Painted Faces (16 page)

Walk of Shame

I leave the dressing room and head towards the bar, where I order a bottle of champagne on Dorotea's tab, as well as three shots of rum for myself. I stand there and knock them all back, not minding the burn so much since I'm too full of satisfaction that I got one over on Dorotea and her “chop chop” clappy fucking hands.

The barman gives me the bottle of champagne in a fancy bucket of ice, as well as four glasses. I carry them all back to the dressing room, where I find Nicholas still in his drag outfit, surrounded by his three admirers. Phil has disappeared off somewhere.

“
Well, here you go ladies and
gent
,” I announce. “Champagne for my real friend, real pain for my sham friends,” quoting the Fall Out Boy song as I'm feeling particularly “emo” right now.

“
Ah, great movie,” says Nicholas with a smile, thinking I'm referring to the film
25
^th
Hour
. I give him my best moody teenager
you are so old you don't even get what I'm talking about
eye roll, even though he's only three years older than me.

“
Pop open the bubbly Doro,” shouts one of Dorotea's nameless friends. I imagine she's a hairdresser too, because she has one of those spiky mullets that those in the profession seem to think look good.

“
I'm going to head home,” I say to Nicholas. “Do you want me to drop your stuff off at your apartment for you?” I glance at the ladies. “That way you'll be free to enjoy your night.”

He regards me seriously for a long moment, and I begin to wonder if he even plans on answering me. It looks like there's a million thoughts passing through his head.

“
No I can manage it,” he says finally. “Why are you leaving? I thought you were going to stay for a drink.”

My head is already spinning a little from the sneaky shots I had at the bar. “I changed my mind. I'll catch you next Thursday shall I? You don't have any more shows until then right?”

“
That's right.” He pulls over his bag and rummages for his wallet, taking out a twenty and handing it to me. “Make sure you get a taxi home,” he says warmly, his fingers absently brushing against mine as I take it.

I try not to feel happy about the fact that he wants to make sure I get home safely in a cab. I silently shove the money in my bag and nod to Dorotea and company.

“
Ladies,” I say, before grabbing my coat and slipping out the door.

The cab drive is short, but I manage to fit in a good bitch fest with the driver; the two of us complaining about our crappy government and the bastard bankers who screwed us over during the boom years. Dublin taxi drivers love a good rant, but what they love even more is a person who will rant along with them.

“
Ah, don't even get me started on those pricks in the banking sector. They think they're fucking untouchable. And they get away with it too, you know why?” asks my balding, slightly overweight taxi driver.

“
Why?” I ask, egging him on.

“
Because it's all their fucking best buddies who are in power. The Toaiseach and all the those ministers are hardly going to prosecute their friends now are they? Politics in this country, it's an incestuous pile of shit. Pricks,” he spits. The Toaiseach is the Irish version of a Prime Minister.

“
Pricks,” I agree, just as he pulls up outside my building.

I pay the fare and hop out. When I get inside the apartment I make myself a big mug of hot chocolate, before getting straight into bed, hoping the warm beverage will make me sleepy. It doesn't work. My brain won't stop thinking about Nicholas and what he might be doing with Dorotea right now. It's a pity Nora's still at work, because I could have gone into her room and nagged her with my story of disappointment and jealousy.

Deciding that sleep isn't going to happen for me at this moment in time, I head into the kitchen and pull out the makings of a Victoria sponge cake. I go to my parent's house every Sunday for dinner, so I figure it will go over well with them if I bring dessert along with me tomorrow. Baking tends to work good to keep my mind off life and the things that are stressing me.

I'm stirring the cake mixture in a bowl and listening to “California
ü
ber Alles” by
Dead Kennedys
on my headphones when Nora comes in the door, looking tired after her shift. She pulls a stool up to the kitchen counter and sits down, sticking her finger into the cake mix before popping it in her mouth. I've never had a taste for raw cake mix, but it's always been a favourite of Nora's

“
You can get salmonella from that you know,” I say, pulling off my headphones and nodding to the finger she has stuck in her mouth.

“
No you can't,” she retorts, going in for another dip. I knock her hand away.

She sits back and eyes me. “So you're baking at night. You only ever do that when you're depressed about something. What is it?”

I sigh and continue to silently prepare my ingredients.

“
Come on Fred, I'm ready to hit the sack. This is your last chance to tell me what's bothering you, because in the next five minutes I'll be dead to the world.”

“
Nicholas confuses me,” I confess.

Nora cocks an eyebrow. “In what way? Don't tell me you want to shag him while he's wearing a dress or something.”

I shake my head and laugh. “No of course not - well, not really.” I admit sheepishly. “It's just that he's always so forward with me. He compliments me and it turns me into a pile of mush. I don't want to fancy him if he doesn't mean what he says. I get the impression he flirts with everyone, but I'm too insecure to handle it. You know what it's like when a man says he wants you, you want him to have never liked any girl as much as he likes you.”

“
And there was me thinking you weren't interested in him,” Nora replies with a sly grin.

“
Oh fuck off, of course I like him. You'd have to be blind not to find him attractive.”

“
I know, he's quite beautiful, isn't he?” she says, for a moment forgetting her gripes about him making his living performing as a drag queen.

“
Ugh, you're not helping Nora. Just go to bed.”

“
Fine,” she replies, grabbing her bag and sauntering into her bedroom.

