“You can get salmonella from that you know,” I say, pulling off my headphones and nodding to the finger she has stuck in her mouth.
“No you can't,” she retorts, going in for another dip. I knock her hand away.
She sits back and eyes me. “So you're baking at night. You only ever do that when you're depressed about something. What is it?”
I sigh and continue to silently prepare my ingredients.
“Come on Fred, I'm ready to hit the sack. This is your last chance to tell me what's bothering you, because in the next five minutes I'll be dead to the world.”
“Nicholas confuses me,” I confess.
Nora cocks an eyebrow. “In what way? Don't tell me you want to shag him while he's wearing a dress or something.”
I shake my head and laugh. “No of course not - well, not really.” I admit sheepishly. “It's just that he's always so forward with me. He compliments me and it turns me into a pile of mush. I don't want to fancy him if he doesn't mean what he says. I get the impression he flirts with everyone, but I'm too insecure to handle it. You know what it's like when a man says he wants you, you want him to have never liked any girl as much as he likes you.”
“And there was me thinking you weren't interested in him,” Nora replies with a sly grin.
“Oh fuck off, of course I like him. You'd have to be blind not to find him attractive.”
“I know, he's quite beautiful, isn't he?” she says, for a moment forgetting her gripes about him making his living performing as a drag queen.
“Ugh, you're not helping Nora. Just go to bed.”
“Fine,” she replies, grabbing her bag and sauntering into her bedroom.
I finish up with the cake and set the timer for the oven to go off once it's cooked. I'll put the jam and cream on it in the morning. After all the baking my brain is now too exhausted to think about Nicholas, and I finally get some sleep.
When I visit my mum and dad on Sundays I tend to pile my hair up in a messy bun and wear the most comfortable clothes I can find. Today that consists of black leggings, boots and an old baggy Green Day t-shirt. We always spend the day eating, chatting and watching television shows, so there's not much of a point in getting dressed up.
I very much regret that as I'm leaving my apartment, carrying a plastic container with the Victoria sponge cake sitting inside it, because I bump right into Nicholas who's standing at his front door. He's not alone either. He's saying goodbye to Dorotea, who clearly spent the night and is looking a little worse for wear. Nicholas' eyes run up and down my body. The fucker, he shouldn't be looking at me like that if he just spent the night shagging another woman.
I don't want either of them to know that this surprise meeting has plunged a heavy brick to the pit of my stomach, so like always, I make a big stupid joke of it.
“My, my, am I witnessing the walk of shame right now?” I declare loudly, plastering a fake happy smile on my face. “This is a classy neighbourhood I'll have you know, you're lowering the tone.”
Dorotea turns to glance at me. “Oh my word, you gave me a fright, so noisy,” she complains, covering her tender hangover ridden ears with her hands. She doesn't look so great without her make-up on, and there are crusty bits of last night's mascara stuck in the corners of her eyes.
Nicholas has one arm braced on the wall beside his door. He's wearing trousers but no top and his hair is a sexy mess. I hate him for looking so good with such little effort.
I step up to them both, before shouting in Dorotea's ear, “Sorry, my bad.” It gives me a sick satisfaction when I see her cringe.
Nicholas is only barely containing his amusement. I turn to look at him. “I take it the champagne went down a treat.”
He grins and nods to Dorotea. “It's not the only thing that went down last night.”
“You cheeky little devil,” Dorotea scolds with saucy outrage. “You never returned the favour; I'll be collecting on that.”
I resist the urge to make a gagging noise.
Nicholas' eyes are levelled on me when he replies to Dorotea, “My apologies, but I only visit the lady garden under very special circumstances.” The way he's looking at me makes me think he's visualising visiting my lady garden. A shiver runs down my spine.
She pouts and folds her arms across her chest. “That's not very fair.”
“Sorry, those are the rules,” Nicholas chirps. “Where are you off to Fred?”
I show him the cake I'm holding, realising it reinforces the lie I told him yesterday about baking my mum a cake for a fictitious dinner party. “Visiting the parentals for Sunday lunch,” I reply.
