Paula Spencer

  It's a horrible noise. Paula wouldn't have it. She'd rather burn to death.

  —That's the only bad thing about this alarm, says Carmel. —It fuckin' works.

  Paula finds the brush. It's beside the back door.

  —Open the door while you're there, says Carmel. — Get some air in.

  Paula does. The cold air goes past and around her. The alarm is still going. It's a good brush. A blue handle, electric blue. And grey bristles, but not the usual shape.

  —Hurry!

  Carmel takes the brush. She holds it by the working end. She stretches, and stabs at the alarm with the handle. Paula looks. There's a button on the side of the alarm. It's like a little spaceship stuck to the ceiling. The handle hits the button. One last yip – the noise stops.

  —Oh, thank God.

  The brush falls out of Carmel's hand. Paula catches it, before it hits the table. She's pleased; it was easy. She could do it again.

  —Now, says Carmel.

  She bends down again.

  —These look grand; I wasn't sure.

  She pulls out the oven tray. She puts it on top of the hot plates; they're all off.

  Carmel stands back.

  Paula shuts the back door.

  Carmel takes a fag from the packet on the counter and she lights up. And Paula realises. Denise is off them. She hasn't smoked all night. She's a forty-a-day woman – was. It must be serious, whatever's happening to her.

  Carmel exhales. She nods at the oven tray.

  —I got these in the new Tesco's, she says. —The Darndale Opera House.

  —Is it any good? says Paula.

  —It's open twenty-four hours a day, says Carmel.

  —Jesus.

  —Things taste better if you buy them at five in the morning.

  Paula's starving. She loves the look of the prawns wrapped in pastry, like little spring rolls, and the miniature quiches and the little sausages wrapped in bits of rasher.

  —And they all take the same time to cook? says Paula.

  —That's right, says Carmel.

  —That's brilliant, isn't it?

  —Dips and all, says Carmel. —There's nothing to it. Just throw them on the tray and take the lids off the dips.

  She throws her cigarette into the sink. Paula hears the hiss.

  —Mind you, says Carmel. —They always look much better on the packet.

  —These look lovely, but.

  —We'll see. Sit down.

  Carmel puts on oven gloves. They're tartan. They're clean. She shakes the oven tray.

  —Grand.

  Paula looks at Denise. She looks a bit impatient. She wants to get on with her story. Maybe she's just hungry. Paula smiles at her.

  Adultery, though. It's a good one. And Denise. It's a surprise. She'd kind of expect it of Carmel. She'll probably find someone now; she won't be outdone by Denise.

  That's not fair.

  Yes, it is. Stand back and watch.

  She hears the scrape. Carmel is hoisting the food onto a couple of plates, with a spatula.

  Denise smiles at Paula.

  —Can I borrow some of your water?

  —What's wrong with the tap? says Carmel. —The alco here needs her bubbles.

  She's standing beside Paula now, and Paula whacks her on the leg.

  —Fire away, she tells Denise.

  Carmel puts the first white plate onto the table.

  —Don't dare touch them yet.

  Denise pours some of the Ballygowan into her wine glass. She's over the hump, Paula guesses. Now she's just thirsty. Paula's thirsty all the time. She lowers the water, day and night. She brings a plastic bottle with her, with tap water, whenever she thinks of it; when she remembers. And it's the thing that's there when the situation is tricky, with Leanne, or John Paul or even Nicola. When the talk is awkward, the past or the present – it's the roaring thirst. The dry throat that actually takes over her whole body. And it's not alcohol; that's not what she needs – that's a different one. It's just water – dehydration. But it's nearly the same need. She can't cope until she feels the water crawling down through her, and up to the place behind her forehead, the pain there, and the joints right below her ears. Like oil. Calming her, softening the dry edges. It's even had an impact on her skin. She looks at the back of her hand. It's not as dry; there are no open cracks. It's the skin of a hard-working woman. She's seen a lot worse.

  Leanne's hands are desperate. Scratched raw, especially the wrists. Paula hates to see those scratches, self-inflicted – all her life. They remind her of the little girl, holding onto Paula, clinging, getting between Paula and Charlo. Protecting her. Leave my mammy alone. The skinny little wrists, the little red fingers, the nails bitten to blood and nothing.

  But Leanne's creaming her hands again. She carries a tube of E45. Paula bought it for her. And she's going back to work. I'm proud of you. Paula can't say that. She'd wear the words out; they'd mean nothing. Leanne puts on eye shadow. She puts on a skirt. She puts her key in the door without falling over. I'm so, so proud of you.

  Paula's having a great time but she wants to be at home. It's where she should be. She doesn't know if Leanne's at home. She can't phone. She can't do anything. It's depressing, if she lets it be. It'll never end. If Denise's man had been talking to Paula – Who'd be a parent, eh? – she'd have put her head on his shoulder and started to bawl.

  Carmel puts the second plate on the table, and smaller plates for each of them.

  Paula stretches her hand. She rubs the lower knuckle of her thumb. She doesn't think it's swollen. It doesn't look it. On the bad days, the soreness goes to her wrist, to her elbow. Like a disease, spreading. She doesn't want to know.

  She loads her plate, two of each thing. She loves this stuff. She can taste it. She promises herself – she did before, but she forgot – she'll get some of this for a Friday night, herself and Jack. Leanne. And a video. Jack says that videos are on their way out. There'll soon be none to rent or buy. So that's another thing on her list, between Coat and Year Off – Maybe Australia. A DVD player.

  It's back to business.

  —So, says Carmel. —Where were we?

  —In the pub, says Paula.

  —It's not really a pub, says Denise. —Hotel.

  —Already? says Carmel. —You were quick off the fuckin' mark.

  —No, says Denise. —The bar, Carmel; stop messing. It's in a hotel.

