Stir-Fry (23 page)

This is a letter because face-to-face I’d get too emotional. And also because your fluffy scalp is hundreds of miles away in some godforsaken village I can’t even visualise
.

None of this is likely to make much sense as I haven’t slept since the night before last
.

It’s sort of like a stir-fry, that’s the only way I can think of to describe it, don’t laugh. I thought you could chop up lots of different vegetables and mix them in and raise the heat, and they’d all make each other taste better. It never occurred to me that ginger and fennel might clash
.

Here I am waffling on, and this was meant to be a brief note
.

You see, I had this theory that among women, possessiveness and jealousy needn’t exist, that women could sort of share themselves out and, to use my awkward analogy, make each other taste better. Like, for example, a flat of three friends, two of whom happened to be lovers
.

Well, you must admit it was a good idea, if a little naive
.

I overestimated my capacity not to mind. I overestimated all of us. Jael means no harm—well, not much—but she’s like a kid, you know, she has to have a little bit of whatever’s going. The pull
between us two is still there, but I think it might be going to smash us right through each other. Not that I’m blaming you, Maria. I realise now that you had no idea where we were heading. I should probably have done something at the start, offered some kind of earthquake warning, but what could I have said? I was afraid of seeming paranoid, one of these ghastly wifey types who goes into fits if her girlfriend even glances at anyone else
.

Much the same kind of thing as I’m afraid of seeming in this letter! But things are a bit different now. Let’s just say that I want to do the right thing—for everyone—it’s just that I’m not sure what that is yet
.

Will you be coming back to the flat? It’s entirely up to you. I’m just so tired I couldn’t give a shit
.

What I mean is, Happy Christmas Maria
.

Love (if you want it)

Ruth

Maria had sped through it too fast to take it all in; she was about to start again from the top when she remembered the second letter. It had no envelope, just a page folded up and stapled, postmarked the day after Ruth’s.

M.

Apologies for ungentlemanlike behaviour. Stop. Have learned how to make Baked Alaska. Stop. Get your ass back here. Stop
.

J
.

The Dublin train was frantic on New Year’s Eve; the burly man who sat beside Maria, gripping a bottle of champagne between his knees, had let it smash all over the floor of the carriage. He kept asking her did she think he’d have any chance of compensation because the driver had stopped the train so jerkily, or were they the crowd of crooks he’d always suspected?

Maria was noncommittal. She lifted her runners out of the fizzing puddle and turned her face into the corner of her seat.
A sojourn in Sea View Villa would be a wonderful rest; Yvonne’s animated invitation over the crackling phone line had been exactly what she needed to hear. They could go clubbing tonight, then take it easy for a few days; stroll on the pebbled beach, bus into town for a look at the January sales. Her glam rags were all in the flat. Maybe she could slip in, to collect some clothes and books? Ruth would probably be over at her mother’s, and Jael most likely out boozing. And if they were by any chance at home, well, she could manage a civil conversation, just “Happy New Year, see you round college next term, bye.”

Maria couldn’t have stuck another day at home, it was making her claustrophobic. Her mother had offered to teach her how to make choux pastry; she had to get away. At least Dublin was anonymous. She could avoid maudlin New Year’s Eve thoughts by dancing herself numb in a strobe-lit nightclub.

“What would you say, carnations or chrysanthemums?”

She turned her head reluctantly.

The fretful man went on. “See, sorry to bother you, but I just wanted a female opinion. The blasted champagne was for proposing to her, my girlfriend, Frieda. I meant to do it tonight. But I don’t have time now to get to an off-licence so I was thinking I could pick up some flowers at the station instead. They’re not as romantic as champagne, but then, Frieda’s not much of a drinker.”

Maria was softened by his idiocy. “I’d go for white roses, if I were you. Just a few. That’s if they have them.”

The man was impressed. “I didn’t even know they made white ones. Grew, I mean. So you think she’d prefer white to red?”

“I’m no expert,” Maria assured him. She could just imagine some pragmatic Frieda turning up her nose at white roses. “I’ve never proposed to anyone.”

“No, you wouldn’t have—or only in a leap year,” he said with a snigger. “It’s us poor blokes who have to do the asking.”