“You lucky sod, I could kill for a nice roast. It's the best cure for a hangover.”
“Sadly, you're not invited,” I say. “See ya later alligator.” And with that I flounce off down the hall, feeling quite triumphant with myself.
I hop on a bus out towards Coolock, which is where my mum and dad live in the house I grew up in. Coolock is on Dublin's north side, and it's a pretty bleak place in some ways. The area consists mainly of housing estates and factories.
I'll give you a little lesson on the Dublin class system. In general, the working classes live in towns on the north side, while the middle and upper classes live on the south side. Of course, there are a handful of posh places on the north side, such as Malahide, Howth and Skerries, but mostly it's working class. Nora grew up in Malahide. We met at a summer tennis school and have been friends ever since, despite our very different backgrounds.
Coolock is mainly known for being home to the Cadbury headquarters in Ireland, as well as the Tayto crisps factory. The smell of oil and frying potatoes has always simultaneously made me feel sick and reminded me of home. So basically we produce chocolate and crisps. Perhaps you could blame us for the increasing problem of obesity. Growing up here, you got a thick skin fairly quickly. If you came across as a victim the other kids would rip you to shreds.
This is probably why I developed such a sharp tongue over the years. I needed to be able to put people in their places so that they wouldn't mess with me. I never really fit in anywhere as a teenager. I tended to flit from group to group and often I'd just hang out by my little old lonesome. Sometimes it felt like my mum was my best friend. Feel free to shed a tear for how pathetic I was. In a way it was a good thing, because if I had of been popular I probably would have ended up pregnant at fifteen and living in a council flat for the rest of my days. That or a junkie. A lot of kids grow up too fast here.
I knock on the front door to my parents' house, as their ginger cat Leonard rubs off my legs and purrs loudly. I don't know why they named him Leonard. It's a weird name for a cat. Too human. Perhaps they were making a subversive reference to Leo for lion, since a lion is basically just a huge cat.
My mum answers as usual; her grey hair is nicely blow dried so I'm guessing she paid a visit to the hairdressers yesterday. Every fortnight she goes to get her hair trimmed and blow dried. I'm surprised she has any hair left, she goes so often.
“Freda come on in, ah you baked a cake did you?”
She eyes the plastic container with relish. My mum is a fiend for baked goods.
“I did,” I reply, handing her the cake. The house smells deliciously of roast lamb. I go into the living room where my dad is sitting in his favourite chair watching a football match. My dad's crazy about two things, football and golf, so if either of them are showing on the telly there's no prying the remote from him.
He supports Manchester United and is currently wearing his red jersey with pride. I sometimes like to point out the irony of him being in love with an English team and also having a penchant for ranting on about the troubles up north and how the Brits stole a third of our country from us. He just scowls at me and tells me to shut up whenever I do.
It's a prevalent contradiction in Ireland. The boys I went to school with would don their Liverpool football shirts one day, and the next they'd be graffiti-ing the words “Brits Out” on the nea
rest lamp post or wall.
I put a hand on Dad's shoulder and give him a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting, and then I let him focus back on the game. We sit in silence for a few minutes, as the commentators describe what's happening on the field with fervour.
“Your mother had a fall Wednesday last,” my dad comments out of nowhere. This is how conversations with him normally run; silence interspersed with the odd piece of news.
“She never mentioned it,” I say. “Is she okay?”
He lets out a breath and shifts in his chair. “Ah, she bruised her ankle. Wouldn't let me take her to the doctor's. She said she was fine.”
My dad doesn't say much, but when he does you know it's important. He's clearly telling me this because he's worried about Mum, which means he wants me to talk some sense into her. Out of all my siblings, I'm the one who visits the most. My brother and three sisters all have their own families to take care of, so they don't really have much time to come see our parents.
“I thought she was limping a little bit when she answered the door,” I reply. “I'll get her to let me have a look at her ankle after dinner.”
