Lifesaving for Beginners (19 page)

Faith says, ‘No, Milo.
You can’t come to Ireland with me.
You just can’t.’
She’s organising her clothes into piles on her bed.
She says she’s only going for two days but from all the piles of clothes you’d think she was going for two weeks.
Her dress is on the top of the ‘to be washed’ pile.
Faith calls it her all-weather dress because you can wear it in spring, summer, autumn and winter.
She never goes anywhere without it.

I say, ‘Why can’t I come?’

Faith says, ‘Because .
.
.
well, there’s school for a start.’

‘I won’t be missing much.
And I can catch up when I get back.
And besides, I’m doing really well in all my subjects.’
This is not exactly true.
We did fractions last week.
I got seven-and-a-half out of ten.
Dividing an apple tart into sixteen bits is harder than you’d think.

Faith takes her favourite jeans out of the wardrobe.

I say, ‘You can’t take those.
They’re too big on you now.’

Faith says, ‘I’ll wear a belt.’
She folds them.
Mam ironed our clothes, but Faith says folding is just as good.

I say, ‘I’m not going to Dad’s.’

‘You don’t have to.
Dad’s coming here.’

‘He can’t.
The baby might come when he’s not there.’

‘The baby’s not due till the end of December, for God’s sake.’
Adults have an answer for everything.

‘When are you going?’

‘I’ve booked a flight for the day after tomorrow.’
She tousles my hair.
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘That’s a lot of clothes for two days.’

Faith smiles.
‘It’s Ireland.
You never know what the weather’s going to do.’

‘I don’t want you to go to Ireland.’

‘Nothing bad is going to happen to me, I promise.’

Mam promised too, but I don’t say that to Faith.

‘Your birth mother mightn’t live at that address anymore.
Maybe she moved.’

‘I have to go, Milo.
I’ve explained why.’

When I was a kid, I could make myself cry.
If I wanted to go somewhere.
Or I wanted a chocolate mint Cornetto, which happens to be my favourite type of Cornetto.
Damo says it’s weird to like mint, on account of it being a green.
His mam put a mint leaf into a salad once.
Damo hates salad.

I can’t make myself cry now.
And even if I could, I don’t think it would work.
Faith would just laugh and call me a cry-baby.

I’ll have to think of something else.

Minnie’s not two steps into the apartment when she says, ‘There’s a guy.’

‘No.’

‘He’s the financial controller of this company we’re working with at the moment.’

‘The company you’re taking over?
In a hostile manner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he mustn’t be very good at his job.’

‘Not the point.’
Minnie’s in the living room now, looking at the couch.
There’s a pizza box on it.
Lines of cards; I’ve taken to Solitaire recently.
Last Sunday’s papers.
A pair of shoes.
Minnie moves the pizza box to the table and sits down.
She says, ‘I don’t know how you can live like this.’

‘It’s great.
There’s virtually no cleaning up to be done.’

She withers me with one of her looks.
It’s a good one.
I’m thinking about getting the Hoover out when she’s gone.
The thought is slight.
Remote.
But it’s there, which is an improvement.

Minnie says, ‘Anyway, the guy.
He’s set to make a mint out of this transaction.
Plus, he’s attractive.
Divorced.
No kids.
Good head of hair.’

‘No.’

‘I’m ringing him.’
She grabs her phone out of her bag.

I think about grabbing it and running away but then dismiss the thought.
There’s no point.
Not with Minnie.

She punches in a number.
Lifts the phone to her ear.
Says, ‘It’s ringing.’

‘Hang up.
Right now.’

‘Dammit.
Voicemail.’
She hangs up.

I breathe out.
‘Do you want something to drink?’
and she gives me daggers so I say, ‘I meant tea.
Or coffee.
A cold drink?’

‘Coffee is giving me heartburn.’

‘Tea, then?’

‘It’s giving me the trots.’

‘I have Coke and 7UP.’

‘I can’t drink fizzy anymore.
It’s giving me nightmares.’

‘How about some water.’

‘Sparkling or still?’

‘Whichever.’

‘Well, I can’t have sparkling because .
.
.’

‘Still, then.’
I beat a retreat into the kitchen.

Minnie follows me.
She says, ‘How’s the book coming along?’

‘Did Brona put you up to this?’

‘No.’

‘The book is coming along fine.’

‘Liar.’

‘Do you want ice in your water?’

‘Yes, and a sprig of mint.’
I love that about Minnie.
That she thinks this is the type of apartment where one might chance upon a sprig of mint.
Although one might, if Thomas still lived here.
He had a little herb garden going on, out on the balcony, back in the day.

I make myself tea and hand Minnie her water.
I spill a packet of Jammie Dodgers onto a plate.
We sit down.

Minnie says, ‘It’s time, Kat.’

‘It’s not time.’

‘Yes it is.
You can’t stay here, pretending to write a book, for the rest of your life.’

‘I’m not pretending.
I’m busy, as it happens.
Very busy.
That’s why the place is a little .
.
.
messy.’

Minnie says, ‘A little messy?
I’ve seen playrooms that are tidier than your apartment.’

All her analogies involve kids now.
In some form or another.

Minnie says, ‘You need to start dating again.’

‘I hate dating.’

‘Not every man rates bog snorkelling as a date, you know.’

That makes me smile.
‘We never went bog snorkelling, in the end.’

‘A lucky escape.’

‘I got sick.
I couldn’t go.’

‘Proper sick?
Or pretending sick?’

‘Proper sick.’

‘I can’t believe you were even thinking about going bog snorkelling.’

