Smile

  —Jesus Christ, she said when we separated and I lay back beside her.—Jesus Christ.

  We lay there, taking our breath back.

  —You must have finished a chapter today, did you? she said.

  —Nearly, I said.

  —Well, give me a call when you actually do finish it, she said.—I want another of those.

  —How was your day?

  —Not as good as yours, she said.—Until now.

  That still makes me happy.

  She loved the mess.

  —Oh, yeuk!

  She loved it when we were glued together. She loved backing into me. She loved making me groan. She loved groaning.

  She loved me. I never doubted that – she didn’t let me. She still says she loves me and I believe her. Then, it filled me. Later, it made me want to lie down on the ground, in public. It made me want to kill her.

  But then. Then. She made me work, she made me want to work; she made me believe in what I was doing or bracing myself to do. She really did. I can just about remember that; I can just about feel it. I wanted Rachel to be proud of me. I remember too, I wanted to deserve my sex. She had nothing to gain from me. She saw the face of a besotted man who was no good to her whatsoever. There was no advantage in letting me kiss her tits, in letting me share her nights and early mornings. And she loved me for it. She saw a man who loved her. Who loved looking at her. Being with her. Touching her, feeling her. Thinking about her. Who grinned when he saw her. Loved her.

  It hadn’t started that way. There’d been no glue.

  We’d agreed to meet in Kehoe’s on South Anne Street that first time. But as I walked up to the pub, I saw her standing outside, in the lane off the street. She had her back to the wall, and one foot. The foot was tapping the wall as if to music, although there was none. She was wearing a short black skirt and black boots, and a coat that I now know was charcoal. I was five minutes late and I panicked; I thought I’d fucked up. It was anger that was making her foot tap; she was going to give me the push.

  She shoved herself away from the wall with her foot. Then she was walking towards me, meeting me.

  —Hi.

  —Sorry I’m late.

  —No.

  Her face kept coming. She was going to kiss me. I was going to have to kiss her. Her lips landed on mine. She was looking straight at me. She pushed me back slightly – with her lips – then stepped back, herself. One step.

  —Hi, she said again.

  —Hi, I said.—Will we go in?

  —Yes – okay.

  —Why didn’t you wait inside?

  —Too much hassle, she said.

  —What d’you mean?

  I was holding the door for her. I’d remembered my manners.

  —Thank you, sir.

  And I knew I’d asked a stupid question. Every man in the house was staring at her, even the seven dwarfs, the scabby-headed little men who worked behind Kehoe’s bar. I was the only man in the shop not looking at her. We went down to the room at the back and people squashed to give us room – to give her room. I went out to the bar and she was chatting to a gang of people when I came back in with our pints. Rachel drank pints of Guinness. She was listening to another girl – woman – nodding her head, putting her hair back behind her ear so she could catch the words, and I thought I’d lost my chance. She’d found better company. The guy beside the girl was looking at Rachel. He wasn’t a guy; he was a man. He wasn’t older but he looked it, somehow. Because he stayed still, because he was wearing a black coat. Because he looked like he could have been living in any decade. I found room for the pints on the Formica table and sat beside, dropped myself beside Rachel. And she turned to me. Our legs, my right, her left, were pressed against each other. She shifted slightly so she was leaning into me and I watched her drink for the first time. Her leg, her shoulder, her breast were pressing against me and now her chin almost touched mine while she knocked back a fifth of her pint, leaned out and put the glass back down on the table, and came back up to me.

  —So, she said.—This is nice.

  I almost resented it. She was so physically there, right up against me. It was too much. I’d have been happier sitting there watching her chat to the woman and watching the man watch her. I’d have been happier feeling left out. It would have been normal.

  —What’s your favourite film? she said.

  And we started to talk. She knew a stupid question would get us going. And it did. We moved from films to music and books and back to films and the rest of the world wasn’t there for a while, until it was her turn to get the pints and I watched her being watched and I felt proprietorial and lost. She’d keep walking, even though her coat was right beside me. She’d keep going, out the door. I was a clown and she’d give up the coat to get away from me. But I knew she’d be back and I knew we’d keep going and we wouldn’t be going our separate ways at closing time. I’d have to be careful. I wasn’t a good drinker and she clearly was. I didn’t really get drunk; I just got filled. A bit stupid, and slow. I staggered sometimes, missed corners, mumbled when I was by myself. But I didn’t sing or howl. I didn’t become clever or brave. I just headed towards sleep. I was a waste of money. She, I knew, wouldn’t be like that. She’d be a bit mad. She’d be looking at me, waiting for a response, a riposte, and I’d be wiping my chin and working hard at keeping my eyes wide open. She came back with two pints and got to her place, past me. I could have shifted, to make room for her, or let her take the space I’d been taking and I’d take hers. But I didn’t. I was inflexible – still am. I loosened a bit, for her, but it was always a fight. My place was mine; hers was hers. I like order. She bent her leg so she could get past my knees without toppling the table. Her arse was hovering over my lap. She got past me and sat and faced me again, and smiled.

