Sushi for Beginners
Page 19
Clodagh’s plea was ragged and the screeching simply intensified.
‘Is that Craig?’ Ashling asked. It must be quite a stomach-ache. He sounded like he was being disembowelled.
‘No, it’s Molly.’
‘What’s up with her?’
Ashling was able to make out some words in all Molly’s bawling. Apparently, Mummy was mean. In fact, it seemed that Mummy was horrible. And Molly didn’t like Mummy. A particularly hysterical bout notified Ashling that Molly HATED Mummy.
‘I’m washing her security blanket,’ Clodagh said defensively. ‘It’s in the machine.’
‘Oh my good God.’
Molly went bananas whenever she was separated from her security blanket. It had once been a teatowel, before Molly’s incessant sucking had rotted it away to a smelly, brown-edged shapeless rag.
‘It was filthy,’ Clodagh said desperately. She turned away from the phone. ‘Molly,’ she beseeched. ‘It was dirty. Ugh, nasty, pah!’ Ashling listened patiently as Clodagh made spitting-yuck noises. ‘It was a health hazard, it would have made you sick.’
The wailing increased a couple of pegs and Clodagh came back on the line. ‘The old bitch at playgroup said Molly wouldn’t be allowed to bring it any more if it wasn’t washed regularly. What could I do? Anyway, I don’t think it’s appendicitis –’
It took Ashling a second to realize they were back to Craig.
‘– because he hasn’t puked and the family medical encyclopaedia says that’s a sure sign. But you think of everything, don’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ Ashling said doubtfully.
‘Measles, chicken-pox, meningitis, polio, e-coli,’ Clodagh reeled off miserably. ‘Hold on, Molly wants to sit on my knee. You can sit on Mummy’s knee if you promise to be quiet. Are you going to be quiet? Are you?’
But Molly was making no promises and a series of bangs and shifts indicated that she was being allowed to clamber on to Clodagh’s knee, anyway. Mercifully, her shrieking quietened down to ostentatious sniffs and gasps.
‘And as if I wasn’t at the end of my rope, fucking Dylan rings to say that not only is he going to be home late again, but that next week he’s got to go to yet another overnight conference.’
‘Fucking Dylan,’ Ashling heard Molly sing-song, with perfect diction. ‘Fucking Dylan, fucking Dylan.’
‘… Plus he’s away this Friday at some dinner in Belfast!’
More crying started up in the background. Male crying. Fucking Dylan – home early and upset at being sworn at by his wife and daughter? – Ashling wondered wryly. No, from the whingy, whiny complaints about a tummy-ache, it had to be Craig.
‘I’ll come over on Friday night,’ Ashling offered.
‘Great, that’s – LEAVE IT! WOULD YOU BLOODY LEAVE IT! Ashling, I have to go,’ Clodagh said, and the line went dead. That was how phone conversations with Clodagh usually ended. Deflated, Ashling sat looking at the phone. She needed to speak to someone. Luckily, Ted was due any minute, she could usually set her watch by his arrival. Six fifty-three.
But at ten past seven, when she was halfway through a bag of Kettle chips and Ted hadn’t appeared, Ashling began to worry. She hoped he hadn’t had an accident. He was a demon on his bike and wouldn’t wear a helmet. At half past she rang him. To her surprise he was home!
‘Why didn’t you call in?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Well…yes, I suppose. It was my first day at my new job today.’
‘Oh shite, I forgot. I’ll be right down.’
Seconds later, Ted appeared – and he looked different. Unquantifiably, but undeniably. Ashling hadn’t seen him since Saturday night – remarkable in itself, but she’d been too antsy about the new job to notice until now. Somehow he looked less delicate, more twinklingly robust. Usually he invaded the space of others like an unstoppable force, but there was a straight-backed jauntiness about his posture that was new.
‘Congratulations on Saturday night,’ Ashling said.
