Painted Faces

  I shrug. “I get by.”

  “And what about fashion?” he goes on, eyes roaming over my dress. “You seem to have good taste. I like the whole 40's vintage thing you've got going on tonight. Yes, there's definitely potential. How about a two week trial period?”

  “You forget that I work in the mornings. I'm not sure I could survive one job at night and another where I have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Yes but that's weekdays. My gigs are Thursday through Saturday.”

  “I'd still have the late night on Thursday and the early morning on Friday.” I disagree.

  “I'll pay you double time on Thursdays to make up for it.” He's not backing down.

  Thinking of the extra money I could earn just for helping to select some outfits and putting on a few false eyelashes is extremely tempting. I could certainly do with the cash.

  “Why are you so determined for me to agree?”

  “I don't know. There's something about you that comforts me. Perhaps the fact that every second word out of your mouth begins with an F.”

  “As if you're any better,” I laugh.

  He winks. “Exactly, that's how I know we'll get along. Besides, you are my new best friend aren't you?”

  “I am. But don't tell Nora, she'll only get jealous.” I take a sip of tea, the warm liquid sobers me a little, although I wish it wouldn't. Being in the presence of Nicholas in all his sexy glory is easier when I'm tipsy.

  He sits there silently, nursing his own cup, not saying a word. His searing eyes haven't left me. For some reason I don't feel like being the one to break the silence.

  After a while Nicholas asks softly, “So will you agree? I promise you'll have a ball. The job is a piece of piss.”

  Staring at all of the unpacked boxes scattered around the room, I'm not so sure about that. I'm hoping he turns out to be one those people who just live in organised chaos.

  I let out a heavy sigh and nod, unable to refuse. The idea of being around Nicholas on a regular basis makes my heart beat quicker.

  His eyes grow even hotter at my acceptance. “That's brilliant, you can start tomorrow.”

  “I hope I don't fuck it up on you. I won't have a clue what I'm doing.”

  “Just be your fabulous self and you won't,” he says sincerely, coming over to shake my hand. “Welcome to the wonderful world of Vivica Blue,” he goes on, smiling down at me. This hand shake is a threshold moment. With this strangely beautiful man in my life, I have a feeling it will never be the same again.

  Chapter Four

  Ollo the Ferret

  I wake up the next morning at ten-thirty, feeling wonderfully refreshed with my full eight hours of sleep, in spite of the alcohol I drank last night. Unfortunately, the sensation is misleading, because when I sit up the dizziness hits me. I go into the kitchen and get myself a pint glass of cold water. Nora won't be up until around one, because she has to work for the next three nights in a row and will be getting every bit of shut eye she can grab during the day.

  It's sunny out again and I want to take advantage of that, so I grab a quick shower, pop on a comfy blue cotton sun dress and some flip flops and head out for a white mocha from Starbucks. The nearest one is on Dame Street, which is a short walk, but I'll go the distance for such creamy goodness.

  As I pass by Nicholas' door I stop a moment and consider asking him if he'd like to join me. I argue with myself back and forth in my head before I finally take the plunge and knock.

  There's silence for a minute, but then I hear movement. It sounds like he's getting out of bed. Oh no, I hope I didn't wake him. A floor board creaks just before the door opens and Nicholas peeks his head out, squinting his tired eyes at me. He appears to be topless, but he could very well have no clothes on at all since he's hiding his bottom half behind the door.

  I've never understood the appeal of sleeping in the nude, but slim people seem to be mad about it. Us heavier types tend to avoid doing anything with our full bodies on show, even if we're the only ones there to witness it.

  He seems momentarily disgruntled, but when he sees it's me his whole face lights up. Let me tell you, having a man like this look so pleased to see you first thing in the morning is a nice little boost to the ego.

  “Fred, what a pleasant surprise,” he greets me. “What time is it?”

  “Around half past eleven. I was wondering if you'd like to join me for some mid morning caffeine to get the old motors running.”

  “That sounds like a great idea. Give me a minute to make myself decent,” he replies.

