Early Service

She asked for water the moment she sat down. When they brought a glass, she asked for a jug. She drained the glass in one go and then refilled it as soon as the jug arrived. She downed a second glass and started to feel normal. She was halfway through the third glass when he walked in, greeting the staff like old friends, dispensing handshakes and smiles like a camera-ready politician, even though he was, as he had been for many years, a retired accountant. He was two or three degrees too loud and two or three degrees too familiar. It was a performance she had been watching her entire life and she was relieved that today was one of those times when it didn’t make her want to kill him. She did think she’d quite like to stick him in the jug of water to take the edge off both the performance and his overconfident cologne.

He moved towards her table with the energy of a much younger man, and he knew it. It was impossible for her to regard him objectively, but still she tried to see what impression he must have made when encountered by others. A well-groomed, well-maintained older man. Good hair, posture, and teeth. An untroubled face. It gave her no pleasure because of what it represented, but she had to concede he was handsome. He was a good-looking man. But so much older than he once was. Years ago, someone referred to him and his preferred style of facial hair as ‘D’Artagnan in a business suit’. He loved it, even though it wasn’t necessarily said in a complimentary way. In business circles it was assumed he was an investor or an entrepreneur or some sort of financial high roller. He never carried himself like an accountant. He didn’t scuttle. He strode.

He sat down with an exaggerated exhalation, removing his long red scarf with a dramatic flourish.

“Doesn’t Christmas just turn you on?” he beamed. He turned one of the wine glasses right side up and poured himself some water. He drank thirstily and smoothed his moustache and beard as he wiped his mouth.

She didn’t reply because she knew it wasn’t her turn to speak.

“It turns me on. Very sexy energy in the air. Good stuff. You know, Viktoria slapped me on the ass this morning in our session. East European women aren’t afraid to express themselves in that way. I find it invigorating. Do you know, Viktoria’s grandfather survived the Siberian gulags. That’s what’s in her DNA. Extraordinary woman. She said I’ve got the body of a sixty-year-old. I thought she could have easily shaved another seven or eight years off that. I mean, look at me!”

She did.

“That would make you my age, Dad. How was Mum?”

A slight temperature change registered on his grinning face.

“She knew who I was today, which was nice. Jenny had been in with fresh flowers. But she’s still talking about being in Cairo before the war. I told her she’d never been to Egypt. Nor had any war been a significant part of her life, here or anywhere else.”

She finished her own water.

“Is that how you said it, Dad? ‘No war has been a significant part of your life.’ They say you should just roll with that stuff. It’s less stressful for her. I told you, it’s some show she’s been watching. It’s just like the old spy thrillers she used to read. There’s usually a connection to something that was part of her life.”

He was already perusing the menu. He looked at her briefly over his glasses.

“You know what I’m like, I find it hard not be honest.”

She clenched her own menu.

“I think we should order, Dad.”

“I’m just seeing if they have anything new on the menu.”

“They always do Dad, but you always get the same thing anyway.”

“I’ll ask the girl about the specials.”

“Dad, please.” But she knew there was no point.

He summoned the waitress and played the hits. Where are you from? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Your English is excellent. Have you mastered any other tongues? Are you studying medicine or law? And is it home to the hubby and kids later? You look far too young to be married! Not married! You’d better hurry up or I’ll ask you myself! And how do they celebrate Christmas at home? Have you been naughty or nice? I hope Santa doesn’t get stuck in your chimney. And so on.

Extraordinarily, he managed to flirt without being either sleazy or ridiculous. Even more amazing to her was that these waitresses seemed genuinely charmed by his patter. Even the Irish girls. Maybe especially them.

Not her. She had deconditioned herself. She was immune to male charm. Charm was just a muzzled dog. Remove the muzzle and the dog would bare its teeth. Some men were better at keeping the muzzle on, but they’d all bite, given the chance.

“Darling, Sonia would like to take your order.”

She wanted to tell Sonia to cop on to herself and not be charmed by this vain old gobshite, but instead she smiled and ordered the brie starter and the trout.

A waiter brought the wine. A little bit of banter, but no flirting, naturally. He tasted it, he approved, the waiter poured, and they raised a glass to each other.

