I suppose it must be something akin to the Mistral that descends every so often on villages in, is it Italy? All the men hit their wives and the dogs howl and the hens won’t lay and the women shout and cry (well, fair enough—their husbands are hitting them, after all) and refuse to do any housework. As though the entire village was afflicted with PMS.
The Mistral madness seemed to be child’s play compared to the goings-on this particular Saturday afternoon.
I once read somewhere that shopping has a huge effect on one’s adrenaline levels. Sending blood pressure levels soaring and causing one to hy-perventilate and making one’s eyes bulge and all kinds of other effects. It made perfect sense to me—all that excitement!
Apparently this in turn affects one’s blood sugar levels. Which is why everyone needs strong sweet tea or coffee after—or indeed even during—their shopping orgy.
A bit like a postcoital cigarette, I suppose.
As a result of excessive shopping, Dublin was full of hyperventilating, bulgy-eyed, red-faced (that’s from the high blood pressure) maniacs with hundreds of shopping bags affixed around their persons and wallets full of credit cards that were positively humming and zinging after all their activity.
So if it’s a cup of coffee that you’re after, as Adam, Kate and I were, don’t hold your breath while you’re waiting for a seat. We stood in the middle of the crowded café as pitiful hollow-eyed souls roamed past carrying trays of coffee and doughnuts. They had obviously been there several weeks and still hadn’t secured a chair for themselves. But Adam, being Adam, found the only table that had been vacated in the last three weeks or so.
That was one of the many advantages of having a tall man around. And after he made sure that Kate and I were sitting comfortably, he went off to get coffee.
What a hero!
He was back in record time with a tray overflowing with pastries.
“I didn’t know what kind you liked,” he explained. “So I got you one of each.”
“Oh Adam,” I said. “You shouldn’t have! You’re a penniless student.”
I was so touched I could have cried. He had probably just spent his entire summer term grant on buns for me. “And I’ll never eat them all,” I lied.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling and looking really gorgeous.
“I’m sure I’ll eat whatever you don’t.”
Then he sat down and turned all his attention to me. “How are you?”
he asked. And he managed to make it sound as if he really was interested.
“Fine,” I said, smiling shyly and feeling all silly and girlie.
What is it?
The moment you realize that you like someone you turn into a complete half-wit.
Well, at least I do.
“Can I hold Kate for a while for you?” he asked.
“If you like,” I said, taking her out of the sling and tenderly passing her over to his gentle arms.
The lucky bitch!
What a pity that she can’t talk yet, I thought regretfully. Otherwise I could debrief her fully on exactly what it felt like to be held in Adam’s arms.
We sat there chatting idly while the tides of humanity, with their fluctuating blood sugar levels, swirled and washed and ebbed and flowed around us.
Adam, Kate and I were an oasis of calm in the chaos of Dublin.
As though the three of us were in our own little world.
We didn’t really talk that much. We just sat in relaxed silence, drinking coffee, eating buns, my shopping strewn all around us.
Adam was busy playing with Kate, admiring her, and examining her tiny little fingers and touching her cute little face.
He had such a look of intense wonder, almost of yearning, on his face that I got slightly alarmed.
Never mind Laura, I thought, is Adam a child molester!
“Do you reckon,” he said thoughtfully, talking to me but still looking at Kate, “that if people didn’t know better, they’d think that I was Kate’s dad?
You know, that we’re just a typical nuclear family, as they say in my anthropology tutorials, out shopping on a Saturday afternoon.”
He looked up and smiled at me.
And although I had been thinking almost exactly the same thing myself, I felt a little bit, I don’t know, funny, yes funny and sad, about Adam’s saying that.
Disloyal, that’s the way I felt.
I was glad that Adam seemed to be so fond of Kate.
But Adam wasn’t Kate’s father.
James was Kate’s father.
And James wasn’t here.
It was all so funny and mixed-up and strange and sad.
Why couldn’t Adam be her father?
Or why couldn’t her father care?
“Would you like to have children?” I asked Adam. “I don’t mean now, but, you know, someday?”
He stopped what he was doing and sat very still for a minute. Then he turned and looked at me.
There was such an odd expression on his face. He looked very sad. Lost almost. But before he answered me we were interrupted by girls’ voices.
“Hey look, it’s Adam,” “Great, where?” “Adam, how are you?” “Oh hi, Adam, where were you last night?”
Three beautiful young women, obviously classmates of Adam’s, had arrived at the table and were clustering around him.
The way women did around Adam.
They were like beautiful exotic birds. Very colorful and very noisy. They oohed and aahed loudly at Kate and then lost interest in her completely when they discovered that she wasn’t Adam’s child.
Although why should she be? I wondered.
Adam introduced us all.
“Meet Kate,” he said, picking up her little pink hand and waving it at the girls.
It looked so gorgeous, my little girl and this beautiful man, that I thought my heart would break.