That was the thing about Thomas.
He made everything sound easy.
Feasible.
Even the idea of me squeezing my way into a smelly wetsuit and forcing myself down a hole in the ground in a bog in Athlone didn’t sound as crazy as it should.
Not when Thomas said it.

Minnie looks at her watch.
‘I have to go.
I’m meeting Maurice in town.
There’s some seminar on breastfeeding he wants us to go to.
I said I didn’t think he had the tits for it, but there you go.’

When Minnie’s gone, I sit on the space on the couch where the pizza box used to be.
I’m not thinking about hoovering anymore.
I’m thinking about that day.
The bog snorkelling day.

I didn’t even ring him to cancel.
That’s how sick I was.
It was only when he rang the buzzer that I remembered.
I crawled out of bed and answered the phone.
I said, ‘I can’t go bog snorkelling.
I’m sick.’

‘Ah, you cray-thur.
Let me up till I get a look at you.’
Thomas had a way of talking about me as if I was a heifer that he was thinking about buying at a mart.

‘I’m probably contagious.’

‘I haven’t been sick since 1972.
I’ll take my chances.’

‘What did you have in 1972?’

‘Let me up and I’ll tell you.’

I pressed the buzzer and, for the first time since I’d known him, I didn’t do my usual dash around the apartment, kicking plates under the couch and hiding my face under a ton of make-up.
That was how sick I was.
Instead, I leaned against the door and waited the sixty seconds.

‘What did you have in 1972?’
I asked when he arrived.

‘Anaphylactic shock.’

‘Impressive,’ I said.
‘What are you allergic to?’

‘Bee stings.’

‘That’s pretty serious,’ I couldn’t help saying.

‘You look worried,’ he said, chuffed with himself.

‘I’m not, it’s just .
.
.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, even though I wasn’t worried.
‘I’ve an antidote in the car.
Besides, bees sting only if they feel threatened.’

He bent to examine my face.
‘So what’s wrong with you?’

‘Tummy bug.’
It sounded pretty lame when you compared it to anaphylactic shock.

‘You’ve got a temperature,’ he told me, clamping one of his massive hands across my forehead.
The coolness of his skin was delicious.
I allowed myself to sag a little, against the door.

‘Come here to me,’ he said, and before I could say, ‘Diarrhoea and vomit,’ he had me up in his arms, like I was a doll.

He put me in bed and made me weak tea and dry toast.
He even emptied the bucket beside my bed.
He drew the curtains and checked on me every ten minutes or so.

I said, ‘You don’t have to stay.’

He said, ‘I know.’
But he stayed anyway.

Later, I lay on the couch.
I felt much better but I didn’t tell Thomas that.
I was reluctant to relinquish the feeling I had.
It felt like I’d spent the last twelve months running and running and then, just for that day, just because I was sick, I stopped.
I surrendered.
I was appalled at how good it felt.

You’re not yourself when you’re sick.

Thomas sat on the couch.
He picked up one of my feet and began to knead it with his fingers.
I tried to pull it out of his hands.
‘I haven’t had a shower today,’ I said.

‘I’ve been elbow-deep in ewes in the lambing season,’ he told me proudly.
‘I can handle smelly feet.’

‘I didn’t say they were smelly.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘Besides, you only have one ewe.
You can hardly call that a lambing season.’

‘She’s a pretty fertile ewe – I can call it what I like.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he asked later, when we were supposed to be watching the telly.

I said, ‘There are nine planets in the Solar System.’

He said, ‘Eight, actually.
Pluto is only a dwarf planet now.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since 2006.’

‘That seems unfair.’

Thomas said, ‘I meant tell me something I don’t know.
About yourself.’

I said, ‘Oh,’ even though I knew that’s what he’d meant.

And then I told him.
Up till then, I told him what I tell everybody who wants to know.
I said I was a technical writer for a software company.

I didn’t make a conscious decision to tell him.
I just told him.
Without really giving it any thought.

I said, ‘I’m a writer.’

He said, ‘I already know that.’

‘No, I mean a fiction writer.
I write fiction.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have a pseudonym.’

‘Like John Banville?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What’s your pseudonym?’

It was strange.
Telling him.
A bit like the first time I took off my clothes in front of him in the middle of the day so he could see everything, and I ran out of breath in the end and couldn’t suck my belly in anymore.
He didn’t seem to notice.
He said I was beautiful.
Ha!

‘It’s .
.
.
it’s Killian Kobain.’

Thomas didn’t just read the Declan Darker books.
He was friends with him on Facebook.
He followed him on Twitter.
He subscribed to Declan Darker’s blog.
I’d seen all the Declan Darker books on his bookcase in Monaghan.
The box set on top of his DVD player.
Thomas happened to be a fan.
He happened to be my fan.

Thomas shook his head.
‘I can’t believe it.’

I got my laptop.
Showed him the files.
The stories.
All the various drafts of them.

Still, he shook his head.

In the end I had to bring him to my office, open the safe and drag out various documents that happened to have the names of the books written on the top of them.

Eventually he believed me.
He said, ‘You really are Killian Kobain?’

I nodded.

He grinned and said, ‘I knew there was something fierce womanly about that bloke.’

Afterwards, he looked a little shy, like he’d just met me and he was trying to think of something interesting to say.
I got a kick out of it, to be honest.

He said, ‘You dreamed up Razor Bill.’

‘He’s basically a male version of Minnie.’

He laughed and that broke the ice and we were back to being us again.
Kat and Thomas.
Thomas and Kat.
He said, ‘That’s pretty weird.’
But I could tell he was impressed too.
And I liked it.
A lot.
I felt like I was fifteen again.
Before everything went wrong.
The good side of fifteen.