Anybody Out There? by Marian Keyes
On around our fourth or fifth date, he took a breath. “Don’t be scared but Leon and Dana want to meet you, like, properly. What do you think?”
I thought I’d rather remove my kidneys with a blunt spoon.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Funnily enough, Jacqui wants to meet you, too.”
He had a little think. “Okay.”
“Really? You don’t have to. I told her I wouldn’t ask because it might scare you away.”
“No, let’s go for it. You make her sound great, but will I like her?”
“Probably not.”
“What?”
“Because,” I said. “You know when two people are meeting for the first time and the other person—me—really wants them to like each other and they say, ‘You’ll love each other’? Their expectations are too high, so they end up being disappointed and hate each other. The key here is to lower expectations. So no, you won’t like her at all.”
The three of us will have dinner!” Jacqui declared.
We would not. What if she and Aidan didn’t hit it off? Two to three hours making light conversation while forcing food down tense throats—aaarrrgh!
A quick postwork drink would do; nice and easy and, above all, short. I decided on Logan Hall, a big, rackety midtown bar, noisy enough to cover up any dips in conversations. It would be packed with wage slaves kicking back and letting off steam.
On the designated night, I arrived first and fought my way through many tantalizing conversations—
“…she is so fired…”
“…a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his sock, I swear it…”
“…under his desk, sucking him off…”
—and got a booth on the balcony. Jacqui was next to arrive, and eight minutes later, Aidan hadn’t yet appeared.
“He’s late.” Jacqui sounded approving.
“There he is.” He was downstairs, pushing his way through the throngs, looking a little lost. “We’re here,” I called.
He looked up, saw me, smiled like he really meant it, and mouthed, “Hey.”
“Christ, he’s gorgeous.” Jacqui sounded astonished, then recovered herself. “Which counts for nothing. You could have the best-looking man in the world but if he won’t eat the bar nuts because he’s got a Feathery Stroker fear of germs, it’s curtains.”
“He’ll eat the nuts,” I said shortly, then stopped because here he was.
He kissed me, slid in beside me, and nodded hello to Jacqui.
“Can I get you guys a drink?” A waitress was flinging down cocktail napkins, then placed a bowl of mixed nuts midtable.
“A saketini for me,” I said.
“Make it two,” said Jacqui.
“Sir?” The waitress looked at Aidan.
“I’ve no mind of my own,” he said. “Better make it three.”
I wondered what Jacqui would conclude from that. Were mixed drinks too girlie? Would it have been better if he’d had a beer?
“Have a nut.” Jacqui offered him the bowl.
“Hey, thanks.”
I smirked at Jacqui.
It was a great night. We all got on so well that we stayed for a second drink, then a third, then Aidan insisted on picking up the bill. Again, this worried me. Would a non–Feathery Stroker have insisted we split it three ways?
“Thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, thanks,” Jacqui said, and I held my breath. If he said stuff about it being a pleasure to be out with two such lovely ladies, we were sunk. But he just said, “Welcome,” and surely this would count in his favor in the final Feathery Stroker shakedown?
“Better go to the ladies’ room,” Jacqui said. “Before the great migration home.”
“Good idea.” I followed her and asked, “Well? Feathery Stroker?”
“Him?” she exclaimed. “Definitely not.”
“Good.” I was pleased—delighted even—that Aidan had passed with such flying non–Feathery Stroker colors.
With warm admiration, she added, “I bet he’s a hard dog to keep on the porch,” and my smile wobbled just a little.
14
On Saturday afternoon, a taxi drew up outside chez Walsh. The door opened and a high-heeled spindly sandal appeared, followed by a tanned leg (slightly orange and streaky around the ankle), a short frayed denim skirt, a straining T-shirt that said MY BOYFRIEND IS OUT OF TOWN, and a fall of vanilla-striped hair. Claire had arrived.
“She’s forty,” Helen said, in alarm. “She looks like a tramp. She was never that bad before.”
“This is much more like it, better than that bloody Margaret,” Mum said, heading to the front door and welcoming Claire by calling out at the taxi, “Mutton dressed as lamb! Good girl yourself.”
Grinning, Claire swung up the drive, displaying six inches of thigh that was only slightly cellulity, and into Mum’s embrace.
“I’ve never seen you looking so well,” Mum declared. “Where did you get that T-shirt? Listen, would you have a word with Margaret; she’s your younger sister and she looks older than me, she’s bad for my image.”
“The state of you,” Helen said scornfully. “Dressed like trailer trash—at forty!”
“And you know what they say about forty?” Claire put her hand on Helen’s shoulder.
“Your arse hits the floor?”
“Life begins!” Claire yelled right in to her face. “Life BEGINS at forty. And forty is the new thirty. And age is only a number. And you’re only as young as the person you’re feeling. Now fuck off!”
She pivoted on her narrow heel and, with a dazzling smile, gathered me into arms. “Anna, how are you feeling, love?”
Worn-out, actually. Claire had only been home a matter of seconds and already the shouting, the insults, and the abrupt changes of mood had plunged me right back into my childhood.