She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on her plans again but lapsed into daydreams. Just imagine if somebody was waiting for her on the platform in Dublin with a bunch of white roses and a sheepish smile. “Name the day”—what a thrilling phrase, as if you could somehow stop time and tie a white satin bow around it, one day out of all the days in your life when a crowd of shiny faces would remind you how wonderful you were.

Maria shivered, wrapping her scarf more tightly round her throat. Even if she were happily married in five years’ time, she thought, she still wouldn’t feel a hundred percent normal. The flat’s strangeness had rubbed off on her. She was branded.

Toiling up the last flight of stairs—Maria had forgotten how steep they were—she heard raucous laughter in the flat. A good sign; things must be patched up between them. Come on now, no chickening out. But as she slid her key into the front door and pushed it open, she heard a distinct “Oh, shit” from the kitchen. Jael hurried out, but when she saw who it was, her face lightened. “And it’s the Virgin Maria in a rare appearance by public demand,” she yelped.

Deciding not to be embarrassed, Maria carried her bag into the kitchen. The visitor, leaning against the table, was a thin woman with short black spiky hair; her tanned face warmed into a slight smile as she held up one hand in a gesture of welcome.

“Aren’t you meant to say you’ve heard so much about her?” prompted Jael.

Making a face, “Must I?”

Jael, flurried, suddenly remembered her duties. “Oh, I forgot,
Maria, this is Silk. She’s just back from Greece.”

“Are you the one who sent the postcard on Jael’s birthday?”

“I didn’t know my communications were such big events,” said Silk, looking up ironically at Jael, “but it’s gratifying.”

“Well, look,” Jael began, and Silk moved toward the door, stretching her arms above her head as she pulled on her shabby black dinner jacket.

“Yes, I must be off,” she said. “Mustn’t risk running into her ladyship on the stairs. Listen, are you people partying tonight? ZZ’s?”

“All depends on how persuadable Ruth is,” said Jael doubtfully. “Keep an eye out for us anyway. It was good to see you.”

“Been a while,” Silk commented, and let herself out.

Left alone, they were suddenly awkward again. Maria launched into an apology: “I’m just picking up my stuff, I’m not actually staying. Yvonne’s expecting me.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Well, I’d better—”

“Listen, about Silk,” interrupted Jael.

“Yes, by the way, where did she get her name?”

“I belive it was the pseudonym for a highly erotic haiku she got published in
The Pink Paper
.”

“Mmm, that figures.”

“What, that she’s a dyke?”

“Well, not necessarily. Just that kind of person.”

“What kind of person?”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” snapped Maria, “you know what I mean. I’m not labelling anybody, so don’t get hot under the collar.”

“I’m not getting hot under the collar.” Jael stalked to the window and stared down at the street. “By the way, it might
be as well if you didn’t mention to Ruth that we had a visitor. They don’t really get on.”

“Why?” Maria was surprised at her own daring.

“Because I’m asking you not to. It would annoy her.”

“No, but why don’t they get on?”

“Because I’ve slept with them both.” Jael turned, her voice iron. “OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? The prurient curiosity satisfied yet, Maria?”

She felt her face cave in. “I just wondered.”

“You’ve been just wondering since you came into this flat three months ago,” said Jael. “Do you think we haven’t noticed the kind of games you’ve been playing? What do you think this is, feeding time at the zoo?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Maria’s voice was shaking. “I think I’d better go,” she added, moving toward the door.

Jael caught her by the elbow: “Don’t act the fucking innocent.” Her face was livid, six inches from Maria’s. “If you want to know, ask.”

“I don’t want to know.”

The grey crystal eyes were on the point of splintering. “Then why did you come back?”

“Not to take this kind of crap from you.” Her own snarl astonished her.

Jael dropped her elbow.

“I came back to get my clothes. And to see Ruth. And to tell her I’m sorry if I’ve made her life any more difficult than you’ve already made it.”

She let out a long breath. “I knew it. I had a feeling you’d overreact.”

“What?”

“It was only a wee kiss. It’s not like I raped you on the kitchen table, Maria. Mistletoe, you know? It’s a tradition.”

