Smokey’s is nothing like I might have imagined inside. It’s very civilised and quiet, and cool-looking people lounge around, not fall around, chatting and laughing. A lot of people are drinking coffee and eating snacks. It all seems so normal and not choked with smoke like I had expected. There is sawdust on the old wooden floor and the bright yellow walls are hung with various pictures. A strange sweet tobacco scent is in the air. We take a seat on the soft fabric-backed chairs and look at the smoking menu propped up in front of us. It’s incredible that all this is legal. A waiter with dreadlocks approaches us, about the only cliché I can spot in here.
‘English?’ he asks in an English accent as he stands beside us.
‘Irish.’ Owen says.
‘Deadly buzz.’ He imitates our lingo and we laugh.
‘So you need any help with the menu, mate?’ the waiter asks Owen now. Londoner, I’d say. East End.
‘We do actually. I’d love a light, happy smoke and for the lady a light, happy hash cake?’ Owen looks up at him.
‘Just something chilled with the giggles, am I right, mate?’ He wipes the table with a dark cloth.
Owen nods.
‘Right, we have hash which is solid or weed which is grass and we charge by the gram – I have pre-rolled joints available.’ He replaces the menu and turns to me.
‘Well, darlin’, I’d advise if you’re not a regular marijuana user, just half a hash cake first – just to say, don’t be tempted to eat the other half if you don’t feel anything after fifteen minutes, the drug can take a while to work its way into your bloodstream, it can also dip in an hour and come back, so you know the effect can be mildly hallucinogenic and often disorientating so just make sure you guys are all comfortable with that, we don’t serve alcohol and smoking regular cigarettes is illegal, we have hot drinks, sodas and snacks available though too.’ He says all of this very long sentence without taking a breath.
‘OK, I’ll happily take your advice,’ I tell him.
He removes the menu again from the table and points out different options to Owen. His nails are longer than would be usual on a man. Owen orders a pre-rolled grass joint promising a happy, giddy, mellow buzz and also orders two black coffees.
‘I’m a bit scared,’ I confess. It’s warm in here and I remove my brown leather jacket and open the top button on my white shirt. Owen remains in his jacket.
‘I promise there is nothing to be scared of and that you will thank me. You need a release so badly. You know that your shoulders are literally sitting up under your ears?’ He does an impression of me. He looks like Benny Hill.
‘They’re not,’ I say, and then I check them and they so are. I try to release them down; the shift in posture feels great. No wonder my neck has been sore a lot lately. I rub my shoulders with alternating hands.
‘Will Colette and Michael not see we’re stoned?’ I ask him.
‘We won’t be stoned by then, we’re aren’t getting bombed out of our minds, Ali, just a little light stimulant to make us relax and laugh. Then we’ll go see the museum with open minds and we will have had a huge feed and it will have worn off. You do know Michael is a regular marijuana user for his MS?’
‘Really?’ I didn’t know that.
‘Medicinal. Prescribed,’ he informs me.
‘I don’t have many conversations with Michael,’ I tell him.
‘He’s more of a man’s man, as he puts it.’ Owen scrunches up his perfect nose.
The waiter is back and places my hash cake in front of me. It is cut into two halves on a normal plate sitting on a normal white napkin. It looks so innocent, like any slice of cake you’d get anywhere on a Friday afternoon. Owen takes his joint, a long, fat, white cigarette with twisted paper at the end. He strikes a match from the free strike-anywhere matches that are on the table, cups his hands and lights the fat end. The waiter places two huge yellow mugs of coffee in front of us.
‘Milk and sugar’s on the table, enjoy,’ he says as he takes his leave.
‘Bon appétit!’ Owen says. ‘I didn’t learn that one in Dutch sorry.’
He inhales deeply and holds it in, his mouth shut tight.
I take a tiny bite and a huge sip of coffee straight after, so I can’t really taste the cake. It’s amazing the weight I feel lifted off my shoulders, thinking how happy Colin’s going to be to get my text. Happy Colin equals happy kids.
Owen exhales slowly. ‘Nice.’ He laughs through a bloom of smoke. ‘So if I go to France and you give up work, doesn’t look like we will see each other for a while anyway, hey?’
He inhales again.
‘No.’ I take another bite on its own this time, it tastes like spicy chocolate. Still, I don’t feel a thing. I take another bite and drink more coffee.
‘I suppose the thing is, I simply can’t live a happy life if I feel I’m doing wrong by the kids, ya know?’ I lick some cake that is stuck to the prongs of the fork.
‘Yeah, I get that,’ he says.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while.
