Painted Faces (17 page)

It's a prevalent contradiction in Ireland. The boys I went to school with would don their Liverpool football shirts one day, and the next they'd be graffiti-ing the words “Brits Out” on the nearest lamp post or wall.

I put a hand on Dad's shoulder and give him a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting, and then I let him focus back on the game. We sit in silence for a few minutes, as the commentators describe what's happening on the field with fervour.

“
Your mother had a fall Wednesday last,” my dad comments out of nowhere. This is how conversations with him normally run; silence interspersed with the odd piece of news.

“
She never mentioned it,” I say. “Is she okay?”

He lets out a breath and shifts in his chair. “Ah, she bruised her ankle. Wouldn't let me take her to the doctor's. She said she was fine.”

My dad doesn't say much, but when he does you know it's important. He's clearly telling me this because he's worried about Mum, which means he wants me to talk some sense into her. Out of all my siblings, I'm the one who visits the most. My brother and three sisters all have their own families to take care of, so they don't really have much time to come see our parents.

“
I thought she was limping a little bit when she answered the door,” I reply. “I'll get her to let me have a look at her ankle after dinner.”

Dad nods, satisfied, and returns his attention to the football. Because my mum had me so late, I've always been quite aware of my parents' mortality. Even as a child I'd have these nightmares about one of them getting sick and dying.

Now that I'm older I know that their deaths are inevitable, but it still isn't nice to think about them not being here anymore. When one of them gets even a little bit sick it makes me realise how close they are to the end of their lives. But I always try to reassure myself with the fact that lots of people live well into their nineties these days, which means my parents could have a good twenty years left in them.

Mum's pottering around in the kitchen, so I go in to check on her. She's standing by the cooker, stirring some gravy in a pot.

“
Dad says you had a fall,” I say to her casually.

She tuts and shakes her head. “It was nothing. I'm fine.”

“
If it's fine then you won't mind me having a look at it.”

Her body stiffens. “Leave it, Freda.”

I grab her by the hand and pull her over to a chair, before sitting her down. “Stop being stubborn, Mum.” She slumps back in defeat as I roll up her trouser leg and pull down her sock. I can't contain my gasp when I see the big purple and yellow bruise on her ankle. I glance up at her. “This is nothing, is it? Why did you pretend you were fine?”

She gets a little flustered. “Oh, I didn't want to make a fuss,” she's deflecting now, I can tell.

“
Spit it out, Mum.”

She wrings her hands and throws her eyes to the heavens, an expression that tells me she thinks I'm overreacting. “Well, it's just that Dr. Richards retired a few months ago and they have this new doctor working at the clinic and he can be a little difficult.”

“
What do you mean by difficult?” I ask, my temper flaring at the idea of some doctor being mean to my mother.

She worries the hem of her peach coloured cardigan for a minute. “Nothing too bad, he's just very flippant when you tell him about your ailments and makes out as if you're a hypochondriac.”

“
The bastard,” I say, imagining some hot shot doctor who thinks he's above dealing with the health complaints of elderly women like Mum.

“
Language Freda,” Mum scolds half-heartedly.

“
Listen, I'm taking you to see him tomorrow, and if he gives you any crap he'll have me to contend with.”

“
You don't have to go out of your way. I know I should have gone to the clinic myself after I fell. I'll get your dad to take me tomorrow.”

“
Mum, I'm taking you. I'll drop by first thing in the morning. Now you go and have a sit down in the living room. I'll put the dinner up.”

She places her hand on my arm, tells me I'm a great girl, and makes her way out of the kitchen.

After a leisurely dinner and a few hours of chatting to Mum about this and that, I say my goodbyes and make my way to the bus stop. A few teenage boys in ridiculous looking tracksuits follow behind me for a minute, and I know they're considering whether or not to jump me for my purse. I turn around and face them, walking backwards.

I eye the one who appears to be the ringleader. “Just fucking try it you little shits,” I shout at them.

Surprised at being confronted, they tuck tail and run off. You'll find that most scumbags who mug people are cowards, so you only have to show them you're onto them and they'll scurry away. It's the desperate ones you have to watch out for, because they have nothing left to lose and they'll resort to extremes.

It's around half past six when I get back to the apartment, and I can hear laughter coming from inside as I slot my key in the door. Opening it I find Nora, Harry, Sean and Nicholas sitting in the living area with a massive pizza box spread out on the coffee table.

“
Well, well, well, look at you all shooting the shit,” I remark, slightly annoyed that I wasn't informed of this little get together. “What do you think this is, the set of
Friends
?”

“
Harry and Sean decided to come over and surprise us with a pizza.” Nora explains. “Since you were out they knocked next door and asked Nicholas if he'd like to join us instead.”

“
Viv you cow,” I say, glancing at Nicholas who's currently seated in my favourite spot on the couch. “Would you take my grave as quick?”

He grins widely, patting his stomach. “Sorry Fred, but the pizza was delicious. I couldn't resist. I'm sure I can figure out a way to pay you back.” His words drip with sexual intent.

“
Be careful there Viv, or you'll end up bankrupt. You already owe Dorotea a visit to her lady garden.”

At this Nora almost chokes on the glass of juice she'd been sipping. Harry and Sean eye Nicholas with near identical interest. “Who's Dorotea?” Sean asks. “And what's all this about a lady garden?”

