Fine Lines, Chapter Four

Fine Lines is a fictional series charting the implosion of 45-year old Tara Hewson’s world, and the curious bird that flaps up from the ashes…

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three

I’d started meditating. Sitting with my own thoughts was endlessly boring. I wondered if other people had the same problem or if they were able to transcend the rattling globe on their shoulders.

I was also hugely irritated by the teacher, which didn’t help. She was about thirty and not long back from a couple of years in Bali, honing her craft. She said she welcomed questions but she never answered them, her patronising smile loaded with all kinds of Step Off energy.

It ruined the vibe for me. I spent most of the eyes-closed time mentally shadow boxing her smug frame, which didn’t feel as aggressive as it now sounds.

The one good thing that stuck, from the couple of sessions I could endure, was the practice of keeping a daily gratitude journal. I’d bought the €25 notebook and had committed to trawling the steaming entrails of my day to day to find all that there was to be thankful for. And so it began.

I am thankful that:

I haven’t had to murder a mouse for almost two weeks.
Nytol exists.
Barry’s tea is a thing because no other tea brand gets it.
the nasty Rice Krispie skin tag on my shoulder has fallen off
eternal life is not possible.

I had a roof over my head, the girls were healthy, we were safe and warm. Remembering to say thank you for the big things as well as the little things really helped, even if some of the content was branded.

My mind drifted so quickly into darkness I’d began a process of natural limitation. I’m sure I was supposed to sit with the feelings and work through them but shaking them vigorously off so they couldn’t tentacle into my soul seemed a better short-term remedy. The 4 am thoughts were harder to take down. They preferred to sit heavily on my chest, a couple of ghoulish pro wrestlers with nowhere better to be.

Money came up a lot. It occurred to me that some of my friends would be living their best lives in retirement, cashing in on years of stressful, responsible jobs or substantial family inheritances. I had no stash, no savings and I’d always supported myself on my three days per week. And because M had never wanted a joint account, I had deposited €2,200 per month into his account since the day we bought our family home. Which didn’t cover half of everything but it made a dent.

I had no idea how much M was worth but I knew that my job, and the agency, was not secure and that there would be no redundancy payment when the worst happened.

Much like waking from a twenty-year coma, it struck me that M had always been quietly setting up his future without me. While I had been running just to stand still, he had been looking after only himself. He changed his car every three years, I bought mine in 2005; we holidayed with his parents every year because he didn’t want to waste their Algarve timeshare though he still managed an annual skiing trip with ‘the boys’; he had refused to pay a €500 vet bill for the cat because I hadn’t updated the pet insurance so I had had to ask my Mum for a lend.

Every time he was tight or put his own needs first, I had thought it was justified because he kept us all afloat.

***

Susan was texting me nightly in the run up to her date, making sure I wasn’t going to back out.

I hope you’ve tamed the beast she texted on the Wednesday.

What beast? I texted back.

Your vagina. Tomas’s friend is excited to meet you.

He won’t be meeting my vagina.

By failing to prepare, you’re preparing to fail. She said.

Fail at what?

Don’t let me down.

I hadn’t told Susan about my situation with M but she’d never been a fan of his. Years ago, when partners were still invited to Christmas parties, she’d cornered him at the edge of the dance floor and slut-dropped at his feet a few times, her signature move. Slut-dropping, for her, was a loaded power-play, an invitation to get involved. She was rumbling for a sexually charged dance off. In Susan’s eyes, no-one was more deeply alluring and irresistible than, well, Susan.

M shook her off and she’d called him Mr Misery ever since.

On the Thursday morning I panicked. I hadn’t considered my pubic realm for a very long time. Sometimes I shaved it bald – because symmetrical strips were hard – sometimes I nailed the strip purely by chance; sometimes, I just let that girl bloom like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Razors were bad, everyone said it so I caved and booked in for a professional MOT. Sex wasn’t part of my plan but maybe that’s because I didn’t have a plan, maybe feeling game-ready allowed my non-plan to be more flexible.

‘Okay, what are we doing today?’ The woman at Wax On, Wax Off said, as I lay, half naked on the treatment bed.

‘Brazilian?’ I said. ‘That’s just one strip down the middle, right?’

‘Yeah. Put your feet flat on the bed for a sec.’ She said, looking between my legs.

‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, no problem.’ She said. ‘Are we doing the back side too?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’ I laughed. ‘Just the front.’

‘You’ve a hefty tuft back there, to be honest. Do you want me to tackle it?’

‘On my anus?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, the undercarriage and around your bum hole, between your cheeks.’

‘Christ.’

‘Most people get it done there now.’

‘What if I have piles?’

‘Do you have piles?’

‘I think I might have one?’

‘if you tuck it up for me, we’ll be grand. Easy breezy. I see it all the time.’

And that’s how I ended up on all fours having my bum hole waxed.

***

I was close to sacking the night off and creeping into bed when Flavia turned up with half of her wardrobe and a bottle of gin.

‘If this guy is Argentinian, you’re going to have a good time, no question!’ She said.

Flavia is from Buenos Aires and regularly slates the emotional and sexual repression of Irish men over a certain age, apart from her husband. She calls them Generation Constipation.

