Surviving Michael (3 page)

Naturally, I was baptised Nicolas because like all Nicolases I was born on Christmas Day. One day later, it would have been Stephen. One day earlier, I don’t know, maybe Rudolf. Such banal insipidity by my parents set the stage for my development into a mature member of society. Either way, I’m pretty sure that by the time I had left the church grounds, I was Nick. Choosing a name for your children has to be the most personal and intimate thing you can do for anyone.

Lately, my mind’s become a little erratic, bouncing from one subject to another like a pinball machine. Danny suggested I try meditation. He’s into all that shite. Self-helping himself with every new book that comes out on the market. He’s obviously looking for an answer to something, but I’m not so sure that he even knows what the question is. If it’s not self-help then it’s some other author that everyone’s heard of but that nobody actually reads – Joyce, Beckett, Martin Amis, Sebastian Barry. He doesn’t do it to impress anybody; I think he does it to impress himself.

When Danny and his dad were doing the go-karting together, I used to be so jealous of how close they were. They seemed to be hanging out together all the time, and almost every Saturday they’d be off racing in one part of the country or another. You certainly wouldn’t think that looking at them now.

On a Saturday in my house, my Dad would sit in his armchair all afternoon, its armrests worn to a lighter shade of brown than its back and sides, watching one horse race after another, and studying open newspapers on the coffee table beside him, trying to unearth a positive result from an equation of betting odds, race times and strange horse names such as Peggy’s Paradise, Sting like a Bee, or Rose’s Delight.

Whether he won or lost, my dad would give a little cough, circle the winner with his chewed pencil and look at the line up for the next race. Whenever I asked him, which was all the time, if he’d won, he’d tap the side of his nose with his forefinger and nod towards the kitchen where my mother would be either cooking a meal or cleaning up after one. I’d nod back smiling, happy in our shared, if misunderstood, secret and he’d give an ambiguous ’ah’, and concentrate harder on his paper.

Only two stops to Stephen’s Green. I shouldn’t have come out tonight, but I had to. We always get together on this night. Nobody ever mentions why, of course, but all four of us always turn up.

I’m not in the mood, but I’m even less in the mood to stay in and start a fresh bottle of Jameson. I’ve only got into whiskey in the last six months. I’d buy a bottle every Sunday evening and it would easily do me for the week. Then one Thursday I went to pour myself a drink and the bottle was empty. This evening would have been my third bottle to open this week. I know I’m on a slippery slope downwards to alcoholism, but so far, I’m enjoying the ride down.

I’M SITTING ON the edge of the bed, and I’m wearing nothing but my Rolex. It says three o’clock, but it doesn’t just say it – it smiles it. It says, ‘the whole world could go to shit at any moment, but I’m telling you, no, I’m guaranteeing you, that at this precise moment it’s three o’clock’. What a beautiful watch. A Daytona Oyster with a white face. Waterproof. Shockproof. Breakable proof. The second hand runs smoothly, doesn’t jump from second to second like the fakes. I love the weight of it hanging from my wrist. I never take it off. Only when I’m at the gym, or the pool. Or when I’m jogging. Quality and style, that’s what you’re paying for. Not that I bought it. It was given to me by one of my regulars. A politician from Cork or Kerry or someplace. She said she was only up in Dublin for the night and didn’t have time to get the cash. I’m a fool for taking it, but she’s a regular, and you’ve got to look after your regulars. I mean, they’re your bread and butter. They say that everyone’s been affected by this recession. And it’s true. Even my business. Having said that, the rich still live in the nice areas and the poor haven’t moved out of their estates, so I don’t see what exactly has changed. They used to say that all ships rise in a booming economy, but I think that’s something the upper classes tell themselves to justify fucking over the working class. I don’t listen to the news, but I’ve certainly seen a slowing down from Irish clients. I reckon my home visits have been cut in half over the last few years. Which is a pity, as I always prefer the home visits to the hotels. Lately, I find myself imagining it’s my house that I’m in, and that the photos on the walls are of my family. What a dickhead I’m becoming for thinking something like that. Thank God for the Germans and the IMF though. Lately I’ve had a lot of Danish business women. Don’t know why. I never ask. It’s not as if they don’t like to talk, though. Christ, do they like to talk. It’s part of the job though. Sometimes I think they’re paying me for my conversational skills as much as my bedroom skills. But I listen when I need to listen, and talk when I need to talk. The Americans generally like a good natter beforehand, but they’re very business-like and focused when it comes to the actual act, which suits me fine as I’ve a job to do, don’t I? There’s nothing worse than someone babbling on while I’m trying to perform. Worse than that, are the screamers. I’ve nothing against a little sexy moan every now and again, but there’s no need for the fog horns. I had this Spanish client a couple of weeks ago, and man did she let loose. Started screaming all this Spanish shit, and the sweat was rolling off me as I’m trying to keep up with her enthusiasm. Someone started knocking on the wall, so I put my hand over her mouth. Her eyes bulged wide and she seemed to get off on this, and it doubled her excitement, and she bit down hard on my hand and then I started screaming. What a fucking nightmare. Literally! She was apologetic afterwards –
lo siento
,
lo siento
, she kept saying. Gave me another two hundred euro for my inconvenience. Five years ago, I’d have told Richard to take her off my clients’ list, but not these days. These days, you take what you’re given. Any nationality. Any age. Any size. But he doesn’t usually give me too much from the low end. He knows that I can perform and I won’t let him down, if you pardon the pun. The client always walks away happy. That’s if she can walk away at all. Plus, I don’t do any gay stuff, so my market’s a lot more limited than most of the other guys.

