On Friday morning it rained and Eileen took the bus to work. She had finished The Karamazov Brothers by then and was reading The Golden Bowl, standing up on the bus with one hand gripping the yellow upright rail and the other holding a copy of the novel in paperback. After alighting she put her scarf over her head and walked a couple of minutes to the office on Kildare Street in the rain. Inside, her colleagues were laughing at a satirical video about the Brexit negotiations. Eileen stood at the computer where they were gathered to watch it, looking over their shoulders at the screen, as the rain slid softly and noiselessly down the outer panes of the office windows. Oh, I’ve seen this one, she said. It’s funny. After that she made a pot of coffee and sat down at her desk. She checked her phone and saw a message from Lola about a ‘cake tasting’ later that week. I’m busy tomorrow evening but otherwise free, Eileen wrote back. Let me know what works. Lola replied within a couple of minutes.
Eileen glanced around the office, as if to check that no one was watching, and then, returning her attention to her phone, she began typing again.
Eileen: no comment
Lola: Is he tall
Eileen: none of your business
Eileen: but yes he’s 6’3”
Lola: !!
Lola: Did you meet him on the internet?
Lola: Is he a serial killer?
Lola: Still if he’s 6’3 I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts
Eileen: this interview is terminated
Eileen: let me know about the ‘cake tasting’
Lola: Do you want to bring him to the wedding?
Eileen: that won’t be necessary
Lola: Why not??
Eileen put her phone away and opened a new browser window on her work computer. For a moment she paused, staring at the search engine on the home page, and then quickly and lightly she tapped out the words ‘eileen lydon’ and hit the return key. A page of results showed on-screen, with a set of images displayed at the top. One was a photograph of Eileen herself, sandwiched between two black-and-white historical images. The other results were chiefly social media profiles belonging to other people, along with some obituaries and professional listings. At the bottom of the page, a link to the magazine’s website read: Eileen Lydon | Editorial Assistant. She clicked the link and a new page opened. No photograph was included, and the text simply read: Eileen Lydon is an editorial assistant and contributor at the Harcourt Review. Her essay on the novels of Natalia Ginzburg appeared in Issue 43, Winter 2015. The final part of the sentence was hyperlinked and Eileen clicked it, leading her to a page on which the magazine issue could be purchased online. She closed the tab then and opened up her work email account.
At home that evening, Eileen called her parents’ landline number, and her father Pat picked up the phone. They talked for a few minutes about a minor political controversy that had been in the news that day, both with similar or even identical tones of disapproval. Please God it won’t be long before the next election, Pat said. Eileen told him she would keep her fingers crossed. He asked her how she was getting on at work and she said: Nothing to report. She was sitting on the bed in her room, one arm holding her phone to her ear, the other resting on her knees. I’ll put you on to your mother, he said. A rasping noise then, and what sounded like clicking, before Mary’s voice said into the receiver: Hello? Eileen gave a strained smile. Hello, she said. How are you? For a little while they talked about work. Mary told an anecdote involving a new member of staff at the school who had mixed up two female teachers who were both named Ms Walsh. That’s funny, Eileen said. After that they talked about the wedding, a dress Eileen had seen in a shop window, two different pairs of shoes Mary was deciding between, and finally they moved on to the subjects of Lola’s behaviour, Mary’s responses to Lola’s behaviour, and the underlying attitudes revealed by Mary’s responses to Lola’s behaviour. When she loses her temper with you, you expect me to take your side, said Eileen. But when she loses her temper with me, you say it’s none of your business. Mary sighed loudly into the receiver. Okay, okay, she said, I’m a failure, I’ve let you both down, what more do you want me to say? Sternly, Eileen answered: No, I never said any of that. After a pause, Mary asked if she had any plans for the weekend. In a guarded tone of voice she said she was going to see Simon on Saturday night. Is he still with the new girlfriend? Mary asked. Eileen closed her eyes and said she didn’t know. You were very fond of him at one time, Mary said. Eileen said nothing for a few seconds. Weren’t you? Mary prompted. Eileen opened her eyes then. Yes, Mother, she answered. With a smile in her voice Mary went on: He’s a handsome boy alright. Although he must be well into his thirties now, is he? I’m sure Andrew and Geraldine wouldn’t mind seeing him settled. Eileen was rubbing her fingertip over a piece of embroidery on the quilt. Maybe he’ll marry me, she said. Mary gave a shocked hoot of laughter. Oh, you’re wicked, she said. And you know, the way you have him wrapped around your finger, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is that your new scheme? Eileen replied that it was not ‘a scheme’. Well, you’d be a lucky woman, said Mary. Eileen nodded her head in silence for a moment. And would he not be a lucky man? she asked then. Mary laughed again at that. Now Eileen, she said, you know I think the world of you. But I have to say that, because you’re my daughter. Eileen went on tracing over the rough stubbled lines of the embroidery with her index finger. If you have to say it, why have I literally never heard you say it before? she asked. Mary was no longer laughing. Okay, pet, she said. I won’t keep you any longer. You have a nice evening now. I love you.