“Cheers darling, happy Christmas.”

“Cheers, the same to you.”

Their tradition had stopped feeling special long before now. But it had been special. He used to tell her how sophisticated and mature she was, and her eighteen-year-old ego loved it. He complimented her appearance and spoke of her distinctive beauty, and he had a way of making her feel like she was his sole priority, no matter who else he spoke to. He assured her she could do anything she wanted and that the world was waiting for her. None of her friends had with their fathers what she had. He would spoil her. He’d send her shopping so she could choose a dress for their night out. Not kiddie stuff, but high-end clothes shops that catered to clientele with real money. He bought her expensive pieces of jewellery of which her mother would gently disapprove. But only gently. And she got used to it. She developed a taste for that lifestyle and those beautiful things.

She remembered wanting to please him. She wanted to reward his faith. She wanted to be the young woman he led her to believe she was. And she was for a while. She was a woman who had something going on. Some of his confidence rubbed off on her and she moved through the world with purpose and expectation. She was so young, but she took herself so seriously. She sat where she was sitting now and laughed as she told of her adventures and the silly boys who would blunder their way out of her consideration. And he loved her stories. And he loved that her suitors never measured up. She was his princess and she knew he didn’t really want to share her with anybody else.

The starters came. He had the onion soup that he’d been having since they first started coming. It was that kind of a restaurant. She regarded it as ‘boudoir-chic’. Various hues of red and burgundy and maroon could be seen everywhere. The heavy curtains, the lush carpet, the ornate wallpaper with raised motifs. Right down to the menus, the napkins, and the individual table lamps which were capped with pleated red shades that had never stopped reminding her of shiny little truffle cases. It was astonishing to her that it had changed so little over the decades. Especially when so much else in the city had disappeared or been replaced or colonised by some iteration of a soulless, faceless conglomerate. This incongruous location, this bizarre throwback that was simultaneously antiquated and timeless, somehow survived. It was a relic, but it committed so hard to the bit, that people mistook it for class. Everyone said it was an institution.

She recalled a previous conversation.

“Dad, people don’t talk or behave like that anymore.”

“People may not, but I do.”

“It’s outdated Dad, it’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not embarrassed, are you?”

“Yes. Absolutely, I am.”

“That says more about you than me.”

“It’s too much Dad, nobody wants it. The world has moved on.”

“Have you considered that the world might be wrong? Just because something is no longer fashionable, does not mean it is wrong.”

“Dad, things evolve. Values and attitudes change. Women expect to be treated a particular way. A way that doesn’t involve innuendo and being propositioned by men old enough to be their grandfathers.”

“Jesus Marie, they don’t think I’m that old, do they!”

He slurped his onion soup then just as he was slurping it now, the large napkin, in a breach of etiquette only permitted for this occasion, tucked below his Adam’s apple and spread wide to protect his shirt and tie beneath. He didn’t eat like an old man either. Efficient, tidy, and appropriately paced. She glanced at the brie and wondered about her own timing. She started to doubt she looked obviously younger than him.

“I don’t know how you do it, Dad.”

“What?”

“Stay so bloody young!”

That got his attention. He had more soup but eyeballed her playfully as he did so.

“The secret, darling,” he purred, “is mindset.”

More soup. A bit of bread. A pause.

“What was the first thing I said when I came in?”

“Something obnoxious about Christmas being sexy.”

He grimaced in mock offence.

“No darling, I said that Christmas turns me on. It turns me on. In every conceivable way. I have an appetite for it. I want it. I desire it. It’s sexual.”

God help me, she thought. But she bit.

“Dad, no 79-year-old is meant to be a sexual being. It’s not natural.”

She heard her mother’s voice.

“It’s not natural. To live like this. To have you in this house pretending everything is fine. Everything is normal. I’m to go along with this act? Why should I do that? Give me one good reason. You need to decide what you want, but I’m not going to stay here like an eejit and have everyone on the street either laughing at me or feeling sorry for me. If you love visiting number twenty-seven so much, maybe you should ask Geoff about staying in the spare room. Sorry, that’s not normally the bed you use, is it!”