“You look loads better,” she said, then began surveying the hall, looking for Rachel. “Where is she?”
“Hiding.”
“I’m not FUCKING hiding. I’m FUCKING meditating.” Rachel’s voice came from somewhere above us. We all looked up. She was lying on her belly on the landing, her nose poking through the banister. “You could have saved yourself the journey because I’m definitely marrying him and how do you reconcile your feminist principles with a skirt that short?”
“I’m not dressing for men, I’m dressing for me.”
“Yeah.” Mum sneered.
Eventually Rachel snapped out of the childish state we all seemed to have reverted to (especially Mum) and became all wise and serene again and agreed to give Claire her ear. Me, Helen, and Mum asked if we could be in on it, but Rachel said she’d prefer if we weren’t and Helen lowered her eyes and said, “Obviously, we respect that.” Then the minute the pair of them closeted themselves in a bedroom, the three of us raced up the stairs (well, they raced and I hobbled) and listened at the door, but apart from the occasional raised voice, “Chattels!,” “Objects!,” and Rachel doing her superirritating, “I understand” murmur, it quickly got boring.
Claire, having failed in her attempt to talk Rachel out of getting married, departed in high dudgeon on Sunday evening. (After first clearing out my makeup bag of the last few remaining lipsticks. As she said, she had not only her own needs to consider but those of her eleven- and five-year-old daughters, who needed to impress their peers.)
That night, Dad came to talk to me—as best he could. “Ready for the oul’ journey tomorrow?”
“Ready, Dad.”
“Well, um…good luck when you get back and keep up the oul’ walking,” he said stoutly. “It helps the oul’ knee.”
The number of times he said “oul” was an indication of how mortified he was: the “oul” index was at an all-time high. Dad would lie down and die for me and all his family, but he would not, could not, talk about emotions.
“Maybe when you get back, take up an oul’ hobby,” he suggested. “Keeps the oul’ mind off things. Golf maybe. And that’d be
“Thanks, Dad, I’ll think about it.”
“Mind you, it needn’t be golf,” he amended. “It could be any oul’ thing. Lady things. And we might be over at some stage to help with Rachel’s oul’ wedding to that hairy molly.”
At the airport Mum studied the departure board, looked from me to Rachel, then exclaimed, “Isn’t it a bloody shame that both of you live in New York.” She put her hands on her hips and thrust her bosom at us. She’d persuaded Claire to give her her “My Boyfriend Is Out of Town” T-shirt and kept trying to draw attention to it. “Would one of you ever move somewhere else so we’d have a free place to stay. I’ve always liked the sound of Sydney.”
“Or Miami,” Dad said, then he and Mum bumped hips and sang, “Welcome to Miami!”
“Say your good-byes,” Rachel said coldly.
“Ah right, of course.” They looked a little red-faced, then took a deep breath and launched into a flurry of kindness and concern. “Anna, you’ll be okay, pet.” “You’ll get over it.” “Just give it time.” “Come home anytime you want.” “Rachel, make sure you look after her.”
Even Helen said, “I wish you weren’t going. Try not to go too mental.”
“Write to me,” I said. “Keep me posted with your screenplay and send me funny e-mails about your job.”
“Okay.”
But the really peculiar thing was that despite all their well-wishing and hand squeezing and encouragement, no one so much as mentioned Aidan.
15
After Jacqui had decreed that Aidan would be a hard dog to keep on the porch, she told him, “You pass. We like you. You can come out with us whenever you like.”
“Er, thank you.”
“In fact, tomorrow night it’s Nell’s strange friend’s birthday. The Outhouse on Mulberry Street. Come along.”
“Um, okay.” He looked at me. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
The love-in between Jacqui and Aidan continued the following night, when, in the heaving bar, Jacqui indicated an Adonis leaning against a wall. “Look, your man’s gorgeous. On his own. Think he’s waiting for someone?”
“Ask him,” Aidan suggested.
“I can’t just go over and ask him.”
“Want me to go?”
Her eyes nearly fell out of her head. She clutched him. “Would you?”
“Sure.” We watched Aidan shoulder through the crowd, say something to the Adonis, saw the Adonis say something back, then twist his head to have a look at the little knot of us. Further chat ensued, then Aidan turned to come back…followed by Adonis.
“Sweet Jesus,” Jacqui hissed. “He’s coming over.”
Sadly, Adonis turned out to be called Burt and up close he had a peculiar immobile kind of face and no interest in Jacqui, but as a result, Jacqui thought Aidan was the cat’s pajamas.
Great stuff. Everyone getting on well. However, because Aidan had come out with my friends twice, I was obliged to meet Leon and Dana and I was not looking forward to being judged and found wanting. But—unlike the last time I’d met them—they didn’t treat me like a cardboard-cutout woman, and we had an unexpectedly (unexpected on my part, anyway) nice time.
Then, a few days later, the Real Men had a Halloween party, where they (the Real Men) dressed up as themselves. I was standing around wondering whether Aidan was going to show when someone appeared in front of me, wearing a sheet over his head and going, “Wooooooh!”
“Right back at you,” I said.
Then the person lifted the sheet and exclaimed, “Hey, Anna, it’s me!”
