Chapter 2

Holly’s place in Portobello was technically a house, but square footage had not been among its selling (or rather renting) points. She lived there alone, having long since decided that cohabitation was not for her; the extra expense was worth it, she felt. When she arrived back, she saw that Mark and Lizzie next door were still up. She took a moment to get herself together – or at least, reasonably together – and rang their doorbell. As ever, Mark answered. They’d been neighbours for more than four years and in all that time, Holly had never known Lizzie to answer the door. She’d brought it up once, just out of curiosity. Lizzie said it was down to division of labour: Mark answered the door and she did everything else.

“Jesus!” Mark said when he caught sight of her. “Are you all right? You look like shite. Come in, come in.”

“I won’t,” Holly said, doing her best to sound composed. “I just wanted to call and tell you that the great Fix-Me-Up experiment is over. We tried it and it didn’t work, so let’s just all move on. Never again.”

Mark cocked his head. “What? Why, what happened?”

Lizzie appeared in the doorway alongside him then, causing further strain to Holly’s neck. Mark was tall (and shaven-headed – he had kind of a Nosferatu thing going on), but Lizzie was taller still, six-two in her stockinged feet. Her hair was almost as short as his. People stared at them on the street.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was incongruously high-pitched. It lent even her most serious pronouncements a slightly comical edge.

“It’s nothing,” Holly said. “I just don’t want to be fixed up again. Once was enough.”

Lizzie issued a stagey gasp. “Did you get dumped?”

Like her husband – and Holly – she had a tendency to be blunt. Holly had often wondered about that. Had one of them changed to be a better fit with the other or had they both started out that way? Was a certain lack of subtlety one of the things that attracted them to each other in the first place? Couples were so mysterious; Mark and Lizzie doubly so.

“Yes. Yes, I did get dumped. Bastard. And just when I was about to dump him. My first ever dumping. And he ruined it on me.”

Her neighbours exchanged a look. “I don’t get it,” Mark said. “What’s the problem? I mean, if you were going to dump him anyway . . .”

Holly suddenly felt exhausted. “Never mind,” she said feebly. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nooo,” Lizzie squeaked. “Come in, for God’s sake. Tell us all. Spill. Unburden. You’ll feel better. Or your money back.” She stepped aside to clear a path. Mark followed suit.

“There’s wine,” he said, which was a largely redundant statement. At Mark and Lizzie’s, there was always wine. And it was always good stuff. Holly felt her feet beginning to move.

Mark and Lizzie both worked from home, which was some feat given that their place was no bigger than Holly’s. Lizzie made jewellery; Mark, who’d lived in France for several years, translated business documents. It was perfectly understandable, Holly thought, that the house should mean a lot to them. But it sometimes seemed that it meant a little too much. They were like a sovereign nation with a population of two, citizens, not of Ireland, but of 27 Hartely Road, Portobello. Holly didn’t have a political bone in her body, but at any given moment, she would know, for example, who was Minister for Finance or Health or Education. Mark had once admitted (although that was the wrong word – it was more like a boast) that he didn’t know which party was currently in. Lizzie was just the same. Holly asked her one day which side she had been on in the Saipan debacle, Roy Keane’s or Mick McCarthy’s. Lizzie’s response was to look up from her newspaper and say, “What the hell’s a side pan?” When they spoke about going out on even the simplest errands, they used words like “expedition” and “voyage”. Although they were both fond of giving heartfelt speeches about the transforming power of the Internet, they seemed to admire it not because it made information freely available or because it allowed people to communicate across previously unbridgeable gulfs, but because it helped them to get stuff without leaving the house. Their world seemed very small to Holly, but she had to admit that it was filled with vibrant passions. Books were one, bonsai trees were another. Then there was the wine. Mark and Lizzie were the only people Holly had ever known who were actually interested in it, as opposed to being interested in getting drunk on it. They never had less than a couple of dozen bottles lined up in the kitchen and frequently had many more. The only serious criticism they ever levelled against their house was that it didn’t have a cellar. They subscribed to several magazines, contributed to innumerable websites, and even, on admittedly rare occasions, ventured out for tastings. When they’d first become friends, as opposed to mere neighbours, Holly had tried to match their enthusiasm if not their expertise, raving goggle-eyed about wines that she might otherwise have described as “nice” and pouring hot scorn on those that, in other company, she would have labelled “not great”. She soon gave it up, however. If they didn’t agree with her assessment, her hosts would seem personally offended; there were many ugly silences. Generally speaking, Mark and Lizzie were laid-back, entirely affable people, always ready with a joke and a smile. But they had no sense of humour about wine. None. They had once given Holly a taste test, using a tea towel as a blindfold. Could she, after more than an hour’s rigorous coaching, finally tell the difference between a Rioja and a Cabernet Sauvignon? “I’m pretty sure,” she said, after taking several careful sips of Sample A, “that this is . . . red. Am I right? Red?” There was no response. She removed the tea towel and found them scowling at her, utterly unimpressed. No amount of back-pedalling could undo the damage. They refused to give her another, “proper” go and the evening quickly fizzled out. But those were the early days. Once she got a little experience under her belt, Holly soon realised that, provided you were careful to agree with everything they said and didn’t try to belittle their obsession, a person could have a fine old time in Mark and Lizzie’s. Better yet, as time wore on, they stopped trying to educate her on the subject of viniculture. They hadn’t realised that it was impolite, she suspected – they’d simply concluded that there was no point.

