Chapter 17

The razor-blade trip – as Holly came to think of it – was her last proper contact with James for quite a while. Given the way it had turned out, she couldn’t help but feel that this was probably for the best.

On Wednesday of the following week she received a phone call from her mother. Mrs Christmas didn’t talk for long and barely let Holly get a word in; it was more like a brief broadcast than a conversation. The gist of it was that she and Charlie were a couple now. She didn’t put it that bluntly, of course; she spoke vaguely of “progress” and “new beginnings”. Holly did her best to sound congratulatory but it wasn’t easy. Quite apart from the fact that she didn’t particularly feel that way, her mother’s own tone wasn’t exactly joyous. There was more than a hint of Happy now? about it. After she’d hung up, Holly lay on the sofa and tried to let the news bed down. It was a huge moment and she wanted to give it due attention. But all she could think about was the fact that her mother had a boyfriend and she didn’t. It didn’t seem fair. Although the felt considerable guilt for being so self-pitying was considerable, it was dwarfed by the self-pity itself.

Orla rang too, on Saturday. When she said that she “just wanted to check in”, Holly guessed that she meant she just wanted to talk about John Lennon. And so it proved. She’d seen him a few times now and was beside herself with happiness. He was just so lovely! They always had a lovely time together, having lovely dinners or watching lovely movies. The next day he sent her lovely text messages. This flurry of lovelys brought back memories for Holly. When she’d first started going out with Dan, Mark (or was it Lizzie?) had pointed out one day that her speech was suddenly peppered with variations on the word “love”. Clearly, Mark (or Lizzie) had declared with a giggle, some ancient part of her brain had already decided that she was in love and was impatiently waiting for the rest of her to catch up. Before she hung up, Orla revealed that she’d been talking to Aisling, who was off to Wexford for the weekend on a team-building course with her work colleagues. At that very moment, she was probably holding someone back in a three-legged race while complaining about the havoc that physical activity was wreaking with her nails. When the call ended, Holly flaked out on the sofa and frowned up at the ceiling, lost in fresh self-pity. How come Orla got to be so happy? It wasn’t fair. A couple of minutes passed before a fresh wave of guilt washed over her. She bounded to her feet, feeling clammy and ashamed, and looked for something to scrub clean. All this resentment and jealousy – it wouldn’t do. Despite her best intentions, however, the feelings lingered on into the following week.

After several days of sharing him with at least one other teacher at all times, Holly finally cornered James after close of business on the Thursday. She had dallied at the end of her last class and was thrilled to find him alone in the staff room when she stopped by to get a drink of water. He was on the phone and was not looking at all happy about it.

“Yes,” he said, looking up at her and rolling his eyes. “Yes . . . Yes . . . I will . . . I know . . . No, I’m not snapping, I’m just say– . . . No . . . All right, then, see you tonight . . . Okay . . . Okay . . . Bye.” He hung up.

Holly sat down in the armchair opposite him and took a sip of her water. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, “you really weren’t snapping. I know snapping when I hear it and that wasn’t it.”

His half-smile had been conspicuous by its absence. Now it returned. Holly marvelled at the effect it had on his appearance. It was the sort of transformation that she could only achieve by spending an hour on her make-up. James could do it in a quarter of a second.

“My mum,” he said. “Dad’s been sick for a few days. Nothing serious. Just a viral thing. I’ve spoken to him a few times and he’s grand. Complaining and all, but not exactly at death’s door either. Mother dearest thinks I’m a terrible son because I haven’t called over to see him. She hasn’t said it out loud but I can tell she’s just on the edge of wailing, ‘While you still have the chance!’”

“She’ll be singing that terrib– . . . that song at you next. ‘The Living Years.’”

James lit up. “Mike and the Mechanics! That’s so spooky. I had that exact same thought yesterday when she called to give out. I hate that frigging song.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I’ve never heard you saying that you hate anything before.”

“Really?”

“Never. Not once.”

“Oh. Well, believe me, I hate that song. Not with your sort of passion, of course. I’m not in your league.”

Holly had been about to elaborate but he had thrown her off. When it came to hating things, she was in a different league . . . She tried for a couple of seconds but there was no way she could make that sound good in her head.

“Earth to Holly. Come in, Holly.”

“Sorry. So, you’re going home tonight with a bottle of Lucozade and a sympathetic look?”

“Yeah, looks like it. He’ll tell me I shouldn’t have bothered, I know he will.”

“But you’ll feel better.”

“My mum will. I suppose that’s the main thing.”