Dad nods, satisfied, and returns his attention to the football. Because my mum had me so late, I've always been quite aware of my parents' mortality. Even as a child I'd have these nightmares about one of them getting sick and dying.
Now that I'm older I know that their deaths are inevitable, but it still isn't nice to think about them not being here anymore. When one of them gets even a little bit sick it makes me realise how close they are to the end of their lives. But I always try to reassure myself with the fact that lots of people live well into their nineties these days, which means my parents could have a good twenty years left in them.
Mum's pottering around in the kitchen, so I go in to check on her. She's standing by the cooker, stirring some gravy in a pot.
“Dad says you had a fall,” I say to her casually.
She tuts and shakes her head. “It was nothing. I'm fine.”
“If it's fine then you won't mind me having a look at it.”
Her body stiffens. “Leave it, Freda.”
I grab her by the hand and pull her over to a chair, before sitting her down. “Stop being stubborn, Mum.” She slumps back in defeat as I roll up her trouser leg and pull down her sock. I can't contain my gasp when I see the big purple and yellow bruise on her ankle. I glance up at her. “This is nothing, is it? Why did you pretend you were fine?”
She gets a little flustered. “Oh, I didn't want to make a fuss,” she's deflecting now, I can tell.
“Spit it out, Mum.”
She wrings her hands and throws her eyes to the heavens, an expression that tells me she thinks I'm overreacting. “Well, it's just that Dr. Richards retired a few months ago and they have this new doctor working at the clinic and he can be a little difficult.”
“What do you mean by difficult?” I ask, my temper flaring at the idea of some doctor being mean to my mother.
She worries the hem of her peach coloured cardigan for a minute. “Nothing too bad, he's just very flippant when you tell him about your ailments and makes out as if you're a hypochondriac.”
“The bastard,” I say, imagining some hot shot doctor who thinks he's above dealing with the health complaints of elderly women like Mum.
“Language Freda,” Mum scolds half-heartedly.
“Listen, I'm taking you to see him tomorrow, and if he gives you any crap he'll have me to contend with.”
“You don't have to go out of your way. I know I should have gone to the clinic myself after I fell. I'll get your dad to take me tomorrow.”
“Mum, I'm taking you. I'll drop by first thing in the morning. Now you go and have a sit down in the living room. I'll put the dinner up.”
She places her hand on my arm, tells me I'm a great girl, and makes her way out of the kitchen.
After a leisurely dinner and a few hours of chatting to Mum about this and that, I say my goodbyes and make my way to the bus stop. A few teenage boys in ridiculous looking tracksuits follow behind me for a minute, and I know they're considering whether or not to jump me for my purse. I turn around and face them, walking backwards.
I eye the one who appears to be the ringleader. “Just fucking try it you little shits,” I shout at them.
Surprised at being confronted, they tuck tail and run off. You'll find that most scumbags who mug people are cowards, so you only have to show them you're onto them and they'll scurry away. It's the desperate ones you have to watch out for, because they have nothing left to lose and they'll resort to extremes.
It's around half past six when I get back to the apartment, and I can hear laughter coming from inside as I slot my key in the door. Opening it I find Nora, Harry, Sean and Nicholas sitting in the living area with a massive pizza box spread out on the coffee table.
“Well, well, well, look at you all shooting the shit,” I remark, slightly annoyed that I wasn't informed of this little get together. “What do you think this is, the set of Friends?”
“Harry and Sean decided to come over and surprise us with a pizza.” Nora explains. “Since you were out they knocked next door and asked Nicholas if he'd like to join us instead.”
“Viv you cow,” I say, glancing at Nicholas who's currently seated in my favourite spot on the couch. “Would you take my grave as quick?”
He grins widely, patting his stomach. “Sorry Fred, but the pizza was delicious. I couldn't resist. I'm sure I can figure out a way to pay you back.” His words drip with sexual intent.
“Be careful there Viv, or you'll end up bankrupt. You already owe Dorotea a visit to her lady garden.”
At this Nora almost chokes on the glass of juice she'd been sipping. Harry and Sean eye Nicholas with near identical interest. “Who's Dorotea?” Sean asks. “And what's all this about a lady garden?”
