THOMPSON
An extract from
Cleo Dowling runs into her new neighbour in the local restaurant.
He was a painter, he told her, originally from the small town of Westport in
County Mayo. He’d graduated from NCAD in Dublin and had come back to the
West to live because he hated the city. He was divorced (yay! thought Cleo),
but had no children. His name was Donal MacBride, but he was known as Pablo
after Pablo Picasso, a nickname that had been bestowed on him in childhood
on account of his Spanish looks and his predilection for messing around with
paint.
‘I know your work – of course I do! I saw a reproduction in one of the
Sundays. I thought it was so witty! Still Life with Pig!’
‘Thanks. More wine?’
‘Mm. I suppose we may as well order another bottle!’
A meaningful pause, then: ‘Thanks again for returning my hat.’
‘You’re welcome. I hope you don’t mind the feather? It was an impulsive
thing.’
‘Not at all. It gives it a cocky look.’
‘Ha ha. Um. We must compare houses some time. I’d love to see what you’ve
done with yours.’
‘I didn’t do anything. I’m renting it. The builders told me you’d had a
Jacuzzi installed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cool.’
‘You’d be welcome to try it out.’ Aagh!
A little more desultory chat, a few more meaningful pauses and then:
‘Jeepers! I didn’t realize how late it was. Time flies and all that.’
‘Let me help you with your coat. Steady! Mind the step. Good night, Noel,
Marie.’
‘Yes! Good night Noel and Marie.’
‘It’s a beautiful evening.’
‘Yes. Wow – just look at those stars.’
‘Stunning.’
‘Yes. Well. Here we are.’
‘Why not come in for a Calvados?’
‘Oh? I’d love that. And – um – as I said earlier, I’d love to see your
house.’
***
The house was gorgeous. The Calvados was delicious. And the sex should have
been sensational. But it didn’t happen.
© 2005 Kate Thompson
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