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Authors: Mary Elizabeth Coen
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woman. Time to change the subject.
“Home-made brown bread and scones for you in the other bag, Mam,” I said, cheerily pointing to the pink-striped plastic shopper I had left on the stained-pine table along with my
shoulder bag.
“You’re too good, Kate. Thanks, love. Do you know, I might just get some soup from the freezer and have it with that brown bread and some baked ham? How does that and a salad sound,
instead of cooking a hot dinner? There aren’t that many warm evenings, we should make the most of them.” My father nodded his agreement. As he approached retirement, my mother had been
taking charge more and more, with him seemingly happy to have her make all the decisions. It seemed my parents had come to fit together like the left and right of a comfortable pair of old
slippers, toes turning in to meet.
“Sorry, Mam. I’m meeting some old college friends in town this evening. We’re going for a meal.” I knew the truth would invite endless debate and concerns for my safety.
I didn’t want that.
“Oh, that’s nice. Have you got back in contact with them lately? That’s good for you. They were a lovely crowd.”
I left them both to excitedly fawn over the bag of goodies. They were like two children who’d managed to amass the contents of the local sweet shop. It was amazing what made people happy
as they got older – once a Michelin-starred restaurant would have failed to come up to my father’s exacting standards. Smiling, I left them sampling the brown bread as I went to freshen
up before going on my date.
Before setting out to meet Doctor Edward Commins, I gave him a quick call on his mobile. I’ve always been partial to a man with a nice speaking voice, so I was
disappointed when he proved to be an incoherent mumbler on the phone, forcing me to continuously ask him to speak up. I hoped it was just a bad line.
When I arrived into the packed bar of the Shelbourne Hotel, I couldn’t locate him in the crowd. As I made my way through the well-dressed throng, I was conscious of being a woman on my
own. In desperation I sent him a text, and he replied saying he was sitting in the rear left corner. When I found him, he was slumped there looking rather grouchy. As I approached, he half stood
up, flicking the back of his navy blazer to the sides before sitting back down again. Why did men imagine brass-buttoned navy blazers were classy? I registered that he was a lot shorter than the
six foot he had claimed in his profile. I greeted him with a warm smile. “Hi Eddie. How are you?”
“Fine,” he grunted. He gave me a slippery wet-fish handshake.
I was immediately aware this was not going to be easy. “Have you been here long?”
“No. Just arrived.” His voice was barely audible. The skin on his face was as smooth as a baby’s and his forehead bulged in parts as if it had suffered an overload of fillers.
It might photograph well, but in reality it looked plain weird.
“Oh, that’s good! So tell me about your job?” I tilted my head to the side, the way I would if I were coaxing a child to tell me something.
“Just a job like any other. My neighbours are causing me terrible hassle at the moment. I built a clinic for private cosmetic clients on to my house. The stupid neighbours are objecting
and want to put a stop to it. Jesus – nothing but problems! Then my stupid ex-wife wants to hang me out to dry in the divorce courts. Stupid bitch!” He gulped the remainder of his
drink, banging the glass back down on the table in front of him.
How did I answer that? “You definitely have a lot on your plate,” I heard myself say – and off I was again, pandering to another man I didn’t agree with.
“And that’s not all. Wait until you hear about my ex-girlfriend. Denying me custody of my daughter. She’s looking for a fortune too. Bloody women! Do you want a drink? Or
look…” He stood up, pulling his blazer together as he closed one of three brass buttons.
“Home-made brown bread and scones for you in the other bag, Mam,” I said, cheerily pointing to the pink-striped plastic shopper I had left on the stained-pine table along with my
shoulder bag.
“You’re too good, Kate. Thanks, love. Do you know, I might just get some soup from the freezer and have it with that brown bread and some baked ham? How does that and a salad sound,
instead of cooking a hot dinner? There aren’t that many warm evenings, we should make the most of them.” My father nodded his agreement. As he approached retirement, my mother had been
taking charge more and more, with him seemingly happy to have her make all the decisions. It seemed my parents had come to fit together like the left and right of a comfortable pair of old
slippers, toes turning in to meet.
“Sorry, Mam. I’m meeting some old college friends in town this evening. We’re going for a meal.” I knew the truth would invite endless debate and concerns for my safety.
I didn’t want that.
“Oh, that’s nice. Have you got back in contact with them lately? That’s good for you. They were a lovely crowd.”
I left them both to excitedly fawn over the bag of goodies. They were like two children who’d managed to amass the contents of the local sweet shop. It was amazing what made people happy
as they got older – once a Michelin-starred restaurant would have failed to come up to my father’s exacting standards. Smiling, I left them sampling the brown bread as I went to freshen
up before going on my date.
Before setting out to meet Doctor Edward Commins, I gave him a quick call on his mobile. I’ve always been partial to a man with a nice speaking voice, so I was
disappointed when he proved to be an incoherent mumbler on the phone, forcing me to continuously ask him to speak up. I hoped it was just a bad line.
When I arrived into the packed bar of the Shelbourne Hotel, I couldn’t locate him in the crowd. As I made my way through the well-dressed throng, I was conscious of being a woman on my
own. In desperation I sent him a text, and he replied saying he was sitting in the rear left corner. When I found him, he was slumped there looking rather grouchy. As I approached, he half stood
up, flicking the back of his navy blazer to the sides before sitting back down again. Why did men imagine brass-buttoned navy blazers were classy? I registered that he was a lot shorter than the
six foot he had claimed in his profile. I greeted him with a warm smile. “Hi Eddie. How are you?”
“Fine,” he grunted. He gave me a slippery wet-fish handshake.
I was immediately aware this was not going to be easy. “Have you been here long?”
“No. Just arrived.” His voice was barely audible. The skin on his face was as smooth as a baby’s and his forehead bulged in parts as if it had suffered an overload of fillers.
It might photograph well, but in reality it looked plain weird.
“Oh, that’s good! So tell me about your job?” I tilted my head to the side, the way I would if I were coaxing a child to tell me something.
“Just a job like any other. My neighbours are causing me terrible hassle at the moment. I built a clinic for private cosmetic clients on to my house. The stupid neighbours are objecting
and want to put a stop to it. Jesus – nothing but problems! Then my stupid ex-wife wants to hang me out to dry in the divorce courts. Stupid bitch!” He gulped the remainder of his
drink, banging the glass back down on the table in front of him.
How did I answer that? “You definitely have a lot on your plate,” I heard myself say – and off I was again, pandering to another man I didn’t agree with.
“And that’s not all. Wait until you hear about my ex-girlfriend. Denying me custody of my daughter. She’s looking for a fortune too. Bloody women! Do you want a drink? Or
look…” He stood up, pulling his blazer together as he closed one of three brass buttons.
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