‘It’s like my happiness is fuelled by their happiness. Maybe when they are eighteen or when they want to move out we can meet in here and run away together, start a new life somewhere … hot, on a beach preferably? Laugh our heads off day in and day out.’ I eat a bigger piece now. It’s actually really good. Or as Jade would say, reaaalllyy reaaaally reaaaally gud.
I stop. I didn’t have a panic attack thinking about Jade just there.
I eat two huge spoonfuls. Chewing quickly, swallowing the calmness down. I try to think of the kids now but my brain is taking me somewhere else. I can see a golden sandy beach, blazing sun and coral blue skies. Where is that?
Owen exhales smoke all around me.
Oh, it’s a painting on the wall near the toilet. I laugh as I look around at the different paintings.
‘Do you believe in the one, Ali?’ he asks.
‘The one what?’ I ask trying to focus.
‘The one person for everyone out there. Your lobster. Your soulmate, get it?’ He drags hard and holds the smoke in again. ‘S. O. U. L. mate?’ he spells the word and chuckles as a burst of smoke erupts from his moth and out down through his nostrils. He coughs and splutters.
I swallow and take a drink of my coffee, not really minding him.
‘I do. What a comedian you are. I’d say Peter Kay is shitting himself! I used to believe in the one … I don’t know now. Nah … I don’t think so. I’m definitely the wrong person to ask right now.’
‘Colin was the one once.’ He isn’t probing, he’s just interested.
‘Yeah, of course he was, Owen, but I was so young. I didn’t know who I was, let alone who he was … I had no comparisons, ya know?’ I try to explain.
‘Got it.’ Owen removes his biker jacket now and I am drawn to the tight black V-neck T-shirt and the body I saw underneath it this morning.
‘What do you get from relationships then?’ I ask him. ‘You are too clever to commit, you did the right thing staying single. I haven’t really known you to go on a date in the last six months. Have you?’
‘Oh, Jesus no! I don’t do dates. Awful things!’ He physically shivers.
‘So what if you like someone, and you want to get to know them better?’
‘I join an arts centre and feck off to Amsterdam with them for the weekend.’ He clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth.
‘Got me there!’ I laugh as he talks at the exact same time.
‘Gotcha!’ He blows smoke of the end off a finger gun he’s pointed at me. I laugh now. I have a sudden vision of Owen in a suit, driving to his office, kids screaming in the back. I dunno why, but it’s really funny to me.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asks and I tell him. His expression changes.
‘I’d have liked to want to wear a suit and to drive a Lexus. I’d have fitted into this world easier. It’s not easy to explain to people that you are a poor artist hurtling a little too fast toward the big Four Zero with no partner, no house, no mortgage and no kids. Well, especially to family members,’ he tells me.
‘But who says that’s what we should all strive to have? Granted I wouldn’t change my kids for anything, ever, but I’d prefer to be single with them … Right now anyway,’ I add.
‘Would you really? Could you really see your life without Colin in it?’ He holds the joint between his first two fingers and I see his eyes are a little misty. I take the last bite of my first half. Still I feel nothing. I must have got a dud. Dud is a weird word, isn’t it? In fact words are weird, aren’t they?
‘If you are asking me right now, right in this very moment, then yes. I don’t feel like I’m in love with him any more. I don’t fancy him, I don’t like how he speaks to me, I don’t get that he doesn’t want me to be happy, but I’m willing to keep trying for the sake of my kids,’ I tell him.
‘God, do you know how beautiful you are, Ali?’ He leans in and balances the joint in a groove on the lip of the astray.
My jaw drops.
‘Stop … I’m not …’ I put my fork down and lick my teeth with my tongue. He thinks I’m beautiful. He thinks I’m beautiful. Don’t say anything stupid, I tell the numskulls running my brain. Don’t speak at all. I can see the little people from Inside Out, Joy and Disgust and Fear, controlling my mouth and I’m relieved to see them with black gaffer tape gags on. I am safe.
He is still talking.
‘You really are. You tick every box for me, Ali, every box – physically and intellectually … God, you are so easy to be around. I know it’s not ... we’re not ... Colin doesn’t know how lucky he is.’ He scratches his neck.
I don’t scratch my head, instead I feel myself relax. I feel his words wash over me like warm seawater. I am thermal inside. I perceive our chemistry to be unique. I allow myself to feel it all. He looks to me to speak next.
‘That’s so nice of you to say. It’s just all so complicated now.’ I pause. ‘Life, I mean. It used to be so simple.’
We have controlled eye contact.
‘It shouldn’t be complicated all the time, it should be enjoyed. We are here for a good time not a long time.’ He picks up his coffee.
‘In an ideal world, yes, but when you have a marriage and children it is work, Owen. It’s not always a party.’ I lick my dry bottom lip.
