Jesus, Allegra, I thought you were out tonight, Becky says, which I think is an amusing defence. How dare I intrude. She’s wrapped in a blanket, my turquoise fleece blanket. On her sweaty naked body. Her face is red and flustered, probably mostly from the sex and not as much shame as I think is necessary. To my own surprise, my response is of genuine shock because the ass doesn’t belong to Donnacha. The man that’s not Donnacha is less bothered about me than Becky is, in fact not bothered at all. He takes his time making a move, an amused expression on his face. He bends over to pick up his clothes, hairy asshole and ball sack in my face.
Could you give us a minute please, she asks, irritated by my presence, as if I don’t have the social cop-on to leave and give them privacy. I step outside and go back downstairs to the gym. I sit on the rower. Rock back and forth gently, thinking.
The man who’s not Donnacha passes me by, dressed in an expensive suit, still smirking. His aftershave almost chokes me. And then Becky arrives with my bed sheets and duvet cover all bundled messily under her arm. The assertive tone again. Allegra, I would appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself. There are … things … not everything is as it … it’s private, she finally says firmly, her decision made not to go any further.
Sure, I tell her, rocking back and forward on the rower. So about the rent, I say, would you like to talk about that now or another time.
She can’t believe I’ve said it. She just can’t. As if my words in that tone, in this moment are worse than what I just walked in on her doing. She looks at me differently. With dislike. Disgust. Loser. Weirdo. The rent stays as it is she says, giving me a firm look, and all is understood. Loud and clear. The rent stays the same, and I say nothing about the hairy ass that didn’t belong to Donnacha. Not that I would have anyway. I’ll wash these, she adds about the bed sheets, walking self-consciously from the gym, probably still tender.
I make up a new bed, throw my favourite fleece blanket to the corner of the room. I have to open the window wide to get rid of the smell of his aftershave but it’s so heavy it feels like it has sunk into every fibre of the room. I finally get in to bed, feeling so cold from an entire day outside and evening hanging out in the park, but too tired now to take a shower.
I watch the video of them a few times. I filmed first and now I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it.
Six
I wake to the sound of the children screaming in the garden. It’s 10 a.m. on a Saturday and I’m glad I’ve managed to switch off the Monday-to-Friday internal alarm clock and sleep so late. I would have assumed, considering what I discovered in my bedroom last night, that Becky would be treating me more kindly. Breakfast in bed, no noisy children under my window, a reduced rent. Perhaps she’s trying to get rid of me. Six-year-old Cillín is the loudest. I bet he’s wearing his princess dress now. I can hear the tone in his voice, the character he becomes when he’s wearing dresses. I sit up and glimpse outside. Yes. Purple Rapunzel dress, a long blonde wig and a Viking helmet. Atop the playhouse waving his sword in the air, announcing the impending head-severing of his brothers.
I throw the covers off and knock over two empty bottles of wine on the floor. One red, one white. I couldn’t make up my mind which one to open so I recall, at 2 a.m.-ish after Cliffhanger ended and Tootsie began, the red wine was opened. I feel a little groggy, events of last night like a mirage now and I’d wonder if they happened at all if I didn’t have the footage in my phone to confirm it.
I usually babysit every Saturday night but I don’t know if Becky will bother now after her extracurricular activities, perhaps she will have to, her husband deserves a turn after all. I’m sure all will become clear soon enough. Anyway I can’t sit around, my Saturdays are filled. I shower and shave myself all over and moisturise. I dress. High-waisted blue skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, black military boots and an army green parka jacket coat. I soften the look with a blush-pink sweater. I say good morning to the kids, pretend to die as Cillín stabs me with his sword. As he runs away laughing I see the sparkling princess shoes beneath the dress. I deliberately look into the house to find Becky. I’m curious what a domestic scene looks like after you’ve been fucking another man. I survey the kitchen, it all looks normal. Business as usual. My my she is good. Donnacha must still be in bed after his night out. Maybe he was with someone else as well. Maybe that’s the agreement. Maybe not. I don’t judge but I wonder. The kitchen sliding doors are open. I catch Becky’s eye.
I’m staying in tonight she calls, her voice drifting through the open sliding doors. I take that to mean I’m off the hook with babysitting tonight. I suppose she was quite active last night, who can blame her.
I hop on the number 42 bus on Malahide road, and ride it all the way into the city, almost the last stop. I get off on Talbot Street and walk the few minutes to Foley Street, once Montgomery Street, nicknamed Monto, that was in its heyday from 1860s to the 1920s the biggest red-light district in Europe. I head straight to Montgomery Gallery, an art gallery celebrating nouveau Irish painters, sculptors and creatives, see Jasper, one half of the husband-wife owners, serving a customer, and climb their wooden paint-splattered steps to their second floor. It’s just an empty room. Stripped back, walls peeled of paper, floors unvarnished, everything back to its bare-boned essentials in a cool vibey edgy way that stops it from being a desolate house. It is a vessel for holding stuff, just like Donnacha’s work but far more useful. They sell his bowls but I’ve never mentioned him to them or this place to him. Wouldn’t want him showing up when I’m here. Two large windows mean light fills the room. The floor creaks. It feels like the room is lopsided. It’s used for exhibitions, parties, launches, displays and today for a live art class featuring moi.
There’s a changing screen in the corner. Tongue-in-cheek images of naughty cherubs fondling themselves. It’s Genevieve and Jasper’s kind of humour. Exhibitions and gatherings go on into the early hours of the morning, filled with their artist friends, anything can happen. I have witnessed this.
Genevieve greets me upstairs. Her look is so austere it’s in stark contrast to the inner fluidity that I know is there. A blunt black bob with fringe, black squared thick-rimmed glasses, red lipstick, always red lipstick. A military-style jacket, gold buttons, done up to the top, high-neck, a military-style belt cinching in her waist. Beneath her jacket, two enormous boobs protrude. She wears a black cashmere skirt, to the ankle, and military-style boots. No skin on show. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that the boots bang and scrape across the creaky wooden floors, Genevieve is not here on this earth to be silent. The room is so old the floor is tilted. I’ve gotten a kick out of watching new artists’ easels and stools roll across the floor, towards me. The horror on their face as their paints almost crash into the naked woman. They need to ground those easels in a crack in the floorboards, root their feet to the floor.
I shiver. The windows are wide open.
Sorry, Genevieve says, setting up the stools and easels. It was a wild night last night, I’m trying to get rid of the smoke.
I sniff the air, tell her I don’t smell anything. Such a blank canvas now but I can imagine it hours earlier, with heaving bodies, sweat and whatever else. Not unlike my bedroom last night. She lifts her nose to the air to see if I’m telling the truth. Okay I’ll close them now, she says, banging over the floors to get to the windows, and I can imagine her in a previous life, grabbing a rifle, dropping to her knees and sniper-shooting soldiers below. In reality she slides the windows shut. We have twelve today, she says, no drop-ins. Drop-ins aren’t allowed after the last time when a drop-in decided to drop his hand down the front of his trousers while watching me, instead of painting. Genevieve, no-nonsense, had practically dragged him out of the building by his cock. We smile at one another at the memory.