I’m not sure if it was the gin or her big, beautiful energy but within forty minutes I was dressed and ready to go. It wasn’t Flavia’s first outfit choice – a bodycon number with tits for dinner– but I felt good.

***

Berti’s is easily my favourite restaurant in Dublin. It’s dark – but not LA-dark – moody, so you can still read the menu without using your phone. It’s expensive, so always feels like a bit of a treat but is grungy enough to channel the weirdness of a Total Recall bar scene. The Mexican food is off the charts and the club tunes are always pumping. I miss clubbing.

‘Okay, don’t kill me, calm down.’ Susan said running towards me as the hostess checked her list.

‘He didn’t bring a friend?’ I said, ready to back out the door.

She grabbed my arm.

‘Tara, this is Matias, Tomas’s son.’

And there he was. A fifteen year-old Bieber lookalike with his head stuck in a phone.

‘We couldn’t get a table together.’ Susan said, looking almost guilty. ‘So you guys are going to sit at the bar, is that cool, Matias?’

‘Whatever.’ He said in a broad American accent.

I thought about running but it was too late. Designated babysitter was suddenly an obvious fit for me. I ordered a margarita, resetting my notions.

Matias lived in Paris with his Dad and went to one of the American schools, hence the accent. I asked him about his moustache and if they were a thing now and he laughed and told me I was old. I drank every time he referenced my age or irrelevance.

I showed him a picture of the girls and he tried to show me a picture of his girlfriend but couldn’t find a clean one. And that was our segue into a long chat about PornHub and the teen consumption of free, mostly unethical, porn. Well that’s where I was going with it.

‘Are you guys ready to eat?’ The bar man appeared between us, both of us peering into Matias’ phone.

I ordered big, all of the bijoux, pricey extras like the yellow-fin tuna tostados ‘just to pick at.’ There was no doubt that Susan would be covering the bill and much more.

We were still eating when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

‘Tara?’ It was M, looking like I’d crashed his date.

For a second I couldn’t speak, my breath suspended in my ribs.

‘Hello.’ I said. ‘Well, this is fucking weird.’

M looked at Matias waiting for an introduction or explanation, I wasn’t sure.

‘This is my guy, Matias.’ I said eventually.

‘Wat up, wat up.’ Matias said, playing into the intro and presenting one of his fists for a pumping.

‘Okay.’ M said stiffly. ‘I don’t want this to be awkward but I’m with someone.’

‘Of course.’ I said. ‘Of course you are, it’s Thursday. Go and have fun.’ Like I was his mother.

The margaritas and chargrilled gambas and sweet corn dripping with buttery cheese lurched in my stomach, propelling me towards the bathroom at the back of the restaurant. I pushed out the emergency exit instead, knowing the night air would fix me.

‘Hey, are you okay out here.’ It was the bar man, dumping a crate of bottles.

‘Completely fine, thanks. I’m just hot.’ I said, resting my forehead against the brick wall.

‘Do you know that guy?’

Which guy?

‘I saw you talking to a man who just came in and then you ran out, so…’

‘That’s my husband.’ I said.

‘Right.’

‘We still live together.’

‘And did you know, about the woman?’ He said.

‘How did you know?’

‘I see everything.’ He laughed.

‘He’s seeing other people, it’s a new thing. I just wasn’t ready for it.’

‘And you’re with that boy?’

‘No! I’m babysitting for my boss. That’s a different shit-show.’

Well, look, that’s a good thing. I was worried the cops were going to turn up for you.’

‘Thanks.’

He pulled out a packet of Marlboro reds and offered me one, lighting it for me with an old Zippo lighter.

‘Do you still love him?’ He said.

‘I miss talking to him and him knowing me so well and pretending to care. I miss life not being so serious.’

‘And love?’

‘That is kind of love.’

‘Are you in love with him though?’

I turned from the wall to face the small yard

‘I don’t know if I ever was. I don’t know if I can love anyone. My heart doesn’t fill up all the way, like a faulty cistern.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You know, the tank at the top of a toilet.’

‘Okay, come on, let’s get you a drink, that is just too sad.’ He said.

‘Can I tell you something?’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I got my butt-hole waxed today for the first time.’

‘Wow, congratulations!’ He said laughing. ‘I bet she looks beautiful.’

‘She looks very surprised.’

Matias was gone when I got back to the bar and there was no sign of Susan or M. The restaurant had cleared and people, mostly staff, had started to dance. Alex – my new friend - made me an Espresso Martini and gently pulled me up to join them. It didn’t feel weird.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He said quickly as I was grabbing my bag from the bar to leave.

‘I guess.’ I said. I was used to jerky lunges, not polite inquiries.

He pressed against me, his arm wrapped around my back, and kissed me hard on the lips. And then I understood why. M was on the other side of the bar paying his bill, staring at us.

‘Thank you.’ I said, shaking his hand as I waited for a taxi.

‘Here’s my number if you ever feel like some fun.’ He said.

‘What does fun mean?’ I said.

‘Sex, maybe?’

‘Okay, that’s what I thought but I just wasn’t sure.’

‘No attachments, just a chance to leave the past behind. I could be your teacher.’ He said.

‘Wouldn’t I be the teacher?’ I said.

‘We’ll see.’

Rhona McAuliffe, June 2020.