‘Work should be work and life should be life. It can’t be all work, Ali, where’s the enjoyment? I’m not saying it should be a party either, but it certainly shouldn’t be a funeral.’
‘Don’t they say nothing worth having ever comes easy?’ I sit up straight on my stool, push my fringe out of my eyes and I think. I really think for the first time in months. He’s so right. Where is my enjoyment? The children obviously bring me a unique and pure joy, but, yeah, I will admit to myself, here and now, they take work. It’s hard work being a mother. So what else do I enjoy?
I raise my hand to Owen to signal I am still very much in deep thought. He relights his joint catching his fingers on the match as he does so. He shakes his slightly burnt hand repeatedly.
Work. I enjoy work.
But that’s causing so many problems, it’s becoming tainted. Corina! She pops into my mind’s eye, waving, winking, chatting, laughing, eating, drinking, dancing.
‘Corina. Our once-a-week Sunday afternoons. I love them! I enjoy those few hours so, so much.’ I clap my hands together.
‘Do it twice a week, so,’ he exhales.
‘Ha! Are you having a laugh? I barely get that one Sunday afternoon with her, and there is always an atmosphere when I return. In fact, Colin wants me to give up the Sunday afternoons too … He thinks we should all be sitting down to a family dinner on a Sunday.’
I know I’m not exactly painting a brilliant picture of my husband to the man I’m getting stoned with, to the man who has just told me I tick all the boxes for him, but it is the truth. Owen starts to hum. I know the tune. I listen. My hearing is heightened, I can hear various conversations around the room also. It’s that Taylor Swift song that Jade plays over and over. It’s Karen’s ringtone on her phone – another bone of contention between Jade and me, Karen being allowed an iPhone. Owen’s still humming but I know the name, what is it now? Oh, yeah. ‘Shake It Off’.
‘You’re right.’ I start moving on my stool as the song spins in my mind. I spotted a jukebox in the corner at the entrance of the bar as we came in.
‘I wonder,’ I say and my voice sounds very high-pitched as I pull my purse out and get up. Over at the music-making machine I flick through the titles, and there she is. Madam Swift. I am way too old for Taylor Swift, but right now I don’t give a damn. I wanna hear this song. I punch in my selection, R and 2, and push down on the red button. It springs to our ears. Owen laughs from the end of the room. I start to move towards him. I’m not walking, nor am I dancing. I’m prancing: I’m on a catwalk and it feels wonderful. Strutting now, as Taylor hits the chorus, I raise both my hands and brush myself down just as Taylor does in her video. This song should be the national anthem. The lyrics are so good. I hit our table with both hands and Owen jumps up. And then we dance.
We dance around our table like two silly, carefree teenagers. He seems to know all the words, I know a few, enough to get by. He takes my hands and twirls me and I spin. I spin and I spin.
So many haters in the world, she is right. So many people who don’t want the best for others. So many people who want to hurt one another. My fringe is in my eyes and I throw my head back and let the music wash over me. The music is just so intense.
What great advice for one so young. Shake it off.
Shake it all the fuck off!
Who knew I was such a good dancer? It’s been so long. I feel incredibly sexy as my body gyrates to the music. Owen is playing air guitar now and then I start to laugh. This is all so absurd so I laugh more. I snort laugh. I start to laugh so hard I have to hold onto my stomach. It aches. I am doubled over. I wish it would stop. It’s so funny, I’m sore. Owen’s just staring at me, hand in the air waiting to strum his imaginary chords but then he looks down at his non-existent guitar and he starts. His laugh is so contagious; he slaps his knee when he laughs and suddenly the two of us are literally crying with laughter, our heads thrown back, standing up, tears rolling down our cheeks. This is the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had in my entire life!
‘Everything all right here, guys?’ Our waiter is back. ‘Good stuff, mates, yeah?’ he enquires, his eyes narrowed at us both.
‘Brilliant, sorry, apologies, mate. They were playing our song.’ Owen holds up his hand and wipes the palms of his hands across his wet eyes.
‘No need to apologise, it’s a happy house! Belly laughs are greatly encouraged, they keep us in business.’ He removes the empty yellow coffee mugs. ‘Refills?’ he asks.
‘Please,’ I say. My stomach aches. I try to catch my breath and sit down holding my upper torso up straight. I’m actually sweating. There are two little wet patches under the arms of my white shirt.
‘Oh, man, I haven’t laughed like that in years … like, not since I peed myself on the headmistress’s floor for drinking the communion wine,’ I pant.
