Chapter 2
2269 Words
CHAPTER 2
Later on that evening, as I am squirting bleach round the toilet rim, the telephone rings. My brother who just happens to be passing, en route to the biscuit tin, brings it upstairs to me and announces it is one of my mates.
“You know the one with the frizzy hair,” he mouths, taking a bite of his digestive.
“You mean Heather?” I whisper.
“Yes, the goth…” he trails off smirking, as I point at the uncovered handset. Robbie passes it over and then saunters off.
“Hi Heather,” I push my floppy fringe out of my eyes.
“Can you tell your brother I’m not a goth,” Heather sounds offended, “I’m also not an emo – or whatever they’re called now-a-days.”
“You do wear an awful lot of black,” I respond, mentally visualising her dyed black bob, kohled black eyes, black clothes and matching nail varnish.
“I prefer the term new age individual,” she says with an inflection of superiority.
I try not to laugh and end up coughing on fresh air.
“Are you alright Lou?” Heather asks.
“Yes thanks,” I reply, “just cleaning. I think a bit of bleach went up my nose.”
Heather sighs, “oh Lou I keep telling you to use natural cleaning products. They’re so much better for you and also the environment.”
“Well it’s done now,” I go into my bedroom and flop down on the bed. “How are you?”
“Oh I’m okay I suppose.” Heather sighs, “frankly I need a night out.”
“Well sure, I could do the weekend.” I stare up at the lemon painted ceiling and my crystal light shade which moves softly in the breeze from the open window.
Heather sniffs, “actually I was thinking this evening.”
Drinking mid-week? My mind scrabbles for excuses. I want to relax; run a bubble bath, make a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and spend the evening reading magazines.
“Lou…” I hear Heather blow her nose and wonder if she’s been crying.
“You don’t sound too good,” I struggle up onto my side, “I’ll come for a drink, but Heather I can’t stop late. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Louise Henry I love you. Meet you there in half an hour?”
Buzz the line is dead before I can reply. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. There are dark circles underneath my eyes and my chin is covered in spots. Is that normal for a twenty five year old I wonder? Surely I should have outgrown premenstrual acne by now? With a groan I sink onto the stool in front of my dressing table mirror and set to work, trying to make myself look vaguely presentable.
The Feathery Duck is one of the oldest establishments in the local area. It is just a short walk from my street and stands majestic in the middle of Marywell Avenue, next to the bakers where I work. The archaic wooden beams extend from the outside façade into a small dimly lit bar and lounge. We always meet in the bar. I’m not sure why, I guess we like the working class ambience, the camaraderie of drinking with the local men who bicker and banter over the pool table and the dartboard. The bar has sturdy oak tables, a hard tiled floor and old fashioned pumps. The attached lounge has been refurbished into one of those fancy eateries. Personally I find the plastic chairs and tables, the whitewashed walls and pop music all a little cheap and uninteresting. The bar has character and on certain nights it also has Darren Walker. He is the unrequited love of my life. A burly six foot muscular specimen of a man who I have known since primary school. He is a typical loveable rogue, a cheeky chappy with twinkling eyes and a ready smile for all the ladies. He’s a regular in the Feathery Duck, some describe him as part of the furniture. There had been a time; years ago, when we had briefly dated. But it had lasted less than a week. Darren Walker is afraid of commitment, he is famous for his wandering eye and his charm with the opposite s*x. Whereas I long to settle down, find my soulmate and live happily ever after. Behind my guarded exterior and unbeknownst to my friends and family, I am a true romantic.
“Lou!” I turn around at the sound of my name. Heather is on the other side of the street, locking up her flower shop. I hurry across the pedestrian crossing and towards Flowers From Heaven.
“Have you only just finished?” I exclaim, a glance at my watch informs me it’s almost eight thirty.
