Read Online Donor, The by Helen FitzGerald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen FitzGerald
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the name of the man she was talking to. He handed back the photograph Cynthia had swapped for his bong. In the photograph were two beautiful little girls, aged three.
It was his turn with the bong.
‘A selfish person would have stayed,’ Cynthia said, touching the photograph.
‘Yep.’ The man exhaled thick smoke into the blue sky. ‘You’re not fuckin’ selfish. I can see a mile away you’re a woman with guts.’
It was Cynthia’s turn again. She tucked her photo into her money belt, took the bong and inhaled. Smoky pride filled her up. What a woman. What a girl. Someone less gutsy would’ve stayed with a man she didn’t love, would have hung around and been a bad mother, ruining those two children for life, as she and Heath had been ruined by their respective screw-ups for mothers.
‘What’s your name again?’ she asked the man.
‘Peter,’ he said. ‘But my friends call me Peter.’
They laughed till they were rolling on the carpet that had been set out for them on the sand, a carpet they were supposed to be thinking about purchasing. ‘Can we lie on it for a bit?’ the bloke called Peter had asked the carpet salesman two hours earlier. He and Cynthia had met in the carpet shop, and immediately recognised kindred spirits in each other’s long straggly hair, bright eastern clothing and general f ucked-out-of-their-mindedness . ‘We don’t want to buy nothing too scratchy,’ the man called Peter had said.
The salesman, probably the most patient man in the universe, did as they had asked, laying the carpet on the sand before his beach-front shop, and then watched over them as they smoked on top of it. (His best carpet!)
‘I’m Cynthia …’ she said to Peter, holding her sore stomach, ‘but my friends call me …’ It was no use, she couldn’t say it. It was too funny.
‘That’s it!’ the Egyptian salesman said. ‘Get off my rug!’
He pulled it from underneath them, leaving Cynthia and Peter guffawing on the beach.
Over the last year, Cynthia had probably slept with around one hundred men. She was proud of this fact, considering that she was over thirty, okay, over forty, all right all right, the next one, then, but only just. She looked good with clothes on – slim and tanned – and men rarely changed their minds once they saw the stretch marks, track marks, pancake tits and cellulite underneath her youthful vibrant clothing. She’d lost count exactly, but Peter was probably about number 101 and she gave him the attention he deserved in the tent afterwards, asking for little in return.
She had never been selfish. She was an artist, yes, could’ve been a very important one if she’d been the type to lick arse, but she was not selfish. Hence, she left Will Marion all those years ago for his sake. Will, as uninspired and ordinary as he was, would be a good parent. He would bring the girls up to be good people. She needed to leave so he could do that.
‘Can I sing you a song?’ she asked the Peter guy a few hours later. He was asleep. She shook his shoulder. ‘Do you want to hear me sing? Peter! Peter!’
‘What?’ He would rather have stayed asleep.
‘I’m a singer. You get a song for free.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, shutting his eyes.
Something had happened to her voice in the years since she’d left Scotland. It almost hurt to sing, and she feared it might have hurt even more to listen. She sang, nevertheless, and Peter had the courtesy to clap (eyes still closed) once she’d finished.
She lay back down beside number 101(ish) and stared at the roof of yet another tent. She missed Heath the same way she missed heroin. She knew he was bad for her, that he hurt her, that he hurt lots of people, that sometimes, when he was angry, he’d scare her so much she’d lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end. How long till his release now? Would she ever stop loving him? Could she ever stop wanting him?
She’d never been in love with Will Marion. She liked to try
It was his turn with the bong.
‘A selfish person would have stayed,’ Cynthia said, touching the photograph.
‘Yep.’ The man exhaled thick smoke into the blue sky. ‘You’re not fuckin’ selfish. I can see a mile away you’re a woman with guts.’
It was Cynthia’s turn again. She tucked her photo into her money belt, took the bong and inhaled. Smoky pride filled her up. What a woman. What a girl. Someone less gutsy would’ve stayed with a man she didn’t love, would have hung around and been a bad mother, ruining those two children for life, as she and Heath had been ruined by their respective screw-ups for mothers.
‘What’s your name again?’ she asked the man.
‘Peter,’ he said. ‘But my friends call me Peter.’
They laughed till they were rolling on the carpet that had been set out for them on the sand, a carpet they were supposed to be thinking about purchasing. ‘Can we lie on it for a bit?’ the bloke called Peter had asked the carpet salesman two hours earlier. He and Cynthia had met in the carpet shop, and immediately recognised kindred spirits in each other’s long straggly hair, bright eastern clothing and general f ucked-out-of-their-mindedness . ‘We don’t want to buy nothing too scratchy,’ the man called Peter had said.
The salesman, probably the most patient man in the universe, did as they had asked, laying the carpet on the sand before his beach-front shop, and then watched over them as they smoked on top of it. (His best carpet!)
‘I’m Cynthia …’ she said to Peter, holding her sore stomach, ‘but my friends call me …’ It was no use, she couldn’t say it. It was too funny.
‘That’s it!’ the Egyptian salesman said. ‘Get off my rug!’
He pulled it from underneath them, leaving Cynthia and Peter guffawing on the beach.
Over the last year, Cynthia had probably slept with around one hundred men. She was proud of this fact, considering that she was over thirty, okay, over forty, all right all right, the next one, then, but only just. She looked good with clothes on – slim and tanned – and men rarely changed their minds once they saw the stretch marks, track marks, pancake tits and cellulite underneath her youthful vibrant clothing. She’d lost count exactly, but Peter was probably about number 101 and she gave him the attention he deserved in the tent afterwards, asking for little in return.
She had never been selfish. She was an artist, yes, could’ve been a very important one if she’d been the type to lick arse, but she was not selfish. Hence, she left Will Marion all those years ago for his sake. Will, as uninspired and ordinary as he was, would be a good parent. He would bring the girls up to be good people. She needed to leave so he could do that.
‘Can I sing you a song?’ she asked the Peter guy a few hours later. He was asleep. She shook his shoulder. ‘Do you want to hear me sing? Peter! Peter!’
‘What?’ He would rather have stayed asleep.
‘I’m a singer. You get a song for free.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, shutting his eyes.
Something had happened to her voice in the years since she’d left Scotland. It almost hurt to sing, and she feared it might have hurt even more to listen. She sang, nevertheless, and Peter had the courtesy to clap (eyes still closed) once she’d finished.
She lay back down beside number 101(ish) and stared at the roof of yet another tent. She missed Heath the same way she missed heroin. She knew he was bad for her, that he hurt her, that he hurt lots of people, that sometimes, when he was angry, he’d scare her so much she’d lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end. How long till his release now? Would she ever stop loving him? Could she ever stop wanting him?
She’d never been in love with Will Marion. She liked to try
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