Crazy For You

“Who wants to go on holiday anyway?” she shouted as she kicked it once more for luck, then howled in pain as she realised that repeat attacks were hurting her own toes more than the huge lump of green canvas that lay sprawled across her floor.

On its opened surface, a red and white-striped bikini with the label still attached stretched across two pairs of pastel-coloured flip-flops that would now never see the light of day. Unopened bottles of sun-tan lotion in descending factors were squashed among handy-pack facial wipes and bite-size shampoo bottles, and to add insult to injury, her brand-new passport sat as neat as a pin in the case’s netted pocket, sadly surplus to requirements.

Daisy hobbled away miserably on her injured foot and plunged herself into a pathetic lukewarm bath.

I should be in Spain now, she thought sorrowfully. I should be lying on a sun-drenched beach, smothered in delicious coconut sun-tan lotion, with hot white sand sticking between my toes.

In the glorious heat of the Costa Dorada, she and Lorna had planned to rise at dawn to bag two of the best sun-beds by the pool. They were to go Dutch on evening meals and then starve on sunlight during the day as they nursed multi-coloured cocktail hangovers. Scuba-diving lessons had been considered, even though they were both petrified of deep water, as had salsa lessons even though they both had two left feet.

Instead, back in the dismal excuse of a Belfast summer, where disaster seemed to be her middle name, the only thing gripping Daisy’s sore toes were the chilly chrome bath taps she kept turning on and off in hope of some warm water.

“Come on. Please warm up, just a little. Don’t you feel sorry for me?” she asked, spotting her warped reflection in the taps. Sinking her shoulders beneath the gloomy water, she let out a shiver. It was only Monday and so far this was panning out to be the worst week of her life. Failing her last twelve theatre auditions, being dumped by her agent and watching women with chubby ankles force their feet into discount-priced shoes had done little to cheer her up.

Lorna, on the other hand, had come out of the whole failed holiday saga smelling of roses, or seaweed, or some fancy treatment at a posh hideaway in southern County Down. When the online holiday company crashed into cyberspace, her latest boyfriend whisked her away on a luxury last-minute spa break to make up for her ‘dreadful disappointment.’

So while Lorna had bagged herself a mid-week ‘dirty weekend’ out of the disaster, Daisy faced seven days of pure misery in her cramped apartment without even her best friend to bitch with. She could always unpack the darned suitcase, she supposed. Or she could go back to work in Super Shoes and save her holidays for later in the month. That would be the sensible thing to do. She could always slice off her sore big toe, for that matter.

Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to imagine that the limp, bubble-free bath water was the dazzling blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea but despite her most concentrated efforts, it wasn’t working.

“Saved by the bell,” she mumbled when the phone sang from the hallway. She tugged out the bath plug and wrapped herself in her favourite fluffy red robe. Frantically tying it at the waist, she shuffled along the tiled floor, dodging puddles and trying not to slip under her damp feet.

“Hello… shit!” said Daisy as the phone bounced off the wall. She picked up the receiver again. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I dropped the phone.”

“Whoops-a-Daisy,” said the voice on the other end, which wasn’t instantly recognisable.

Not distinctly male or female for that matter.

“Hello?’ she replied, desperately trying to place the mystery person on the other end. He or she sounded a bit dodgy, or American, or both.

“It’s me. Like, hello. Jeez, has it been so long that you don’t even recognise my voice?”

Daisy’s mind was blank. She was stuck. Really stuck. She was useless with names, but normally caught voices straight away. If Lorna had given that freaky Ricardo dude from the video store her number, she was dead meat. It sounded a bit like him, but she was only in there yesterday hiring out Titanic as an excuse to cry her lamps out, so what would he be phoning her for?

“Of course I do,” she said in her chirpiest voice trying to buy a few more seconds. “What’s the craic…?”

“Jack?”

“Jack, of course. Hi Jack. How’s tricks?” she said, pulling her wet hair back and making faces at herself in the mirror.