“Veronica, I’m just helping Yvonne with her accounts. There’s nothing else going on, just her accounts.”

“Incomings and outgoings, is it? If you want to be in this house this Christmas, you tell Yvonne Stack to find herself another accountant!”

When she’d asked, he’d denied any wrongdoing.

“It’s your mother’s nerves darling, that’s all. There’s nothing going on. Your mother has never liked Mrs. Stack, they’ve just never gotten along.”

“Why, Dad?”

“Darling, it’s a girl thing. You’ll know before I do and when you do, you can let me know.”

He considered the matter closed. But there were others. Karen in the London office. Siobhan in the Cork branch. And Mrs. Hackett the florist. And Mrs. Quinn who had the chemist’s. These were just the ones she heard her mother talk about. The ones her mother seemed to know about. Sometimes the phone would ring and nobody would talk. But there were at least two calls that she could remember where her mother answered the phone and somebody did speak. And she saw her mother’s complexion change over the course of the call.

“Who was it, Mum?”

“No one.”

Large whiskey. Dinner in the bin. Deathly silences. She never knew if it was one of the women themselves on the phone or just somebody telling her mother what her husband was doing behind her back.

She stared at him, waiting for the elaboration that was coming.

“Life demands a response, darling. Nothing could be more natural than that. If I have the impulse and the capacity to respond, why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s unseemly. Undignified. People don’t want to see octogenarians carrying on like Lotharios. You’re not Mick Jagger, for Christ’s sake!”

“Well first of all, I’m not an octogenarian until March. And second, ‘unseemly’? Is this about propriety? Darling, I had no idea you were so narrow-minded. What should I be doing – taking the grandchildren for walks in the park? Buying them Wibbly Wobbly Wonders? Avoiding tea because my bladder can’t handle it? Learning how to play bridge with the ladies? Others may completely abandon pride and virility, but I shan’t.”

She had a large mouthful of wine before responding. Followed by another.

“‘Shan’t’? Are we in a Dickens’ novel? Are you quoting Jane Austen? Have you been importuned, perchance? Dad, you’re ludicrous. You’ve suffered no indignity. Mum has. I have. I was in The Tradesman the other night having a drink with Sheila Porter and she told me she heard Leaving Cert boys in her history class referring to you as ‘Horny Harry’. I don’t even know how they’d know your name. Apparently, they were doing an impression of you and kept saying ‘My kind of woman’ at every girl they saw.”

She could see he loved this.

“What can I say – I’m obviously a bit of a local legend,” he smirked. “‘My kind of woman’. I mean, it’s a broad church.”

The bottle was empty. She raised a hand and the waitress appeared. He interjected as she was about to speak.

“Sonia, so lovely to see you again. My daughter tells me the young men in the neighbourhood refer to me as ‘Horny Harry’. What do you make of that? Do I look like a ‘Horny Harry’ to you?”

The waitress looked confused, so she reassured her.

“‘Horny Harry’ isn’t a thing. Can we have another bottle of that, please? And we’re ready for the mains, thank you.”

“Thank you so much, Sonia.”

When the waitress was out of earshot, she turned on him.

“Dad, why are you saying her name like that? It’s not meant to rhyme with ‘phone ya’ or ‘bone ya’. It rhymes with ‘bainne’.”

He dead-eyed her.

“I’m not sure there’s a less sexy language in the world than Irish. Maybe Mandarin. The East European tongues have a lot about them. They lend themselves to dominance.”

“Dad, just say ‘languages’, for the love of God.”

The wine came. They drank. The food came. They ate.

She’d allowed herself to get hot under the collar, which she swore she wouldn’t, but it was never going to be any other way. He’d have to have had a total personality change. Or a stroke. Or found Jesus. Or had a brain injury. She came for dinner every year, and every year she couldn’t stop herself wishing for a Christmas miracle. That he would be different. That he would atone. That he would act his age and bring to her something real and graspable. That he would be like so many other men of his age. Humble, decent, modest. Discreet. She wasn’t as tough as her mother, she was still willing to forgive. She prayed for it. Her faith required her to pray. It required her to be resolute. Steadfast.