I finish up with the cake and set the timer for the oven to go off once it's cooked. I'll put the jam and cream on it in the morning. After all the baking my brain is now too exhausted to think about Nicholas, and I finally get some sleep.

When I visit my mum and dad on Sundays I tend to pile my hair up in a messy bun and wear the most comfortable clothes I can find. Today that consists of black leggings, boots and an old baggy Green Day t-shirt. We always spend the day eating, chatting and watching television shows, so there's not much of a point in getting dressed up.

I very much regret that as I'm leaving my apartment, carrying a plastic container with the Victoria sponge cake sitting inside it, because I bump right into Nicholas who's standing at his front door. He's not alone either. He's saying goodbye to Dorotea, who clearly spent the night and is looking a little worse for wear. Nicholas' eyes run up and down my body. The fucker, he shouldn't be looking at me like that if he just spent the night shagging another woman.

I don't want either of them to know that this surprise meeting has plunged a heavy brick to the pit of my stomach, so like always, I make a big stupid joke of it.

“
My, my, am I witnessing the walk of shame right now?” I declare loudly, plastering a fake happy smile on my face. “This is a classy neighbourhood I'll have you know, you're lowering the tone.”

Dorotea turns to glance at me. “Oh my word, you gave me a fright, so noisy,” she complains, covering her tender hangover ridden ears with her hands. She doesn't look so great without her make-up on, and there are crusty bits of last night's mascara stuck in the corners of her eyes.

Nicholas has one arm braced on the wall beside his door. He's wearing trousers but no top and his hair is a sexy mess. I hate him for looking so good with such little effort.

I step up to them both, before shouting in Dorotea's ear, “Sorry, my bad.” It gives me a sick satisfaction when I see her cringe.

Nicholas is only barely containing his amusement. I turn to look at him. “I take it the champagne went down a treat.”

He grins and nods to Dorotea. “It's not the only thing that went down last night.”

“
You cheeky little devil,” Dorotea scolds with saucy outrage. “You never returned the favour; I'll be collecting on that.”

I resist the urge to make a gagging noise.

Nicholas' eyes are levelled on me when he replies to Dorotea, “My apologies, but I only visit the lady garden under very special circumstances.” The way he's looking at me makes me think he's visualising visiting my lady garden. A shiver runs down my spine.

She pouts and folds her arms across her chest. “That's not very fair.”

“
Sorry, those are the rules,” Nicholas chirps. “Where are you off to Fred?”

I show him the cake I'm holding, realising it reinforces the lie I told him yesterday about baking my mum a cake for a fictitious dinner party. “Visiting the parentals for Sunday lunch,” I reply.

“
You lucky sod, I could kill for a nice roast. It's the best cure for a hangover.”

“
Sadly, you're not invited,” I say. “See ya later alligator.” And with that I flounce off down the hall, feeling quite triumphant with myself.

I hop on a bus out towards Coolock, which is where my mum and dad live in the house I grew up in. Coolock is on Dublin's north side, and it's a pretty bleak place in some ways. The area consists mainly of housing estates and factories.

I'll give you a little lesson on the Dublin class system. In general, the working classes live in towns on the north side, while the middle and upper classes live on the south side. Of course, there are a handful of posh places on the north side, such as Malahide, Howth and Skerries, but mostly it's working class. Nora grew up in Malahide. We met at a summer tennis school and have been friends ever since, despite our very different backgrounds.

Coolock is mainly known for being home to the Cadbury headquarters in Ireland, as well as the Tayto crisps factory. The smell of oil and frying potatoes has always simultaneously made me feel sick and reminded me of home. So basically we produce chocolate and crisps. Perhaps you could blame us for the increasing problem of obesity. Growing up here, you got a thick skin fairly quickly. If you came across as a victim the other kids would rip you to shreds.

This is probably why I developed such a sharp tongue over the years. I needed to be able to put people in their places so that they wouldn't mess with me. I never really fit in anywhere as a teenager. I tended to flit from group to group and often I'd just hang out by my little old lonesome. Sometimes it felt like my mum was my best friend. Feel free to shed a tear for how pathetic I was. In a way it was a good thing, because if I had of been popular I probably would have ended up pregnant at fifteen and living in a council flat for the rest of my days. That or a junkie. A lot of kids grow up too fast here.

I knock on the front door to my parents' house, as their ginger cat Leonard rubs off my legs and purrs loudly. I don't know why they named him Leonard. It's a weird name for a cat. Too human. Perhaps they were making a subversive reference to Leo for lion, since a lion is basically just a huge cat.

My mum answers as usual; her grey hair is nicely blow dried so I'm guessing she paid a visit to the hairdressers yesterday. Every fortnight she goes to get her hair trimmed and blow dried. I'm surprised she has any hair left, she goes so often.

“
Freda come on in, ah you baked a cake did you?”

She eyes the plastic container with relish. My mum is a fiend for baked goods.

“
I did,” I reply, handing her the cake. The house smells deliciously of roast lamb. I go into the living room where my dad is sitting in his favourite chair watching a football match. My dad's crazy about two things, football and golf, so if either of them are showing on the telly there's no prying the remote from him.

He supports Manchester United and is currently wearing his red jersey with pride. I sometimes like to point out the irony of him being in love with an English team and also having a penchant for ranting on about the troubles up north and how the Brits stole a third of our country from us. He just scowls at me and tells me to shut up whenever I do.