After hanging up the phone, Eileen opened a messaging app and selected Simon’s name. Their most recent exchange displayed on-screen, from the day before, and she scrolled back up to reread the messages in sequence.
Eileen: send me a photo of your room
The next message was a photograph of a hotel room interior, with a double bed taking up most of the floor space. On the bed was a purple duvet and a folded quilt in a different shade of purple.
Eileen: and now one with you in it……
Simon: Haha
Simon: ‘Senior political adviser caught sending explicit images from War of Independence commemoration ceremony’
Eileen: what did the IRA fight for if not our freedoms, Simon?
Simon: ‘It’s what the boys would have wanted,’ insists disgraced former aide
Eileen: oh before I forget
Eileen: did you know Alice is in Paris this week?
Simon: You’re not serious
Simon: Where did she fly from?
Eileen: didn’t say but it has to be Dublin
Simon: International woman of mystery
Eileen: oh god do NOT say that
Eileen: that’s exactly what she wants people to be saying
Simon: No, I just hope she’s alright
Simon: If I’m back here early tonight I’ll give you a ring, ok?
After that Eileen had posted the thumbs-up emoji. No further messages had been exchanged. She exited the thread now and returned to the home screen of the messaging app. For a moment her finger hovered over the button to close the app, and then, instead, as if on impulse, she tapped Lola’s name. Lola’s most recent message, from earlier that day, displayed on-screen: Why not?? With her thumbs Eileen began typing out a reply.
Eileen: because he’s going to be there anyway
She hit send, and almost instantly an icon showed that Lola had ‘seen’ the message. The animated ellipsis appeared, and within a few seconds a reply arrived.
Lola: Oh my god
Lola: Speaking of serial killers
Lola: Please tell me it’s not Simon Costigan
Eileen settled herself back against the headboard, typing.
Eileen: wow
Eileen: all these years and you’re still mad that he likes me better than you
Lola: Eileen
Lola: You’re not seriously going out with that freak are you
Eileen: if I am it’s none of your business
Lola: You realise he goes to confession right
Lola: Like he literally tells his bad thoughts to a priest
Eileen: ok
Eileen: firstly, I don’t think that’s really what happens at confession
Lola: Money down he turns out to be sexually deviant
Lola: He definitely fancied you when you were 15
Lola: And he was at least 20
Lola: Wonder if he told any priests about that
Eileen: lmao
Eileen: in our entire lives, literally one man has ever liked me better than you
Eileen: and you still can’t get over it
Lola: Alright kiddo
Lola: Just don’t come crying to me when you’re married and pregnant
Lola: And some schoolgirls from your neighbourhood start to mysteriously go missing……
For a few seconds Eileen stared down at the screen of her phone, her head swaying absently from side to side, before she began typing again.
Eileen: do you know why you hate him Lola?