  —Where were we?

  The pub disappeared and the only thing there was her face – and all of her. Two pints – two interruptions – later, she announced that she was moving on.

  —Want to come to a party?

  I hated parties, hated arriving, walking into the hall, the room, the shit music – it was always shit. Soft Cell, Jimmy Somerville, Pat Benatar. Love Is a fuckin’ Battlefield. I hated knowing I’d be leaving alone. I hated walking home, along the Stillorgan Road or Clontarf Road or Appian Way at five in the morning, hating that I didn’t know how to enjoy myself, hating the girl who’d smiled at me, hating myself for not crossing the room, hating myself for surrendering yet again, that this time it would be different, that I’d lighten up, I’d make the move, rejection wouldn’t destroy me. Fuckin’ idiots had parties, fuckin’ idiots went to them.

  —Sure, I said.

  —Cool.

  She followed me out to the lane, and back onto South Anne Street. I had my hands in the pockets of my army surplus coat. Her hand, her arm, went between my right arm and side and into my pocket and around my hand. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I don’t remember much about the party, whose it was or where it was. I don’t think we took off our coats. I don’t recall putting a bottle to my mouth. I do remember going out to the back garden for a piss. I remember a voice beside me.

  —Is this where the big nobs hang out?

  It was a guy I could hardly see. I heard him pissing onto the flowerbed a few yards away from where I was still pissing. I don’t remember going back in but I do remember the terror at not being able to find her, and I remember that because it was how I always felt, even today. But I found her and we kissed.

  I forgot: she smoked. It was what I tasted when my tongue was in her mouth. And it didn’t matter. I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t quite accept it, when her mouth was open and her tongue was nudging mine. I had my hands on her back, beneath her coat, my fingers on – in – the canyon that ran along her spine. She took her tongue from my mouth – I was kind of relieved – and res
ted her forehead on mine. My eyes were swimming but I could see her smile. She was talking to someone beside me.

  —Great, thanks; fab. No, yes – that’s just bizarre. Yeah, next week.

  We were pressed into each other, and she pushed a bit more, rubbed her stomach against me. She moaned; she let me hear it.

  —I live near here, she said.

  —Yeah?

  —But we can’t go there.

  The way she said it, I wasn’t to be disappointed. She had her hand in one of my back pockets.

  —Why not?

  —My dad would go mad.

  —Yeah?

  —Oh yeah.

  —What about your mother?

  —She wouldn’t notice.

  —Really?

  —No, she would. She wouldn’t be angry, if – you know. She found us in the kitchen. But she wouldn’t talk to me for years.

  —Years?

  —Months. Weeks. No, yeah – years.

  She squeezed my arse. We kissed again. I took my mouth away.

  —My dad wouldn’t object, I said.

  —Really?

  —He’s dead.

  —Not funny.

  —He is.

  She didn’t take her forehead from mine. I can’t remember what song was playing, just that it was shit.

  —What about your mum?

  —I don’t live with her, I told her.

  —Ah, she said.—Bingo.

  She pulled me even closer to her. She spoke right into my ear.

  —Let’s go.

  But she disappeared. She’d stopped holding me. She’d left the room. I stayed where I was. I wiped my mouth. I buttoned my coat. I waited; I thought I was waiting – I wasn’t sure now. I tried to remember where we were, and how best to get to my flat. But she didn’t come back. I went to the door, looked out at the hall. The house was huge; the hall was packed and cold. There was a smell of dope, even though the front door was wide open. There was some sort of a row going on, someone being thrown out. Was she outside waiting for me? Was she with someone else in a room upstairs? I remember thinking, wondering – my excitement curling into something painful in my gut. What sort of an idiot was I? How had I got all the messages wrong? I’d go, I decided – when she was suddenly beside me.

  —Ready?

  —Yeah.

  I followed her through the crowd, to the front door. She knew everyone – she seemed to. But I’d learn, I’d slowly realise: Rachel had no friends. Except me. But I had none either. I’d got rid of them all. I’d drifted away from my old life, from the lads I’d grown up with, friends – boys I’d loved and hated, woken up thinking about. I’d kept in touch with no one. Rachel was different. She was bang in the middle of her habitat. She’d known the people at the party all her life. She’d gone to school with some, college with others. There were cousins here, and men she’d slept with. They all liked her and she smiled at all of them as she led me out. But none of them were friends. She was alone. I didn’t know this at the time. I was just following her, a bit terrified.

  She was walking stiffly; it wasn’t her usual walk.

  Rachel’s walk. My mother told me that Rachel walked like a Protestant. I saw a similar walk years later, in House of Cards. Claire Underwood walked like Rachel. Or, if Claire Underwood had grown up in a place where you were often trying to get out of the rain, she’d have walked like Rachel. Rachel never wore heels but that was always a surprise. She never strolled. She was always going from A to B. But Christ. She – it; her walk – was fuckin’ wonderful. There was nothing angelic or ghostly about it; Rachel was human. She strode and she sometimes whistled.