She smiled. He smiled back. In the background, a tap dripped. Now what sort of silence was this, Holly wondered, when neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Was it comfortable or awkward? It seemed like a significant question but she had no answer.

Then James said, “I suppose life’s going to get a bit more complicated for both of us any day now.”

“What?” Holly squeaked.

“We’re into October now. Next thing you know, people will be talking about Christmas.”

Her heart stopped leaping around in her chest. No moaning, she told herself. No groaning. If you can’t say something nice. “Yeah, they will. But I don’t see how it complicates your life.”

“It doesn’t. Quantum of Solace.”

“Who’s a what now?”

“New James Bond movie. That’s what it’s called. Quantum of Solace. It’s coming out in a few weeks. The kids have started to intensify their slagging campaign already.”

“Ah,” Holly said. Who the hell had come up with “Quantum of Solace”? It sounded like a cheap perfume, something that would be sold out of a suitcase in an out-of-the-way spot. “What an interesting title!”

“You think so?”

“Interesting!” she repeated robotically. “So you’re going to get a hard time?”

For a moment, Holly allowed herself to indulge in a little fantasy. James was about to make a confession. The truth was, he was just like her – the real her. He’d been pulling a fast one all along. Terrible songs by Mike and the Mechanics were just the tip of the iceberg. You name it, he loathed it and, in the privacy of his own head, tore it to tiny shreds. He was living a lie and it had to stop!

“Ah, I don’t mind,” he said then. “If this is all I have to complain about, things aren’t so bad, are they?”

“No,” she sighed.

“Anyway,” he said then. “I should probably get going.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They got up and walked out to the car park together. When it came time to part, Holly wished James good luck with his visit home.

“Thanks,” he said. “Good luck with trying not to think about Christmas.”

She wasn’t sure if this was an apology for raising the subject or a cheeky admission that he’d been winding her up. As she got into her car, she wished that just once, he would say something that she could read. It was so exhausting. She was getting sick of it. Before she had even left the school grounds, she had made a firm decision.

Mark and Lizzie were happy to see her at first. They had just finished eating and cheerfully offered her some of the leftover goulash that they’d been planning to freeze for another day. When she declined, they forced a wineglass into her hand and poured her a generous helping of the Chilean Malbec that was their new darling (“So sure of itself,” said Mark; “Bold to the point of arrogance,” agreed Lizzie). Everything was going swimmingly until Holly cleared her throat and said, “So . . . ”

“Oh, here we go,” Mark said. Lizzie held her tongue but her smile collapsed.

Suddenly, Holly didn’t feel quite as welcome. In truth, she had guessed that they wouldn’t be especially excited by the prospect of discussing her love life yet again. Nevertheless, she pretended to be offended, just for appearances’ sake.

“What? I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Yeah, but you’re going to, aren’t you? I can tell. James what’s-his-name, right?”

“Bond.”

“Whatever.”

“No, seriously. That’s his name.”

Mark looked at Lizzie. Lizzie looked at Mark.

“Why would I lie?” Holly asked.

“James Bond?” Lizzie shrieked.

“And Holly Christmas?” her husband added in an equally piercing tone.

It would have been better, Holly thought, if they’d collapsed into laughter. Instead, they both just stared at her.

Then Mark said, “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be a couple called James Bond and Holly Christmas.”

“Why not?”

He adopted the expression of someone who had just taken a swig of sour milk. “Because . . . people will take the piss.”

“People already take the piss,” Holly replied. “Individually, I mean. I don’t suppose it would get all that much worse if we were together. And anyway” – her voice rose – “why the hell should I care what people think?”

“James Bond,” Lizzie mumbled as if the news was just sinking in. “How old is this guy? Was he born in the 1950s? At least then he’d have an excuse. Because otherwise, his parents must have –”

“Look,” Holly interrupted. “I don’t want to get off on a whole name thing here. This is why I didn’t mention it in the first place.”

“How does he cope with it?” Mark asked. “Better than you, I bet.”

Holly gave him a look. “Yes, if you must know, he copes better than I do. I told you already. he copes with everything better than I do.”

“Wait a minute,” Lizzie said. The sinking-in process was obviously still ongoing. “This guy’s a teacher. They must give him hell . . .”

“He likes it,” Holly said. “Or at least, he doesn’t mind it. I’m telling you, nothing bothers him. Now, listen: I want to ask –”

“We’ve been through all this already,” Mark moaned. “We told you: try being a bit more easygoing, see if –”

“I’ve been doing that. Or at least I’ve been trying too. It hasn’t, uh, it hasn’t always come off.”