Eileen: it’s because he’s the only person who has ever taken my side against you
Lola saw this message, but no ellipsis appeared, and no reply arrived. Eileen locked her phone and pushed it away from her, down the bed. Stretching her legs out, she opened up her laptop and started to draft an email to Alice. Twenty minutes later her phone buzzed again and she retrieved it.
Lola: Actual lol
Reading this message, Eileen took a deep breath in and then allowed her eyes to close. Slowly the breath left her body and re-entered the room, the breath mingling now with the air of the room, moving through the air of the room and dispersing, droplets and microscopic aerosol particles diffusing through the air of the room and dropping slowly, slowly, toward the floor.
/
By ten o’clock the following night, Eileen was in the kitchen of a house in Pimlico, drinking whiskey from a plastic cup and talking to a woman named Leanne. The hours can be long, yeah, Leanne was saying. I’d be in there until nine a few times a week, anyway. Eileen was wearing a black silk blouse and had a thin gold chain around her neck, which glinted under the light from the ceiling fixture. Music was playing from the living room and beside them, at the sink, someone was trying to open a bottle of sparkling wine. Eileen said she left work before six o’clock most evenings. Leanne gave a high, almost horrified laugh. Jesus, she said. Six p.m.? Where do you work, sorry? Eileen told her she worked for a literary magazine. Paula, who was hosting the party, came over and offered them some sparkling wine. Eileen held up her cup and said: I’m good, thanks. The doorbell rang and Paula put down the bottle and went away again. Leanne started to tell Eileen about various late nights she had recently spent in the office, on one occasion getting a taxi home at half past six in the morning only to return to work in another taxi two hours later. I can’t imagine that’s good for your health, Eileen said. The door of the kitchen opened then, and Leanne turned around to see who had come in. It was Simon, wearing a white overshirt and carrying a canvas bag on his shoulder. At the sight of him, Leanne let out a cry of greeting. She threw her arms open and he accepted her embrace, looking past her at Eileen with a smile. Hello, he said. How are we?
God, it’s been ages, said Leanne. Here, do you know Paula’s friend Eileen?
Eileen stood against the kitchen table stroking her necklace absently with a fingertip, looking back at him.
Ah, he said, we know each other rather well, actually.
Eileen started to laugh then, touching her lip with her tongue.
Oh, said Leanne. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.
Taking a bottle of wine out of his bag, he said in a relaxed tone: No, that’s alright. Eileen and I grew up together.
Yes, Simon was very fond of me when I was a baby, Eileen said. He used to carry me around my back garden and give me little kisses. So my mother says.
He was smiling to himself, unscrewing the cap from his bottle of wine. Even as a child of five I had beautiful taste, he said. Only the finest babies made the grade.
Glancing back and forth between them now, Leanne asked Simon if he was still working in Leinster House. For my sins, he said. Do you see a glass handy? Leanne said all the glasses were dirty, but there were plastic cups on the table. Let me find a dirty one, I’ll wash it, he said. Eileen informed Leanne that Simon would no longer use plastic cups, out of respect for Mother Earth. Simon, who was rinsing a wine glass under the cold tap, said: She does make me sound insufferable, doesn’t she? But Leanne, tell me, how is work? Leanne started to tell him about her job, with specific reference to some colleagues of hers who were friends of his. A man in a denim jacket came inside from the back yard, pulling the door behind him, saying aloud to no one in particular: Getting cold out there. Through the kitchen doorway, Eileen caught the eye of their friend Peter, and waving her hand she went out to greet him. She glanced back once over her shoulder to see Simon and Leanne in conversation, Simon leaning against the kitchen countertop, Leanne standing in front of him, twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers.
