Sushi for Beginners
Page 121
This was the emetic she needed. The ladylike weeping escalated until she was bawling like a baby.
‘… In sickness and in health…’
‘… Ashlings had a bad shock…’
‘… Yew may kiss the braaaaade…’
‘… she’s got a job in New York…’
‘… the factory is closed for their summer holidays…’
Howling, she stretched out a hand and toppled a box of tissues into the bed with her.
As the hours passed the light outside her bedroom window faded into pink. Charcoaly blue darkened her room, then night-black tinged with city-violet. She was still treating herself to the occasional squall when the muffled pearly grey of dawn crept in. This eventually dispersed and sharpened into a hard blue September sky. Noises began outside as the day got going, but Lisa elected to remain where she was, thanks very much.
Sometime, in what might have been the afternoon, there was an intrusion into her cotton-wool reality. A noise in her hall, footsteps, then she jumped as Kathy stuck her shredded-wheat head around the bedroom door.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lisa gazed with red-rimmed eyes.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Kathy said. ‘I always clean for you on Saturday.’
The tissue balls strewn over the duvet cover, the unmistakable miasma of despondency and the fact that Lisa was in bed and seemed to be still dressed, greatly alarmed Kathy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’
Kathy clearly didn’t believe her. Then Lisa had a wearily inspired idea. ‘I’m ill, I’ve got the flu.’
Instantly Kathy was all sympathy. Would she like some flat 7-Up, a Lemsip, a hot whiskey?
Lisa shook her head and got back to staring at nothing. A full-time job.
Flu? Kathy wondered. She hadn’t heard of anyone else coming down with it. But was it any wonder Lisa had caught something, living in this filth? She started her clean-up operation in the kitchen, wiping sticky surfaces – how did Lisa do it? – then shifted a document out of the way. Naturally she cast a glance over it – what was she, a saint? – and in an instant everything made sense. Flu? Lisa didn’t have flu. God love her, flu would be far nicer.
An indeterminate amount of time later and Kathy was back in the bedroom. ‘I’ll just clean in here.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘But those sheets are manky, Lisa.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Kathy exited, then Lisa heard the slam of the front-door. Good. On her own again.
But a short few minutes later the front-door opened once more and Kathy reappeared with a plastic shopping-bag. ‘Fags, sweets, a scratch-card and the RTÉ Guide. If there’s anything you want from the shop, just give us a shout. If I’m not there Francine will go, and she says she’ll do it for free.’
Francine normally charged a pound every time she went to the shop for Lisa.
‘I’m off to work now,’ Kathy said. ‘Before I go, would you like a cup of tea?’
Lisa shook her head. Kathy made it anyway.
‘Strong, sweet tea,’ she said meaningfully, as she placed it beside Lisa.
Lisa found herself looking at Kathy’s runners. They were worn-down, grey-white plastic and on the instep bend they were cracked. Quickly she ripped out another hank of tissues and pressed it to her eyes.
After Ashling threw down the final gauntlet that she would never forgive Clodagh, she left, still burning with righteous anger. Next stop Marcus.
Her face set, she walked speedily, almost tripping, heading for town and Marcus’s office. Zipping through the crowds of Leeson Street, a man going the other way, also moving at high speed, bumped against her, his shoulder smacking hard against hers. He was already gone, but in slow motion Ashling staggered back, feeling the bang reverberate through her again and again. Suddenly fragmented, all her anger smashed like a glass bauble, reduced and useless. The noise of the city hit her in a roar. Cars beeping; hard, snarling faces. Abruptly, nowhere was safe.
Her body quivering to the rhythm of fear, the showdown with Marcus was forgotten. She couldn’t have a showdown with a marshmallow.
What was she doing being angry anyway? Anger had never been her style. It was only twenty minutes since the confrontation with Clodagh and right now it was impossible to believe it was she who had done it.
She hastened towards home, cradling her fragility. The world had turned into a Hieronymus Bosch painting: dirty travelling children singing songs they didn’t know the words to; couples snarling at each other for not filling their own emptiness; a toothless alcoholic woman shouting the odds at invisible enemies; homeless men in doorways, their mouths maws of despair.
Homeless men!
Please let Boo have gone. And please let him not have robbed me blind.
She didn’t really think he would have, but after the day she’d had, she was braced for anything.
He hadn’t. The place was pretty much as she’d left it, except for a thank-you note on the table. She climbed into bed. She’d just have a little rest to get over the shock.
But she was still there when, sometime on Friday evening, Joy let herself in with Ashling’s spare key. She burst into the room, her face bruised with concern. ‘I rang you at work and spoke to Divine Jack. He told me what happened. I’m so sorry.’ Joy gathered her in her arms while Ashling lay as unresponsive as a rolled-up carpet.
Half-an-hour later Ted made a wary appearance. He and Ashling hadn’t spoken in over three weeks, since Ashling had quizzed him on his Edinburgh trip.
‘Ted, I’m sorry,’ Ashling said wearily. ‘I thought you were having an affair with Clodagh.’
‘You did?’ His dark narrow face lit up in delight. Then hastily he wiped it and assumed an expression of gravitas. ‘I’ve brought you some tissues,’ he offered. ‘They say “Groovy Chick” on them.’
‘Leave them there. Beside the tissues Joy brought me.’
At the sound of the key in the door, Lisa semi-emerged from torpor. Kathy again. But it wasn’t Kathy, it was Francine.
‘Hiya.’ Francine swung her roly-poly body into the bedroom. ‘My ma says I’ve to keep you company.’
‘I don’t want company.’ Lisa could hardly lift her head from the pillow.