‘Ahh, me neither, that was brilliant.’ He sits back down now too. He inches his stool from across the table to beside mine. And when we settle, he says, ‘I meant what I said though.’
I sweep my fringe to the side, trying to keep my arms tight to my body. He takes my hand.
‘I know you did and I feel the same way too, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not while I’m still married. And I have to try and stay married for the kids.’ I’m deadly serious.
He nods slowly, removes his hand from mine, reaches in and picks up his tiny joint from the ashtray. He holds it between his thumb and index finger and puts the flame from a match to it. Then he puts it to his mouth and drags.
‘Just my luck, huh? I wait and wait to find the right one and when I do she’s already married … already met her lobster.’ He blows the smoke, pillowing out, high above my head.
‘I dunno about that.’ I stop as the coffees arrive. I take a chunk from the other half of the cake, swallow it down and then another.
‘I didn’t delete the picture by the way.’ He tries to hold back his breaking smile. His incisors creeping over his bottom lip.
‘I’m too stoned to be embarrassed, so this is a good time to talk about it. I have to be honest: I was wearing that for Colin, to see if I could try and fix our awful sex life … It didn’t work. I should never have sent it to you, it was very wrong of me.’
‘That didn’t work? Is he fucking blind as well as a dictator?’ Owen coughs on his exhale.
‘Delete it please, will you?’ I ask.
‘I will, I promise.’ He drags hard on the butt and on the exhale, he speaks.
‘Oh, if I had you in my bed in that gear. I can’t … I can’t tell you, buddy …’ His voice is low and husky.
‘What?’ I’m stoned as hell again now and brave as hell, I realise, as the marijuana hits me and my whole body tingles. I feel a rush from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. My heart is thumping; like, I can feel it’s every beat, but I also feel so calm.
‘Huh?’ he says through closed mouth, holding the end of his smoke deep into his lungs.
And then I think of Colin and how he speaks to me and how he treats me and how he doesn’t deserve me.
‘What would you do to me, Owen?’ I ask seductively, staring into his gorgeous face. I can tell he’s confused.
‘Come on! I can’t go there … I won’t be able to stand up to go to the bathroom!’ He laughs and pushes back his stool. When he’s gone I look all around me. How did I not notice how beautiful this room was before? The bright yellow paint on the walls like a magnificent sunrise, and the small windows where the light creeps through stained glass, like in an old church. I look at my hands. What a creation they are. I wiggle my fingers, these things, these fingers that move … All the things they can do … Amazing. How could we do stuff without fingers? My engagement and wedding rings look so shiny. The phone beeps in my back pocket and I take it out and marvel at the technology of it all. I turn it around in my hands. This slim machine joining the world together. Technology is a genius. I hold the phone at arm’s length as I find my focus. A few missed calls from Corina. Two texts. Must have been while I was dancing. How is it possible that we can speak to each other in different countries? It’s unbelievable when you really think about it. How can I type letters on my phone and those letters then appear on someone else’s phone somewhere else? Astonishing. Beautiful, wonderful, Corina. I open her message first.
CAN’T GET YOU!!! YOU NEED TO CALL ME IMMEDIATELY!!!!
She is so good, she wants to tell me all about Jade I know. I hope that Jade got a medal for participating. They do that these days. No one is a loser, not like my day when I always came last in sport. I flick up and there are pictures from earlier she has sent of my beautiful daughter. She looks great in her new leotard. A selfie of herself and Corina. I stare at their faces. Jade’s beauty is exceptional. Corina winks at me. That’s mad! How did she do that?
‘Hello?’ I speak to the picture. Nothing. Then I open Colin’s reply to my last text.
GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.
Whatevs, I say to him in my head.
‘All right?’ Owen sits. I can smell the bathroom soap from his hands. It’s like banana and something else. I sniff the air. It will come to me. I click the button on the side of my iPhone 6 and the screen goes dark. Colin can’t upset me today, he can’t rile my temper today, I just won’t let him. So long, sucker. Life-blood sucker.
‘I’d love a big fizzy pint of beer and some cheese-and-onion crisps?’ I slide the phone into the side pocket of my bag and drop it to the floor. My mouth is very dry.
‘No beer here. Wanna finish your cake and I can get you beer and food at the Teylers Museum? Your little book said there is a really nice cafe in the Garden Room “with a delightful view of the museum’s courtyard”. It said, if we look carefully, we will see an “art tree” here. Hand me that book again, will ya?’ He holds out his banana-smelling hand.
I pull the book back out as he flicks to the marked page again.
‘Yeah, here it is … the art tree. “A lime tree standing on five feet, made by the artist Sjoerd Bu … Bui … Buisman in 1948.” Like you can only get to this cafe if you are a visitor to the museum. I really wanna see that. Seems fitting for us today, don’t you think? We still have a few hours.’ He runs his hand carefully over the cover of the guidebook.