The living room was small and cramped, with a staircase against one wall and potted plants on the bookcases, leaves trailing over the spines of books. Peter was at the fireplace taking his jacket off, talking to Paula about the same political controversy Eileen had discussed with her father the evening before. No, no one comes out of it looking good, Peter was saying. Well, except Sinn Féin, obviously. Someone had connected their phone to the speakers and an Angel Olsen song started playing, while from the hallway their friend Hannah came inside. Peter and Eileen allowed their conversation to taper off while Hannah made her way over to join them, holding a bottle of wine by the neck, bangles clinking on her wrists. Immediately she started to tell a story about a problem with the garage door at her house that afternoon, and how long they’d had to wait for the workman to arrive, and how she had been late to meet her mother for lunch in town. While Eileen listened, her eyes travelled back to the kitchen doorway, through which Simon’s figure was still partly visible, still leaning against the countertop, though several other people had joined him now. Following her gaze, Peter said: The big man. I didn’t know he was here. Hannah had found a clean plastic cup on the coffee table and was pouring herself a drink. She asked who they were talking about and Peter said Simon. Oh, I hope he’s brought Caroline, Hannah replied. At this remark Eileen’s attention moved quickly from the kitchen doorway back to Hannah. No, Paula said, not tonight. Hannah was screwing the cap back on her bottle while Eileen watched. That’s a shame, Hannah said. Leaving the bottle down on the coffee table, she caught Eileen’s eye, and asked: Have you met her yet, Eileen?
Caroline, Eileen repeated. Is that …?
The girl Simon is seeing, Paula said.
Eileen was smiling now, with some perceptible effort. No, she answered. No, we haven’t met.
Hannah swallowed a mouthful of wine and went on: Oh, she’s great. You’ll love her. You’ve met her, Peter, haven’t you?
Turning as if to address Eileen, he said: Yeah, she seemed nice. And she’s only about ten years younger than him, so that’s an improvement.
You are horrible, Hannah retorted.
Eileen gave a brittle laugh. I never get to meet them, she said. For some reason he doesn’t like to introduce me, I don’t know why.
How curious, said Peter.
I’m sure that’s not true, said Hannah.
To Eileen, Peter went on: Because, you know, I’ve always had that little question mark about the two of you.
Hannah let out a horrified laugh, and grabbed Eileen by the upper arm. Don’t listen to him, she said. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Their friend Roisin came up to join them then, wanting to ask Peter for his take on the same political controversy they had been discussing before. When Eileen went to the kitchen at midnight for another drink, she stopped to look through the back window, where Simon’s figure was visible dimly, talking to the woman whose name was Leanne. A cigarette was hanging loosely between Leanne’s index and middle fingers, and with her other hand she was touching Simon’s shirt collar. Eileen put the bottle away and left the kitchen. In the living room Roisin was sitting on Peter’s lap for the purpose of acting out a funny anecdote. Eileen stood by the sofa sipping her drink, smiling at the punchline while everyone laughed. Afterwards she went out to the hallway and took her jacket from underneath a few others that had been left on the same hook. She went out the front door then and closed it behind her. The air outside was cool. Behind her the living room window of Paula’s house was lit up, a deep warm golden colour, and from within came the muted noise of music and voices. Eileen took her phone from her pocket. The time on the screen was 00:08. She went out the front gate onto the pavement and put her hands into the pockets of her jacket.
Before she had reached the corner of the street, the door of Paula’s house opened up again and Simon came out onto the front step. Without closing the door behind him, he called out: Hey, are you leaving? Eileen turned around. Between them the street was empty and dark, the curved hoods of parked cars reflecting the streetlights dimly. Yeah, she said. He stood there for a moment just looking at her, maybe frowning. Well, can I walk you home? he asked. She shrugged. Wait there for a second, he said. He went back inside and she stood with her hands in her pockets, elbows out, staring down at the cracked pavement surface. When he re-emerged and closed the door behind him, the sound echoed against the walls of the terrace opposite. Bending down, he unlocked his bicycle from the railing of Paula’s front yard, and then put his bike lock and key into the canvas bag he had brought with him. She stood watching him. Straightening up again, he wheeled his bike over to where she was standing. Hey, he said. Is everything okay? She nodded her head. You left kind of abruptly, he said. I was looking for you.
You couldn’t have been looking for very long, she said. It’s an extremely small house.
He gave a kind of puzzled smile. No, well, you hadn’t been gone for very long, he said. You’re only about fifty feet from the door.