Why can’t James be here to do this? I wondered.
Even when I was happy, the sadness was only a moment away.
“And this is Claire,” he continued.
“Hi.” I smiled gamely at the girls with their young translucent skin and their outrageous clothes, trying not to feel like an old hag.
“And these are…”
And he said three names that might have been Alethia, Koo and Freddie.
Or could have been Alexia, Sooz and Charlie.
Or then again might have been Atlanta, Jools and Micki.
Odd names. Cool names.
And, I was prepared to take my oath, made-up names.
The three of them kind of looked the same.
They all had short hair.
And I do mean very short hair.
Sooz/Koo/Jools was nearly totally bald.
And Atlanta/Alexia/Alethia looked like a very unugly duckling, with her little cap of blond fluffy hair.
She looked a bit like Kate, to be honest.
Which means that Adam, the suspected pedophile, is probably mad about her, I thought sourly.
I was feeling a bit jealous.
All four of them talked away about some party that had been on the previous evening. I really wished that they would leave, so I could have Adam all to myself and Kate again, but I tried to be grown-up and adult about these three gorgeous young women clamoring for Adam’s attention.
My face hurt from trying to look as if I was good fun too, that I didn’t mind being ignored as they chattered and laughed charmingly and effort-lessly. It looked as if the three of them were settling in for a long stay.
My heart sank to my (new) boots as all three pulled over chairs and gathered around our tiny little table, each of them practically sitting on Adam’s knee.
They hadn’t even bought a cup of tea among them.
But, really, I wasn’t being judgmental.
I knew what it was like to be a poor student.
They had to save their money for beer and dr
ugs.
Of course I understood.
But when Freddie/Charlie/Micki started to eat one of the pastries, one of my pastries, I nearly burst into tears. I wanted to stamp my foot and shout hysterically, like a child throwing a tantrum,
“That’s mine. Adam bought it for me!”
I swallowed hard.
I was totally out of place here. It was silly to think that someone like me could have any place in someone like Adam’s life. He was young and handsome and had a full and happy life.
And I felt tired and old and silly and foolish.
As Adam continued to talk animatedly to the girls, I stood up and put Kate’s sling back on. Then I leaned over and took Kate rather brusquely from Adam’s arms (Give me back my child!), interrupting a lively conversation about someone named Olivia Burke, who apparently had given Malcolm Travis a blow job at the party last night in full view of the guests.
Even through my self-pity and misery I was pleased to hear that Adam wasn’t being in any way judgmental about Olivia Burke’s behavior. His censure was reserved for Malcolm because apparently Malcolm had a steady girlfriend named Alison. And Olivia didn’t know about her.
“That guy is so low,” Adam said. “He’s being disrespectful to the two women at once by behaving that way.”
Right on, brother!
Kate started to cry when I took her from Adam’s arms. I didn’t blame her.
Adam turned and looked at me with a surprised look on his face.
“You’re not going, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Kate’s tired and she’ll need a change soon.”
I turned to the gorgeous girls.
“Bye.” I nodded. “Nice meeting you.”
At least I could never be accused of being rude, I thought self-righteously.
“Bye,” they chorused. “Bye-bye, Kate.”
Then I felt ashamed.
They were nice girls. I was the one with the problem.
Jealous and insecure.
Childish and overly sensitive and spoiled.
Off I struggled, loaded down with a baby, bags and huge quantities of feeling sorry for myself, trying to look dignified and unconcerned as I battled through the unyielding crowds toward the door. I could feel Adam’s eyes on me, but I refused to meet his look.
He caught up with me before I had gone two yards.
If I was to be perfectly honest—not always an easy thing to be—I’d have to say that was exactly what I had wanted him to do.
“Claire,” he said in surprised tones, “where are you going?”
“Home,” I mumbled.
I was hoping desperately that he hadn’t realized how jealous I was.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, looking into my eyes. “Were they really getting on your nerves?”
“No,” I protested. “No, they were nice.”
“You don’t have to be polite,” he said, looking at me with a concerned expression. “I know they must have seemed like silly little girls to a woman like you.”
“No Adam, honestly, they were fine,” I insisted.
I felt really awful.
I didn’t enjoy being with Alexandria, Zoo and Gerri or whatever their bloody names were because I was jealous of them, not because I was terribly mature and disdainful.
“Honestly, they’re lovely girls,” he said. “I just wanted to be with you and Kate but I didn’t know how to keep them from sitting down with us without seeming rude,” he explained.
“It’s really fine,” I insisted. “Look, I’d better go,” I said as yet another person with a tray bumped into me and tisked at me for standing in the middle of an aisle.
“Are you sure?” he asked, standing very close to me.
“I am,” I promised him.
“Really?” he asked, his face moving nearer to mine.
“Really,” I promised him.
But I didn’t move.
I wanted to stay there, close to him.
Just for a moment.