Nicholas makes a motion of zipping his lips. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“
It's a good thing you're not a gentleman then,” I say, sitting down in the space beside him since it's the only seat left. “And I'm sure you did a good deal more than kissing, you trollop.” I look to the others. “Dorotea is a sassy Italian hairdresser Nicholas and I met in the park yesterday. She
showed
up at the club last night and Nicholas took it upon himself to
show
her a memorable evening.”

I give him a cheeky wink, all the while my stomach is turning at the topic of conversation. I really do bring the misery on myself sometimes. I was, after all, the one who brought up Dorotea just now. “I caught the two of them saying their farewells this morning. Nicholas mentioned that Dorotea went down on him and she seemed less than impressed that he didn't return the favour.”

When my eyes catch on Nora's she gives me a brief sympathetic look, since she's the only one who knows how stumbling upon Nicholas and Dorotea after a one night stand would hurt me. Especially after my brief confession late last night. Okay, so I know I'm a fool to be hurt by it since I barely know him, but Nicholas is just one of those men who can make you fall head over heels with a simple heartfelt smile.

“
Oh, this is juicy,” says Harry. “Come on, give us the details Nicholas.”

Nicholas shoots me an expression that's half amused, half put out. He absently trails a finger down my bare arm, stopping just before my wrist. “She was very – how do I put it? Enthusiastic. Although I could have done without all of the noises. She was a moaner in the true sense of the word. I'm surprised you didn't hear her through the walls. Couldn't shut her up.”

He leans forward. Harry, Sean and Nora instinctively lean towards him in anticipation of what he might say next. “And get this, she had no hair down below whatsoever. I wasn't complaining, but it kind of threw me for six when I saw it. Most women have a landing strip at the bare minimum. She was like a porn star.”

“
Oh my God, I think you just traumatised me for life,” Harry jokes. “As a gay man I have to admit I'm quite squeamish when it comes to women and their downstairs business.”

“
That's awful Harry,” says Nora. “It's just a vagina, why would it make you squeamish?”

“
It's the unknown,” Harry replies. “The unknown can be frightening to a delicate flower such as myself.”

I snicker. “Delicate my arse. You can suck a dick, but you can't take the idea of a hairless vagina.”

Nora grins happily and crosses her arms, delighted that we're teaming together to defend our womanhood.

“
Ugh, please don't tell me you've got one as well,” says Harry, leaning into Sean as though he might expire.

“
What a vagina? Or a hairless one?” Nora puts in.

“
The latter,” Harry replies, making a funny shape of displeasure with his mouth.

“
I get a Brazilian wax every couple of weeks,” Nora answers boldly. I'm surprised she's being so open; then again, personal hygiene is one of her best subjects. As I mentioned before, Nora's about as anal as they come. If there's a pun in there, I apologise. I've never accompanied her on her trips to the salon, because the idea of sitting there with my legs akimbo while some stranger goes to work on me with hot wax makes me shiver with trepidation.

“
Is it wrong that I'm really enjoying the turn this conversation has taken?” asks Nicholas, leaning in close to my ear. “I think vagina is one of my favourite words.” Nora and Harry are still arguing back and forth, so they don't hear him whisper to me. “I bet you have a really pretty one Freda, like a flower.”

“
You're a pervert,” I say, pulling away nervously. “And if you think vaginas look like flowers you must have a very unique way of seeing them. What do you do, close one eye and squint?” I joke and rub at my arms, hoping he doesn't notice the goosebumps.

“
If I had you in my bed, I definitely wouldn't be closing my eyes,” he continues, unnerving me.

I let out a shaky breath. “Nicholas...you have to stop..” words fail me for once, and that hardly ever happens. The temptation to give in to his suggestiveness and flirting is too much. I can't let myself go there, because I know that one night is all he's ever going to want from me. Unfortunately, that's not something I'm capable of giving him. If I slept with him even once I'd probably end up following him around like a psycho lovesick puppy for the rest of my days.

At the sound of his name he lets his fingers trace over my thigh. “You should call me Nicholas more often, it kind of makes me hard.”

“
Please shut up now,” I grip the edge of the couch. Nora, Harry and Sean are completely oblivious to the torture I'm currently undergoing.

“
When I pinched you – last night – what did you feel?” he asks.

“
Nothing,” I answer through a tight jaw.

His fingers travel up my thigh, and dance in between my legs for a brief second when he goes on, “You felt nothing here?”

“
Seriously Nicholas, back off or I'll punch you.”

He raises his hands in the air in surrender, but doesn't move his lips from my ear. “One final thing,” he whispers. “When I was inside Dorotea last night, I closed my eyes and pretended it was you.”

My hand moves of its own volition, probably more out of shock than anything else, and I slap him hard right across the face. The room falls silent, and everyone's looking at me like I'm some kind of crazy person.

“
Oh God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that,” I falter when he turns his face to reveal that he's shaking with laughter.

“
It's okay Fred, for such a pretty little thing you've got some strength in you. Ow,” he rubs at his jaw.

“
What happened?” Nora asks, looking worriedly between the two of us.

“
I think I offended Fred's sensitive nature,” Nicholas answers.

“
It's nothing,” I say. “I'm going to my room for a bit.”

I stand up and march straight to my bedroom without saying another word, in an effort to hide my blazing red cheeks.