Eileen started walking again and Simon went along with her, his bike clicking quietly between them.
I thought it was nice of Leanne to try and introduce us earlier, he said.
Yes, I noticed she got a hug. I didn’t even get a handshake.
He laughed. I know, I really behaved myself, didn’t I? he said. But I think she got the idea.
Tonelessly, Eileen said: Did she.
Looking down at her now, he was frowning again. Well, I didn’t want to embarrass you, he answered. What do you think I should have said? Oh, Eileen and I don’t need to be introduced. Actually, we’re lovers.
And are we? she asked.
Hm. I suppose that’s one of those words nobody uses anymore.
They reached the corner of the street and took a left to leave the estate and walk back toward the main road. Above them, narrow trees planted at intervals along the footpath, in full leaf. Eileen’s hands were still in her pockets. She cleared her throat, and then said aloud: Your friends were just telling me how great this person Caroline is. The girl you’re seeing. They all seem very fond of her, she’s obviously made a big impression.
Simon was looking at Eileen as she spoke, but she was staring fixedly at the pavement ahead. Right, he said.
I didn’t realise you’d introduced her to everyone.
Not everyone, he said. She’s come out for drinks with us a couple of times, that’s all.
Almost inaudibly Eileen murmured: Jesus.
For a time neither of them spoke again. Finally he said: I did tell you I’d been seeing someone.
Am I the only one of your friends who hasn’t met her? she asked.
I know how this sounds, but I really have been trying to do everything right. It’s just— You know, it’s not the most straightforward situation.
Eileen let out a harsh laugh. Yeah, it must be tough, she said. You can’t fuck everyone, right? Or you can, but things eventually get awkward.
Simon seemed to consider this. After a moment he said: Look, I understand you’re feeling upset, but I’m not sure if you’re being completely fair.
I’m not upset, she answered.
His eyes moved over the street ahead of them. Seconds went by in silence while they walked, cars passing beside them on the road. Finally he said: You know, when I asked you out in February, you told me you just wanted to be friends. You never – and I’m not trying to be accusatory, I’m just giving you my perspective – you never showed any interest in me at all until I told you I was seeing someone else. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong on that.
Eileen’s head was bent forward, showing the long line of her neck over the collar of her jacket, her eyes on the pavement. She said nothing.
He went on: And when you did find out I was seeing someone, you decided you wanted to flirt with me and call me on the phone at night, okay, and then you want to come over when I’m in bed and we mess around or whatever, that’s fine, I don’t mind. As far as I can see, I’ve been very clear with you, there is someone else, but it’s not exclusive, so if you want to sleep over in my apartment there’s no problem. I’m not pressuring you to make any decisions about where we stand with each other, I’m happy to just spend time together and see how things go. From everything you said, I assumed that’s what you wanted. And it’s been really nice, for me at least. I completely understand why it’s awkward for you to hear our friends talking about someone else I’m seeing, but it’s not like you didn’t know she existed.
While he spoke Eileen lifted her hand to her face, pushing her hair back roughly off her forehead, tension visible in her shoulders, in her neck, in the sharp almost jerking movements of her fingers. Jesus, she repeated. How Christian of you.
What does that mean? he asked.
With a laugh that sounded almost frightened she said: I can’t believe I’ve been such a fool.
They had stopped walking, outside the entrance to a block of flats, beneath a streetlight. He was looking at her with concern. No, he said. You haven’t been a fool. And I’m sorry I’ve upset you. It’s the last thing I wanted to do, believe me. I haven’t even seen Caroline this week. If I gave you the impression that I’d broken things off with her after last weekend, I’m really sorry.
She was covering her face, her hands scrubbing at her eyes, and her voice when she spoke was muffled and indistinct. Oh God, she was murmuring. I just thought— No, I don’t even know what I thought.
Eileen, what do you want? Because if you seriously want us to be together, I can end things with Caroline any time. I’d be happy to, more than happy. But if you don’t want that, and we’re just playing around and having fun, then, you know. I can’t be single for the rest of my life because it suits you better. I have to, at some point, I have to get over that. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m just trying to figure out what you want.
