No Dress Rehearsal (2 page)

No, she definitely wasn't ringing Mammy Whelan this evening. Nor was she going to ring her father. Not because he'd give out to her. Not at all! He'd barely say anything. All he ever said when she rang up was, “I'll get your mother.” You stood a better chance of having a conversation with Shergar.

But she was mad keen to talk to someone. She'd have to ring the
Samaritans at this rate. Or order a pizza just to hear a warm human voice.

But when she tried ringing the pizza delivery place, it turned out that it was her phone which was broken, not Sinead's. She could hear the pizza man, but he couldn't hear her. Which was funny because the phone had been fine earlier. It had obviously been working perfectly when Neil had got the call which had lifted him from the flat like a bat out of hell.

Now what, she wondered listlessly. She could always overeat, of course. Nothing like milling into a family-sized bag of crisps to keep the blues away. But there were no crisps in the flat. Worse still, she wasn't hungry. I
am
in shock, she realised. Bad shock.

The only time she ever skipped her evening meal was when she went for “just the one” after work. And ended
up mouldy drunk on an empty stomach by half-eight. Too jarred to hold a knife and fork, and fit for nothing except bed.

“Cigarettes!” she thought, suddenly. “They'll do the trick. And so what if I've given them up.”

Now, where had she hidden her emergency supply? She tried her tights drawer. Then the press in the bathroom. Then under her bed. But no joy. Just when she was losing hope, she remembered. She ran into the lounge and threw herself on a video case.
Please let this be the right one
. Quickly she pulled it open. And found ten Benson & Hedges inside.

“Aha!” She kissed the box two or three times. Then she lit a cigarette and pulled on it down to her toes.

But strangely, even that didn't make her feel better.

Sinead finished blowing her whistle, then she slammed down the phone. The mystery knicker-discusser hadn't called in a while. She'd thought she'd got rid of him for good. Well, think again. Although he hadn't sounded himself. Maybe he wasn't well, she thought sarcastically. He hadn't done his usual heavy-breathing routing. Or attempted a discussion on the finer points of her underwear. All she'd really been able to hear was a type of faraway keening. A distant whistling. Almost ghostly.

Suddenly she felt slightly spooked. For no reason at all she flicked a glance around the room. Almost as if she was expecting to see something. She wasn't quite sure what. But
something
.

She pricked with unease, aware that she was alone in her flat. Uncomfortably aware. Then she jumped as the walls of her flat began to squeeze to the sounds of NWA booming from the flat above. Alone? She wasn't alone. She was never alone as long as Wayne was living overhead.

Her jaw clenched tightly in familiar tension. She should move. Or complain to someone. Possibly even Wayne. But she was afraid of him. Him and his pit-bull.

The phone rang again. Quickly, she switched on her answering-machine. She wasn't in the humour to talk to the
mystery knicker-discusser for a second time this evening.

The greeting played.
I'm not here right now, but please leave a message
.

“Sinead,” a voice roared into the room. Sinead's heart sank. It wasn't the mystery knicker-discusser. She'd have preferred the mystery knicker-discusser. It was Ginger Moran, her boss.

“I know you're there,” he bellowed into the room. “Where else would you be? Pick up the phone.”

Sinead thought about ignoring him. But she knew what he was like. He wouldn't go away. So she gave in. She snatched up the phone and said curtly, “What?”

“What yourself,” Ginger said cheerfully.

“What are you ringing me at nine o'clock for?”

“What are you ringing me at nine
o'clock for?” he repeated in a nambypamby voice.

She didn't speak. Then he snapped into action. “You never left me the bill of lading for the tobacco shipment.”

“It's in your in-tray.” She kept her voice even.

“
Where
in my in-tray?” Sinead had to stand by and listen to sounds of rustling, as Ginger pawed through sheets of paper. “Ah, I have it. See you tomorrow, don't be late. We've that delivery of ball-bearings coming.”

“And thank you, too,” Sinead said sarcastically, hanging up the phone.