I wanted him to kiss me.
But there was very little chance of that happening with several thousand people milling around us. Not to mention the fact that Kate would probably suffocate in her sling if Adam pulled me manfully into his arms.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
“No, really Adam, there’s no need.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he said gently.
“Yes.” I gave him a little smile.
A nice smile.
A real one.
And he put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me to him (but with the utmost regard for Kate’s comfort) and gave me the lightest little kiss on my forehead.
I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment.
And I caught my breath because I could hardly believe that this was happening.
His mouth felt warm and firm.
He smelled of soap and warm smooth skin.
Through the din of voices that surrounded us in the café I heard someone say, “Look, it’s those two again.”
A voice said, “Which two?”
“You know, the two who were having the fight outside Switzer’s yesterday.”
The voices belonged to the girls who had taken great comfort in witnessing the little exchange between Adam and me yesterday.
My God, was it really only yesterday?
They continued to loudly discuss us.
“Oh yes, them. Well, it looks as if they’ve made it up.”
I opened my eyes and looked at Adam. We both started to laugh.
“In that case I really am going,” I told him.
I passed the girls on the way out.
“I’m sure she didn’t have a baby yesterday,” one of them said.
“Would you say it’s his?” the other wanted to know.
I carried on.
My forehead didn’t stop tingling until I was a hundred yards from home.
Yes, yes, I know.
A kiss on the forehead hardly qualifies as raunchy sex. I couldn’t name you even one Swedish film that was made about a kiss on the forehead.
But it was so yearning and so tender and in its own chaste way so erotic that it was lots better than raunchy sex.
Well, as good as, I suppose.
seventeen
Laura came out on Sunday afternoon and we lounged around drinking tea and playing with Kate.
Playing with Kate involved, for the most part, feeding her, burping her and changing her.
Laura wore a filthy paint-stained T-shirt, which I presumed belonged to her teenage lover. She looked young and contented and happy.
And well she might.
She had had sex four times the previous night, stories of which she attempted to regale me with except we kept being interrupted by Mum or Dad.
“Any word from James?” she inquired, having given up on the idea of spending the afternoon talking dirty after Dad had left the room for about the twentieth time.
He’d come in, nodded at Laura and started lifting cushions off the couch and moving armchairs, muttering something about not having read the Independent, if Helen had taken it he’d kill her. And how he was the one who paid for the papers so why was he always the one who didn’t get to read them.
Then he was back about three minutes later to see if the fire was lighting properly and had a big discussion, mostly with himself, about the merits of anthracite coal (“There’s great heat in it, even if it does cost more.”) Laura and I just sat there, curled up on the couch, Kate on Laura’s lap, all of us, even Kate, looking bored as we waited for him to finish his tirade and leave.
He was no sooner gone than Mum paid a visit.
“Any word from James?” Laura asked again as the sitting room door closed yet another time.
“He’s away,” I said shortly. “But I’ll call him tomorrow.” I didn’t want to talk about James, not t
hen anyway. I was sick of hashing it and rehashing it and trying to make sense of it and worrying about what to do.
As they say in New York, “Get over it, and if you can’t get over it, get over talking about it.”
Sound advice.
Laura was in the house for a good hour before she broached the subject of Adam. I was amazed that it took her so long. “So what’s the story with yourself and young Lochinvar?” she inquired ultra casually as she rubbed Kate’s back with circular motions.
“Who?” I asked. Deliberately obtuse.
“The gorgeous Adam,” she said in slight exasperation.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Well, for one thing he’s crazy about you, and for another thing he’s absolutely beautiful-looking. If he was five or six years younger, I might even be interested myself.”
“Laura, he’s not crazy about me,” I protested. Of course I only said this so that Laura would insist that Adam was indeed crazy about me so that I could get that warm feeling of delight in my stomach again.
“He is crazy about you,” she told me. “And what’s more, you know it.”
“But so what?” I said. “Even if he is crazy about me—and we have no proof that he is—what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Sleep with him,” she said.
She hadn’t an ounce of shame, that one.
“Laura! For God’s sake, I’m married,” I yelled at her.
“Oh yes?” she said smugly. “So where’s your husband?”
I was silent.
“Claire,” she said kindly, after we sat saying nothing for five tense minutes, “all I’m saying is that he’s a lovely man and he seems to really like you and you’ve had a rough time and even if things do eventually work out with James, maybe you should have a little bit of fun in the meantime.”
“What is it around here?” I asked. “Everyone’s encouraging me to have a relationship with Adam. Even my own mother!”
“Your mother told you to sleep with Adam?” screeched Laura in astonishment.
Well, not exactly in those words, I suppose,” I said. “But that’s what she meant.”
“So what’s stopping you?” asked Laura in delight. “You’ve got your mother’s blessing. What a brilliant omen.”
I thought for a few moments.
“Yes,” I sighed. “I suppose I should.”