‘Did you just look at your watch, Charlie?’

Fuck. Rule number one – never look at your watch. Gives the client the impression that there’s somewhere else you’ve got to be, or something else you’ve got to do, or worse, someone else you’ve got to do. Shatters their fantasies. The illusion of exclusivity, as Richard calls it.

‘What? Of course not.’

Christ, what was her name again? I’m terrible with names.

‘But I just saw you looking at your watch.’

Her cockney accent is always more prominent after the act.

‘It’s a Rolex, Berna... Bernie. I always love looking at this watch. It’s a real one. You see the second hand? Well...’

‘I don’t doubt it, darling. Presumably a gift from some tart.’

Shit. This is going to cost me time. And I’ve got to get going.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know I love spending time with you.’

I jump up onto the bed, and start kissing her neck. She pretends to push me away, and I pretend to struggle. Most women like their little games. Their fantasies. That’s what they pay me for. Sure, I fuck them, and physically they desire me, but that’s only a by-product of what’s going on. I’m their bad boy. Their bit of rough. I give them chivalry and equality. I listen to them. I desire them. I understand them. I can be anything that they want me to be. And all charged by the hour. Or at least I can pretend to be all those things. I’m not a big reader, but I do remember reading in one of those men’s magazines that are always lying around Richard’s office, that even Freud couldn’t figure out what women want.

‘Oh, Charlie,’ she moans into my ear.

Freud should have asked me.

‘Again, Charlie, darling. Again.’

I figured that one out after only a few months in this game.

‘Oh, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.’

Everything, Herr Freud. Women want everything. And who am I to deny them it?

The lobby of the Westbury is quite busy. I check my Rolex. I’m a bit late but he can wait a few minutes. I nod to the girls at reception, and shake hands with the two porters, Brian and Jim. I know most of the staff in all the nicer hotels and restaurants in the city. Richard makes sure that they all get their little cash bonuses throughout the year. ‘Oiling the wheels,’ as he calls it. Keeps everything running smoothly. They’re not being paid to do anything. Look the other way, that’s all. I’m mad for a coffee now. I always need two or three espressos afterwards, but I never hang around the hotels. I like to go to Carluccio’s in Dawson Street or I’ll walk down to Botticelli’s in Temple Bar if I’m on the north side of the city, which is rare. Either way, I get out of the hotel. A bit like leaving the scene of a crime, but I always need a bit of time to myself afterwards. Every now and again, while I’m walking through the city, I’ll see one of my clients. Perhaps they were a one-timer, or perhaps they’re a regular. Unless they see me, of course, I never acknowledge them, but if they see me and there’s eye contact, I just offer them a quick nod of recognition and move on. They might be with their husbands or their kids, but a lot of times, because of the way I reacted to them, in a real casual way, they’ll be in touch with Richard within a week to book me back in. Most men don’t pay close enough attention to their girlfriends or wives, so they’d never even notice that momentary smile or blush or change in their posture. I always notice. I remind them of a nice time they’ve had, a brief date with physical pleasure. I like to think that just by seeing me, I’ve brightened up their day. Put a pep in their step, as Richard says. Not a lot of people can say that, unless you’re someone like Tom Cruise or the Pope.