“Go on then,” Mark said when they had settled down in the front room. “Tell us.”

Holly took a generous mouthful of the Zinfandel he had poured for her and bit down on the compliment that she thought it deserved. It didn’t take her long to tell the story; there wasn’t much to tell.

“Wow,” Lizzie said when she had finished. “I’ve never come across that one before. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Jesus . . .”

“Pretty bad,” her husband agreed. “What the hell were you thinking of?”

“Thank you, as ever,” Holly said, “for your sensitivity. I wasn’t thinking, was I? It just came out. I was in shock. Just when I was about to launch into my little speech. It’s not you, it’s me. I had my lies all ready.”

“Don’t give up,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure we can think of some–”

“Please don’t.”

Mark rubbed his chin. “I suppose I could give Tea-bag a shout. I think I still have his number, somewhere.”

Lizzie almost choked. “Absolutely not. She’s desperate, but she’s not Tea-bag-desperate.”

“Thanks,” Holly said, raising her glass. “Who’s Tea-bag?”

“You don’t want to know,” Lizzie assured her. “Mark knew him at university. He shows up every few years looking for a bed for the night.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s been in prison, Holly.”

“Oh. Right. What for?”

Lizzie’s mouth fell open, just a little. “What do you mean, ‘what for’? Does the word ‘prison’ not put you off on its own?”

“Yeah,” Holly admitted. “Maybe you’re right. And anyway” – she shook her head, as if to clear it – “no more fix-ups. I’m serious. My mind’s made up.”

Lizzie nodded at Mark who hastily refilled their glasses

“Tea-bag’s a bad idea anyway,” he said. “Even leaving the prison thing aside. I could tell you why he’s called Tea-bag and that would put him out of the running on its own.”

Lizzie raised a hand to her brow. “Please don’t tell her why he’s called Tea-bag. It reflects badly on you for knowing him and it reflects badly on me for marrying you. Just drop it.”

There was a silent interlude, during which Holly noticed for the first time that music was playing. This was another of Mark and Lizzie’s little quirks. They liked only the very quietest of musical acts – Cowboy Junkies, Mazzy Star, Damien Rice – and even those they listened to at almost undetectable volumes. Holly sometimes theorised that it was a way of letting in the outside world on their own terms. If they ever succumbed and finally bought a TV, she liked to imagine that they would cover the screen with gauze.

“You could take lessons of some kind,” Mark said.

Holly felt her brow crease to the point of cramp. “Lessons? You think I need How-To-Get-A-Boyfriend lessons?”

“No, no, no, like, I dunno, dance lessons. Ballroom dancing or, what do you call it, the sexy one . . . salsa. Meet new people, all that shite.”

“I hate dancing,” Holly said with what she hoped was some degree of finality.

“It doesn’t have to be dance lessons,” Mark replied. “You could take up the guitar or something. Learn a language. Painting. There’s loads –”

“This is a crappy idea,” Lizzie interjected. “Holly can’t do lessons! She’s not exactly a joiner-inner, is she? She’s more of a standing-at-the-edge-taking-the-piss type.”

“Well, that’s true,” Mark admitted, “but sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

Lizzie still wasn’t buying it. “Come on. Can you see her in a painting class? She’d just do angry clowns all the time. And they criticise each other’s work in those things! She’d have them all in tears.”

Holly noisily cleared her throat. “Hello? I’m still here, you know.”

“Sorry,” Mark and Lizzie said together. They took simultaneous sips of their wine.

“Listen,” Holly said then. “I want to ask you something. That stuff Kevin came out with. About me being sharp and blunt and all that. Not like ‘other women’, whoever they are. I’ve heard that sort of thing before. Several times.”

“No shit,” Mark snorted.

Holly bristled. “From men, I mean. While they were . . . dumping me. You don’t think it’s anything to worry about, do you? You don’t think maybe this is the reason why I’m always . . . why I can’t . . . keep a . . .” Her voice trailed off. The thought was too depressing to complete.

There was a horrifying pause. “You’re just unusually honest,” Lizzie said then.

“You call a spade a spade,” Mark added brightly.

“You don’t suffer fools gladly.”

“You don’t suffer them at all, in fact.”

They smiled briefly at each other, evidently pleased with their joint performance.

Holly waited for them to say that these were admirable traits and nothing to worry about. After a minute or two, Lizzie broke into a smile and said, “I love this song.” She reached out and tickled the back of Mark’s hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Lovely.”

Holly strained to hear what they were hearing, but she couldn’t make it out. It occurred to her that this might be a useful metaphor for something, but she didn’t want to think about it too hard.

“I think it’s time I went home,” she said.

When she opened her front door and stepped inside, Holly found Claude sitting perfectly upright in the centre of the hall. She knew it was silly to attribute human emotions to a mere pet, but she sometimes found it hard to avoid. In this instance, for example, everything about his posture seemed to say, And what time do you call this? All he was missing was a wristwatch that he could tap accusingly.

