I rushed out to the kitchen. ‘God,’ I complained to Mum. ‘It’s worse than the Cloisters here. The looper count is higher.’
But Mum urged compassion. She said Dad hadn’t been himself since Oklahoma had finished its run of one night. ‘It kind of went to his head,’ she explained. ‘And now he’s just back to being ordinary Joe soap.’
‘But it was only a chorus part.’
‘All the same, it made him feel important,’ she said, wisely.
‘What’ll I do?’ I moaned, bored and miserable. I’d only been home a day. I missed the Cloisters and wished I was still there.
‘Why don’t you go to one of your funny meetings?’ Mum suggested brightly.
I thought of the meetings list I’d been given before I left the Cloisters and realized I didn’t want to be the kind of person who goes to ‘funny meetings’. I wouldn’t take drugs, but I’d do it my way. So I said vaguely ‘Um, in a couple of days.’
What I did want to do was ring Chris, but I just couldn’t summon the nerve. However, on Sunday I was at such a loose end, I found myself going to Mass. That was the last straw. As soon as I got home, with shaking hands I picked up the phone and rang him.
Bitter was my disappointment when someone – Mr Hutchinson, I presumed – said Chris wasn’t there. I didn’t leave my name in case he didn’t call me back. Then I went through the whole nerve-racking ordeal again on Monday but this time he was there.
‘Rachel!’ he exclaimed, sounding delighted to hear from me. ‘I was hoping you’d ring. How’s it all going?’
‘Fine!’ I declared, instantly upbeat, everything sunny and wonderful.
‘When did you get out?’
‘Friday.’
You should have known.
‘Been to any meetings yet?’ he asked.
‘Er, no,’ I said vaguely. ‘Busy, you know…’
Busy eating biscuits and hanging around the house, feeling sorry for myself.
‘Don’t neglect them, Rachel,’ he warned, gently.
‘I won’t, I won’t,’ I promised hastily. ‘So, er, do you want to meet up?’
‘We could, I suppose,’ he said. He didn’t sound half as enthusiastic as I would have liked him to.
‘When?’ I pressed.
‘Before you left the Cloisters weren’t you given a warning about not doing… well… anything for a year?’ he asked. First I thought he was changing the subject, then I realized he wasn’t.
‘Yes,’ I blurted, mortified in case he thought I was trying to make a move on him. ‘No relationships with the opposite sex.
‘Suits me down to the ground,’ I lied. ‘Were you told that too?’
‘Yeah, no relationships, no alcohol, no scratch cards even! I’m surprised they haven’t warned me off breathing, in case I get cross-addicted to oxygen!’
We both laughed long and hard at that, then he said ‘How about Wednesday evening? Seven-thirty, Stephen’s Green?’
‘Great!’
Delighted, I hung up.
After all, there was no law against flirting with him.
61
In honour of meeting Chris, I persuaded myself to have either a leg-wax or a haircut. I couldn’t afford both, well actually, I couldn’t afford either, so I decided on the haircut. No point in having a leg-wax. As both Chris and I were banned from carnal knowledge, the results of it would never see the light of day. If I was going to the bother of spending money I wanted everyone to know about it.
On Tuesday morning it was in a mood of handbag-swinging, high anticipation that I got Mum to drive me to The Hair Apparent to have my hair cut by Jasmine. What was wrong with me? I had never, ever, in my whole life, left a hairdresser’s not struggling to hold back tears.
But I always forgot. It was only when I found myself sitting in front of the mirror while someone disparagingly lifted and let fall strands of my hair, then heard the words ‘Christ almighty it’s in flitters,’ that it all came rushing back to me. By then it was too late.
It was so long since I’d done anything as normal as go to a hairdresser’s that I viewed the tiles and mirrors and towels and bottles of The Hair Apparent with something akin to wonder. Which wasn’t reciprocated – the receptionist barely glanced at me as I explained my mission. ‘Take a seat at the basin,’ was her advice. Then I heard her shouting ‘Gráinne, Gráinne, client at basin two.’
Gráinne didn’t inspire confidence. She looked very young. I would have said she was no more than thirteen, except surely there were laws against that kind of thing. She hobbled towards me on stick legs, attempted to make eye-contact and failed.
Wobbling, she put a gown on me and tucked in loads of towels round my neck. She seemed to be having trouble remaining upright in her platforms.
Then she turned on the taps and I settled back. But relaxation was not on the cards.
‘Er, where are you going on holidays this year?’ Gráinne asked awkwardly, like she’d been taught by the big hairdressers to do. She was clearly determined to get her diploma in cutting, tinting and poor conversation.
‘Nowhere,’ I said.
‘That’ll be lovely,’ she said, kneading my skull.
We had a few short moments of blissful silence.
‘Have you been there before?’ she asked.
‘Loads of times.’
More time elapsed, during which she scalded my scalp and sprayed the shower-head into my ears so often I nearly got water on the brain.
‘Are you going with a couple of friends?’ she enquired.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t got any friends.’
‘That’s great,’ she said pleasantly.
As Gráinne scrubbed, rinsed and conditioned, I felt a certain pride that I must still look ordinary.
‘Who’s doing you today?’ asked Gráinne. I thought it was an unfortunate turn of phrase.
‘Jasmine.’
‘I’ll go and get…’ She gave a strange snigger, but so long as she wasn’t laughing at me that was fine. ‘…Jasmine for you.’
She lurched away, leaning very forward because of the shoes, and called ‘Maura, Maura, your client is ready.’
As soon as I saw Jasmine/Maura I recognized her and not just because she had trimmed my hair when I was home at Christmas. She was slathered in so much dark-brown foundation that with her white-blonde hair she looked like a negative. She was kind of hard to forget.