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CHAPTER SEVEN

        I wake up to see the chinless Edgar Linton, I mean Cecil staring intently at me. Let this be a dream. Or an hallucination. Alcohol can do that to me at times. Once I thought my mother was a yeti and screamed so much she even was beginning to think she was one. I close my eyes and count to ten before I open them again. He’s still there.

        "Anna are you awake?"

        I bolt upright in the bed. It’s only 7.30. Somebody is dead and I have about 30 seconds before my world comes to an end. Gone will be the agonising decision to choose Edgar or Heathcliff. This will be replaced by earth shattering grief. In the family hierarchy please let it be Molly. She’s old and I don’t need her. I’m not grown up enough to loose my parents. I want them to stand between me and the abyss. How else would I cope? I’m just not capable. I run down the stairs taking two steps at a time , my heart beating wildly in my chest as I reluctantly pick up the receiver.

        "Mum"

        Is my mother brain-dead or what?

        "Mother is everyone is our house alive and breathing?"

        " Just imagine darling the K club. It’s only the elite that get in there you know."

        Her reckoning is that I need to throw myself upon the paths of Mr. Rich Rights and in her eyes the K club just the ideal hunting ground

        "Anna, you’re not going to meet anyone sitting there at home feeling miserable for yourself. Go and get yourself a smart hair cut, Sarah Moran your cousin is transformed with a fabulous style, she looks just like Gwenneth Paltrow when she had short hair in some film, I think it was on RTE the other night. Long hair is too streelish for the corporate world. Even Nuala was saying how nice your hair would be short."

        "My hair is neat and clean and not very long. I like it." I say somewhat defensively.

        "Yeees but you’ve had it like that for so long you need a change. You know what they say dear, out with the old and in with the new"

         "May as well get a head transplant while I’m at it. Hi, Anna Moran Insurance executive, yes I did get a total revamp, new lips, eyes, the lot. You prefer the old face. Too bad!" I shout in a high pitched totally pissed off tone.

         "Anna your problem is you always go too far. You won’t get places like that you know. You need to put in more effort, try to be friendly a bit more normal ; you’ll see men like happy well groomed positive women so smile dear and they’ll swarm like bees round a honey pot".

         I love my mother don’t get me wrong but she and I are like chalk and cheese. She was born happy and smiling and believing in hair therapy as medicine for depression. She thinks in straight lines, sticks resolutely to her beliefs, and has a profound belief in herself and her religion. In comparison I can be miserable, even quite morose and my thoughts not only obsess me but they can haunt me dreadfully.

         I’m happy being miserable at times. It gives me great pleasure to take to the bed and indulge my erratic and sometimes very disturbed thoughts. My sister Nuala in comparison swears by positive thinking. Her motto is you’ve got to be happy and smile. No matter that the dog has died or your car fails the MOT or you’ve contracted pubic lice. Like hello. Positive thinking must in some way appeal to the falseness of her warped psyche. Me, well I find negative thinking therapeutic and constructive. When I wallow, I wallow. I scream and cry and swear and think all the possible worse case scenarios. I picture myself grief struck at a family funeral, dressed in black with mascara running zig zag down my cheeks. Looking I might add not at all like grieving heroine in romantic novel.

         Elliot takes one look at me as he comes out of the bathroom and decides to say nothing. I think at this stage he knows better than to communicate with me too early in the day. What I like the most about Elliot I guess is the fact that he allows me to be myself and is highly aware of my emotional nature. He lets me be until I thaw out and become human again. This morning however he reappears in my room with a cup of coffee and a slice of lightly buttered toast.

         "To make you feel human again Anna ". He says as he brushes my hair away from my face. I struggle to emerge from the confines of my duvet.

         "Zoe stayed last night," he says grinning from ear to ear.

         "Well?"

         "Hey Anna it’s too early. I’m not getting into this. Ok? Some times a guy just needs a good old shag.. Just be happy for Elliot and I might see you tonight or maybe not. The delectable Zoe has invited me to stay over at her place."

         I lay back on my pillows and take tentative brave sips from the steaming hot coffee. As my head clears I start to think about Zoe and Elliot. I feel a bit bothered, yet why should I give a damn? Maybe it’s because I am turning into a frustrated celibate and my psyche is going into nit picking spinster mode. After all he has every right to sleep with whom he likes. But not with Zoe. She’s such a false cow even if she has the body of a goddess. Speak of the flaming devil. Zoe, clad in just a lacy knickers and bra, waltzes nonchalantly into my bedroom without so much as knocking.

         "Anna sweetie can I borrow a panties," she giggles. I watch her from duvet ville as she prances around on cellulite free long tanned legs. I wonder if she has to skin brush and drink two litres of water a day. She must live on the sun bed, she’ll age before her time and be a hag before she’s forty.