Closing her eyes, she said nothing for several seconds. Then she said in a low even voice: I want to go home.
Right, he said. You mean now?
She was nodding her head, her eyes shut.
The fastest thing is probably just to keep walking, he said. Is that okay? I’ll see you to your door.
She answered yes. In silence they made their way to Thomas Street and turned left, walking over toward St Catherine’s. At the traffic lights a few cars were idling, and a taxi with its light turned on. Without speaking they walked down Bridge-foot Street and crossed the bridge at Usher’s Island. Streetlights fragmented and dissolved on the black surface of the river. Finally they reached the entrance of Eileen’s apartment building and stood together under the projecting arch of the external doorway. He looked at her, and with her head held straight she looked back at him. After taking a deep breath in, she said effortfully: Let’s just forget about it, can we? He waited a moment as if to let her continue, but she didn’t. I’m sorry to sound stupid, he answered, but about what, do you mean? She went on looking at him, her face thin and pale. I suppose about the whole thing, she said. And we can just be friends again. He started to nod his head while she watched him. Sure, he said. That’s alright. I’m glad we’ve talked about it. He paused briefly and then added: I’m sorry if you thought I was ignoring you at Paula’s house. I had been looking forward to seeing you, very much. I didn’t mean to make you feel ignored. But that’s all. I’m going to head home now, okay? I may not see you during the week, but in any case we’ll see each other at the wedding. She seemed to swallow, and then asked haltingly: Is Caroline going to be there? I know you said you were thinking about bringing her. He looked up at Eileen then, and started to smile. Ah no, he said. I never invited her in the end. But if that was all you wanted, you could have just told me. No need for such advanced tactics. She turned her face away, shaking her head. No, it wasn’t that, she said. He went on observing her a moment longer, and then said in a friendly voice: Not to worry. See you soon. He walked away, the wheels of his bicycle padded and quiet on the paved street surface.
Eileen took her keys from her pocket and let herself into the building, making her way directly up the stairs and through the front door of her apartment. Pushing her bedroom door open blindly and banging it shut, she lay down on the bed and started crying. Her face was red, a vein in her temple was visible. She hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed with a painful catching sound in her throat. Taking off one of her flat leather shoes, she threw it hard at the opposite wall and it fell limply on the carpet. She let out a noise almost like a scream then and put her face in her hands, shaking her head. A minute went by. Two minutes. She sat up and wiped her face, leaving black make-up smudged under her eyes and on her hand. Three, four minutes. She got to her feet, went to the window and looked out between the curtains. The headlights of a car swept past. Her eyes were pink and swollen. She scrubbed them once more with her hand and then took her phone from her pocket. The time was 00:41. She opened a messaging app and tapped Simon’s name. An exchange from earlier that day appeared on-screen. Into the reply field Eileen slowly typed the words: Jesus Christ Simon I fucking hate you. Calmly she surveyed this message, and then, with apparent deliberation, added the lines: Like in your mind we were really just “having fun” all week and you were seeing someone else the whole time? When you were crying all over me the other night telling me how lonely you are, was that your idea of a joke? What the fuck is wrong with you? Her eyes moved once again over the text, slowly, thoughtfully. Then, holding her thumb to the backspace key, she deleted the draft. Taking deep hard breaths now, she began to type again. Simon I’m sorry. I feel awful. I don’t know what I’m doing. Sometimes I hate myself so much I wish something heavy would fall on my head and kill me. You are the only person who is ever nice to me and now you probably don’t even want to speak to me anymore. I don’t know why I ruin everything good in my life. I’m sorry. By the time she had finished typing, the clock on-screen read 00:54. She scrolled back to reach the top of the message, and down again to read over the final line. Then she held the pad of her thumb down once more on the backspace key. Again the reply field was blank, the cursor blinking rhythmically over greyed-out text that read: Type a message. She locked her phone and lay back down on the bed.
