Little Black Everything Page 2

  She woke up the next morning with her mind made up. Now, four days later, all that remained were the formalities.

  “What’ll I get you to drink?” Kevin asked as she wriggled out of her jacket.

  “Gin, please. And tonic, I suppose.”

  He beckoned a passing member of the floor-staff and gave her the order.

  “So!” he said then. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Yeah. Not bad. Went into town, mooched around the shops a bit. Nothing too exciting. “

  “Won’t be long now.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Until school starts. Back at it. You may make the most of it now.”

  “Yeah. What about you? Good day?”

  “It was all right. Had the meeting from hell, though. Two and a half frigging hours.”

  Holly made fists. Please don’t tell me about it, she thought. Please. Please. Please.

  “There was only three of us,” Kevin began, “so I thought it might be quick enough. You usually need a bit of a crowd in there before things get badly out of hand, y’know? But oh no, Pat had other ideas . . .”

  Holly nodded and let his voice fade away into the background. She wasn’t at all clear on the specifics, but she knew that Kevin worked as a software engineer; something to do with the banking industry. When he first told her about it, he’d said with an embarrassed smile that it was all profoundly boring, which was certainly true. Holly had never been able to understand why, if he knew full well that it was a tedious subject, he seemed to relish talking about it at such length. It was part of a pattern with him. More than once he had started a joke by saying, “This isn’t funny, but I’ll tell you anyway . . .” The meeting from hell, predictably enough, spawned the anecdote from hell. Holly tried to tune back in a few times, but every time she did, she caught a phrase – “standardised procedures”, “client-centric approach” – that made her tune straight back out again. At one point, she caught herself wondering if it would be poor form to interrupt him mid-flow and give him the bad news slightly ahead of schedule. And then, at last, it was over.

  “Sounds awful,” she said, quite sincerely. She’d finished her drink and Kevin’s pint had seen better days. “Same again?” she asked, pointing at his glass.

  He made no reply. At first, she thought he hadn’t caught what she’d said. She was about to repeat the question when he exhaled and said, “No. No, I won’t. Listen . . . Holly . . . I’m not staying long.”

  Me neither, she thought. And then the penny dropped. It was written all over his face.

  “You’re joking me,” she gasped.

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “I don’t believe it . . .” She struggled for air. The room seemed to be tilting first one way and then the other.

  “It’s just not working out. But you’re a great kid –”

  “Kid! I’m twenty-eight! You’re only a fucking year older than I am!”

  “Don’t get upset, please.”

  She took a calming breath. “I’m only upset,” she said, “because I was planning on saying the same thing. Tonight.”

  Kevin’s features rearranged themselves into a smirk. “Holly . . . come on.”

  She gritted her teeth. “It’s the truth.”

  “All right, all right. If you say so.”

  “Don’t give me that. Don’t give me ‘If you say so’.”

  The smirk intensified. “All right then,” he said. “It seems that neither of us is happy with where this is going so why don’t we just –”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  The words were out before she’d even realised that they were forming. She almost put her hand over her mouth like a child that had just heard herself swearing in front of Granny. Of all the terrible things that a person could possibly say while being dumped, she had somehow hit upon the very worst. Her mind reeled. If the look on his face was anything to go by, so did Kevin’s. She knew she should say something quickly, something funny if possible, or at least cute. But she couldn’t think of anything. It was as if the speech centre of her brain had decided to end its long and illustrious career with “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Okay,” Kevin said and clasped his hands his hands together in front of him. “Let me see.”

  She gaped at him. He was actually going to give her an answer?

  “I’m not sure how to put this,” he said. “But you’re just not like other women. You’re so . . . sharp. And blunt.”

  Holly blinked at him. “Sharp and blunt? What the f–”

  “Maybe it’s your name,” he went on. “I suppose it gave me ideas about you. Ideas that turned out not to be true. Not by a long way.”

  She found her voice again. “Ideas? Like what?”

  He shrugged. “You know. ‘Holly Christmas’. It sounds so jolly. When I first heard it from Mark, I got this picture in my head. Cheery, chirpy, festive. Happy-go-lucky. You’re not . . . Well, you’re not any of those things, are you?”

  Mark was Holly’s neighbour and a friend of a friend of Kevin’s. He was the one who had set them up.

  “I’m not trying to be mean,” Kevin went on. “But you did ask.”

  Holly considered going for an ironic explanation of the term “rhetorical question” but feared that doing so might make her look like even more of a buffoon than she already did. Instead, she countered with, “You don’t think I live up to my stupid bloody name? What kind of –”

  “I’m just saying, that’s all. I had different expectations. That’s my own fault, fair enough. But it wouldn’t make any difference what you were called, really.”

  “Right. If I was called Shitty McNasty, I wouldn’t be able to live up to that, even.”

  He sighed long-sufferingly, in the manner of patient teacher who had been landed with a particularly dull child. “Look, forget about your name. It’s not your name. It’s your . . . it’s your attitude. You seem kind of, I don’t know, spiky or something. Always so sarcastic and smart-arsey. Like at the wedding.”

  “The wedding you fell unconscious at?”