         After a nice long shower my introspection dissipates. I only need to get out there and let the world meet Anna. I am open to finding my heart’s desire, so long as he’s good looking and wealthy. I dress in a fitted black pants with a cream shirt and leather jacket. Thank God for clothes. What I can’t see doesn’t bother me. I check my reflection in the mirror and apply my lipstick. The trick to lip coverage is in the outlining or so I’m told. You outline your lips with a pencil and then colour them in with the same pencil and then apply the lipstick. It lasts just about all day. I don’t bother to blow dry my hair as I prefer to let it drip dry, looks more natural somehow and wavy. I smile, half smile at first and then a full blown smile. Hello world.

         When I go downstairs Harry is sitting or should I say hovering on a kitchen stool.

         "Harry you look awful. Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll get you some paracetemol and a hot drink," I suggest

         "I think I’ll need more than that," he manages to rasp.

         "Promise Anna you won’t tell a soul about this," He manages to whisper.

         After 15 more minutes of unbearable throbbing Dr Clarke makes his entrance. He looks like he has one foot in the grave himself with a wizened weather beaten face and a smokers gravely voice.

         Dr Clarke goes into the lounge and seeing Harry laying prostrate on the sofa reaches into his black bag. He does the usual doctor things like take his temperature and test his heart. Not once does he examine or look at the bulge that seems to be at this stage bursting out of Harry’s pants.

         In the meantime Harry reaches out and grabs him by the collar.

         "Will he be alright Doctor?"

         Before I can answer he goes off on a tirade about young men like Harry having to take drugs to please insatiable women like me. What’s the world coming to?

         Right on cue I meet Loreta Horgan outside the k club. True to what I can recall about her nature she is dressed in a light blue figure- hugging trouser suit. Business like, confident and self- assured, even if she’s at least two stone underweight. Loreta is very emotionally demonstrative and she all but rushes into my arms to give me a great crushing bear hug.

         "Madam Himzer told me that my husband would use a stick for his living. She also said he’d be a foreigner and that I’d travel. So you see Anna I’ve heeded the signs and I’ve found the chosen one," said she in the serious confident tone of one who has the utmost belief in herself. I admire her how she can make things fit the formula. The advise from the psychic is followed to it’s logical conclusion until she gets exactly what she wants.

         At this point in time I long for simplicity of heart and trust in a greater power other than myself. I could be absolved of all responsibility for everything that happened in my life. Maybe it serves me right for abandoning my Catholic faith. Gone are the days when I could put my trust in God and seek pardon for my sinful nature. No wonder people were a lot more psychologically healthy in the days of hell fire and brimstone. They were not made to feel responsible for their shitty lives. It was God’s will and divine providence that dolled out your lot. And if you succumbed to temptation it was the devil trying to lure you onto the wrong path.

         The golf course was packed with spectators who were remarkably subdued as they watched the golfers play. We were to meet her intended by the second hole at 2.15 but as we arrived early we had the privilege of witnessing some very nice specimens tee off. This was my first time seeing the professionals at work. Jesus Christ some of them were divine. Divine and hunky. We had to stay ultra silent as the masters concentrated on their shot. Money is at stake. Big money. No one dared to breathe so as not to intrude upon the golfer’s concentration. I had to stifle some animal moans as I gazed at their taut buts and their brown muscled arms. One beaver faced official kept glaring at me so much that I had to bite my tongue. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the ball as it whooshed though the air. We all clapped ecstatically, well at least I did. The other spectators clapped in a most anally retentive manner. I do not wish to mingle with these people. I really don’t.

         It was a surprisingly warm day so Loreta took off the jacket of her suit. I have seen it all now. In one she had a bottle of holy water in a holy Mary bottle and in the other pocket she had a box of condoms. Maybe when she prays she gets what she wants. I laugh aloud but am made to feel I’ve committed a mortal sin. For I have penetrated the silence of the game. I am the enemy, the fool, the person who certainly did not deserve a free pass.

         We met up with her French god at exactly 2.15. Oh wow he’s everything you could want in a man, looks, height a dazzling smile and broken English. Before he takes his shot he bends over the fence to kiss Loreta. Witnessing this tender loving exchange I realised that this is what I want for myself. I want a man to gaze at me tenderly and longingly and to kiss me passionately and ……………

         We followed the beautiful talented Henri around the golf course until Loreta got a huge water blister. He was playing extremely well as she watched him tee off and at times the ball would go into the hole in sometimes less than four shots. Every so often Loreta would shower Henri with holy water and on the fifth hole he managed to get a hole in one. Loreta and I went wild and clapped until our hands were sore and our voices hoarse with cheering. Too late we realized we were like the village idiots. There is subdued euphoria at a golf course, small claps and equally small cheers. Still it made Henri smile. And what a smile. Beautiful eyes, beautiful teeth and broken English. I’m weak.

         By the ninth hole even Loreta was tired of following the delightful talented Henri. Being the kind of girl who gets exactly what she wants she suggested we high- jack a caddy car and make our way to the club house. She pleaded with some English blokes who were standing near a caddy car smoking and watching the game. Loreta showed them her blister and said that if she had to walk another inch gangrene would set it. That’s it. We jumped onto a trailer at the back of a caddy car and hurtled towards the club house. Good bye Henri. See you at the 18^th hole. In the meantime we had some serious business to attend to.