‘I think I have a new girlfriend,’ he admitted, with a bashful ear-to-ear grin. ‘At least one, in fact.’ At Ashling’s agog face he elaborated, ‘I spent yesterday with Emma, but I’m meeting Kelly tomorrow night.’
Just then Joy arrived. ‘A watched pot never boils. Half-man-half-badger will never ring if I wait by the phone. Right then! Bill Gates, Rupert Murdoch or Donald Trump – I thought I’d pick captains of industry in honour of your new job.’
‘But that’s easy.’ Ashling couldn’t believe how lightly she’d been let off. ‘Donald Trump, of course.’
‘Oh, really?’ Joy was moody. ‘I thought he was a bit bouffant and blow-dried. I find it hard to respect a man who spends more time on his hair than I do. Well, each to their own.’
Then she reached in her bag and waved around a bottle of Asti Spumante. ‘For you. Congrats on the new job.’
‘Asti Spew-mante,’ Ashling exclaimed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Spew-mante?’ Ted admired.
‘Spew-mante,’ Joy confirmed. ‘Nothing but the best.’
When they’d got all the sniggery mileage they could out of saying ‘Spew-mante’, Joy gasped, wide-eyed with anticipated good news, ‘So? How was your first day as a glamorous magazine person?’
‘I have a nice desk, a nice Apple Mac –’
‘A nice boss?’ Joy asked, meaningfully.
Ashling tried to formulate her thoughts. She was fascinated by Lisa’s glowing, well-turned-out attractiveness and curious about the unhappiness that throbbed from her. She’d recognized her as the woman in the supermarket with the seven of everything, and she was interested in that too. But it had been a mistake to follow her to the ladies’. She’d been desperate to help, but she’d ended up being just pushy and insensitive.
‘She’s very beautiful.’ Ashling didn’t want to elaborate on her regret. ‘And thin and clever and has fantastic clothes.’
Ted, the freshly minted womanizer, perked up, but Joy said scornfully, ‘Not that boss. The good-looking man whose girlfriend bit his finger.’
Ashling felt no better thinking about Jack Devine. She’d only just started her new job and neither of her superiors seemed keen on her.
‘Is that Craig?’ Ashling asked. It must be quite a stomach-ache. He sounded like he was being disembowelled.
‘No, it’s Molly.’
‘What’s up with her?’
Ashling was able to make out some words in all Molly’s bawling. Apparently, Mummy was mean. In fact, it seemed that Mummy was horrible. And Molly didn’t like Mummy. A particularly hysterical bout notified Ashling that Molly HATED Mummy.
‘I’m washing her security blanket,’ Clodagh said defensively. ‘It’s in the machine.’
‘Oh my good God.’
Molly went bananas whenever she was separated from her security blanket. It had once been a teatowel, before Molly’s incessant sucking had rotted it away to a smelly, brown-edged shapeless rag.
‘It was filthy,’ Clodagh said desperately. She turned away from the phone. ‘Molly,’ she beseeched. ‘It was dirty. Ugh, nasty, pah!’ Ashling listened patiently as Clodagh made spitting-yuck noises. ‘It was a health hazard, it would have made you sick.’
The wailing increased a couple of pegs and Clodagh came back on the line. ‘The old bitch at playgroup said Molly wouldn’t be allowed to bring it any more if it wasn’t washed regularly. What could I do? Anyway, I don’t think it’s appendicitis –’
It took Ashling a second to realize they were back to Craig.
‘– because he hasn’t puked and the family medical encyclopaedia says that’s a sure sign. But you think of everything, don’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ Ashling said doubtfully.
‘Measles, chicken-pox, meningitis, polio, e-coli,’ Clodagh reeled off miserably. ‘Hold on, Molly wants to sit on my knee. You can sit on Mummy’s knee if you promise to be quiet. Are you going to be quiet? Are you?’
But Molly was making no promises and a series of bangs and shifts indicated that she was being allowed to clamber on to Clodagh’s knee, anyway. Mercifully, her shrieking quietened down to ostentatious sniffs and gasps.
