Page 39 of Filter This
‘Oh fuck. I’m sorry for bringing it up. Shite.’
Sam laughed. ‘No, don’t be, I love talking about her. I was seven when she died so I remember her, but I think talking about her really helps that. We talk about her all the time – my sisters, my aunts. My dad, before you ask,’ he added with a smirk, ‘was never really around. I think I was two when he left. He actually lives in Dublin but we don’t see each other. Or, well, we do in that really awkward Dublin way. It’s not a good town to not see people. I saw him once in the queue for a gig but I’m not even sure he recognised me. But anyway, yeah, Mum – that’s her in the middle one holding me – she was brilliant. She was a nurse, loved singing, was always bawling me out of it for shit I’d do! Fucking scary when she wanted to be. She actually got a clot in her brain and that was that – she was in work but she died within minutes and they couldn’t save her, the fucking irony!’
Ali sat down across from Sam. ‘I am so sorry that happened to you.’
‘Yeah …’ Sam gazed at the biscuits sadly before coyly venturing, ‘How sorry?’
Ali’s eyes narrowed.
‘Like, would you say you’re give-Sam-a-blow-job sorry for me? Or just dry-hump sorry?’
‘Chancer.’ Ali laughed. ‘And might I add: creep. Dead-mother-card-playing sicko.’
Sam naturally looked thrilled with himself. Then added solemnly, ‘It’s what she would’ve wanted.’
Ali threw a sofa pillow at him in response. ‘What are we watching so?’
Sam chucked the remote over to her. ‘It’s such a weird one, isn’t it? The what-they-would’ve-wanted thing. Like, surely what they would’ve wanted would be not to be dead. And if that was out of the question, as it appears to be given our current biological limitations, then what they certainly wouldn’t have wanted would be people carrying out meaningless traditions, like burials and funerals, in their name. I swear I heard someone say, “Get the antipasti platter – it’s what she would’ve wanted” before my mum’s funeral, and I was like, “Joan, you just want the antipasti platter. If you’ve got some kind of cured meat agenda here just be upfront about it and stop using my dead mother to procure your precious cold meats.”’
Ali laughed and felt an unfamiliar urge to share something of her own experience. ‘Yeah! I suppose I know what you mean. My dad’s not well – he lives in a home – and whenever I go to visit him the nurses are always on about, “Oh, he’s having a great day today,” and I just want to say, “Really, Sheila? This is what you consider having a good day?” Like, how far do your standards have to plummet before you believe that lying in an adult nappy on an inflatable mattress to prevent bed-sores constitutes a good day?’ Ali laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, I never talk about this stuff. I never feel like people will understand. And sometimes it is just kind of funny, in a completely hopeless way.’
Sam smiled. He looked understanding but there was no sign of the dreaded head tilt. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was younger and now, well, it’s probably easier to just go through what’s right with him. He’s breathing – that’s pretty much it,’ Ali finished flatly.
Sam went over and gathered Ali in his arms. Pressed against Sam’s soft T-shirt, she allowed herself a few silent tears.
‘Fuck you, Sheila, you stupid bitch!’ announced Sam. Ali laughed in his arms but he didn’t let go all at once. ‘What’ll we watch?’ he asked.
‘Ehm …’ Ali sat up, smoothing her hair and surreptitiously wiping her face. ‘I like really hideous true-crime shows.’
‘OK, perfect, we’re watchingFrenemies: Loyalty Turned Lethal. You’ll love it.’
Ali was impressed that Sam didn’t even need to check Netflix for this totally spot-on suggestion. He was full of intriguing surprises.
16
‘Don’t worry, the dust has settled and none of my eyes and ears have mentioned anything.’ Amy was trying to get the perfect candid of Shelly contemplating a cup of coffee, ‘Shelly Blend’ by Coffee Culture, but Shelly hadn’t stopped fretting for the two weeks since the Dan meltdown in Ballinahagh House. She was convinced at any moment that Deborah Winters, the social diarist at Notions.ie, would twig some hint of the story on the wind and do a devastating exposé.
‘The hotel definitely rounded up everyone who was there, right?’ Shelly clutched her cup of vile instant coffee and struggled to look anything other than how she felt, which was queasy and anxious, amid the plush perfection of her living room. She sat in the centre of a sprawling cream-velvet couch artfully strewn with throw pillows of various shades of beige and silver.
The throw pillows were hilariously impractical; several were made of some type of high-end chainmail, while others were satin and difficult to sit on without sliding off. The tall windows, flanked by beige satin curtains, looked out on the garden, where Georgie was being read to by Marni. Lately, in an unfortunate case of toddler mispronunciation (or so Shelly hoped), Georgie was calling Marni ‘Mammy’. We must make sure the next au pair’s name doesn’t bear any resemblance to ‘mammy’, ‘mum’ or ‘mummy’, thought Shelly. Then, noticing Amy hadn’t answered her question about the hotel, she added impatiently, ‘Well?’
Amy aimed the camera. ‘What? No! No one knows. Do your laughing-to-yourself-looking-down-and-slightly-to-the-right thing.’ She snapped about thirty versions of that pose. Shelly knew she was not making it easy for Amy today – she’d have some amount of work to do in post on Shelly’s under-eye bags alone.
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Shelly said in an imploring voice. ‘I said did the hotel definitely get hold of everyone who was there? To explain the importance of discretion?’
‘OK, let’s try holding the cup with both hands and looking up to the left and laughing at something funny someone over here has said.’ Amy waved in the direction of a corner of the room empty but for a large built-in TV cabinet. ‘Yep, we tracked down everyone.’
Shelly obliged with the fake-laughing but still felt troubled. ‘Even that Kelly girl? I saw her with her phone out.’
‘Yep.’ Amy was adamant, though Shelly detected a little uneasiness. However, Amy was already on to directing the next shot. ‘OK, last pose, cup the coffee and close your eyes like you’re really savouring it.’
Shelly obeyed and immediately wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh, it’s foul.’
‘Caption-wise, I think we’ll go with something more along the lines of “that moment in the morning when I can enjoy some quiet contemplation and feel huge gratitude for being given the opportunity to design this incredible blend #ShellybyCoffeeCulture”.’ Amy smirked.
‘Oh god, seriously, I’m gonna be sick. Again.’ Shelly sprang from the couch and barely made it to the end table. Cutting her losses, she aimed for a vase of fake flowers. With Georgie she’d been sick for the first twelve weeks. Nine weeks down, three to go. At least none got on the carpet. Marni could clean up the flowers. That’s what you get for being Georgie’s new ‘mammy’, Shelly thought darkly.