         What I love the most about Loreta is the fact that she comes from a far more dysfunctional family than mine. Her mother and father run the post office in Dingle. Two years ago her mother announced that she was a lesbian and wanted to be able to full fill her sexuality. Her father after a spell in the psychiatric hospital in Killarney decided he didn’t want to loose his wife and companion of 20 years. So they came to a compromise. They would stay together as long Mrs Horgan could join the pen pal net work for lesbians. Once a month a pen pal arrives to what can only be described as to service Mrs Horgan. The arrangement works. Mr Horgan still gets his cup of tea in bed his favourite chicken casserole on Tuesday night and his shirts ironed. Compared to the Horgans the Morans are like the Brady bunch . I wonder if Loreta had to have therapy. You can have any therapy you want down in Dingle right now, mind you it’s all that alternative stuff but people love it. Even Nuala goes in for aromatherapy massage and my mother swears by assertive training and reflexology. She swears she’s a changed woman, although I sometimes wonder what that’s supposed to me.

         The club house at the K-Club is exquisite. I’m not into show and ornamentation but this place is like a palace. There is a Waterford Crystal chandelier in the foyer that seems to radiate light and beauty. We had V.I.P. passes entitling us to everything in the club. Some guy promoting vibrating chairs in the foyer took a fancy to Loreta and treated her to a chair massage. Begrudgingly he also allowed me to have a go. Wow this was something else, so relaxing and I’d say if I stayed long enough you could have an orgasm. The eejit did he seriously think we had the money to buy a £3000 chair. We were laughing so much, maybe because of all the vibrating that by the time we got upstairs we were hysterical with laughter.

         "So where did you meet him?"

         "He called into the chemist where I’m working and asked me to recommend a decent cough bottle. I gave him one that wouldn’t make him drowsy so as not to interfere with his game and then he asked me to recommend a place for lunch. He seemed quite impressed that I spoke French. I kept thinking he was staring at me, and he was. It was the penetrating way he looked at me, like he could see right through me. Anyhow later that day I had to go to the bank to get some change for the shop and our paths crossed once again. He invited me for dinner and the rest sweetie is history."

         Loreta was almost triumphant in her revelations. I was beginning to feel very disillusioned so I decided to drink some more free wine. I want somebody to love the real me, spots, warts, foul temper, leave the bathroom in a mess person. Person who is disordered and silly and votes for the Green party. Person who worries about the extinction of hedgehogs and cruelty to all animals except savage bulls. This is because Gran Aunt Molly’s Fiance was gored by a bull one day as he crossed the field to her house. Person who likes banana and tomato sandwiches and ketchup with just about everything except fish.

         They should change the rules. What if we were totally ourselves from the first moment. Belch, fart and laugh uncontrollably. On second thoughts such ilk were formerly confined to institutions and hidden from view. Now the poor creatures wander our streets with their bad habits hidden by medication. On third thoughts I too recoil with horror at too much reality. Best to live in altered reality shielded from too much truth and sheer vulgarity. Be a nun, monk or grab a time machine back to wealthy Victorian society. Or better still enter the world of alcohol induced temporary oblivion. Anna Moran to thine own self be true.

         Too much wine makes me argumentative and utterly paranoid. There was this golf player from South America or somewhere like that who kept staring at me. I asked him maybe too loudly what he was staring at. He took one more look at me and decided to leave the bar. In my drunken state I feel I am alienating all of humanity and am drowning in my aloneness of being. Loreta in comparison is like a saint as she has sobered up for her man. She didn’t say to me: "Sober up Anna. You are making a show of yourself." No the pretentious cow ordered mineral water for herself and wine for me. I will be a disgrace while she appears perfectly responsible and stable. I lovingly and willingly accept myself as the sacrificial scapegoat.

         Henri arrived looking relaxed and confident after the game. As he got through to the final the next day he was pretty happy with himself. I could see Loreta gazing at him adoringly. She knew she’d never get a man like that in Ireland, not in a million years. Who could blame her for being ultra false to reel him in ?. Have not got a jealous bone in my body, lots of drunk bones but no jealous ones. Only for a moment do I think about Harry. More stupid than me Harry with a drug induced electrically charged penis. The worst thing that can happen is that it bursts and he has to have reconstruction surgery. Now I wonder if that’s possible.

         I didn’t remember being sent home by taxi from the K club. No emotions other than urge to lie down to stop this relentless spinning of the planet. Bypass Zoe, Elliot, Cecil and Harry eating what smells like barbecued geriatric Chinese cats. Must not get sick, must lie down and be still. Did not break vow of celibacy so am still on high moral highway despite white wine induced temptation.

         Have still got enough brain cells left to inform me to drink a pint of water. Good for dehydration and cellulite so go to bed feeling I am helping myself. Killing myself with kindness, that’s me.

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