  “I knew it! You're in the nip behind there aren't you.”

  He grins. “Bare as the day I was born darling, now don't go getting all riled up at the visual. I'll be right back.”

  He closes the door over a little and disappears. I stand in the hallway waiting for him. Five minutes later he returns, pulling a black t-shirt on over his damp hair. I shamelessly ogle his abs before quickly looking away in case he catches me.

  “That has to have been the quickest shower in all of history. I think I was only in for about a minute and a half.”

  He locks the door to his apartment and we continue out of the building. “You should inform the Guinness book of world records,” I tell him.

  “Oh I have every intention,” he replies with a smirk.

  When we get out onto the street Nicholas links his arm through mine, in a friendly sort of way. We saunter down George's Street, dodging the crowds of weekend shoppers who are out in their droves. Just before the Starbucks on Dame Street is the Central Bank, which is always coated in a sea of black clothes, studded belts, and brightly coloured hair dye on Saturdays.

  It's a prime hang out spot for the Goths and Emos, not to mention the hipsters. I'll let you in on a little secret, I used to wish I could fit in with this crowd when I was a teenager. Whenever I go by I always get a little pang of nostalgia. Most of them are in their mid to late teens, but you can always spot the odd person in their twenties who just refuses to grow up. I'm looking directly at one of those people right now, and I know him well.

  Jonny O'Connor was in my class in secondary school. I always used to think of him as being the only punk in the village. He'd dress all in black and have these massive gelled spikes sticking out of his head. I admired his bravery, because in the town where I grew up the most acceptable items of clothing were Nike tracksuits and gold sovereign rings. He was something of a hero of mine back then, but he never really lived up to his potential, since he can be spotted outside the Central Bank every Saturday without fail. I also think he might be unemployed. Not because of the recession though, just due to laziness.

  He's standing in the middle of a group of seventeen or eighteen year old girls, just shooting the breeze. They probably think he's a legend. I'd say he buys alcohol for all the under-age kids and then joins them on a bender.

  I momentarily consider stopping to say hello, but then I think it might be better to keep my head down. If you think I can come across as brash then you haven't met Jonny. He's certainly got a mouth on him.

  We were never really friends at school, since I was a bit of a loner. He was a loner too, but a loner who was always in the spotlight for acting out. One time he went mental at a teacher because she was reprimanding him for not having his homework done. He picked up his chair and threw it at the blackboard. He almost got himself expelled for that.

  My plan for keeping my head down doesn't go so well. Jonny's booming voice echoes at me, “Freda Wilson's a cunt!” When I turn around I see him pissing himself laughing. The girls he's with glance at me curiously.

  Nicholas grins at me and asks, “A friend of yours?”

  “Not even close,” I reply, taking a few steps over to Jonny and his harem. Jonny's got the tail end of a joint stuck between his pursed lips. “Now what way is that to speak to someone?” I say as I approach him. Nicholas is just behind me.

  “You've got one haven't you,” says Jonny crudely, his eyes all glaze
d over. I've stopped to chat with him a few times over the years when I've passed by here, and he strikes me as one of those people who started smoking marijuana way too young and now their brain doesn't work as fast as it should. It'll take him longer than average to answer a question, for example.

  “Didn't you know? I was born with a bit of a downstairs mix up,” I joke, but my voice is a little terse. People like Jonny piss me off, because he's pissing his life away. He frowns at what I've said. It takes him a minute to process the joke, then a sly grin forms on his face.

  “I always wondered why you never got with anyone at school, thought it was just because you were fat.”

  Okay, so I know I've got a bit of meat on my bones, but it hurts when people point it out. My last boyfriend (the stalker one) told me I had the kind of body every man dreams about, and that real men aren't interested in stick insects. They want boobs, bums and hips. It was one of the nicer things he said to me. My cheeks are flaming red with embarrassment due to the fact that Nicholas is standing right beside me and has witnessed Jonny's remark. The teenage girls giggle.

  I give them a massive smile and point at Jonny. “You do know he's forty, right?”

  One girl instantly pales and asks, “What?”