  Paula knows the one. She hasn't been in it.

  —Go on, says Carmel.

  —We just chatted.

  —Is he married? says Paula.

  —Yeah, of course. He was at the parent-teacher meeting.

  —He's not separated, no? Divorced?

  —No. But he's not happy, Paula.

  —Ah, God love him, says Carmel. —Are you happy, Paula?

  —No.

  —I'm not either. Are you happy, Denise?

  And fair play to Denise.

  —I'm very happy, Carmel. I was in bed with a complete stranger a couple of hours ago. Why wouldn't I be happy?

  Carmel's mobile goes off – the text buzz – while they're laughing.

  —Just to be clear, says Paula.

  She'd like to touch Denise right now. Just to prove to herself that she's real. To see if she could feel what's happening to her.

  —Is the complete stranger the same fella you met at the parent-teacher meeting?

  —Ah, yeah, says Denise.

  But it needn't be; it doesn't matter. That's what Denise is parading in front of them.

  Carmel's jabbing at the mobile. She holds it in one hand and presses the keys with a finger of the other. She brings the screen closer to her face. Then she stabs the Send button.

  —So, she says. —Denise?

  —Yes, Carmel?

  Carmel's mobile buzzes again. It rattles on the table. She picks it up, brings it closer. She puts it back down.

  —So. After you chatted.

  —We said goodbye, just. He has a
nice voice. Oh, and we swapped mobile numbers.

  —What's his name?

  —Thomas.

  —Is that what you put in your phone book?

  —Yeah, says Denise.

  She sits up.

  —But I changed it after. In case.

  —It fell into the wrong hands.

  —Right; yeah.

  —What did you change it to?

  —School.

  It wouldn't have been Paula's choice. She could do much better than that. But then, she wouldn't have to hide the name. She'd have it, in lights, on her roof.

  Carmel shakes her head.

  —What if Harry has to phone the school and he decides to use your phone?

  Harry is Denise's husband.

  Denise shrugs. It's very dramatic. A girl, to another girl. A lucky girl to a plain one.

  —He'll find out, she says.

  —Did he phone you the next time? says Paula. —Your fella.

  She bites into a little quiche. They're nice, but too filling. Too – a word Paula got from the radio – toxic.

  They're still nice, though.

  —Well, says Denise. —I'm not actually finished with the first time.

  —S, 1, u, t.

  —We left at the same time. To the car park. Together, like. There was no reason not to.

  She looks at Paula.

  —I was kind of hoping we'd be seen. Just to prove there was nothing. To myself, like.

  Paula nods. She understands. She knows all about fooling yourself.

  —And we were parked near each other. And I was looking at his car.

  —What is it?

  —Honda Civic.

  —Nice.

  —Yeah. Grey. But he's changed it since.

  —How long have you — ?

  —Three months, says Denise.

  —Jesus, Denise. Why didn't you tell us?

  Denise shrugs.

  —I'm not sure.

  That's fair enough, Paula thinks. I'm not sure. It's what Paula thinks a lot these days.

  —Oh, I knew all along, says Carmel.

  It's another surprise. Carmel doesn't seem to care too much, all this going on without her approval. Maybe her sisters aren't as easily read as Paula thought. Maybe you have to be drunk to think you can understand other people, and yourself.

  —So, anyway, she says. —What happened?

  —What? says Denise.

  —The car park.

  —Oh, says Denise. —Yeah. Well. He put his hand on my shoulder and he kissed me.

  Carmel turns to Paula.

  —Have you tried the little sausages, Paula?

  —Delicious.

  —And it was great, says Denise.

  She looks a bit annoyed now – the interruptions.

  —What then? says Carmel.

  —Well—

  —Let me guess, says Carmel. —It was love.

  —Lay off, Carmel.

  —You gave up the smokes there and then.

  —No.

  —And you joined the gym on your way home. So Thomas wouldn't lose his hands in the cheeks of your arse.

  She's hilarious. But there's an edge there now, in Carmel's voice. She's swinging away; she's had enough. The text message seems to have knocked her, whatever it was.

  —Ha ha, says Denise.

  She sits up. Carmel sits up.

  Paula's annoyed. She wants to know what happened then, but she mightn't find out now.

  —What about Harry? says Carmel.

  —What about him? says Denise.

  The bitch. Harry's a bit of a dose but they've been married for twenty-five years. They suit each other. Paula's always thought that. He's reliable, kind, safe as a fuckin' house. They were made for each other.

  The bitch, Denise. She hasn't a clue.

  —Does he know?

  Denise shrugs.

  —No.

  —Sure?

  —Yeah. I don't – nearly sure. I don't care.

  —Yes, you do.

  —I don't. I don't care.

  Carmel stands up. She goes to the kettle.

  —What's wrong with poor Harry?

  Poor Harry. Carmel can't stand poor Harry.

  —Nothing, says Denise.

  She looks at Paula.

  —He's old.

  —For fuck sake.

  —In his head, I mean, says Denise. —He's old.

  —What age is he? says Carmel. —Fifty what?

  The water drums the sink. Paula hears the kettle fill, the hiss, gush, water on water.

  —Three, says Denise.

  —Fifty-three's too old, is it?

  —I told you. It's his head. He's boring. We never went anywhere.

  —Went? Are you leaving him?

  —Go; lay off. And no, I'm not leaving him. I don't know.

  —And what age is the other fella?

  —Fifty-one.

  —A fuckin' toyboy.

  The kettle hits the counter like a hammer. Paula hears Carmel switch it on.

  —He's great, says Denise, to Paula. —He's different.

  —Where were you? says Paula.

  Denise looks at her.

  —What?

  —Earlier. You said. The complete stranger and that.

  —Oh. Bewley's.

  —Did he ride you on one of the tables?