Sinead had worked for Ginger Moran for a very long time. Too long, she often thought. She was twenty-four when she had taken the job. Just to fill a couple of months while she decided what she really wanted to do. And here she was, eight years later, still working for him.

He ran an import-export business. It operated out of a busy office and warehouse in Ringsend. And she suspected that a lot of his business deals were very slightly illegal.

He imported knocked-off cigarettes. Or stolen Nike runners. Or fake Hilfiger T-shirts. She reckoned he'd do anything if there was a couple of bob in it.

She didn't know why she stuck it. He was a mad-man. Demanding and narky. As well as her normal working duties, she had to do all kinds of other things for Ginger. Not just the usual stuff, like buying presents for his girlfriends. But organising dentist's appointments. Choosing new clothes for him. Keeping him up to date with
Coronation Street
. And if she missed the evening episodes, he insisted that she watch the weekend omnibus.

He treated her like a mix of a wife
and mother. And the worst thing about him was that he always knew when he'd pushed her too far. When that happened he'd suddenly become contrite and almost sweet. Telling her she was great. Giving her presents.

Mind you, they were only ever things like a box of stolen Nike runners. Men's ones. Miles too big. Or a carton of fake Marlboros. Not much use to a non-smoker like herself. She'd given them to Lizzie, who had lit one and then stubbed it out straight away. “Disgusting,” she'd declared. “That's not tobacco. They must have used tea-leaves! Or worse.”

In fairness, Ginger paid well. It was probably the one reason why she hadn't left before now. That and the threats, of course.

“If you ever leave me, I'll put a contract out on your life,” he often
warned her. This was meant to be a compliment. “If you ever hand in your notice, I'll kill you and then you'll be sorry.”

Sinead half-believed him. There were enough dodgy characters in and out of the office. She was sure he'd be able to lay his lands on a hired killer if he needed one.

The phone rang once more, and Sinead tensed. Who was it this time?

“It's me again,” Ginger bellowed. “Where's my stomach tablets?”

Seconds after she hung up, the phone rang
again
. God, it was all go this evening.

This time it was Shane, an ex-boyfriend. She hadn't heard from him in about six months.

“Come out for a drink, will you,” he asked.

“Ah Shane, I'm knackered tired.”

“How come?You're not still working for Ginger Moran, are you?”

“And what if I am?” Sinead said, huffily. When she'd been going out with Shane, he'd slagged her constantly about being Ginger's mammy.

“No wonder you're knackered,” he laughed, “being on-call twenty-four hours a day.”

Well, she had to go for a drink after that. Just to show that she was able.

Half an hour later she met Shane in the pub. He was a normal, nice-looking man. She was surprised by how good it was to see him. She was glad she'd made the effort to come out. She tried to remember why they'd broken up, and couldn't.

Sinead had a small stable of ex-boyfriends. For some strange reason she was still on speaking terms with them all. She didn't know how she'd managed that. Everyone else she knew spat when they mentioned an ex.

Maybe because none of her
boyfriends had mattered that much to her. Oh, she'd liked them and all that. But not one of them had been The One.

Of course, she'd
thought
some of them were. When she'd first been going out with them. But it had always turned out to be a case of mistaken identity.

To be honest, Sinead wasn't even sure if she could be bothered hoping to meet The One any more. She was weary from the whole business. And look at the misery it brought to poor Lizzie, hanging around with that Neil. He was a decent enough man – she wasn't saying otherwise. But he was also thirty-three going on sixteen and very slow to make a commitment. She couldn't be doing with that.

Sinead was a romantic. But not really in the hearts and flowers way. More in the broader sense of the word.
She dreamt about travel and adventure. Of freedom and excitement.

And she had no doubt in her mind that it would happen for her. At some stage. But at the moment her life was more about doing the immediate things. Buying her dad's birthday present. Washing her clothes. Hiding the grey that had the cheek to start appearing in her hair. These things
had
to be done. And when she was on top of everything, then she could start making her plans.

Of course, she didn't go round thinking this. Not out loud, anyway. But humming away at the back of her mind were thoughts of another life.