I find the movement extremely erotic. I push myself closer to him.
‘I just want to smell you,’ I tell him and I lean my face into his neck and inhale him. Is the other smell pear? We sit this close for what seems like an age but could only be minutes and I smell and smell. Precious minutes. I will never get this close to him again.
‘This is sooooo nice,’ he moans as he leans his shaven head against mine.
I just listen to his heart beat and his breath.
Ba-boom.
Ba-boom.
Ba-boom. Everything as it should be.
‘OK, let’s go, Ali,’ he says eventually. I don’t want to go, I never want to leave this bit of heaven on earth. But I do.
‘Thanks, man.’ Owen gets down with the waiter’s lingo as we pull on our leather jackets. Owen pays our bill and we head to the door. On the way I spot a Ms Pac-Man machine.
‘Oh, Ms Pac-Man! One game please!’ I pull Owen to the machine, nearly tripping him as he tries to zip up his jacket.
‘A euro, have you got a euro?’ I ask. ‘I used my last one on the jukebox.’ I’m so excited. This was my favourite game as a kid. He rummages in the front pockets of his jeans and pulls out a handful of coins. I flick through them in the palm of his hand and find my euro and slot it in.
Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
Ms Pac-Man comes to life. All the yellow dots start winking at me as I negotiate the hungry, circular, open mouth around the screen.
‘There … there’s a ghost!’ Owen shouts at me and I laugh hard as I wiggle the stick and move my body to escape the menacing ghosts. Then all of a sudden I see myself in the machine.
It’s me.
I’m Ms Pac-Man.
I mean, there’s a small round yellow ball with a red bow in its hair but it’s me. My face. My hair. How did I get in here? I know what I’ve gotta do: I’ve gotta get the hell out. It’s a sign. I yank the leaver down vigorously and drag myself around the screen, swallowing all the yellow dots as I move, just as they turn into Colin, eating them as I go. Eating every Colin I see.
‘Let me out,’ I say to myself from inside the machine.
‘I don’t want to be stuck in here any more. I need to be free!’ Ms Pac-Man me shouts.
‘I know you do,’ I tell myself.
‘What?’ Owen asks me. He has been staring out the window in a daze.
‘I need to be free!’ I get eaten by a ghostly Colin.
‘Fuck. Give me another euro!’ I jam my hand this time into his front jeans pocket and he gasps under the rummaging of my hand.
‘Are you OK?’ He looks at me, his eyes totally glazed now.
‘A few more games, that’s all … I think the universe is talking to me through Ms Pac-Man.’
Owen seems somehow to understand and he goes back to staring out the window. I slot the money in.
Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
And I am off. Where is she? Where is that little red-bow-haired me? A-ha, there I am. This time I’m my normal self. I’m not Ms Pac-Man; it’s just me, Ali Devlin, in jeans and a white shirt, eating the little yellow balls. No longer Colin, just balls. I stare at me. I’ve changed. Now I’m wearing a fantastic full-length ballgown. It’s a skin-tight red halter-neck with a long flowing skirt. I turn. It’s backless. My hair is so long. It’s all curly and tousled. I look incredible.
‘You look amazing,’ I tell myself.
‘It’s all a show,’ I whisper out from in between a maze of yellow dots.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask myself into the dark glass of the game.
‘No. I’m trapped within myself,’ I tell myself.
‘I will set you free!’
I play the greatest game of Ms Pac-Man I have ever played and at the end the computer asks me to input my name, I have done so well. There it is: Ms Ali Devlin, number seven on the leader board.
‘That’s pretty impressive stuff,’ our waiter tells me.
‘Ready now?’ Owen is trying not to laugh.
I grab my bag from him.
‘That was absolutely mental,’ I tell him as the freezing December air hits me and my head comes back to normal somewhat. My thinking is clearer again. We walk in stoned silence until we hail a cab at the end of a wide, tree-lined street. It’s very welcome, the heat of this taxi, as we sit very close together.
‘Teylers Museum … Haarlem … eh … er … please … damn, I’ve forgotten all me Dutch!’
Owen reaches down for my hands and I give them. He warms them between the palms of his own, taking them to his mouth and blowing hot air on them. We look out the window at the darkening December afternoon in Amsterdam. Bicycles criss-cross in the traffic and we don’t talk. My head is calm now. There is no anxiety for the first time in so long. I can tell you now, it’s just as well I don’t live here – not only would I be twenty stone, eating all that cake all day, I’d be stoned every day. If this is being stoned, then I like it. My shoulders seem looser than they have been in months. Flickering Christmas fairy lights twinkle on buildings and shops are decked out with festive trees in every window.
