Under My Skin (15 page)

She ignores this. Not even a flicker. She is not bothered. Used to his ways. And when I look over there are tears in his eyes. Another big old joke used to cover up love.

‘How did you meet?’ I ask, and he looks away. Ignores me.

‘You will have to speak up,’ she says quietly. ‘He has become very deaf.’

‘What are you whispering for?’ he shouts then. ‘Everyone going around whispering.’

She gets up and helps him back into his cardigan. She rests her hand on his.

‘You have cold hands,’ she says.

‘Cold ham?’ he asks.

‘I’ll put on the heat,’ she says.

‘What?’ he roars.

‘Heat!’ she shouts back.

‘Geese?’ he replies.

She watches her husband for a moment and then touches his eyebrow. ‘Your skin is very dry,’ and when she speaks she uses a soft voice and leans into his face. She dots Vaseline between his eyebrows and then rubs it softly into his forehead. He sits quietly during all of this. Letting his woman take care of him.

‘I need to wash those trousers,’ she says and then, ‘Trousers!’ at the top of her voice.

He roars his answer back. ‘And what do you expect me to wear? My pyjamas?’

‘No,’ she says, ‘I have a nice pleated skirt for you.’

And here she turns to me and she is really laughing now. Her eyes are bright and she is all beauty again.

She walks to the hall door and into the scullery and turns their boiler on.

‘How did you meet?’ and I shout it out. ‘Mrs Costello!’

He hears me now. Understands that we are two strangers heading into another zone. He locks his wide fingers together and tells me. There are no photographs in their room. No pictures of children in dressed-up outfits. No grandchildren balanced reluctantly on knees. There is one photograph of a man and a woman holding two violins. She wears a full skirt and high heels. He wears a big pinstripe suit and he has slicked back his hair. He is handsome. Eager.

‘The first time I saw her…’ and his eyes take me back with him. He says nothing for a minute but I know he is seeing it all again as if it is right now. ‘Boy, she knocked me sideways.’

Mrs Costello comes back in. Her shoulders are hooped now. She walks on matchstick legs but she is smiling and I can see how she might have done that to him.

‘I had a flatmate,’ she adds quietly, settling into her chair. ‘Her name was Elizabeth May. She had red hair. I went to her house one weekend. Her family owned a little country pub. We were in there the first night. Sitting on two stools. Drinking a Coke. He was on tour with the orchestra. He came in. Looked over.’

They don’t speak now.

‘Later,’ she says quietly then, ‘he gave us a ride in his taxi to a dance. And afterwards took us home.’

She leans in and pours more coffee. He looks out the window now. Not able to hear what we are saying and losing interest anyway.

‘Then I went on holiday, to the seaside… and I sent him a postcard.’ And here she tells me quietly what she did to hook her man. I like Mrs Costello. Until our wedding she was just the little old lady who lived in the flat downstairs.

‘He was always a good timekeeper. Doesn’t sound important but it is.’ She holds the biscuit tin towards me.

‘And he wasn’t a drinker. Two very important things… does Larry take a drink?’

‘Just a beer now and then.’

‘And he works hard?’

‘He works really hard.’

‘Ah, well you found a good man,’ and she pats my knee.

‘Yes,’ I tell her, ‘Larry is a good man.’

Mr Costello begins to fall asleep. His chin rests on his chest and he snores softly. She makes no apology for him and his regular old man ways.

‘Did he play the violin for you?’

‘Oh yes. Many times. He was a very fine musician.’

The plates are cleared and I stand with her in their kitchenette. The dog walks sadly to the end of the room and flops down. Until now, lying in bed, I never knew what that sound was. She hands the wet plates to me and I dry them.

‘Where are you both from?’ she asks.

‘Larry is from the West, Mayo.’

‘Ah,’ she says, ‘friendly people in the West – and you?’

‘Oldcastle. In Meath.’

She had knocked on my door on Saturday night.

‘On Wednesday,’ she said, ‘you come down and have some chicken soup. Neighbours…’ and her voice trailed off. Larry had thanked her. Said he was looking forward to it. Made
some joke about her cooking and mine. When Wednesday came he was still in Vertigo and so I went downstairs on my own. I wished he had been here to see the Costellos, to watch how they are now and to see what it is all about, after fifty-six years. She puts her arm kindly around me when I say I must leave.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘You have your own man to care for now.’

On Thursday Larry makes meatballs with rigatoni. He closes the diner early and walks down the street in his apron and he begins to cook as soon as he gets home. The kitchen is long and narrow. We stand side by side and cook together at the stove. He tells me about his day at the diner and I grind black pepper over his mixing bowl. Then he rolls the meat and the egg mixture in his hands and I roll them in flour and toss them on to the pan. At times like this we are never more than a few inches away from each other. He tells me everything about his day and I tell him about ‘Hell’ – which is my new name for ‘work’.

‘We had a nice time in Alcatraz today, Larry,’ I say.

‘Did you, darling?’ he replies.

‘Yes… the inmates were a little restless but otherwise it was fine.’

Today Larry made eighteen euros in profit at the diner and no one at work will tell me when I’ll get paid. There is a drawer full of unpaid bills in the kitchen and we jump every time the doorbell rings.