‘Anything to eat, Charlie?’

‘No thanks, Trish. Just the coffee.’

He’s not here yet. Good. There’s a stool by the window and I take my first espresso and sit there. Someone’s left a newspaper, and I flick through it. I like to look up which celebrity’s birthday it is and hopefully they’re older than me. Then I look out on to the passing crowds of Dawson Street. It helps me to clear my head. Everyone always seems in such a rush to me, even on this hot Friday afternoon. Rushing for a bus, rushing to work, and then rushing home again, even rushing when they’re on their lunch and taking a break from rushing. I’m sure that a few people wonder how I’m able to do what I do, but to be honest, I don’t know how they do what they do. I could never get up early every morning, and certainly not before nine, and then do the same thing with the same people every day. They should all get medals as far as I’m concerned. When I left school, I went to the Gaiety School of Acting for three years. I thought it’d be three years of late mornings, pissing about doing plays at night, lots of cheap drinking and non-stop screwing, and I was right. I managed to get a few jobs after it, and even did a couple of commercials for TV. I was doing loads of auditions for plays, and even films, running all over the country, but a lot of the time they’d pick me based on my looks, but then at the audition I wouldn’t be able to remember the lines. I was never very good at remembering poems or anything like that in school either. I stopped going to auditions about five or six years ago. I don’t suppose now I’ll be what I once thought I would be. But then who is? Young, dumb and full of cum, as Richard says. He hasn’t called me that in ages. Trish puts another espresso down in front of me without me asking. She places her left hand on my shoulder and then slides it down my back, leaning into me, presenting her cleavage to me like two huge cream cakes on offer.

‘Fancy anything else?’ she asks.

I smile. If Richard turns up soon, I could get her back to my place, bang her, and then still meet the lads at Broderick’s for nine. It’s my first free Friday in a while though and I haven’t seen any of them in a couple of months so it’d be good to catch up. She’s a bit of a clinger though. Last time she asked me to go with her to see some movie. I got her out of there quick. Jesus, a movie! Can you imagine? She may just as well have asked me to meet her parents. Best not taking a chance.

‘No, thanks, babe,’ I tell her. ‘I’m waiting on someone, and I’m in a bit of a rush today. Meeting the lads tonight. Some other time?’

She can’t hide her disappointment, but she tries.

‘So what’s her name?’

‘Who?’

‘This girl you’re waiting on.’

‘It’s my agent.’

I still tell everyone that I’m an actor. That helps explain how I pay for everything. They always ask, so what I have I seen you in? Corporate videos, mostly, I say. I have no idea what that means, but it seems to keep them happy.

‘Okay, then,’ she says. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

She gives my back another massage and then leaves. Where is this fucker? It’s not like him to be late. An afternoon Botox session running into overtime, no doubt. I don’t want to be too late for meeting up with the lads. I haven’t seen them in a while, but I try not to miss this date every year. They’re already a cantankerous bunch of fuckers at the best of times, so I don’t want to piss them off for my tardiness as well. Here he comes. It’s in the high-twenties and he’s carrying an umbrella. That is one nice fucking suit though. With my twenty percent, he can afford it.

‘Just a cup of tea for me please, princess,’ Richard calls over to Trish as he comes in. ‘Earl grey if you have it. If not, well never mind.’

I heard Richard had a pretty rough and tough upbringing. Somewhere in East London, I think. I’m not sure. I’ve never asked, and I never would. Either way, it was from some place that he’d never be able to afford that Oxbridge accent he now sports.

‘And Charlie, would you like something?’ he says, pointing his nose at me.

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ Trish calls back to him, ‘I know what Charlie likes.’

‘I bet you do, my lovely,’ Richard tells her, showing her his polished, and sharpened teeth. ‘I bet you do indeed.’

Trish acts all coy and shy, and even manages to produce a blush for his amusement. The last time Trish and I spent the night together, or the few hours anyway, she confided in me that she had always fantasised about doing it with three blokes, except it sounded more like a request than a confession.