Lying in Wait(44)

‘Well, if it’s too late …’

‘No, of course not. Oh yes, do call over!’

‘Only if you’re sure?’ I wondered if I’d get the address out of her before I had to drop in another coin.

I was forced to ask.

By the time I reached her front door twenty minutes later, I was completely single-minded. When she opened it, I kissed her on the mouth and pushed her into the hallway. I’m not sure what I would have done if she had resisted, but she seemed as eager as I was. We climbed the four flights of stairs to a tiny flat. Photos covered the walls, strange photos of a vagrant begging on the street, a child’s hand, a signpost, the hubcap of a car. They made it all the more claustrophobic. There was a single bed in one corner, a fridge and hob in the other. I felt like a giant. As powerful as a giant. Seven minutes later, I came successfully inside her. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying not to think of Annie Doyle. And hating myself for it.

‘Thanks a million!’ she said.

I opened my eyes to the reality of naked Bridget. Her complexion was heightened by the exertion, but her body felt smooth, her breasts full and firm, her long limbs entwined around my own lumpen flanks. She had met my enthusiasm with her own and seemed grateful for the experience. She covered herself immediately with a blanket. I hid under the sheet.

‘I’m sorry I was so quick.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure, you see, in the pub earlier – even after you asked for my number, I wasn’t sure. But now I know you were thinking about me too.’

I tried to feel guilty, but where was the harm? We had both got what we wanted. She was sitting in profile, so all I could see was her good eye. In the light of the thirty-watt bulb there was something appealing about her vitality, her innocence, but mostly her sudden confidence. She picked up her camera, took a photo of my shoe.

I emerged from my trance-like state. I needed to go home. I picked up the clothes I had frenziedly abandoned, and turned away to put them on, feeling again the shame of my size that I’d felt in Helen’s bedroom years earlier. Bridget walked up behind me and kissed my shoulder before reaching for her robe.

‘Do you have to go?’ she said, disappointed.

‘Yes, my mum … she doesn’t like …’

Bridget laughed. ‘You’re so funny!’ she said. ‘So sweet!’

I knew I wasn’t either of those things.

As I reached for the door handle, she said, ‘See you …?’ leaving the question hanging.

‘Monday,’ I said. ‘See you Monday.’

I didn’t look back, but when I walked down the stairs and out of the front door into the orange glow of lamplight, I could feel her uncertainty. I had no idea what had just happened. Was I sick in the head? What was going on between Bridget and me? Lust had led me to her door. Apart from that I wasn’t sure of anything either.

The next morning I informed my mother that I was going on a diet and that I was going to take up regular exercise. I asked her to exclude bread, crisps, sweets and potatoes from the shopping list.

‘Oh, Laurie, that is such a great idea,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We can get some diet books from the library today and make a plan.’ Then she paused for a moment. ‘Are you trying to impress a girl?’

‘I might be,’ I said.

I was aware that Mum had some anxieties about my dating girls, but I wasn’t sure if it was about me getting hurt or about her being left alone.

‘Is it a girl from work?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

I dusted down the weighing scales that sat on top of the bathroom cabinet and stood on them as gingerly as an almost-sixteen-stone man could. I had work to do.

I walked five miles that weekend, having barely walked the length of myself since Granny had moved out three years earlier. I even tried some press-ups, but ended up straining a muscle in my shoulder.

The next Friday night after drinks in Mulligan’s, we had sex again in her dim and tidy bedsit, and though it was less fierce, less urgent, my eyes were still tightly shut as I refused to see Bridget smiling up at me. I used condoms that Arnold had given me. I would have to source them myself after this, from my sleazy barber probably. In the following weeks, I sat with Bridget at break times and we sometimes had lunch together and went out at weekends. I didn’t exactly keep my word about taking things slowly, but it seemed that Bridget didn’t want me to either.

I also followed Gerry Doyle, waited outside his house, sussed out his watering hole, where he bought his daily groceries. The pub he went to, Scanlon’s, was pretty close to our office. Over the course of a few weeks, I managed to make Scanlon’s our new regular Friday-night spot. It was a traditional Dublin pub where the clientele were a mixed bunch of older locals who drank Guinness and smoked Major in packs of ten. They served toasted sandwiches, which was the latest fad, and that was quite a draw. Alcoholic Evelyn was the hardest to persuade. She was a creature of habit, and food would never be as big an attraction as a pub where she knew the owner, his father, his dog and when the wallpaper had last been replaced. She was resistant to change, and as she was our lead drinker it took a bit of work, but when she realized that she was about to turn into a solo drinker if she didn’t come with us, she changed her tune. I saw Gerry in there from time to time and we nodded acknowledgement at each other, but I wanted to know more about him, I wanted to be in his company. The nods turned to salutations on my part, which he graciously returned, and when it was his signing-on day, I always volunteered to run that desk so that we could exchange a few words. Always courteous, always friendly. I felt I should do more for him, though, so I amended his claim to make it appear as if he had two dependent children and sent it to the Children’s Allowance section. I used my forgery skills to make it look like Dominic’s writing.