‘Can I try this on?’ Francine had her eye on a pink feather boa.
‘… In sickness and in health…’
‘… Ashlings had a bad shock…’
‘… Yew may kiss the braaaaade…’
‘… she’s got a job in New York…’
‘… the factory is closed for their summer holidays…’
Howling, she stretched out a hand and toppled a box of tissues into the bed with her.
As the hours passed the light outside her bedroom window faded into pink. Charcoaly blue darkened her room, then night-black tinged with city-violet. She was still treating herself to the occasional squall when the muffled pearly grey of dawn crept in. This eventually dispersed and sharpened into a hard blue September sky. Noises began outside as the day got going, but Lisa elected to remain where she was, thanks very much.
Sometime, in what might have been the afternoon, there was an intrusion into her cotton-wool reality. A noise in her hall, footsteps, then she jumped as Kathy stuck her shredded-wheat head around the bedroom door.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lisa gazed with red-rimmed eyes.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Kathy said. ‘I always clean for you on Saturday.’
The tissue balls strewn over the duvet cover, the unmistakable miasma of despondency and the fact that Lisa was in bed and seemed to be still dressed, greatly alarmed Kathy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’
Kathy clearly didn’t believe her. Then Lisa had a wearily inspired idea. ‘I’m ill, I’ve got the flu.’
Instantly Kathy was all sympathy. Would she like some flat 7-Up, a Lemsip, a hot whiskey?
Lisa shook her head and got back to staring at nothing. A full-time job.
Flu? Kathy wondered. She hadn’t heard of anyone else coming down with it. But was it any wonder Lisa had caught something, living in this filth? She started her clean-up operation in the kitchen, wiping sticky surfaces – how did Lisa do it? – then shifted a document out of the way. Naturally she cast a glance over it – what was she, a saint? – and in an instant everything made sense. Flu? Lisa didn’t have flu. God love her, flu would be far nicer.
An indeterminate amount of time later and Kathy was back in the bedroom. ‘I’ll just clean in here.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘But those sheets are manky, Lisa.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Kathy exited, then Lisa heard the slam of the front-door. Good. On her own again.
But a short few minutes later the front-door opened once more and Kathy reappeared with a plastic shopping-bag. ‘Fags, sweets, a scratch-card and the RTÉ Guide. If there’s anything you want from the shop, just give us a shout. If I’m not there Francine will go, and she says she’ll do it for free.’
Francine normally charged a pound every time she went to the shop for Lisa.
‘I’m off to work now,’ Kathy said. ‘Before I go, would you like a cup of tea?’
Lisa shook her head. Kathy made it anyway.
‘Strong, sweet tea,’ she said meaningfully, as she placed it beside Lisa.
Lisa found herself looking at Kathy’s runners. They were worn-down, grey-white plastic and on the instep bend they were cracked. Quickly she ripped out another hank of tissues and pressed it to her eyes.
After Ashling threw down the final gauntlet that she would never forgive Clodagh, she left, still burning with righteous anger. Next stop Marcus.
Her face set, she walked speedily, almost tripping, heading for town and Marcus’s office. Zipping through the crowds of Leeson Street, a man going the other way, also moving at high speed, bumped against her, his shoulder smacking hard against hers. He was already gone, but in slow motion Ashling staggered back, feeling the bang reverberate through her again and again. Suddenly fragmented, all her anger smashed like a glass bauble, reduced and useless. The noise of the city hit her in a roar. Cars beeping; hard, snarling faces. Abruptly, nowhere was safe.
Her body quivering to the rhythm of fear, the showdown with Marcus was forgotten. She couldn’t have a showdown with a marshmallow.
What was she doing being angry anyway? Anger had never been her style. It was only twenty minutes since the confrontation with Clodagh and right now it was impossible to believe it was she who had done it.
She hastened towards home, cradling her fragility. The world had turned into a Hieronymus Bosch painting: dirty travelling children singing songs they didn’t know the words to; couples snarling at each other for not filling their own emptiness; a toothless alcoholic woman shouting the odds at invisible enemies; homeless men in doorways, their mouths maws of despair.
Homeless men!
Please let Boo have gone. And please let him not have robbed me blind.
She didn’t really think he would have, but after the day she’d had, she was braced for anything.
He hadn’t. The place was pretty much as she’d left it, except for a thank-you note on the table. She climbed into bed. She’d just have a little rest to get over the shock.
But she was still there when, sometime on Friday evening, Joy let herself in with Ashling’s spare key. She burst into the room, her face bruised with concern. ‘I rang you at work and spoke to Divine Jack. He told me what happened. I’m so sorry.’ Joy gathered her in her arms while Ashling lay as unresponsive as a rolled-up carpet.
Half-an-hour later Ted made a wary appearance. He and Ashling hadn’t spoken in over three weeks, since Ashling had quizzed him on his Edinburgh trip.
‘Ted, I’m sorry,’ Ashling said wearily. ‘I thought you were having an affair with Clodagh.’
‘You did?’ His dark narrow face lit up in delight. Then hastily he wiped it and assumed an expression of gravitas. ‘I’ve brought you some tissues,’ he offered. ‘They say “Groovy Chick” on them.’
‘Leave them there. Beside the tissues Joy brought me.’
At the sound of the key in the door, Lisa semi-emerged from torpor. Kathy again. But it wasn’t Kathy, it was Francine.
‘Hiya.’ Francine swung her roly-poly body into the bedroom. ‘My ma says I’ve to keep you company.’
‘I don’t want company.’ Lisa could hardly lift her head from the pillow.
‘Can I try this on?’ Francine had her eye on a pink feather boa.