  “Yep, he goes around telling everyone he's only twenty-five so that he can get off with younger girls.” I lean closer and whisper, “He's a bit of a paedo.”

  “Oh my God, gross,” says another member of the group, before dragging her friends away.

  When I look at Nicholas I notice that he's frowning at Jonny, his blue eyes have narrowed to slits.

  “You really are a cunt Freda, now they'll go around telling everyone what you said. It's not even true.” Jonny gripes.

  “You should have thought about that before you called me fat. Besides, can't you find women your own age to hang around with? Those girls can't be any older than seventeen. You should steer clear, you don't want to go getting a name for yourself.”

  He takes a drag out of his joint and then throws it to the ground. “I couldn't give two shits Fred,” he eyes Nicholas. “Who's this?”

  Nicholas suddenly wraps his arm around my waist and announces, “I'm Fred's boyfriend, and I don't appreciate you speaking to her like that.”

  Oh my goodness. My heart is going ninety. Fred's boyfriend? He's clearly trying to help me save face in front of Jonny.

  Jonny lets out a big crooning, “Ooooh, so sorry to offend. I shan’t speak to your precious girlfriend like that then.” He looks back at me, shaking his head. “See ya Freda. Tell that Nora friend of yours I said hello. She's hot.”

  And with that he hops over to a group of guys, grabbing one of them around the neck to get him in a head lock. Some people never grow up.

  I turn back to Nicholas. “You didn't have to say that, you know. Jonny's an idiot, always has been. I don't care what he thinks of me.”

  “How do you know him anyway?” Nicholas asks, ignoring what I've said.

  “We went to school together. He was the resident trouble maker.”

  We start walking again and go in through the front door of the Starbucks. Nicholas holds it open for me and I duck under his arm to get by. My chest brushes off his and a small smile makes his blue eyes crinkle.

  “I thought he might have been an ex of yours,” says Nicholas.

  I give him a look of mock outrage. “I might not have the highest of standards, but the ones I do have certainly surpass Jonny O'Connor. You saw him preying on those teenage girls, he's a total creep.”

  I order my white mocha and Nicholas asks for a latte. The girl goes to make our coffees and a silence ensues. For some reason I can't think of anything to say and Nicholas is standing all too close, his arm braced against the glass display cabinets. I can smell his shower gel and it makes me want to run my hand over the bit of dark stubble growing on his jaw.

  “So you're not seeing anyone then,” he says, breaking the silence. I hadn't realised he was still pondering my relationship status.

  “Um, no. My last boyfriend was three and a half years ago,” I reply, and then regret having been so honest. I'm kind of embarrassed about my lack of a love life. Nicholas strikes me as the kind of person who, when the urge comes upon him, simply goes to a bar, picks up a woman and takes her home to have his wicked way with her.

  He lets out a long whistle. “That's some dry spell Fred. I'd be worried you might have grown back your virginity.”

  “I'm just picky,” I reply defensively. “And I wish it was possible to grow back your virginity. The first time I had sex can be summed up in two words beginning with A: awkward and awful.”

  “Yep, first times are a bastard,” he says. “Probably because we haven't a clue what we're supposed to be doing. We're all fingers and thumbs.”

  The girl puts our coffees down on the counter and Nicholas insists on paying. “Fingers and thumbs eh? Sounds...dirty.” I reply.

  The girl comes back to give Nicholas his change and looks at me funnily, having heard what I said. I give her a wide grin. She can do what she will with that.

  “It's filthy,” Nicholas goes on. “I can't wait to show you what I can achieve with my fingers.”

  I almost choke on the creamy white mocha as I take a gulp. My face must look like a strawberry right about now.

  He pats me on the back, laughing. “Easy there, Fred. I don't want to have to give you the Heimlich manoeuvre. Oh wait a minute, I kind of do. It might give me the chance to cop a feel.”

  I regain my composure and throw back, “You're fucking obsessed Viv. If you're that keen on them then by all means go ahead and have a squeeze. Get it out of your system.”