It was Aidan; we shrieked with surprise and delight. (Not that it was that surprising to see each other, but anyway.) I launched myself at him and he grabbed me, his arms around my back, our legs tangled together, and a jolt of want leaped from me. He felt it, too, because his eyes changed, instantly becoming serious. We held the gaze for a timeless moment, then Nell’s strange friend stuck a pitchfork in Aidan’s arse and broke the spell.
At this stage I’d seen Aidan about seven or eight times and not once had he tried to jump me. Every date we’d gone on, we’d had just one kiss. It had improved from quick and firm to slower and more tender, but one kiss was as good as it got.
Had I wanted more? Yes. Was I curious about his restraint? Yes. But I kept it all under control and something had held me back from getting Jacqui in a headlock every time I came home from an unjumped-on night out and tearfully agonizing: What’s his problem? Doesn’t he fancy me? Is he gay? Christian? One of those True Love Waits gobshites? Feathery Stroker in disguise?
Aidan rang the day after the Halloween party and said, “Last night was fun.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. Listen, on Saturday night, Shake’s in the local heat of the air-guitar championship. We’re all going along to laugh. Like to come?”
A pause. “Anna, can we…talk?”
Oh Christ.
“Don’t get me wrong. I really like Jacqui and Rachel and Luke and Shake and Leon and Dana and Nell and Nell’s strange friend. But I’d like to see you, just the two of us?”
“When?”
“Soon as possible? Tonight?”
A funny feeling started fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
It increased when Aidan said, “There’s a nice little Italian on West Eighty-fifth.”
There was more than a nice little Italian on West Eighty-fifth. Aidan lived on West Eighty-Fifth.
“Eight o’clock?” he suggested.
“Okay.”
We got through our food superspeedily; an hour and a half after we’d arrived, we were at the coffee and kicking-out stage. How had that happened?
Because our minds weren’t on our food, that’s how. I was very, very nervous—although I shouldn’t have been. Shortly after we’d come to New York, me and Jacqui had done a class in seduction techniques. “We’re out of our depth in this city,” Jacqui had said. “New York women are very experienced. If you and me can’t pole-dance we’ll never get blokes.”
I had only gone along for the laugh. My feeling was that if a man refused to sleep with me because I wouldn’t be his private dancer, he could so forget it. However, the class had been more interesting than I’d expected and I’d picked up a couple of handy hints on how to undress. (When you take your bra off, you should wave it above your head like you’re trying to lasso a runaway steer, and after you slide out of your knickers, you must touch your toes and waggle your bum right in meladdo’s face.)
So, in theory, I could pull one or two sexual tricks out of the box. And yet when Aidan twirled my hair around one of his fingers and said, “Come back to my place. See who won The Apprentice before you embark on your long journey downtown,” all the little hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and I thought that I might varmint.
When he let us into his apartment, I stood in the hall, listening. “Where’s Marty tonight?”
“Out.”
“Out? How out?”
A hesitation. “Very out.”
“Hmm.” I pushed open a door and walked into a bedroom. I took in the neat crisp bed linen, the candles dotted about, the meadow-fresh smell. “This yours?”
“Um, yes.” He followed me in.
“And it always looks this good?”
Pause. “No.”
I flicked my eyes at him and we laughed nervously. Then his expression changed to something far more intense and my stomach plunged. I moved around his room, picking things up and putting them down.
The candles on his nightstand were Candy Grrrl ones. “Oh, Aidan, I could have got you these for free.”
“Anna?” he said softly. He was right beside me, I hadn’t heard him approach. I looked up.
“Fuck the candles,” he said.
He slid his hand along my neck, under my hairline, sending electric shivers down my back, brought his face to mine, and kissed me. Tentatively at first, then suddenly we really went for it and I was overwhelmed by his
His shirt buttons had opened and there was his stomach, flat, muscled, a line of dark hair, leading downward…I watched my hand pop the button on his jeans. It was a reflex action, anyone would have done it.
Then we froze; now what?
My hand was shaking slightly. I looked up at him. He was watching me, his expression beseeching, and slowly I found myself lowering the zip, the details of his erection visible against the straining denim.
Lean flank, tiny bottom, a line of muscles along the back of his thighs, he was even more delicious than I’d imagined. Leaning over me, his shoulders flexing, he unwrapped me like I was a present. “Anna, you’re so beautiful,” he said over and over. “You’re so beautiful.”
His erection felt like silk, soft and hard between my thighs, and he kissed me everywhere from my eyelids to the backs of my knees.
All my training went by the board. I’d really meant to twirl my bra above my head but in the heat of the moment I forgot. I’d other stuff on my mind: I rarely come with men the first time I’m with them, but the things he was doing to me, the slow manipulation of his penis against me, inside me, the heat and the need and the pleasure building, swelling me…
We picked up speed and I wanted more.
“Faster,” I begged. “Aidan, I think I’m going to…” He was moving faster and faster into me, and I was still building, building, moving toward the top, then after a second of pure nothingness, I exploded, exquisite pleasure radiating outward and inward, afterwaves throbbing through me.