“I can just picture it.”

Holly began to worry that Mark was about to experience a profound loss of patience. As subtly as she could, she shifted her attention to Lizzie, who didn’t seem quite as agitated.

“I can’t read the guy. Sometimes I think he’s flirting and sometimes I think he’s mocking me. I’m fed up with it. So I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to take the initiative. I’m going to ask him out.”

She had dared to hope that her announcement of this significant change in policy might be a cause for celebration. There would be a blizzard of “Good-for-yous” and “Go-get-‘em-girls” after which she would calm things down and ask for some advice on how to go about it. Instead, their response was to renew their staring. She saw that she would have to skip a stage.

“So I need some advice,” she said. “How do you think I should go about it?”

“I wouldn’t have a clue,” Lizzie said. “I’ve always thought it was the man’s job to do the asking.”

Holly was quite sure that this was a joke, albeit a hopelessly unfunny one. “Hur,” she said, non-committally.

“I’m serious,” Lizzie replied. “I mean, it’s up to you, obviously, but do you not think there’s something a wee bit . . . undignified about it?”

“Christ!” Holly gasped. “I thought you were taking the piss. Wow . . . I’m kind of in shock here. You, of all people –”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Calm down. I’m just saying, you’re not exactly old-fashioned, are you?”

Lizzie’s hand automatically moved to her crown. “So I cut my hair off. Ooooh. What, you think that makes me some sort of feminist nut-job?”

“No! No. I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think it was such a big deal for a woman to ask a man out.”

“Have you ever done it before?”

“No.”

Mark chipped in: “And you need advice on how to go about it?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“Well, there you go,” Lizzie said. “It is a big deal.”

Holly felt as if she’d been tag-teamed. And worse, she realised that they had a point. For the past few hours she’d been telling herself that while it would have been nice if James had done the asking, it would be just as easy for her to do it. She’d been kidding herself. Somewhere just beneath the surface, she had already started to panic. Now the panic bubbled right to the top.

“Shit,” she breathed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Oh, don’t get all excited,” Lizzie said. “How hard can it be?”

“But you don’t approve! You just said so!”

“I didn’t say I didn’t approve, I said I thought it was undignified. But, hey, it’s your dignity. If you’re comfortable with throwing it overboard, then who am I to raise objections?”

“Oh. Right. Well, in that case, dignity-shmignity. So – what’s my plan?”

“I got asked out for a drink once,” Mark said. He nodded at Lizzie. “Not long before I met you, actually.”

“Did you now?” Lizzie said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I can hardly tell you about every single woman who finds me irresistible,” he cooed. “I’d get nothing done.”

“You just said it only happened once,” Holly pointed out.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. So I did.”

“Who was she? What did she say? How did you react?”

“Her name was Dolores. She was a barmaid in this horrible pub I used to drink in when I lived in Bray.”

“Go on.”

“Yeah, well, I used to chit-chat with her a bit over a pint, you know. Then one night she said that maybe we could go somewhere different some time when she was free, just the two of us.”

“And you were sure this was an asking-out? It was a date she was talking about?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s always a tone. At least there is any time I’ve asked someone out. It’s unavoidable. Even if you wanted to hide it, you couldn’t.”

“So did you go?”

“Yeah,” Lizzie added. “Did you go?” She was clearly intrigued by this glimpse into her husband’s past.

Mark shook his head firmly. “I did in me hole. Dolores was the spitting image of Ian Paisley.”

“Charming,” Holly said. “At least tell me you admired her bravery and the two of you remained good friends?”

Another head shake. “I thought it was a bit creepy, to tell you the truth. And I never went back there again.”

Holly looked to Lizzie and mouthed the word “Help”. Lizzie responded with an impotent frown.

“If nothing else,” Mark said pompously, “I hope this will be educational for you. Asking people out is hard.”

“Seriously – you have to have something more useful to say than that.”

“All right, look,” he said. “There’s no secret trick to this. It’s not in the delivery; it doesn’t matter how you say it. Actually, it doesn’t even matter what you say. You can hire a skywriter or you can mumble and stutter your way through it while staring at your feet. At the end of the day –”

“I hate that phrase,” Holly snapped. It was purely a reflex. “Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

“At the end of the day, either he wants to go out with you or he doesn’t. It’s not something you can debate. You don’t have to get your arguments and counter-arguments ready. If you ask him and he says no, you won’t be able to convince him. There’ll be no ‘A-ha, but you have failed to consider X, Y and Z.’ There’s no need for any preparation. So stop wondering how you go about it. Just go about it.”