“Don’t remind me,” Heather turns the key in the lock and we watch the steel girder rumble its way down. “Another last minute funeral order and a huge wedding this weekend. I’m shattered.” She passes me a box full of folders with the words accounts written on them. “And the tax man’s on my back, to top it all off.”
“You deserve a drink then,” I balance the box on one hip and press the crossing button.
“I need a gin and tonic, I’ve had a hectic day.”
We walked sprightly across the road and to the door of the pub.
“How’s your day been?” Asks Heather as I pull open the door and step aside to let her enter first.
“Same as yours, the bakery was nonstop and then when I got home it all started again. There’s always something to do.”
Heather looks at me sympathetically, “I don’t know how you cope Lou. At least I’ve got Mum and Dad to wait on me when I get home.”
I bristle at her words, “Dad tries his best and Robbie, well he’s only fifteen. I can’t expect him to run the house for me.”
“Sorry,” Heather rubs my arm, “d’you want to get a seat and I’ll get the drinks in?”
“Yep.” I look around at the numerous vacant tables. The Feathery Duck is always quiet mid week, but tonight there is only a handful of punters in. I watch a small group of regulars take it in turns throwing darts at the board. They nod their head at me as I toy with a sodden beer mat.
“Is Sauvignon Blanc okay?” Heather places the large glass of wine down on the table.
“Perfect,” and it is: cold, refreshing and delicious. I swallow a large gulp, smiling brightly at my friend who has started chattering about the drama series she is currently obsessed with.
“You look different today,” I observe, when there is a lull in the conversation.
“Do I?” Heather peeks over the rim of her gin and tonic, “in what way?”
“Your hair,” I glance at the sleek shiny black bob, “it’s straight.”
“Yes,” she touches it with her free hand, “Marcus bought me straighteners.”
“Oh.” My smile fades at the mention of her on off boyfriend. Marcus is a smarmy Italian with a wife and three children. Heather has been his mistress for the past five years. She knows I disapprove of their relationship, but that doesn’t stop her from loving him passionately.
“Does it suit me d’you think?” Heather pouts, as if she is about to take a selfie.
“It looks nice…” I nod, “but I love your curls.”
“Curls are so yesterday, so eighties. Marcus told me I look like Dita Von Trapp.”
“Who?”
“You know, the burlesque dancer.”
“Oh.” I swallow more wine, “so what’s the mid week night out for? You sounded upset on the phone. Is there something wrong?”
Heather sighs, “you know it’s my birthday soon?”
“Yesssss,” I nudge her in the ribs, “the big three o, how are you going to cope with being middle aged?”
“Watch it!” Warns Heather with a grin, “thirty is the new twenty one according to all the glossy magazines.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say with an eyeroll. “What are you doing by the way? Shall we go for a meal to celebrate? Vegetarian of course.”
“I was supposed to be going away for the weekend with Marcus,” Heather bangs her glass down, “but he’s got a family christening that he apparently can’t get out of.”
I shake my head, “this is what happens when you mess with a married man. You can do better Heather.”
“I love him,” she replies quietly.
I emit an exasperated sigh, how many times have we had this conversation? I wonder. The subject of Heather’s love life crops up almost on a weekly basis. She mopes over him and I am angry that he still remains married, even though his wife is apparently a living dragon who couldn’t care less about him.
“If he loves you, then why is he still married?” I ask bluntly.
“It’s not that simple,” Heather simpers, “he has children and an awful lot of debt. We need to take things slowly, plan ahead…” She trails off, wincing at my incredulous stare.
“This has been going on for years Heather, he’s had five years to leave her.”
Suddenly Heather bursts into tears, mascara runs down her face in black streaks. I immediately regret my abruptness, but my patience with Heather’s dubious love life is wearing seriously thin.
“I’m so miserable,” she wails, “thirty years old and living with my parents with no likelihood of ever having children. My biological clock is ticking away and I’m going to end up a lonely old spinster.”