  He ignored that. “I just couldn’t believe some of the stuff you were coming out with.”

  “Stuff? What stuff? Give me a for instance.”

  “Well, there was that business with the priest, for a start.”

  “The priest, Kevin, was a complete tool. It was supposed to be a celebration. He didn’t have to start banging on about how they’d be there for each other when they were dying. And he certainly didn’t have to go into detail. Beeping machines and nurses and tubes and God knows what. He was upsetting people. Your aunt was mortified. I saw her face.”

  “Maybe so, but you can’t start booing in a church, Holly. It just isn’t done.”

  “I didn’t boo him, don’t exaggerate. I may have made a small noise of protest.”

  “People were looking at you . . .”

  “And smiling! And nodding! Everyone was thinking exactly the same thing, they were all talking about it afterwards!”

  Kevin didn’t look convinced. “What about the bride’s mother? You had a go at her too.”

  “I didn’t ‘have a go at her’, but she certainly deserved it. She was a snobby bitch. First thing she asked me was my name, second was where was I from and third was what did my father do. It was like something out of the nineteenth century. Nobody talks like that.”

  “‘What does you father do?’ ‘Not a lot, he’s dead.’ Nobody talks like that, either.”

  “I do. To people like her.”

  “I meant nobody normal.”

  Holly almost choked. “Nobody normal? Now I’m fucking abnormal?”

  “You swear a lot, too,” Kevin added.

  Holly sucked in a breath and slowly got to her feet. “But that’s all, right? If you think of anything else I need to change, you’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

  Kevin sat back in his seat. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with us. I really did fancy you, honestly, as soo
n as I laid eyes on you.”

  This, apparently, was his attempt to end on an amicable note. Holly wasn’t having it.

  “You must have been very torn,” she said. “‘She’s sharp and blunt and abnormal and she swears a lot, but then again she’s got nice tits.’”

  Kevin shook his head. “You see? There it is again. Norm– . . . most women don’t say that sort of thing.”

  There didn’t seem to be much she could add. She grabbed her jacket and left.

  Chapter 2

  Holly’s place in Portobello was technically a house, but square footage had not been among its selling (or rather renting) points. She lived there alone, having long since decided that cohabitation was not for her; the extra expense was worth it, she felt. When she arrived back, she saw that Mark and Lizzie next door were still up. She took a moment to get herself together – or at least, reasonably together – and rang their doorbell. As ever, Mark answered. They’d been neighbours for more than four years and in all that time, Holly had never known Lizzie to answer the door. She’d brought it up once, just out of curiosity. Lizzie said it was down to division of labour: Mark answered the door and she did everything else.

  “Jesus!” Mark said when he caught sight of her. “Are you all right? You look like shite. Come in, come in.”

  “I won’t,” Holly said, doing her best to sound composed. “I just wanted to call and tell you that the great Fix-Me-Up experiment is over. We tried it and it didn’t work, so let’s just all move on. Never again.”

  Mark cocked his head. “What? Why, what happened?”

  Lizzie appeared in the doorway alongside him then, causing further strain to Holly’s neck. Mark was tall (and shaven-headed – he had kind of a Nosferatu thing going on), but Lizzie was taller still, six-two in her stockinged feet. Her hair was almost as short as his. People stared at them on the street.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was incongruously high-pitched. It lent even her most serious pronouncements a slightly comical edge.

  “It’s nothing,” Holly said. “I just don’t want to be fixed up again. Once was enough.”

  Lizzie issued a stagey gasp. “Did you get dumped?”

  Like her husband – and Holly – she had a tendency to be blunt. Holly had often wondered about that. Had one of them changed to be a better fit with the other or had they both started out that way? Was a certain lack of subtlety one of the things that attracted them to each other in the first place? Couples were so mysterious; Mark and Lizzie doubly so.

  “Yes. Yes, I did get dumped. Bastard. And just when I was about to dump him. My first ever dumping. And he ruined it on me.”

  Her neighbours exchanged a look. “I don’t get it,” Mark said. “What’s the problem? I mean, if you were going to dump him anyway . . .”

  Holly suddenly felt exhausted. “Never mind,” she said feebly. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Nooo,” Lizzie squeaked. “Come in, for God’s sake. Tell us all. Spill. Unburden. You’ll feel better. Or your money back.” She stepped aside to clear a path. Mark followed suit.

  “There’s wine,” he said, which was a largely redundant statement. At Mark and Lizzie’s, there was always wine. And it was always good stuff. Holly felt her feet beginning to move.