‘You OK?’ He’s still rubbing my hands.
‘Mmmmm.’ I smile at him and he laughs at me.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Nothing … Just don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed.’ His words come out slowly.
When we pull up at our destination, Spaarne 16, the Teylers Museum. I’m all ready for it. I want to see things that will stay with me for ever. A large red flag flies above the entrance, waving wildly at us in the wind. I can hear the wind flap it about. We enter hand in hand. Ridiculous and risky, I know, and as we enter I inhale that museum smell. Those smells of history. Of time passed. We release each other as we walk around and gather various information leaflets. Owen pays for our tickets.
‘That was my twist: you got the last tickets and the bill and the taxis.’ I tut-tut.
‘I want to pay for you, please?’
I hand him some information. Crowds throng in. It’s a busy day.
‘Oh, look, the Real Winters exhibition, perfect for us here in the depths of winter. “It’s an exhibition of the most beautiful nineteenth-century Dutch winter landscapes and winter scenes,”’ he reads and is very excited. He unzips his leather jacket. It’s all very surreal now, kind of an out of body experience. I try to swallow but I am absolutely parched.
‘Follow me,’ Owen says and we walk across the echoing foyer and up the stairs. We walk through an oval-shaped room and up another flight of stairs to the first-floor balustrades. Then we enter the library.
It’s breathtaking. I love it all. I stand and do a 360-degree turn, taking it all in as I close my eyes and inhale the smell of the old books. My head’s still muzzy. From this spot we can look around the entire library. I move carefully across the old wooden floor as it creaks beneath another new visitor.
Owen walks ahead, his arm outstretched like a little boy as his fingers gently feel the throngs of books squashed together on the shelves. Brown and red old covers, flaking, fading but still very much alive. The light that comes in through the magnificent ceiling reflects the gold binding of the books.
There is no noise, I notice, apart from footsteps and squeaking doors.
I don’t think I’m terribly stoned any more. I think I’m halfway between sober and stoned. A lovely place. Mellow. Fully in control and all my senses wide open but no anxiety. I walk slowly away from Owen and stand in front of a large book on a wooden lectern. An atlas. A map of the world.
I’d love to bring the kids here someday. Teach them about the world. I raise up the flyer in my hand to read it. The museum was established in 1778 originally as a museum for art and science. I want Jade to be interested in this, not Seven Super Girls or bra-and-knickers sets from Penney’s. I guess it’s up to me to make that happen. She can’t love what she hasn’t seen. She can’t want to be where she’s never been. I want to be one of those mothers who shows her children important things … things they pass on to their children. Like this museum, which will be here long, long after my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
We tour on our own and I like that. I’m ecstatic with the non-anxiety. I watch him walking around staring at the art and the books and he’s totally content.
‘Come here, look at this piece.’ He gently takes my hand in his again as I move to stand beside him. He places me in front of it, then he stands behind me, his banana-and-pear-scented hands firmly gripping my shoulders.
It’s a painting of winter. But the sky is painted with light oranges, pale pinks and light greys, so it looks warm in a way. There is ice all over the ground and people in winter coats and hats skate across what I now see is a frozen river; fishing boats lay destitute on top of the ice; trees bare and two windmills at the back of the painting stand tall.
‘It’s exposed, isn’t it?’ he asks me.
I don’t claim to understand art – I just like it.
‘To me … it’s cold but there’s warmth about it. Hope?’
‘A change will come, would you say?’ He squeezes my shoulders, massaging deep onto the knots I have been holding onto. I moan softly under his touch.
‘Yeah, a change will come: winter will pass and the ice will thaw and it will be a new beginning. Fishermen will fish again and the trees will be in full bloom … Life goes on. Without hope there isn’t life.’
‘Snap! That’s exactly what I see.’
‘So I’m right?’ I’m incredulous.
‘There’s no right and wrong in art, Ali, not as far as I’m concerned anyway – it’s whatever you take from it and maybe you take nothing at all. Maybe you simply admire the brush strokes or the colours or whatever.’ Owen lets go of my shoulders and comes in front of me.
‘Hungry?’
‘Oh, I’m so hungry, seriously it’s not even funny, and I am absolutely gasping for water!’ I peel my tongue away from the roof of my mouth. I seem to have zero saliva.
‘Me too. I’m on it … and I’ve an idea. We hydrate you first, but then shall we take some red wine to look at the art tree, madam?’ He puts his left arm on his hip and I link mine through as we make our way to the cafe.