Yesterday the debt collector called again and he didn’t use the doorbell at all. Instead he picked up a garden gnome and sent it through the sitting-room window.

‘Larry… there’s a gnome in the sitting room,’ Doreen said and then she went back to watching
Coronation Street
on TV.

Then Larry went downstairs and when he came back up, eventually, he was very pale and his bottom lip was bleeding and his only shirt was split all the way down the front.

We eat the meatballs and the rigatoni and we try to think of ways to get the money, and people we could ask for help. But after each suggestion we look at each other and shake our heads.

Juna

The Costellos

Larry’s dad

Jack

The Indians

Larry opens a beer for me. He says he’s sorry about everything and especially sorry that he wasn’t able to buy me an engagement ring.

‘What do we want an engagement ring for?’ I ask. ‘We’re married now,’ and he looks at me and starts to laugh.

He puts one hand up to my cheek and when he looks into my eyes he can still make me blush right up to my ears. We never bother saying ‘I love you’ or any of that old stuff. Before Larry, there was no one else. After Larry, there is no one else. It was always straightforward and kind of simple for us.

Pitch v. – 1. To throw or hurl something. 2. To fall or stumble, or cause somebody to fall, especially headfirst. 3. To try to sell or promote something such as a product, personal viewpoint or potential business venture often in an aggressive way.

There are fifteen cars in the car park, and a bubble car sleeping behind a jeep. Inside there are people like me, wondering if
we will ever breathe fresh air again or smell the summer sea. Two weeks now we have worked on the pitch and the circus people gather in the early hours to rehearse. The boardroom is like a trampoline. We bounce out our slides and bow and step back into our place. It is my first time to attend a pitch and I even own a suit. Today the Creative Director is wearing converse runners with a bright red Hawaiian shirt. He says the creative brief is like a bowl of spaghetti flung in the air and then caught on a plate.

‘OK, Hope – you’re on,’ Jonathan says.

The only reason I am here is because the Account Director keeps calling in sick. Last week he came to a shoot by ambulance, just to make his point. Last night at ten o’clock they decided I should present the research and the creative brief.

‘I want them to hear from you,’ Jonathan said as I tried to stay awake. ‘I want them to see you up on your hind legs.’

Then Frankie comes in.

‘
Bonjour
,’ he says and he winks at me and slides into a chair and then the laptop which carries everyone’s presentations gives a little sigh and goes completely black. Someone asks if there is a spare laptop anywhere and Jonathan keeps his eyes fixed on me. He is just staring at me really calmly and he seems to be breathing in and out through his teeth.

‘Where are the laptops kept, Hope?’ he asks.

‘At Brendan’s desk.’

‘Why are the laptops kept at Brendan’s desk, Hope?’

‘Because Brendan looks after the laptops.’

‘Why does Brendan look after the laptops, Hope?’

‘Because that’s his job, Jonathan.’

‘How many laptops do we have, Hope?’

‘I’m not sure, Jonathan. Fifteen or sixteen.’

Somewhere in my head there is a huge grey cobweb brought
on by my lack of sleep. I have been here until nine every night and so far I have worked every weekend. I miss my husband and I miss getting drunk with Doreen and I miss my grandmother’s voice. In two hours the soup people will be here and if things don’t improve I’m out of a job.

‘So, Hope, are all the laptops at Brendan’s desk?’

‘Possibly not.’

‘So back to my original question, where are the laptops, Hope?’

‘In people’s cars? Maybe.’

There is a part of me that wants to tell my boss something about this laptop and his arse. It’s 7.15 a.m. I am supposed to be asleep.

‘Let’s move on,’ Jonathan says. He is watching a spot on the table and breathing slowly, in and out, and I realize that he is more nervous than me.

After the rehearsal he gives the team a pep talk.

‘We better win this,’ he says.

Then a very tall girl holds her arms out to me.

‘Come here,’ she says. ‘Come here… you look like you need a hug,’ and she pulls me into her arms and just holds me there – and I hardly know her. If I was a hedgehog, this is the point in my life when I would roll into a ball.

Email to Accounts 7.45 a.m.
From Hope Swann
Hi, would it be possible for someone to tell me when I will get paid?
Thank you very much.
Hope.

Email to everyone 8.05 a.m.
From Jonathan Kirk
The Country Fresh Soup people will be here at 9 a.m. and afterwards Hope will be giving the agency tour. Please tidy your desk areas. Best bib and tucker please.

Email to the Creative Dept 8.20 a.m.
cc client service
Re: New wastepaper baskets
From Stephen Hanson
Troops,
I have left a new wastepaper basket beside each of your desks. That’s where anything less than a ‘Shark’ goes. If the idea is not jumping, it’s not alive. If it’s not alive, it’s dead. If it’s not on fire – I’m not interested.
Mucho gracias,
Stephen.

The Marketing Director begins to speak. He thanks us for our presentation and then he says the brief has actually changed. What he really wants is to promote a new range of French bread with a new range of Mediterranean tomato soup. We are not expecting this so everyone is scratching their heads and wondering about it – and I have an idea but I am afraid to speak. Then I begin to wonder if this could be my big career break – and what a fool I would be not to speak up. But I’m too afraid.