  But as I followed her out of the house she was lopsided and, once we were out on the street, I knew why.

  —Ta-dah! Look what I’ve got.

  She had a bottle of wine hidden under her coat. And a corkscrew in one of her pockets.

  —The only one in the house, she said.—I think.

  I followed her around a corner, to a wider, even more tree-lined street. She put the bottle on a wall and began to attack the cork.

  —Come on, little cork – yes!

  She threw the corkscrew into a hedge and put the bottle to her mouth. She gulped it like a pint, then wiped the neck and passed it to me. I pretended to swallow more than I actually did. I wasn’t trying to stay sober. I wasn’t being evil. I just didn’t want to get sick. My act must have worked because she put her hand on the bottle and waited for me to release it.

  —Shouldn’t have thrown the cork away, she said.—Stupid fucking me. Ah well.

  She walked. I followed, caught up. She put her arm through mine.

  —Where? she said.

  —I’m not sure. Where are we?

  —Blackrock.

  —Rathmines, I said.—How do we get there?

  She put her mouth to mine, held on to my coat with the hand not holding the bottle, as if we were both standing on a deck during a storm – we swayed together – and she kissed me.

  She let go.

  —We could do with a taxi, she said.

  And one came around the corner. Empty taxis were as rare as giraffes but a taxi turned the corner, Rachel stepped out onto the road and it stopped. We climbed into the back and Rachel nudged me once, twice, until I gave the driver my address. She drank from the bottle as we went, and I tried not to. We got up to my flat and out of our clothes. I fell over but landed on the bed. She followed me. The wine bottle hit the side of my head. She was still holding it. She’d managed to get undressed without letting go of the bottle. She didn’t apologise. She didn’t notice. I didn’t either, really. I’d heard the bump but I hadn’t felt it. All I knew was that I didn’t have an erection. And I knew there wouldn’t be one. And I knew I could blame the drink. I remember her skin. The smoothness of it, the impossibility of it, the heat. We were on our knees, swaying on the bed. I heard her put the bottle on the floor beside it; she pushed some books out of the way. She leaned across to do it. I rubbed her back. She pushed herself back a bit, put one hand on my hip and my cock in her mouth. And nothing happened. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to get off the bed and put on a record. I could hear her but I couldn’t feel a thing. There was nothing there.

  It had happened before. It had happened – not happened – every time. I’d never had sex. I’d never penetrated a woman. I’d known that on the way up the stairs, while I got my clothes off, while I sent my hands over her skin.

  She stopped.

  —Sorry, I said.

  She said nothing back. She lay down on the bed. I stayed where I’d been, kneeling beside her, hoping that, now that she’d gone, my blood would rush to my penis. I put my hand around it, gave it a tug, tried to bully it.

  —Lie down here, she said.

  She was talking to the wall. Her back was to my knees. I got down beside her. I covered us with the clean sheet I’d put on the bed that afternoon; I’d bought the sheets two days before in BHS. I covered us up. I placed my hand on her waist and kept it going until it rested on her stomach. She was so warm. Her hot arse rested in my lap and her hand took mine. She lifted it off her stomach and brought it to her right breast and left her own hand on top of it. I knew then it was fine. I knew she’d stay with me for a while. She fell asleep before I did. I fell asleep with my hand still on her breast. She was still there, exactly there, when I woke. She was still asleep. There was early daylight on the other side of the curtain. I lifted the blankets carefully, so I could look at her and believe that she was there.

  We were drunk again the second time. We were cold and wet and we dived in under the blankets. I didn’t mind being naked; I wasn’t embarrassed. She put my hand between her legs. She started to shake, to quiver. I felt her wet hair on my chest as she lifted herself off me and grabbed my arm at the same time. I didn’t know what was happening – I d
id; I had a fair idea. She was crying. I was bright enough not to stop and ask her if she was alright. I knew she was alright. I knew she was coming. I knew I’d done my job, somehow. I knew there’d be a next time. Because she lay down again beside me. She pushed herself gently back, and found her parking space. She was humming just one note. Her hair was wet and cold, her arse was hot. I kissed her back. She moaned. I kissed again. She pressed gently, and moaned. She found my hand again and put it on her tit. She went to sleep.

  The third time, I came on her hand. She rubbed her palm across my chest and kissed it.

  The fourth time, I let her see my erection.

  —Oh fuck, I said.—Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

  I discovered something. Words in her ear – she loved them. They actually lifted her off the bed. Any words, but especially filth, biological facts, the fuckin’ obvious – I’m going to come, I’m going to come – they worked like fingers. She’d be lost in her explosion, right under me. I was overjoyed, the happiest, the biggest man on earth, listening in and trying not to laugh until she did. And she always did laugh. She came down from the madness, stretched her full length and guffawed. Her hand found mine and she brought it to her tit.

  —Wake me if you want another seeing to.

  And she always fell asleep before me.