“You won’t if you end this charade of a relationship,” I take hold of her hand, “you’ve got so much going for you Heather. You’re a gorgeous independent woman. Yes you still live with the olds, but then so do I. You’ve got your own business. I would love to be a florist with my own shop.”
“You’re right,” sniffs Heather, “so why don’t I finish it today – now!” She fishes in her handbag for her phone and scrolls quickly through her contacts.
“What are you going to tell him?” I ask nervously.
Her fingers are flying over the screen and she looks scarily determined.
“I’ve told him our relationship is over and not to contact me again. There,” she presses the send button and then breaks down into fresh tears, “what have I done?”
“The right thing,” I say crisply, “give it to me.” I wait until Heather has reluctantly handed her phone over.
“I’m deleting and blocking his number from your address book,” I announce, my fingers moving over the screen, “is he your f*******: friend?”
“Yes,” she responds, her face a picture of misery.
“Not anymore. Do you have him on any other social media?”
“Instagram.”
I search through her followers until I found Marcus’s smarmy face grinning at me from the screen, “hot blooded Italian?” I snort, my eyes resting on his username, “more like Italian creep.”
“Gone.” I announce with a satisfied smirk. “Now you’re free to date whoever you like.”
Heather’s bottom lip trembles, “you’re a hard woman Louise Henry.”
“One day you’ll thank me for this,” I say firmly, “so shall we have another drink to celebrate your single status?”
“Make it a double,” Heather calls after me as I hotfoot it to the bar.
“Same again?” Brian the burly bar man hoists his frame off the beer pumps and ambles my way with a friendly smile.
“Please.” I dig in my coat pocket for change, extracting a crumpled bus ticket, a worn down lipstick and a folded ten pound note.
“Your fella was in here last night,” he sloshes wine into my glass and I look at him with puzzlement.
“My fella?” I repeat.
“Is there a parrot in here?” Brian clicks his fingers, searching his memory for a name, “Darren, the one who plays for the pool team.”
“You mean Darren Walker?” I splutter the words, “he’s not my erm… fella.”
Brian’s eyebrows lift into two bushy arches, “your friend then.”
I open my mouth to tell him we aren’t even that, but Brian rushes ahead with the following words, “him and Patrick Dempsey were blind drunk again. Marjorie asked them to leave, politely like, but they were acting up – giving us gip, annoying the other punters.”
Marjorie his wife pops her head above the rim of the bar, “they were causing trouble again Lou… getting rowdy and lippy. A couple of the bikers almost smacked them one.”
I clear my throat, “Darren Walker’s nothing to do with me. Sure we went through school together, but that’s it. We have no relationship.”
Marjorie purses her lips and glances over me with suspicious eyes, “well after what happened last Christmas, and the way you’re always fooling around with each other, I just presumed you were a sort of… item.”
I feel a blush creep its way up my neck and into my cheeks as I remember the kiss Darren and I had shared under the mistletoe in this very bar. At the time I hadn’t realised that so many people had noticed us fawning over each other. I blamed too much festive cheer, but the truth was I had fancied Darren Walker for years and had wanted to be his girlfriend since primary school.
“We’re not together,” I snap, picking up the drinks and moving back, “but maybe you should bar him, if he’s causing trouble.”
“He’s always been trouble,” Brian shakes his head, “we didn’t mean to upset you love.”
“Yeah,” chips in Marjorie, “forget Darren Walker. You’re too good for him love.”
“He’s forgotten,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What was that about?” Heather quizzes me as soon as I am sitting next to her.
“Darren Walker,” I reply, briefly closing my eyes and allowing a mental image of his handsome face to float in front of me.
Heather rolls her eyes and says with a ladylike growl, “another waste of space. We don’t have much luck with men do we?”
“I suppose not,” I reply glumly, holding up my glass. “Here’s to being single and carefree.”
Heather c****s hers against mine, “here’s to being s*x starved and miserable.”
Her words ring in my ears, reminding me yet again what a total failure my love life is.
- Writer
