Chapter Thirteen
‘Scrambled all right for you?’
Michael frowned, as he whipped through theIrish Times, eyes darting up and down rows. He’d arrived home from Brussels or Belfast, I wasn’t quite sure, at 7 a.m. and was experimenting with weekend casual. Not just the suit and no tie, this was a new departure. A chino. A V-neck sweater. A polo shirt. The slip-on trainer. I suspected the influenceof Lucy the Marvel.
‘Fried, thank you, Mammy,’ he said, still expertly scanning the paper to see what might have been have said about him. Good or bad, he didn’t mind. That was the thing about politicians; hides so thick, they would survive a nuclear holocaust. A low day would be when he hadn’t been mentioned at all.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ I felt like a B&B lady. ‘Tinned prunes? Rice Crispies? A supermarketscone passed off as homemade?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So, tea?’
‘Milk, actually, Mammy. A fine, big glass of milk.’
‘Coming up.’ I poured it out. ‘Would you like a straw? Some Nesquik. I could put it in a sippy cup?’
He looked up again. ‘Sorry Mammy, did you say something?’
‘Here’s your milk.’ I put his glass down beside him.
‘Delicious.’ He took a big gulp. ‘I feel healthier already,’ he said,eyes returned to the paper as I cracked an egg into the frying pan and stood for a moment watching it sizzle.
‘Your friend Clodagh’s in here,’ he said. ‘At the back. In the going-out pages…’
‘The social column?’ I looked over his shoulder at the paper and there indeed was Clodagh, standing with Max wearing a black tuxedo and not smiling. ‘He looks his usual friendly self,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’Michael didn’t take his eyes off the paper.
‘It’s just that for some reason Clodagh is going out with a man who doesn’t seem to like people. Or smiling.’ I slid the egg from the pan onto his plate.
‘Mmmhmmm.’ Michael buttered more toast, and stared at Max for a moment.
‘He needs milk,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Clodagh’s fella. He looks pasty. Pale. As though he’s spent his life in a dark room. Heneeds a glass of milk. Put colour in his cheeks. Look at me.’
‘What?’
‘No, look at me. Actually look at me. See my cheeks. What colour are they?’
I peered at his face. I hadn’t been so close to him in years or paid so much attention. ‘You do look healthy,’ I admitted. ‘Definitely not pasty. A high colour, one might say.’ Heightened by the white of the teeth, I thought.
‘See!’ he was triumphant.‘Now, I think that milk is what is wrong with Rosie. It’s her vegetarianism. If she would just eat normally, then maybe she wouldn’t be short of breath and feeling all light-headed.’
‘You are prescribing a glass of milk.’
‘That’s right.’ His eyes moved to another page.
‘I wish I’d known this,’ I said. ‘I’m sure other people need to know the miraculous benefits of milk.’
‘Well, now you do.’It was hard to believe now what a breath of fresh air Michael seemed when I met him. Exotic, really. A twenty-five-year-old suit-wearing, briefcase-swinging, young conservative. Couldn’t have been more different to Red, which is exactly what I thought I needed. Even his need to keep his socks on when we slept together seemed endearing. Cold feet, I thought. Podophobia, perhaps. Athlete’s foot? Strangebut surmountable. Who, after all, didn’t have strange habits, weird predilections?
‘Do you think we should encourage her to take a year out after the exams? Not go straight to college. Take a breather?’
‘A breather? I know, why don’t we let her just lie around all day and watch daytime television? Maybe encourage her to take up smoking. Or rolling her own cigarettes and wearing tie-dye clothing?Perhaps develop a Jack Daniels habit? Hmmm?’