I see people looking at us. I like the fact that they think we are a couple. We make a nice couple. My phone beeps away in my bag but I’m not answering it. Yet. It will no doubt be Colin feeling bad for telling me to go to hell. Retracting it. We enter the cafe but it’s heaving.
‘Are we brave enough?’ Owen points to a small round silver table outside with two chairs sitting over the gardens.
‘Oh, I dunno it’s baltic!’ I shiver at the thought.
‘They have blankets though, see?’ And there in a wooden trunk by the exit lie plenty of thick-looking, colourful blankets.
‘OK, let’s do it.’ I push the exit door open. If I don’t get a drink I may die.
It is indeed balticly baltic as I sit.
‘Hang on, hang on, I was in the scouts. Up! Up! First, a blanket down on the cold chair: protects the kidneys from getting a chill.’ He bends and takes one of the red blankets we took from the trunk, shakes it, then folds it over, before putting it on my chair. I sit again. Then he takes another and places this one around my shoulders and a third over my legs and knees and I hold this one up.
‘I need water, Owen.’ I suck the words out.
‘Shit!’ He turns and enters the cafe and I see him go to the counter and take the huge jug with lemon and two glasses. I have to say I feel as snug as a bug in a rug. When he returns I literally drink four glasses in a row.
‘Is there anything worse than thirst?’ I ask.
‘Starvation doesn’t even come close, does it?’ he agrees and downs another glass himself. Then he bites at the lemon and winces.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know, thankfully,’ I say as the waitress appears and we order a bottle of Malbec with two glasses.
‘I’m feeling the vibes from the art tree,’ he says. ‘Now I know how Bono got his muse from the Joshua tree.’
‘Are you not using a blanket?’ I ask, dumbfounded.
‘No.’ He shakes his head and he then runs both his hands several times over his shaved head. It’s been a few days since he went at it with his shaver. Little dark specks of regrowth lay across his scalp. Makes him look younger.
The red wine arrives and I’m the designated tester. I swirl its richness in my mouth a few times and swallow. I smile my approval at our waitress. Lovely temperature, warm but not too warm. I wrap my hands around the glass to heat its flavour. God, I love wine. This is kinda all sorts of weird, I think now, as Owen dips his nose into his wide glass. I drink. Me and Owen, drinking red wine at the Teylers Museum of a Friday afternoon in December. I drink more.
I might be coming up again. Is that the correct lingo?
‘Did you ever see Indecent Proposal?’ he asks.
‘With Demi Moore and Robert Redford?’ I can’t stop drinking this wine. I refill my glass already. In fairness, the waitress only poured me a dribble. Not an Irish mummies’ measure at all, at all.
‘Yeah, where he pays the husband, Woody Harrelson, one million dollars to sleep with his wife.’
‘Yeah, great film.’ I push my fringe out of my eyes again to focus on him.
We look at each other.
‘Is it De-mee or Demi?’ I could care less but I’m not sure where he’s going with this. The ambience of the moment is all too sexy. I drink.
‘If I had a million, I’d offer it to Colin, right now.’ He bangs the table gently with a fist.
My mouth falls open. I compose myself.
‘You, Ali Devlin, make me want to paint.’ He says this as though it’s a revelation. Perhaps it is.
‘I can think of better things you could do with a million,’ I say, flattered and slightly brave again as I think of Colin’s last text.
GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.
And this man in front of me would give a million dollars for one night with me. Ha! This man in front of me likes talking to me. This man in front of me never gets on my last nerve. This man in front of me never riles me to the point where I lose control and then I hate myself.
No. You go to hell, you stupid arsehole, I think.
‘Money can’t buy me love, right? Just as well, as I don’t have any.’ He smirks.
We both refill and drink.
‘You will one day. You will sell wonderful, meaningful paintings to the rich and famous. I’ll open a credit union account and save for years, just for a piece of your art—’
He interrupts me.
‘This is starting to kill me, Ali, I …’ He shuts his eyes tight.
I know what he’s about to say and I don’t want him to admit it. I don’t want him to say it out loud. I put the glass down.
‘Oh, don’t go there. I thought we weren’t—’
‘I have to, I didn’t want to say this when we were so stoned, but I’m …’ He stops and shakes his head from side to side. ‘Arghhh!’ He throws his head back and looks up to the dark winter sky, then exhales very, very slowly, gathering himself.
‘What I want to say is that …’ He slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand now, ‘OK, try again, arsehole.’ He laughs.
He’s not the arsehole. Colin is the arsehole. I should stop him but I don’t. I drink.