Once, a couple of years back, Sinead and Lizzie had gone to get their fortunes told. And the tarot reader had told Sinead that she'd find true love and happiness in a foreign country.
Lizzie had got all excited about it. She urged Sinead to jack the job in and go off on an adventure. But Sinead clung to her demanding job and her awful flat with the noisy head-the-ball living upstairs. “You can't move countries just because some old biddy with a deck of cards says you should,” she insisted.

“I know, but you
want
to go,” Lizzie pleaded. “Why don't you go and have a look? Even if you decide to hate it, at least you'll have found out.”

“It's low self-esteem,” Sinead had laughed. “Because I'm
not
worth it!”

At midnight Lizzie decided she'd better go to bed. But Neil still hadn't returned. In the cold, lonely bed, she lay staring into the darkness. There was no hope of getting any sleep. She was too worried. She had a horrible feeling that very bad things were about to happen.

Where was Neil? He'd never done this to her before. He was a decent fella. But where the hell was he? Was he with someone else?
In bed
with someone else?

No, she couldn't believe that. They'd
had a row, that was all. Okay, so they'd had lots of rows lately. But he loved her. He'd told her he loved her. Only that very morning.

“I just don't want to get married,” he'd said. “We're fine as we are.”

“But … but what would be the harm?”

“I love you,” he'd said. “You're the woman for me. But I'm not ready for all that business. Buying a house. Having babies. Not yet.”

“But you're thirty-three!”

“I still feel too young. Come on, Lizzie, we've a good life. We have a good laugh. Let's enjoy it!”

“But …”

And then she'd said no more. Best not to push him too far.

But it looked like she might have pushed him too far. The alarm clock by her bed clicked as each second ticked
by. Each tick sounded as loud as the crack of a whip. She decided she was getting a digital clock. At least they were silent.

She kept switching on the lamp to check the time. One o'clock. Half-past one. Ten past two. Each time, her panic got worse.

At five past three she heard a key in the lock, then a thump as a shoulder pushed the front door. Thank God! Thank God! He was home.

He barged into the bedroom and turned on the light. His eyes were wild.

“Where were you?” she asked. Her voice shook.

But he just stared around the room, not really looking at anything. His eyes slid over her. As if he couldn't see her. Then, as she smelt the drink from him, she understood. He was jarred.

“Still not talking to me?” she asked.
“Even though I'm worried out of my mind.”

She watched his mad eyes fix on a pile of clothes on a chair. He picked a jumper off the top of the heap. It was one of hers. Then he sank onto the bed. As she watched in disbelief, he pressed his face into it. Was he going to puke? On her good jumper?

But he didn't. Instead Neil took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of the wool. That threw her. She hadn't a clue what he was up to. But whatever it was, it was very odd. She eyed him, as he rocked back and forth, the jumper to his face.

After a while he got into bed, then turned off the light. Seconds later, in the darkness, she heard a noise from him. Again she thought he might be about to puke. Until she realised that he was … surely not? …
crying
?

The sound broke her heart.

“Let's be friends,” she said softly. She couldn't be doing with this fighting. She moved across the sheets and pressed herself up against his back. But he shivered like a wet dog and drew away.

Badly hurt, she moved away again.

She thought she'd never be able to sleep as she was far too upset. But she did doze off. And when she woke up, he wasn't beside her. Terrified, she hopped out of bed and ran around the flat. There was no sign of him anywhere.

Of course, Lizzie wasn't to know that the night before Neil had rushed over to her parents. To try to comfort them and himself. And that after he'd come to bed and nodded off, he'd only managed two hours sleep. At five a.m. he jerked awake. Wide awake, yet he
still felt like he was in the middle of a horrible nightmare. When he went to the kitchen to boil the kettle, he found he couldn't bear being alone in the flat. Especially because he didn't really feel alone. Not after he'd found a fresh butt in the ashtray. Who had smoked that? Neil didn't smoke. Neither did Lizzie. Lately, anyway. So who'd smoked it?