“Hm. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. But what should –”

“And it doesn’t matter what you suggest either. If Scarlett Johanssen walked in here now and asked me to take her ice-skating, do you think I’d say, ‘No thanks, I don’t really like skating?’”

“Oi,” Lizzie said simply. She sounded like someone giving a command to a dog. Mark responded immediately.

“Of course, what I would actually say is, ‘You’re very nice and all, Scarlett, but you can’t possibly compete with my beloved wife.’”

“Aw,” Lizzie said.

To Holly’s confusion, she seemed to think that he was genuinely being cute, even though she had just ordered him to be.

“The point still stands,” Mark went on. “Say what you like, how you like. He’ll agree or he won’t. End of.”

Holly felt better. She took some of her wine and realised that every muscle in her body was tense. With an audible sigh, she relaxed all over. “Yeah. Thanks, Mark.”

There was a moment of cosy silence. Then Mark said, “Mind you . . . ” Irritatingly, he went no further.

Holly’s muscles reclenched.

“What?”

“I have to be honest . . . ”

“Go on.”

“And I’m not trying to take the piss, I’m just trying –”

“Go on.”

“Well . . . don’t you think he would have asked you out himself by now if he was interested?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Lizzie groaned. “She said already, she can’t read the guy. Don’t mind him, Holly.”

“Maybe she can’t read him,” Mark said. “But she can hear him all right, can’t she? And he hasn’t said anything along the lines of ‘Let’s go out for a drink this weekend’, has he? Newsflash: men don’t sit around waiting for women to do the deed. It’s horrible asking, we know that. It’s horrible and it’s difficult and it can be completely degrading. But we always do it in the end – if we’re interested.”

“He could be shy,” Lizzie countered. But it was obvious from the lack of passion in her voice that she had found her husband’s argument convincing.

“It doesn’t matter,” Holly said. “I’m at tether’s end. I want to know where I stand. So I’m asking him. And that’s that.”

“Well,” Lizzie said as she got up to pour more wine, “all we can do is wish you good luck.”

“Thanks,” Holly said.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Good luck. Now: a toast.”

The girls raised their glasses.

“I love toasts,” Lizzie smiled.

Mark cleared his throat and held his own glass aloft.

“To desperation,” he said.

Back in her own house, Holly had trouble settling down. She felt nervous in a way that she hadn’t experienced since her Leaving Certificate days and found herself mooching from the sofa to the kettle and back in a restless, and in its own small way, exhausting loop. The decision she had made was the correct one, she was sure of that. It wasn’t as if she was reconsidering her choice. But there were no two ways about it – this time tomorrow she would know for sure if James was interested. And if he wasn’t, she would not only have the pain of that to contend with but also, as a sort of inverse bonus, the fact that she had found out the hard way. The embarrassing way. The humiliating way. Mark, despite his many insensitivities, had been quite correct – this was educational. All night long she winced as she recalled the various quips and slurs with which she had obliterated potential suitors in the past. From her current vantage point, it seemed obvious that very few of them – and quite possibly none of them – had enjoyed the confidence that they’d been at such pains to project. On the contrary, it was more likely that they had been sick with nerves. Uselessly, she wished that she’d been able to see then that which was so clear now – that to approach another human being with declared romantic intent was to make an open wound of yourself while handing them a packet of salt.

It was well after midnight when she finally decided to cut her losses and go to bed. She was under no illusions that she’d be able to sleep, but she thought she might as well fret under the duvet as on the sofa. Her footsteps were slow and heavy as she made her way to the kitchen to deposit her mug in the dishwasher. It needed to be emptied, she remembered, and could probably do with a . . . She stopped dead in the kitchen doorway.