But being faithful was effortful. It cost her. Why didn’t faith liberate her? Why didn’t it insulate her from her own bad behaviour? Why shouldn’t she have affairs, and neglect her children, and leave her husband? Why shouldn’t she skite off on holidays with the children’s allowance? Why shouldn’t she blow the college fund on a nice little Porsche? Some of the people at church would talk about God’s plan, but that never really spoke to her. Too fatalistic. Too quick to surrender agency. Her faith was deeply important to her. It moved her. But she never for one second thought of it as something that dovetailed with a plan or a map or an itinerary. As if God had time to go ‘This what I have in mind for Marie. Then this. Then this.’

It was an absurd idea. Life happened irrespective of God. But if you were receptive, God provided what you needed to negotiate the endless deluge of human frailty. God provided what you needed to negotiate self-doubt. He provided what you needed to negotiate fear and temptation. Heartbreak and loss. And of course, what you needed to negotiate ‘Horny Harry’.

Was that her purpose – to absorb and tolerate the crapness of the two most important men in her life? To try and prevent her sons from repeating the sins of the fathers? To make them credible? That was what was really fuelling her rage. The rage that made her feel like she was burning from the inside out. That had her so thirsty all the time. She wasn’t born to be in service of men. That was not her role in life! But it was the role life kept casting her in. And life was not an infinite commodity. She had less left than she had so far lived.

Their plates were cleared. Menus brought back. Desserts ordered. More wine.

They cracked the hard caramel on top of their crèmes brûlée. It was never not satisfying. As she savoured the sweet custard, she no longer felt like fighting. It was too exhausting. Too pointless. And it was Christmas, after all. She smiled across the table at her tireless father. He smiled back at her.

“Christmas doesn’t turn me on, Dad. Not even a little. It probably did in my twenties. Maybe my early thirties. But now? It drains me. It squeezes every last drop out of my being. I’m wrecked. I have nothing left. I’m not looking for love or passion. I’ve no use for them. I just want to sleep. I want to be left alone to try in some way to restore myself. I love the boys and I also want to be able to click my fingers and they’re not there. I want Sebastian to quietly fade away until he’s not there either. I want you to do the same. I want you to fade out like a record until I can only hear the scratch of the needle going round and round. There are days I envy Mum. I want to forget too. I want to be in Cairo before the war too. Anytime. Anywhere. Just not now. Not here. Not me.”

He had finished his dessert while she had been speaking. He called Sonia over to ask for dessert wine on top of the third bottle of red they had started. A half-bottle of amber liquid was delivered and poured into smaller glasses. They drank. On the verge of syrupy and pleasantly sweet. She ordered a coffee to offset the sugar.

“A lot to digest there, darling. Do you not think we all crave escape on some level? Don’t we all want to live another life?”

“You, Dad? Aren’t you the man who basically wants to shag Christmas? You can’t, by the way. It’s abstract and inanimate.”

“Unless you meet a girl called Christmas,” he retorted. “Now that really would be my kind of woman!”

She laughed in spite of herself. She was more than merry, but not quite drunk.

“Ah, there you are. So cross and cranky for so long, but then – you come back.”

“I just told you Dad, I do not want to be here.”

“But you are here darling and constantly fighting it is why you are so exhausted. You have to surrender. Life is like casinos – it never loses.”

“The expression you’re looking for is ‘the house always wins’.”

Her coffee arrived. Black, no sugar. A small macaroon on the side. She drank the coffee. She ate the macaroon. Some of it fell in her lap.

“I wanted to call you Belle. La belle enfant. The beautiful child. You were. And you still are. Your mother didn’t care for it. She was never very romantic, your mother. Marie is no less lovely. I know you say you’re tired darling, but when I look at you, I see someone much younger. I still see my little girl.”

He was drunk too. Getting sentimental. Was his face sagging? She looked closely at the face to which her own had so often been compared. For years she was told she was the image of him. Strange, she thought, considering the absence of a beard or moustache from her own mug. Sebastian didn’t like it when she used the word mug in reference to her face. Which was why she liked it.

