Wise Follies (19 page)

I head towards the Italian section. I try to talk to a man who is stuffing his trolley with home-made pasta; only it turns out he actually comes from Italy and doesn’t speak much English. I try to explain that I am a journalist on an assignment but it’s not getting through to him. He’s saying, ‘Oh, signorina, yes, yes. We go for dreenk. I like that.’

‘No. No,’ I say. ‘No go for dreenk with you. I am journaleeste.’

‘Jornaleestah. Ah. So. We go restaurant maybe? Spaghetti bolognese?’ He’s saying it very eagerly. I sigh with frustration and look around, hoping a fluent Italian speaker may be in the vicinity but instead I see Liam again. He looks at me quickly and turns away as though trying not to laugh. ‘Oh no, he probably thinks I’ve been propositioning this poor man,’ I think glumly. ‘And I suppose I did in a way, but only for a quote.’

I start to make wild gestures with my hands implying that I have to go, only the man seems to be interpreting them as great romantic excitement. ‘Yes, yes, we go now,’ he’s saying and starts to steer me towards the check-out. ‘Me Enrico. You share my trolley. Like so.’ He takes the one item in my shopping basket, a tin of Whiskas, and relocates it. I grab it back.

‘Aw – signorina!’ Enrico looks at me most reproach- fully.

‘Enrico, sorry. No go restaurant with you. Misunderstanding.’ I point to my watch and add ‘busy’ then I call out ‘ciao’ as I scurry away – straight into Liam.

‘Hello, Alice,’ he says. ‘Doing a bit of shopping?’

‘No, I’m on assignment,’ I reply with as much dignity as I can muster. ‘I’m a journalist and I’m doing research for an article.’

‘What kind of article?’ Liam studies me with his calm brown eyes.

‘An article about supermarket singles evenings,’ I reply trying not to get flustered. The music on the super-market’s sound system has changed to Michael Bolton singing ‘Soul Provider’. I love that song but I wish they weren’t playing it right now. It’s lending a sort of emotional significance to our meeting that is entirely inappropriate.

‘Ah, yes, I saw a notice up about that when I came in here,’ Liam comments, almost too casually it seems to me.

‘They have one here every Thursday,’ I reply. ‘Super-market singles evenings are becoming quite popular actually. Especially abroad.’

‘I suppose there’s something to be said for them,’ Liam replies solemnly. ‘Though when a woman approached me just now and started talking about courgettes I was a bit baffled. I’ve got so used to calling them zucchini.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s the American word for them, isn’t it?’ I look at him curiously. I’d like to ask him more about his background – his accent definitely has a trans-Atlantic twang to it – but I decide not to. I don’t want us to become too familiar, and anyway I’ve got to get on with my research.

‘So, Liam, I suppose I’d better let you do your shopping,’ I say politely.

‘OK, ciao then, Alice,’ he replies, with just the hint of a smile.

I race away from him towards the bakery section. The supermarket is about to close in ten minutes and I still haven’t got any quotes for my article. I talk to a sleekly groomed middle-aged woman who turns out to be married and not love hunting at all.

‘One man is quite enough for me,’ she sighs wearily as the assistant hands her a gooseberry tart. A younger girl who’s buying some doughnuts just giggles when I ask her if she’s come here to meet a boyfriend and, as the man with the very large baguette in his basket starts to approach me again, I decide to leave.

I’ll just have to make that article up, I think, as I trudge homewards gloomily. Though perhaps I can use Liam’s comment about zucchini and the ‘One man’s enough for me’ quote. And of course the tussle with Enrico over the Whiskas. That would add some comic relief.

As soon as I reach the cottage I turn on my laptop computer.

‘If you want a man with passion, then try pasta,’ I type. ‘Bring out the Latin in him by humming something operatic and wearing vibrant colours – though if he turns out to be legitimately Italian you may need a phrase book. If you want someone a bit more exotic then linger around the oriental foods wearing patchouli oil and a saffron-coloured scarf. Only engage in conversation with men who cook basmati rice from scratch rather than using the boil in the bag method. Pet foods are good if you want someone a bit cosy and kind, especially if they buy the more upmarket brands and titbits. In the plant section I would watch out for a man who bothers to buy Baby Bio. Any man who is kind to his plants must be a cut above the rest. Steer clear of men carrying very large baguettes in a suggestive manner.’

I continue with these authoritative gross general-isations, interspersed with quotes and anecdotes and bits of description for ‘colour’, until I have reached two thousand words.

‘Wonderful,’ says Sarah happily, as she reads my article the next day. ‘It’s got loads of oomph.’

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ I smile, then I look at her pleadingly. ‘Sarah could you give me a break from articles about sex and men and love hunting for a bit? I really do need a change.’

‘Funnily enough I was just going to talk to you about that,’ Sarah replies. ‘I want you to write about being an extra on a film for a day. Here,’ she hands me a letter, ‘this gives all the details.’

‘Oh, Sarah!’ I feel like kissing her. ‘Thank you so much!’

‘Yes, it should be interesting,’ she replies calmly. ‘Now to get back to this supermarket singles evening article – I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the concluding sentence.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, Alice’, she looks at me wryly, ‘I don’t see why women who are shopping for love really need to know this particular bit of information.’

‘What bit?’ I lean forwards nervously. I’d written the article in such a tizz I hardly remember what it said.

‘The bit that says’ – Sarah starts to titter. ‘The bit that says “Jam-jars are totally unsuitable for frogspawn”.’