  Mark and Lizzie both worked from home, which was some feat given that their place was no bigger than Holly’s. Lizzie made jewellery; Mark, who’d lived in France for several years, translated business documents. It was perfectly understandable, Holly thought, that the house should mean a lot to them. But it sometimes seemed that it meant a little too much. They were like a sovereign nation with a population of two, citizens, not of Ireland, but of 27 Hartely Road, Portobello. Holly didn’t have a political bone in her body, but at any given moment, she would know, for example, who was Minister for Finance or Health or Education. Mark had once admitted (although that was the wrong word – it was more like a boast) that he didn’t know which party was currently in. Lizzie was just the same. Holly asked her one day which side she had been on in the Saipan debacle, Roy Keane’s or Mick McCarthy’s. Lizzie’s response was to look up from her newspaper and say, “What the hell’s a side pan?” When they spoke about going out on even the simplest errands, they used words like “expedition” and “voyage”. Although they were both fond of giving heartfelt speeches about the transforming power of the Internet, they seemed to admire it not because it made information freely available or because it allowed people to communicate across previously unbridgeable gulfs, but because it helped them to get stuff without leaving the house. Their world seemed very small to Holly, but she had to admit that it was filled with vibrant passions. Books were one, bonsai trees were another. Then there was the wine. Mark and Lizzie were the only people Holly had ever known who were actually interested in it, as opposed to being interested in getting drunk on it. They never had less than a couple of dozen bottles lined up in the kitchen and frequently had many more. The only serious criticism they ever levelled against their house was that it didn’t have a cellar. They subscribed to several magazines, contributed to innumerable websites, and even, on admittedly rare occasions, ventured out for tastings. When they’d first become friends, as opposed to mere neighbours, Holly had tried to match their enthusiasm if not their expertise, raving goggle-eyed about wines that she might otherwise have described as “nice” and pouring hot scorn on those that, in other company, she would have labelled “not great”. She soon gave it up, however. If they didn’t agree with her assessment, her hosts would seem personally offended; there were many ugly silences. Generally speaking, Mark and Lizzie were laid-back, entirely affable people, always ready with a joke and a smile. But they had no sense of humour about wine. None. They had once given Holly a taste test, using a tea towel as a blindfold. Could she, after more than an hour’s rigorous coaching, finally tell the difference between a Rioja and a Cabernet Sauvignon? “I’m pretty sure,” she said, after taking several careful sips of Sample A, “that this is . . . red. Am I right? Red?” There was no response. She removed the tea towel and found them scowling at her, utterly unimpressed. No amount of back-pedalling could undo the damage. They refused to give her another, “proper” go and the evening quickly fizzled out. But those were the early days. Once she got a little experience under her belt, Holly soon realised that, provided you were careful to agree with everything they said and didn’t try to belittle their obsession, a person could have a fine old time in Mark and Lizzie’s. Better yet, as time wore on, they stopped trying to educate her on the subject of viniculture. They hadn’t realised that it was impolite, she suspected – they’d simply concluded that there was no point.

  “Go on then,” Mark said when they had settled down in the front room. “Tell us.”

  Holly took a generous mouthful of the Zinfandel he had poured for her and bit down on the compliment that she thought it deserved. It didn’t take her long to tell the story; there wasn’t much to tell.

  “Wow,” Lizzie said when she had finished. “I’ve never come across that one before. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Jesus . . .”

  “Pretty bad,” her husband agreed. “What the hell were you thinking of?”

  “Thank you, as ever,” Holly said, “for your sensitivity. I wasn’t thinking, was I? It just came out. I was in shock. Just when I was about to launch into my little speech. It’s not you, it’s me. I had my lies all ready.”

  “Don’t give up,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure we can think of some–”

  “Please don’t.”

  Mark rubbed his chin. “I suppose I could give Tea-bag a shout. I think I still have his number, somewhere.”

  Lizzie almost choked. “Absolutely not. She’s desperate, but she’s not Tea-bag-desperate.”

  “Thanks,” Holly said, raising her glass. “Who’s Tea-bag?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Lizzie assured her. “Mark knew him at university. He shows up every few years looking for a bed for the night.
”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s been in prison, Holly.”

  “Oh. Right. What for?”

  Lizzie’s mouth fell open, just a little. “What do you mean, ‘what for’? Does the word ‘prison’ not put you off on its own?”

  “Yeah,” Holly admitted. “Maybe you’re right. And anyway” – she shook her head, as if to clear it – “no more fix-ups. I’m serious. My mind’s made up.”

  Lizzie nodded at Mark who hastily refilled their glasses

  “Tea-bag’s a bad idea anyway,” he said. “Even leaving the prison thing aside. I could tell you why he’s called Tea-bag and that would put him out of the running on its own.”

  Lizzie raised a hand to her brow. “Please don’t tell her why he’s called Tea-bag. It reflects badly on you for knowing him and it reflects badly on me for marrying you. Just drop it.”

  There was a silent interlude, during which Holly noticed for the first time that music was playing. This was another of Mark and Lizzie’s little quirks. They liked only the very quietest of musical acts – Cowboy Junkies, Mazzy Star, Damien Rice – and even those they listened to at almost undetectable volumes. Holly sometimes theorised that it was a way of letting in the outside world on their own terms. If they ever succumbed and finally bought a TV, she liked to imagine that they would cover the screen with gauze.

  “You could take lessons of some kind,” Mark said.

  Holly felt her brow crease to the point of cramp. “Lessons? You think I need How-To-Get-A-Boyfriend lessons?”

  “No, no, no, like, I dunno, dance lessons. Ballroom dancing or, what do you call it, the sexy one . . . salsa. Meet new people, all that shite.”

  “I hate dancing,” Holly said with what she hoped was some degree of finality.