  I'm trying to be breezy. Breezy, breezy, breezy. When really if he did touch me I'd melt into a jittery mess of flesh and bones.

  His eyes sparkle with delight. “Can I hold you to that? I want to do it at a time when I can give them my full attention. Some place private.” His grin is a mixture of anticipation and mischief.

  My eyes almost bug out of their sockets, and I try to remember to be breezy. Breezy I say! “Oh, of course. Just give me some warning before you dive in. I can't guarantee I won't throw a punch if you catch me off guard.”

  He laughs and takes a sip of his latte. “So where to now? I was looking for Stephen's Green the other day on my explorations, but couldn't seem to find it. I ended up at some train station.”

  “You must be fairly bad with directions, because you can't really miss it. Come on, I'll show you.”

  I lead him towards Grafton Street, where it's all bustle and noise. The buskers are out in full swing, trying to lure a few sheckles from the tourists.

  There's a living statue dressed in yellow from head to foot with his face painted gold. When a little girl throws a Euro into the basket at his feet he springs to life. He gives her a wide smile and a slow bow. She giggles and runs shyly back to her mother who's waiting close by.

  “It must be stifling in all that fabric and paint,” I mention to Nicholas as I peer up at the living statue, before dumping my empty coffee cup in a rubbish bin.

  “We all paint on a face to show the world,” Nicholas replies philosophically. “For some of us, that's quite literal.” He takes a brief pause. “When you're passionate about something, you don't mind suffering a little discomfort.”

  I give him a wry glance. “Have you had to suffer for your passion?”

  He nods gently, his eyes roving over the crowds as they push by us. “More than you would think.”

  There's some sort of sadness tingeing his words. I keep looking at him, wondering what kind of suffering he might have endured.

  But then he plasters on a bright smile and jokes, “Those high heels can give you blisters like you wouldn't believe.”

  I accept his change of tone, because I hardly know him well enough to probe for details. “Tell me about it, that's why I avoid them like the plague.”

  Nicholas quirks an eyebrow at me. “You never wear heels?”
>
  “Not if I can help it. Me in heels never leads anywhere good, usually it ends up with me injuring myself and others,” I laugh.

  “It's all about practice and technique, you know. I'll teach you, that way I'll get to see those shapely legs of yours in a pair of stilettos someday.”

  “Never going to happen. And I take it that by “shapely” you mean legs eight-eight as opposed to eleven.”

  Nicholas shakes his head at me like I'm a naïve child. “You really do have pathological self-deprecation, don't you,” he comments. “When I saw you weren't wearing any tights last night I had to do a good job of keeping from slipping my hands beneath the hem of your dress to see if your skin feels as soft as it looks.”

  I shove him away from me, flattered but indignant. “You have sex on the brain twenty-four seven Viv. I think you might need therapy.”

  “Perhaps I do,” he grins. “Don't get me wrong I'm no Russell Brand, but I do have quite an avid interest in shagging.”

  “Enough said, I'll be steering clear of you and the myriad of sexually transmitted diseases you might have contracted over the years.”

  “No need to worry. The closest I've ever come to an STD was a kidney infection,” he replies humorously. “I always put a rain coat on the little fella before heading into a storm.”

  At his words, I let out a long snort followed by furious giggles. Yes, a snort. God help me. I cover my mouth with both hands and try to gain some composure. “You do realise you just referred to your penis as “the little fella”, that's not very reassuring Viv.” Although from the view I got of him in those hot pants last night, I don't think he has anything to be worried about.

  He shrugs, his eyes all alight at having made me laugh so hard. “Perhaps you should be reassured. If I had a small appendage I'd be too self-conscious to even broach the topic of size.”

  “Fair point,” I say, just as we reach the top of Grafton Street, where a crowd has gathered to listen to Dave McSavage belt out a few jokes.

  If you're not Irish then you've probably never heard of this piece of work. He's a semi-famous comedian who regularly busks around Dublin, singing songs and making fun of the people who pass him by. I never stop to watch him for fear of him making a joke about big boobs and/or well endowed bottoms.