time I thought I might train
to be a riding instructor. It’ll do me good to get out and feel
the wind in my hair. I need to blow away the cobwebs and
clear my head.

Bruce is due back this evening.

Bunty is now adorned with five L plates. The journey
from Glenageary to Bray is not without its moments of
panic. Sometimes I feel like pulling out my mobile and
summoning a taxi. I don’t. But once I’ve turned into Charlie’s
driveway and parked, I sit for a while, quaking.

After I’ve visited Rosie in her pen and given her a carrot and a hug, I go to the field to catch Pinda. I’ve got a plastic
bowl with me and shake it so Pinda can hear that it’s full of
oats. She raises her chestnut coloured head immediately from
the grass she’s grazing. Then she whimpers and advances
slowly towards me. As she gets nearer she extends her head
cautiously towards the bowl and my hand. Thankfully she
doesn’t sprint away as I put the bridle on her head. She’s too
busy chomping the oats and studying me curiously.

I can see the welts on her face and back. They’re just
bumps now. They’ve almost healed. She’s filled out well too.
Apparently when she arrived she was just skin and bone. She
was lame and had an eye infection too. You’d never guess
that now.

‘That’s enough oats for the moment,’ I say moving the bowl
away from her. She butts me gently. ‘I don’t want you to get
colic. You can have more oats later. I’m taking you out for
a ride, Pinda. Is that okay? I’ll groom you a bit first and give
you a chance to digest all that grass.’

Her ears move as I speak – forwards and backwards – following my intonation. I can tell from her big brown eyes
that she has a kind nature. You can tell a lot from a horse’s
eyes – just as much as from a person’s. I can see she wants
to trust me, but she’s a bit wary too. I offer her a carrot on
the flat of my palm and stroke her gently – giving her time
to get used to me.

Back in Charlie’s rambling garden I groom Pinda, then I
put a folded rug on her back before saddling up. Some of
those welts might still be tender. Rosie looks on with great
interest. I bring Pinda over to her pen. Rosie cowers and
backs away at first and then, impelled as usual by curiosity
and good humour, moves forward to snuffle a greeting.

As Pinda and I trot along the windy country roads I think
of what Susan said the other day – after she’d broken the
news about Cait Carmody’s pregnancy. She said we should
go on an ‘alternative holiday’ together. There’s this place in
Ibiza
she’s heard about and she thinks it sounds just the thing for us both. Everybody hugs each other a lot, apparently. I’m
not sure I like the sound of it.

But after a while I’m not thinking of anything very much. I’m just going with the rhythm of Pinda’s move
ments and staring at the hills and fields. As we pass some
open grassland I wonder if Pinda’s strong enough to go for a gallop. Then I decide not to push it. My skin is tingling from the wind and I can see Pinda is enjoying
herself. Her ears are pricked forwards and she’s lifting her
feet high. She’s watching everything with cautious interest.
Sometimes she gets a bit spooked by a plastic bag in a hedge or a barking dog. When she does this I pat her neck and talk to her gently, and she calms down. It’s not like when I was a girl riding my pony. Back then I was drunk on life, and freedom, and everything else that hadn’t yet been tested. My pony wasn’t scared then, and neither was I.

This is a different kind of elation. This is a decision.

I find myself fervently hoping that Charlie will have returned when we get back, but as Pinda walks up the driveway I see his van isn’t there.

It seems I’m going to have to do this thing alone.

I never knew one could be this alone.

On the way home I buy some food. Easy food. Nothing fancy. Then I dart into a hairdresser’s. It’s small and slightly shabby. It’s not the posh place I usually go to. The place where Fabienne, that’s my stylist’s name, yanks my locks around as if they were bits of limp lettuce.