“What’s new pussy-cat?” she said as she closed the door behind her.

Claude didn’t react. Even when she hunkered down beside him and gave him a tickle behind his left ear (a notorious hot spot of his), he stared straight ahead, utterly immobile.

“Come on. Don’t give me a hard time. I’m here now.”

He kept up the cold-shoulder act for another few seconds and then finally melted, turning slightly to rub his cheek along the backs of her fingers.

“That’s my boy,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come round. You like me just the way I am, don’t you?”

He looked up at her and issued one of his silent miaows, a sure sign that he needed – or rather wanted – to be fed. Holly went down the hall and into the kitchen. Claude followed, jogging along by her ankle, already purring. She grabbed a pouch from under the sink and squeezed its contents into his bowl, grimacing slightly at the smell. He got tucked in straight away, pushing his head so far into his supper that he seemed to be in imminent danger of suffocating.

“You’re welcome,” Holly said. “Seriously – don’t mention it.”

Claude munched on, oblivious. Now that she had satisfied his desire for food, she knew that he would more or less forget that she existed until some other urge presented itself. That was fine by Holly. It was one of the things she loved about him and cats in general – you always knew were you stood. She left him to it and went back into the living room where she flopped down on the sofa and tucked her legs up underneath her.

There wouldn’t be anything worth watching on TV. She knew that, but she grabbed the remote from behind a cushion and switched it on anyway. It took her about thirty seconds to click through every channel and confirm that her original assessment had been correct. “Shite . . . Shite . . . Shite . . . ”

Once upon a time, she would have left it on MTV and turned her attention to something else, safe in the knowledge that sooner or later they were bound to play a song she liked. But MTV didn’t do music videos any more. Somewhere around the turn of the century, its executives seemed to have decided that people were no longer interested in that sort of thing. What people wanted now was something called “reality” which, as far as Holly could see, involved little else but rich, obnoxious teenagers getting drunk, feeling each other up and declaring things to be either “awesome” or “gay”. Holly had always known that one day MTV would make her feel out of touch. But she’d always thought it would do it by featuring music and haircuts and clothes that, try as she might, she just didn’t get. She greatly resented being made to feel out of touch because she couldn’t understand why a channel called Music Television could get away with showing no obvious interest in music. That seemed unfair, somehow – a moving of the goalposts.

She peered at the shelf suspended underneath the coffee table and saw that it was home to a grand total of one magazine. It proved to be a two month-old copy of Hello. A few minutes later, she had flipped through it in much the same way that she’d flipped through the TV channels; it now lay splayed on the floor, where she had dropped it in disgust. She knew that she must have read it before at least once, yet none of the stories that she’d sped past had seemed familiar. What was the point, she asked herself plaintively, of an experience that left no lasting impression on your consciousness and wasn’t even fun at the time? And how could it be fun? How were pictures of Anthea Turner “relaxing at home” supposed to enrich her life? Why was she supposed to care that Baron so-and-so, eighteenth in line to the Danish throne, had a “lovely new bride”?

Just as she was vowing never to buy the bloody thing again, Claude padded into the room and hopped up beside her. He licked his chops, looking very satisfied with life, and then head-butted her hand to indicate that he was ready for his petting now. Holly absent-mindedly obliged, running her fingers around his neck and periodically tickling him under his chin. After a couple of minutes, he lay down on her feet and fell instantly asleep. She kept petting anyway. As she did so, her mood darkened further still.

She saw herself as if from the other side of the room, a single woman, living alone with a cat, complaining. Maybe this was how it started – the long, slow, slide. Next thing you knew, you were deciding that your cat might be lonely and you should probably get him a little friend. The two of them turned out to be so cute together that you went ahead and got a third. On those rare occasions when you brought boyfriends home, they poked fun and you laughed along. It was no big deal and you knew the cats would be there long after the boyfriends had gone. Meanwhile, you got more and more angry about the crap they printed in magazines and the crap they showed on television and the crap they talked on the radio and the crap they sold in the shops. Everything was going to pot – how come you were the only one who could see it? You got the blues for quite a while at one point – doctors were involved – but you cheered yourself up by getting another cat. Number four seemed to add a certain something. Two little couples, you told yourself – like Abba. One day you found yourself writing to an editor because you liked a laugh as much as the next person, but something-or-other had gone too far. Your letter didn’t get published, but you felt better because you had taken a stand; you had called a spade a spade. Somebody had to and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be this generation coming up, was it? They didn’t give a damn about anything, just standing around, laughing at nothing, calling you names when you went past. When you were their age, people had a little thing called respect . . . You had five cats by now. They took a lot of looking after, but they were worth it, weren’t they? They were good company, especially at night.

And then one day you realised that you hadn’t been on a date for a long, long time. And you looked in the mirror and you could see why. And you weren’t twenty-eight any more, you were forty-eight. You were a forty-eight-year-old woman who lived alone with a bunch of cats and you spent your life giving out. Holly dabbed a tear from her cheek and looked at Claude with a sense of terror.

Back to school on Monday.