Claude was sitting in the middle of the floor, looking towards the hall as if in expectation of her arrival. To his left, lying curled up with its tail wrapped around its body, was another cat. He or she was barely out of kittenhood and not more than half Claude’s size. Holly didn’t move for a second. How was this possible? Claude’s collar contained a magnet that activated the catflap. It was feasible, she supposed, that any old magnet would open it, but the newcomer wasn’t wearing a collar. After a moment, she stepped forward to get a closer look. Claude raised his head, inviting a comforting tickle, then lowered it again in disgust when it became clear that he was not going to get one. The other cat sprang to its feet – it didn’t seem to have even registered Holly’s arrival up to now – and ran into a corner. It was not, Holly observed, a good-looking animal. Claude’s fur was uniformly smoky grey and shone like something from a shampoo commercial. The new cat was grey in places too, but it was also black and white and, in several vivid patches, bright orange. It looked as if had been put together from the off-cuts of other, more attractive cats. Holly bent her knees in a forlorn effort to make herself less threatening and took another few steps. She had anticipated that the cat would panic and leg it into another corner, but she was wrong. As she edged ever closer, it suddenly trotted forward to meet her. Then, when they were just a couple of feet apart, it lay down again and curled up into the same position it had been in when she arrived. No sooner had it done so than it got up again and walked slowly into a different corner. There it sat perfectly still, looking up at her, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Clearly, this was strange behaviour. If Claude had pulled these sorts of moves, she would have had him at the vet within the hour.

“Hello, little puss,” she said, extending her hand.

The cat didn’t respond at first. Then it craned its neck to give her fingertips a tentative sniff. Up close, Holly saw that it was not in good shape. It had a small cut right on top of its head which had caused the surrounding fur to matt together in bloody little Mohawk, and its left eye was weeping for no obvious reason. Most alarming of all, though, was its painful skinniness. “Are you hungry? You sure look it.” She took a pouch of Kitekat from under the sink and deposited the contents in Claude’s bowl. Unsurprisingly, said Claude was on it in a flash. “No, no,” Holly said and scooped him up. “This one’s not for you.” He wriggled in her arms like a landed fish as she used her foot to move the bowl towards the other cat. Its nose started to twitch at once but it seemed to take a few seconds to recognise – or possibly to believe – that this was real food. It gave the jellied meat an experimental sniff, then a series of small licks. Finally, it fell upon it. Holly had seen Claude in ravenous form on plenty of occasions but even at his most desperate, he had never gone at it like this. The Cat of Many Colours didn’t so much eat its meal as invade it. Claude’s struggling became unbearable after a while and Holly dropped him to the floor. He immediately took his place beside the interloper and joined in. Holly sat down at the kitchen table, feeling a small pang of pride in her pet. He still wanted his due, granted, but he seemed perfectly willing to share. There was no growling or hissing, no puffed-up tail or flattened ears. A couple of minutes later, the food was all gone. The Cat of Many Colours spent another couple enthusiastically licking the empty bowl. While it did so, Holly got out of her chair and checked its equipment. It was a girl. Claude had long since had his reproductive capacity curtailed, so they were not – she felt silly for thinking of it in these terms – a couple. What, then? Platonic friends? They certainly didn’t seem to be strangers to each other.

“Okay,” she said then. “Time to go.” She got up from her seat and opened the back door. Claude didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention. The Cat of Many Colours looked out into the gloom but made no moves away from the bowl. “All right, now, scoot,” Holly said. “Scoot. Scoot! I fed you, didn’t I? Off you go now . . . Go on . . . Go on . . .” No response. Holly went around to the cat’s rear and gave it a gentle prod with her slippered toe. Frankly, she didn’t want to pick it up if at all possible. It looked as if it might be providing bed and board to a great many smaller creatures, some of whom might take the opportunity to relocate. At first, the prod seemed to have an effect. The Cat of Many Colours reluctantly moved towards the doorstep, its ears swivelling, its head low to the ground. But then it stopped.

“Go on,” Holly said again. “No room at the inn. Sorry. Off you go.”

She gave it another little prod. It took a few steps and then stopped again. After a moment, it looked over its shoulder and gave a pathetic mewl. It was the first sound it had made. Holly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, it was the sound of an animal in distress and, as such, was heartbreaking. On the other, it sounded so impossibly, cartoonishly cute that it was hard to take seriously. Holly found it difficult to shake the feeling that this was something the cat had practised, possibly with Claude’s help (No, no, no! Softer! More pathetic!). It was almost at the doorstep now. One more push should do it. “Nice try,” she said, applying a third toe-prod. “But not good enough. Bye bye, now. Bye bye.” This time the cat finally crossed the threshold. It turned around as soon as it had done so and repeated its plea for clemency. Holly closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears. Then she shut the door. When she turned around she half-expected to see Claude shaking his head in disappointment. But he had disappeared. She switched off the light and made her way down the hall. When she stuck her head into the front room, she found him on the sofa, already settling in, not a care in the world. So much for platonic friendship, she thought. Five minutes later, she was in bed, staring up at the ceiling, as wide-awake as she had ever been in her entire life.

It was going to be a long night.