She didn’t know any Jacks.

“We used to say that all the time, remember? What’s the craic, Jack? And then, you’d say, not much…”

“Not much, Butch!” squealed Daisy. “Omigod is that..?”

“It’s me, you dimwit.”

“GayEddie? How the hell are you? Wow! This is a blast from the past.”

The caller didn’t reply and Daisy’s excitement was marred by a two-second pause that seemed to last a lifetime. She could feel her face go hot.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must have picked you up wrong. I thought you were an old friend of mine, Eddie Eastwood? We used to have this really weird rhyming slang when we were younger and…”

“It is me, stupid,” he sniffled. “I’m just a bit emotional at hearing your voice. God, Daisy, it’s been way, way too long.”

Daisy dabbed the black mascara rings under her eyes with a facial wipe from her suitcase and made a mental note to remind Eddie he was from Donegal, not downtown L.A. The wipe smelt funny and she realised it was one for warning off mosquito bites. Chance would be a fine thing.

“Hey, Ed. Come on. Don’t be like that. We do catch up from time to time. I only emailed you last week, didn’t I?”

“Forwarding jokes to me in San Francisco doesn’t count for correspondence, Daisy. I haven’t seen you in almost four goddamn years and I desperately need to talk to you. Is it OK if I come over?”

Daisy plonked herself down on top of the bulky suitcase, ignoring the discomfort of the bulging bag of toiletries she threatened to destroy under her posterior. To give him his dues, Eddie always had amateur dramatics down to a fine art. But Eddie couldn’t just ‘come over’. He lived a million miles away, for goodness sake. This was serious. Or was it? With Eddie, most of the time, it was very hard to tell.

“Sure. Fly over right away. Ed. I’ll see you in about ten or twenty hours’ time. At least I’ll be dressed by then.”

Eddie gave out a dramatic deep sigh.

“Em, well, you see I’m sort of… I’m, I’m actually outside your apartment.”

“What???!”

“I’m in the car park. Sorry, Daisy. I can come back later if now doesn’t suit…”

Daisy raced to the window. She couldn’t see any desperado loners lurking about, and as usual the quiet suburban apartment block was as silent as a graveyard. Everyone else in the world was at work after all.

Or on holiday.

“Very funny. You really had me there, Mr America. I am actually standing here like a prat, looking out of my window for you. Good one.”

“I know you are. I can see you. You’re wearing what looks like a huge red, fuzzy blanket. Look over here. I’m in the yellow car.”

Daisy gulped. Was he serious? A canary-coloured Mini Cooper convertible shone boldly like a beacon among the scattered vehicles in the cobbled Stranmillis car park. It had to be his.

Small, brassy and as gay as Christmas.

A long arm waved out of the driver’s side window, which even from a height and through pouring rain was noticeably perma-tanned and laden with bling.

“I don’t believe it! When did you get home? Come on, come on up quickly.”

“You’re a darling, Daisy Anderson,” said Eddie with new rigour. “I’ll be with you in two shakes and all will be revealed.”

Daisy flicked the switch on the kettle and then immediately changed her mind. This wasn’t a tea or coffee moment. This was an occasion. It wasn’t every day an old friend like Eddie turned up unexpectedly like this. She would treat him to a slap-up brunch at Deane’s Brasserie and pretend she was as lively and sophisticated as the place itself. Plus, she once snogged one of the waiters and she wouldn’t mind another glimpse of him while she was there.

She quickly grabbed a bottle of sparkling white wine from the fridge and set out two of her finest champagne flutes – her only champagne flutes, and uncorked the bottle with a feeling of teenage rebellion.

Fumbling through her own and then Lorna’s CD collection, she quickly settled on a George Michael compilation. That should make him feel at home, she thought, congratulating herself at how considerate she’d become in her late twenties.

The doorbell finally buzzed and Daisy ran towards it, laden with celebratory drinks to welcome her childhood neighbour into her humble abode.