‘And as if I wasn’t at the end of my rope, fucking Dylan rings to say that not only is he going to be home late again, but that next week he’s got to go to yet another overnight conference.’
‘Fucking Dylan,’ Ashling heard Molly sing-song, with perfect diction. ‘Fucking Dylan, fucking Dylan.’
‘… Plus he’s away this Friday at some dinner in Belfast!’
More crying started up in the background. Male crying. Fucking Dylan – home early and upset at being sworn at by his wife and daughter? – Ashling wondered wryly. No, from the whingy, whiny complaints about a tummy-ache, it had to be Craig.
‘I’ll come over on Friday night,’ Ashling offered.
‘Great, that’s – LEAVE IT! WOULD YOU BLOODY LEAVE IT! Ashling, I have to go,’ Clodagh said, and the line went dead. That was how phone conversations with Clodagh usually ended. Deflated, Ashling sat looking at the phone. She needed to speak to someone. Luckily, Ted was due any minute, she could usually set her watch by his arrival. Six fifty-three.
But at ten past seven, when she was halfway through a bag of Kettle chips and Ted hadn’t appeared, Ashling began to worry. She hoped he hadn’t had an accident. He was a demon on his bike and wouldn’t wear a helmet. At half past she rang him. To her surprise he was home!
‘Why didn’t you call in?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Well…yes, I suppose. It was my first day at my new job today.’
‘Oh shite, I forgot. I’ll be right down.’
Seconds later, Ted appeared – and he looked different. Unquantifiably, but undeniably. Ashling hadn’t seen him since Saturday night – remarkable in itself, but she’d been too antsy about the new job to notice until now. Somehow he looked less delicate, more twinklingly robust. Usually he invaded the space of others like an unstoppable force, but there was a straight-backed jauntiness about his posture that was new.
‘Congratulations on Saturday night,’ Ashling said.
‘I think I have a new girlfriend,’ he admitted, with a bashful ear-to-ear grin. ‘At least one, in fact.’ At Ashling’s agog face he elaborated, ‘I spent yesterday with Emma, but I’m meeting Kelly tomorrow night.’
Just then Joy arrived. ‘A watched pot never boils. Half-man-half-badger will never ring if I wait by the phone. Right then! Bill Gates, Rupert Murdoch or Donald Trump – I thought I’d pick captains of industry in honour of your new job.’
‘But that’s easy.’ Ashling couldn’t believe how lightly she’d been let off. ‘Donald Trump, of course.’
‘Oh, really?’ Joy was moody. ‘I thought he was a bit bouffant and blow-dried. I find it hard to respect a man who spends more time on his hair than I do. Well, each to their own.’
Then she reached in her bag and waved around a bottle of Asti Spumante. ‘For you. Congrats on the new job.’
‘Asti Spew-mante,’ Ashling exclaimed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Spew-mante?’ Ted admired.
‘Spew-mante,’ Joy confirmed. ‘Nothing but the best.’
When they’d got all the sniggery mileage they could out of saying ‘Spew-mante’, Joy gasped, wide-eyed with anticipated good news, ‘So? How was your first day as a glamorous magazine person?’
‘I have a nice desk, a nice Apple Mac –’
‘A nice boss?’ Joy asked, meaningfully.
Ashling tried to formulate her thoughts. She was fascinated by Lisa’s glowing, well-turned-out attractiveness and curious about the unhappiness that throbbed from her. She’d recognized her as the woman in the supermarket with the seven of everything, and she was interested in that too. But it had been a mistake to follow her to the ladies’. She’d been desperate to help, but she’d ended up being just pushy and insensitive.
‘She’s very beautiful.’ Ashling didn’t want to elaborate on her regret. ‘And thin and clever and has fantastic clothes.’
Ted, the freshly minted womanizer, perked up, but Joy said scornfully, ‘Not that boss. The good-looking man whose girlfriend bit his finger.’
Ashling felt no better thinking about Jack Devine. She’d only just started her new job and neither of her superiors seemed keen on her.