Nicholas makes a motion of zipping his lips. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“It's a good thing you're not a gentleman then,” I say, sitting down in the space beside him since it's the only seat left. “And I'm sure you did a good deal more than kissing, you trollop.” I look to the others. “Dorotea is a sassy Italian hairdresser Nicholas and I met in the park yesterday. She showed up at the club last night and Nicholas took it upon himself to show her a memorable evening.”
I give him a cheeky wink, all the while my stomach is turning at the topic of conversation. I really do bring the misery on myself sometimes. I was, after all, the one who brought up Dorotea just now. “I caught the two of them saying their farewells this morning. Nicholas mentioned that Dorotea went down on him and she seemed less than impressed that he didn't return the favour.”
When my eyes catch on Nora's she gives me a brief sympathetic look, since she's the only one who knows how stumbling upon Nicholas and Dorotea after a one night stand would hurt me. Especially after my brief confession late last night. Okay, so I know I'm a fool to be hurt by it since I barely know him, but Nicholas is just one of those men who can make you fall head over heels with a simple heartfelt smile.
“Oh, this is juicy,” says Harry. “Come on, give us the details Nicholas.”
Nicholas shoots me an expression that's half amused, half put out. He absently trails a finger down my bare arm, stopping just before my wrist. “She was very – how do I put it? Enthusiastic. Although I could have done without all of the noises. She was a moaner in the true sense of the word. I'm surprised you didn't hear her through the walls. Couldn't shut her up.”
He leans forward. Harry, Sean and Nora instinctively lean towards him in anticipation of what he might say next. “And get this, she had no hair down below whatsoever. I wasn't complaining, but it kind of threw me for six when I saw it. Most women have a landing strip at the bare minimum. She was like a porn star.”
“Oh my God, I think you just traumatised me for life,” Harry jokes. “As a gay man I have to admit I'm quite squeamish when it comes to women and their downstai
rs business.”
“That's awful Harry,” says Nora. “It's just a vagina, why would it make you squeamish?”
“It's the unknown,” Harry replies. “The unknown can be frightening to a delicate flower such as myself.”
I snicker. “Delicate my arse. You can suck a dick, but you can't take the idea of a hairless vagina.”
Nora grins happily and crosses her arms, delighted that we're teaming together to defend our womanhood.
“Ugh, please don't tell me you've got one as well,” says Harry, leaning into Sean as though he might expire.
“What a vagina? Or a hairless one?” Nora puts in.
“The latter,” Harry replies, making a funny shape of displeasure with his mouth.
“I get a Brazilian wax every couple of weeks,” Nora answers boldly. I'm surprised she's being so open; then again, personal hygiene is one of her best subjects. As I mentioned before, Nora's about as anal as they come. If there's a pun in there, I apologise. I've never accompanied her on her trips to the salon, because the idea of sitting there with my legs akimbo while some stranger goes to work on me with hot wax makes me shiver with trepidation.
“Is it wrong that I'm really enjoying the turn this conversation has taken?” asks Nicholas, leaning in close to my ear. “I think vagina is one of my favourite words.” Nora and Harry are still arguing back and forth, so they don't hear him whisper to me. “I bet you have a really pretty one Freda, like a flower.”
“You're a pervert,” I say, pulling away nervously. “And if you think vaginas look like flowers you must have a very unique way of seeing them. What do you do, close one eye and squint?” I joke and rub at my arms, hoping he doesn't notice the goosebumps.
“If I had you in my bed, I definitely wouldn't be closing my eyes,” he continues, unnerving me.
I let out a shaky breath. “Nicholas...you have to stop..” words fail me for once, and that hardly ever happens. The temptation to give in to his suggestiveness and flirting is too much. I can't let myself go there, because I know that one night is all he's ever going to want from me. Unfortunately, that's not something I'm capable of giving him. If I slept with him even once I'd probably end up following him around like a psycho lovesick puppy for the rest of my days.