‘I can’t get you out of my head … I painted two pieces last week because of where my head is with you. From the moment I laid eyes on you in the Beans eating spaghetti bolognese I was like, wow, look at that girl. It was that really hot Friday in June when Colette was showing me around. You were wearing a white vest T-shirt and a denim mini-skirt with black flip-flops. Your hair was cut really tight and you were the only person I could see in the entire cafe. You were illuminated in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t stop looking at you. The first thing I asked Michael was your name and what you did. All he told me was that you were married with kids and I deflated. And then I got to know you … It’s the first time I’ve ever been so entertained and challenged by a female friend who I wasn’t trying to impress, and you’re just amazingly kind and care about people. That’s a rare quality. I know we can’t be together but I wanted to tell you that anyway.’
I lean my head in my hands but my eyes are still on him. He pulls the collar of his leather motorbike jacket up. My very own Danny Zuko. Draining my wine glass, I’m aware of this feeling, this feeling I haven’t had for so long. I feel alive again. This is dangerous. The cake is rising.
‘That’s so nice.’ I take my head from my hands and sit up straight.
GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.
After I told him I’d give up my job, just for him. Just to make him happy.
All the horrible things he’s said to me over the last few days repeat slowly in my mind. The scenes play out in black-and-white inside my head, as if on a shaky old projector. The way he mocks me for daring to be friends with Corina, the way he tells me I’m a bad mother. I see him twirling the faulty apple in his hand and scorning my purchase before throwing it at the bin, missing and leaving me to clean it up.
Life is so hard for you, isn’t it poor Ali?
The film is shaky.
Enjoy your gossip.
I see his hand clapping together, mocking my time with my wonderful friend.
Crazy winky woman.
I blink and the projector ends. Lights come up.
‘Maybe we pretend we made a payment into Colin’s account of a million dollars or euros, whatever, and we go back to room 141. We have permission … imagine?’ I giggle
Fuck it. I want it. I may as well be honest with myself.
I think he thinks I’m joking. I am and I am not.
He looks very confused, and then he says, ‘Right … that didn’t last long.’ He waves the empty bottle in the air. ‘Well, we gotta … get … we gotta get outta here, grab something to eat at the hotel or something to walk with maybe?’ he says looking at his watch but I now see his eyes are heavy with desire.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything or anyone any more, only me. I only care about me. Fuck it. When was the last time I cared about me? About Ali Devlin? Previously Ali O’ Dwyer. I give no time to myself. I don’t even know why. I like Ali Devlin. She’s a nice, decent person who deserves to be happy. All she wants is to be a great mother and have a job. It’s not a lot. Don’t judge me right now, because I’m angry. I’m lost. I’m desperate to find an answer to all my problems. But not right now. I’m doing this. What have I got to lose?
The little voice is suddenly back. My conscience poking at my maternal brain. My numskulls are sitting bolt upright. Absolutely everything.
You have two kids at home! It snaps at me. Biting at my decisions. I shake it off. I hum Taylor Swift. Leave me alone, guilt and responsibilities. This is a one-off. No one has to know. Ever. Our secret. A stolen afternoon of pure passion. Just like in the movies. And then I adopt the philosophy of ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’, am I right?
We hail a cab from a long line right outside the museum. As we arrive back at the hotel, Owen tips the driver.
‘Stop here, please … eh … alsjeblieft.’ He pays again.
As we exit, I implore, ‘Will you stop paying for everything!’
‘Soakage.’ He points into the distance.
He takes me by the hand and pulls me towards a street vender selling hot dogs and coffee.
‘What?’ Is he serious? Street food? I want to eat him! I stop in the middle of the street angering pedestrians who walk into the back of me. Bicycles swerve to avoid me. Amsterdam is just too busy for my nonsense.
‘Hot dogs … off the street. Are they safe?’ I ask.
‘You need another cake!’ He laughs.
He’s right. We buy two hot dogs and stand on the corner. It’s just buying us more time.
* * *
‘I have never tasted anything like this in my life. I am sooo hungry,’ I say, face splattered with mustard and ketchup.
‘Me too,’ he mutters.
He reaches over with his little white square paper napkin and wipes my face.
‘There you go.’ His hand lingers for a moment too long.
Our eyes pour into one another. There is no need for words
‘I want you to have a breather, some food … Let’s just think about this, shall we?’
So he is on the same page.
‘Are we really going to do this?’ I say and I can’t look at him now. We are going to have sex.
‘I hope so … I hope not … oh, Ali, I dunno.’ He breathes heavily.
I look into his eyes now. No words needed.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
We dump our unfinished hot dogs in the nearest bin and Owen takes my clammy hand. We walk fast but in silence the short distance to the hotel. I’m excited yet sick with nerves.