‘I think that must have strayed in from another article,’ I mutter.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re taking an interest in ecology,’ Sarah smiles at me kindly. ‘After all, frogs are so much easier to find than princes.’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I agree sadly, remembering James Mitchel.

Chapter
17

I’ve done it. I
wish I hadn’t now. It was stupid. Impetuous. I wish Mira was here so I could talk to her about it, but she’s on a canal with her cousin. They’ve hired a barge. She asked me to join them but I said I wanted to get on with my painting. I’d hardly done any painting since Eamon’s proposal and I’d begun to miss it. But I should have gone on that barge with them. I really should.

This evening began in a balanced, productive manner. I was almost serene as I made myself a nice, nourishing dinner, straightened the books on the bookshelf, watched
Coronation Street
and loaded the washing machine. Then I went to my canvas and got on with a painting I’ve already got a name for. It’s called ‘The Dolphin Smiles’.

I’m fond of dolphins, but then nearly everyone is so it’s not something to brag about. I suppose one of the reasons people like them so much is because they smile – all the time. The dolphin in my painting isn’t smiling. My dolphin has a choice in the matter, so I suppose you could call the title ironic. But, though my dolphin’s mouth is a straight line, his eyes are shining with happiness. He’s happy because he doesn’t have to smile. I know exactly how he feels. It has long been a cause of sadness for me that certain emotions are thought suitable for indiscriminate display, while others live more furtive, shadowy lives. It seems to me that people’s smiles are often like the dolphin’s, and I long for a world where we can wear our many faces without shame.

I was deeply engrossed in my painting – elated even. The house seemed quiet without Mira so I turned on the radio. I’d meant to find something chatty and restful on Radio 4, but ‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?’ by Van Morrison wafted out at me from some pop station instead. I loaded my brush with indigo and added it to the horizon I was painting. Tarquin brushed against my legs, miaowing up at me. It was almost his dinner time.

‘Yes, OK. In a moment,’ I told him. His miaows increased in frequency and his gaze grew disapproving. He now not only insists on premium brands, he has also developed strong preferences as to the ingredients. He set off purposefully in the direction of the kitchen, turning round halfway, commanding me to follow.

‘You really are becoming a very bossy cat,’ I told him. ‘Patience. Patience, dear. Some things take time.’ I couldn’t help recalling that James Mitchel had said much the same to me at my first pottery class. As I trudged into the kitchen and opened a tin of Whiskas I began to feel rather unsettled. Patience is one thing, but months of procrastination are quite another. Suddenly, unaccountably, I knew that if I didn’t phone James then, there, at that very moment, I never would. And I had to.

I scurried to get the leaflet, not daring to analyze the impulse further. I even worked out a plan of action as I tremulously picked up the receiver – the yoga weekend was long over, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse for phoning him. If things got sticky, that is, if he couldn’t remember who I was, I was going to ask him to recommend a new pottery teacher. And if things got friendly I was going to ask him to dinner next time he came to Dublin. I was going to say I’d like him to bring some pottery samples from his new studio because I might be able to get a photo and small write-up about them in the magazine.

I dialled quickly with damp fingers. I felt itchy and antsy and strangely determined. I jumped slightly at the ringing tone and then listened to it carefully, as if counting footsteps. Any moment now…I almost clattered down the receiver. But I didn’t. I took deep breaths like an opera singer preparing for a small, perplexing aria.

And then I heard James Mitchel’s voice telling me he wasn’t there.

I had to force myself to leave a message on the answering machine. I just said who I was and left my number. As soon as I’d done this I realized I shouldn’t have. Because this way James Mitchel could phone me at any time – perhaps catch me at a moment when I am in no state to follow through on my brazenness.

It is now an hour later and I am appalled by the improbability of my action. I wanted a peaceful, painterly weekend, and now I jump with terror every time the phone rings.

I decide to distract myself with a favourite CD. I thought I had Nanci Griffith on the stereo system, but Mira must have slipped on Laren Brassière for a quick blast before she left. As I turn the thing on, hoping for some soothing ballads, Laren’s voice comes out at me. More softly than usual. Almost tender.

‘Why did we do it?’ she is singing. ‘Why did we stare so, so hard at the little fishes in my room? What were we searching for? I hope that we will find it soon.’ I turn up the volume and almost press my ear against the loudspeaker. Laren’s voice is nearly a whisper. But not for long because she suddenly starts to screech ‘Oh yeah, yeah, yeah! Oh yeah!’ so loudly that it momentarily makes my ear go numb.

‘Dear God!’ I think. ‘Are those lyrics about me? About us? They must be.’ And then the phone rings and I leap into the air.

The call turns out to be for Mira. A man is phoning to say he has her loom. ‘Her loom?’ I repeat.

‘Yes, her loom,’ he agrees. ‘She can collect it on Tuesday.’

As I hang up I wonder how on earth my life has come to be this perplexing. I dearly wish I had a loom myself to help weave all its strange strands together.

The first day of James’s not phoning has a certain intensity. The ways I imagine him responding to my message vary wildly. At one moment he is saying to himself: ‘Alice Evans. Who on earth is Alice Evans? The name does ring a slight bell.’ At others his face is radiant with joy – but slightly troubled too. At such moments I imbue him with my own fears and hopes regarding intimacy. ‘Dear, darling Alice Evans,’ he’s thinking. ‘Dare I phone her? Dare I tell her how I really feel? After all, I do live in West Cork and long-distance relationships can be so complicated.’