“But this is my mug, Seb. And this is my butt,” she’d say, indicating her bottom. He’d actually wince. It was ridiculous. She’d offer to fetch some pearls for him to clutch, but he’d just frown at her and leave the room. ‘Bottom’ was such a child’s word. But ‘ass’ was crass. ‘Hole’ was far too crude. And it was a very localised area, anyway.

Shit, she was drunk too.

“Did you just say ‘hole’, darling?”

“I did not, no. You said Viktoria slapped you in the ass. On the ass. That’s not very appropriate behaviour for a personal trainer teacher personable person.”

More water. Another coffee? No. Water. She emptied a glass. Her blouse felt wet.

“Darling, you’re spilling that on yourself.”

He called for napkins.

They came. She patted herself. They recomposed. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as her. Bloody meds. She regarded him suspiciously.

“Dad! What do you take? Like, supplements. No. Like medication. How do you stay. So young, Dad?”

Her head was moving towards the table. She thought she might knock over the little red lamp. She didn’t. But she wanted to. She wanted to rip it out of its socket and hurl it across the room. Too dangerous. Some Christmas diners might get hurt. She was sure she had been sober a very short time ago. This was familiar. Grand. Fine. Okay. Grand. Grand. Still grand. Then suddenly, really bloody drunk. Stupid meds. Her head shot up.

“Did you say Viagra, Dad? That is so gross. You are so gross! Eeew!”

“It’s just science, darling. I’m not going to stand in the way of progress. I also get bull’s blood from Estonia. And testosterone shots every fortnight.”

“Bull’s blood? What, like the colour of the carpet here? You drink it? You drink blood – like a vampire? I don’t know why I’m questioning this, it actually makes total sense. Who needs the Portrait of Dorian Gray when there are Estonian bullocks donating their life blood to ‘Horny Harry’! You couldn’t make this shit up. Dad, you’re that desperate to stay ahead?”

“No, I’m not competing with anyone. I’m just living the fullest life I can, darling. I told you earlier – ‘mindset’. My appetite rages. It’s ravenous for life. For love. For contact. For connection. For feeling things. I’m a sensual being, darling.”

“Stop Dad, I’m going to throw up. Oh, I might actually be about to throw up. Excuse me.”

She moved towards the door when her father called out to her that it was the other way. Sonia was suddenly at her side, politely guiding her to the ladies’.

She entered the cubicle. Stood over the toilet. Bent over. Stayed like that for some moments. Didn’t throw up. Thanked God. Sat down. Peed. Flushed. Exited the cubicle. Washed her hands. Knew she shouldn’t, but drank from the cold tap. Fixed her hair. Returned to the table. Had Sonia said her father was a creep? She looked around the room and spotted Sonia laughing with the waiter. Very sniggery. Little bitch. No, that’s not right. Solidarity. Sonia’s a sister, right?

“Have some more water, darling.”

She drank, what, her fifth glass of water? Her sixth? It was so good though. Some clarity was returning. She obviously needed to let her hair down. Not literally. Her hair looked good up. Or rather, she looked good with her hair up. That waiter was quite cute too. No wonder Sonia was flirting with him. Wait, wasn’t she married?

Her father was paying the bill.

“Dad, I was going to pay for this.”

“No you weren’t, darling. My treat. Happy to pay. What else am I for?”

He left a fifty on the table. But he also discreetly gave Sonia and the waiter a twenty each as he wished them a happy Christmas. As Sonia helped her with her coat, she told her her father was a good man. And handsome too.

Her phone had been on silent. No messages.

“Dad, how is it only half eight?”

“Early service, darling. Our booking was for half four, remember?”

They were walking now. He linked her arm and kept her steady. Two days before Christmas and it showed. People milling around with that very specific mix of lightness and stress. We know how to party in this country, she thought.

“You’re holding on too tight, darling.”

“Oh sorry,” she said, pulling her arm away. He pulled it back to where it had been.

“Not literally darling, figuratively. You’re a ball of stress. You have to find your way back to enjoying life. I know it’s not easy. You married a mini version of me, for God’s sake. What were you thinking!”