Maria’s cheeks were scalding. “My reaction isn’t the point.”

“Well, Ruth’s fine about it now, you know. She just panicked a little at the time. It’s been a sore spot, ever since Silk.”

Anything to shift the spotlight from her own pinched lips. “How did that happen?”

“We’d been friends for years; we just got a little carried away one night in the summer when Ruth was in Majorca with her mother.”

“How did she find out?”

“I told her, of course,” said Jael scornfully. “I may not be the model monogamist, but I’m honest. And there was a major brouhaha. And Silk told Patricia, who she’d been with for five years, and they broke up.”

“That’s the Pat in the women’s group?”

“You’re catching on.”

“Don’t mock me,” said Maria. “I understand enough.”

“I doubt that.” Jael was practically spitting. “You stand there with your mouth all pursed up in disapproval of something you know fuck-all about.”

“I just don’t see why anyone would do a thing like that,” said Maria wearily.

“What, a one-night stand? Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. But then, maybe you’re so sexless you wouldn’t understand.”

The front door was kicked open; Ruth stepped through the curtain with a bale of turf briquettes and two brown-paper bags of groceries. When she saw Maria she stopped short, put everything down carefully and came over to give her a hug. “Good to see you, pariah.” They leaned into each other.

Jael swung out the door, muttering something about the afternoon post.

When she heard the footsteps clatter down the stairs, Maria gave Ruth a wan smile. “I’m only here to pack my bags, I thought you’d both be out.”

“Glad you’re here.”

Maria was disconcerted to feel tears behind her eyes. She picked up a bag of groceries to put away. After the baked beans and the orange juice, she was in control of her voice again. “Thanks for the letter; I didn’t expect you to waste a stamp on me.”

“Hey, don’t start being soppy yet, we’ll have enough of that at midnight.”

“But I’m going clubbing with Yvonne.”

“You’re not!” Ruth giggled under her breath as she piled the fruit bowl high. “The social butterfly has got you in her clutches at last.” Then, peering into the depths of the fridge, “You wouldn’t consider staying with us tonight? You could ring Yvonne and explain.”

Explain what, exactly? Playing for time, Maria straightened up the soup tins. “If you really wanted,” she said at last.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” said Ruth, folding the brown-paper bag and putting it in a drawer. She looked up and caught Maria rolling her eyes. “Sorry, did that sound rather masochistic?”

“Very.”

“What I mean is, what I want depends on what you want. I think I need to ask now: Do you want to stay?”

Maria’s hands went on picking spilled grapes out of the bottom of the bag. “What, here?” Surprised to find she knew the answer, she said in a rush, “I’d love to. If it were possible. If there were … room.”

She could not read the expression in Ruth’s brown eyes: amusement or disappointment or perhaps irony. The blurred look of a heavy sleeper when shaken awake on a winter morning. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of room.”

And the key rattled in the front door.

Over dinner, Maria recounted all the comic anecdotes she could wring out of her family Christmas. She even made up a
few, in desperation; well, it would have been funny if that small cousin had thrown up all over her father’s new cardigan.

Theirs had been quiet.

“Ruth spent Christmas Day with Mumsie,” began Jael, “leaving me to douse my pudding in whisky all on my ownio. However, she did return to my bosom on Saint Stephen’s Day, bearing a vegetarian ‘turkey roll’ that had all the texture and taste of an Aran jumper.”

Ruth protested. “You stuffed your face with two thirds of the bloody thing.”

“I did not,” Jael informed her. “I chopped it into the sink-tidy while you were in the toilet.”

Maria sneaked a glance at her watch; a quarter to ten. At this rate they’d never make it to midnight on speaking terms. “Listen, lads, I came up to go clubbing, so why don’t we?”

Yvonne’s number was engaged. “You can call her from a phone box on the way,” said Jael brightly; she seemed determined to set off before Ruth could state any objection. In ten minutes they were dolled up and heading down the stairs.

“Where had you in mind?” asked Ruth, buttoning the cuff of her jacket as they halted at the bus stop.

Jael furrowed her forehead in concentration for a minute, then said, “What about, what was it called, ZZ’s? It is still running, isn’t it?”

A brief stare. “OK.”