“I don’t know, dad. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He was the only one who came close.”

“Sebastian is a good man.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We both know that’s not true. You just said he’s a mini version of you!”

“I was trying to offer a crumb of comfort.”

“Lying doesn’t comfort me, Dad. It makes things worse.”

“Darling, don’t be so moral. It’s unsustainable. Like your fossil fuels. Compromise is the essence of content.”

“I don’t think you’ve compromised, Dad. Not at all.”

“Really? I know who and what I am darling, and I have to live with myself. Every day.”

“That sounds like self-pity masquerading as stoicism.”

“That’s a very clever thing to say. Mean, too.”

“Well, I am mean and I am also clever. So, well observed on your part.”

They walked on in silence. The cool night breeze was welcome. As was the palpable atmosphere of merrymaking, the snatches of good-humoured conversations in the air, and the easy magic sprinkled all over the city by the ubiquitous adornment of festive lights. She still felt tired. But happy tired. Less angry tired, at least.

“Dad?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I really, really hate you sometimes, but I never stop loving you.”

“And I have never hated you for even a second. You’ve always been my princess. Ma belle enfant.”

She snuggled into him a bit more and stayed like that until they arrived at the taxi rank. It wasn’t too crazy. Nothing like it would be later.

“I put five grand in your account, by the way. Do whatever you want with it. Savings, or the boys’ college fund, or whatever. Get yourself something nice.”

“You didn’t need to do that Dad, we’re in pretty good shape since they made Seb partner. I’m pretty sure they’ve given him a fat bonus too. Next year might be the year he gets the Ferrari.”

“A bit obvious, don’t you think?”

“Well, Seb is obvious. So are you. It’s all out there in front. I could use a bit more subtlety in my life.”

They moved along the line, banter bubbling in front of and behind them. They laughed quietly as they eavesdropped. Not that they had a choice. She realised she had sobered up. She was suddenly craving a cup of tea.

“A nice cup of tea when I get home, Dad. What about you? What’s on the menu at the apartment?”

“Oh, I think I could handle a nightcap or two. Maybe watch a movie. Or read. I don’t know.”

“Are you in with Mum again tomorrow? I’ll probably try and catch her before lunch. See if the boys will come. They don’t love it, but it’s nice for her.”

“Did I ever tell you when my mother was dying, she thought I was a girl? She looked straight at me and said I was very pretty and that I had lovely hair. I’d make someone a fine wife one day. I suppose it was funny, but it made me very sad.”

“She was in an altered state, Dad. The brain is just not what it was at that stage. And Mum’s not dying by the way.”

“No, I know that. I just didn’t want my mother to forget me, that’s all.”

“Of course not, Dad. Nobody wants to be forgotten by a parent, do they.”

“Is that a dig at me?”

“No, not at all. I have put my claws away. The only claws I’m interested in now is Santa Claus. I have to grab a few more bits for the boys in the morning, just stocking fillers.”

“Are you still doing that? Are they not a bit old?”

“Well, they’re still turned on by Christmas, so what am I going to do? I’m not a total Grinch.”

They had reached the top of the line and a taxi pulled up directly.

“Here you go darling, you take this one.”

He opened the back door for her. They hugged. She put herself onto the back seat. He closed the door. He spoke to the driver, handed him a fifty and gave her address. He was about to wave them off when he gestured to the driver to pause for a moment. He wiggled his finger at her to put down her window.

“What is it Dad, this man has work to do!”

“Just one last thing darling, a bit of a Christmas miracle, really.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Dad…”

“The wonder of science and all that.”

She felt faint.

“Dad, don’t…”

“I’ll just say it. Viktoria’s pregnant. You’re finally going to be a sister. It’s so exciting, isn’t it! Happy Christmas, darling. Talk soon. Thanks driver, that’s it.”

He watched the taxi speed his daughter away. She seemed stunned with joy, mouth agape, staring at him motionlessly through the rear window. He reflected on another successful Christmas dinner with his firstborn. What a beautiful tradition it was. And what a wonderful time of the year. He brimmed with excitement. Such a turn-on!