JEALOUSY

This story came third in RTE's radio short story competition 2002 and was broadcast in February of that year.

Me in a hat! Imagine it! I haven't worn a hat since that black floppy thing I bought years ago in an Amsterdam flea market.

The invitation is on hand-made paper sealed with red wax and stamped with a crest. I show it to Astor, who throws back his head and laughs.

"Not only that," I say. "They haven't invited you."

He stops laughing now.

"What a shame," I say. "You'd look great in a dress suit."

It's my nephew's wedding, my brother's only son (there are however a rake of girls). My brother is a millionaire - the source of his loot is actually a bit dubious - and he likes to put on a flashy show. But not inviting Astor is mean-spirited and I tell my brother as much. Later, my sister-in-law Jennifer, the snobby one with the big hair and make-up lashed on like Polyfilla, phones me to say that of course Astor will be welcome to the afters, but the reception is strictly for family members.

"He might feel uncomfortable," she says, and I wonder if she's prejudiced. Astor is very dark, Argentinian, even though his ancestry is Italian.

"If you marry me," he says, "we wouldn't have all this trouble." Here we go again, I think.

My revenge on Jennifer is the hat. Astor helps me with it. We buy the basic model, a bashed up felt job, in Oxfam and sew things on to it - bright feathers and beads and flowers and dead birds. Astor attaches it to my hair - my wild Irish hair, as he calls it, all matted red curls - with a jewelled hat pin.

"Ouch!" I say.

Actually, I'm very fond of my nephew, Eoin, and even more of his fat girlfriend, Molly. So I take off the dead birds before the service. Astor flutters his dark lashes at me. I wish he wouldn't do that when I am supposed to be in a rush.

The upshot is that I am late. Also that the church door slams loudly behind me just as the rake of daughters are launching into song. Everyone, especially Jennifer, turns round to stare at me. Her glare visibly turns into outrage at the sight of my hat. But I don't falter. I smile self-deprecatingly and sit down at the back. Next to Jennifer's kleptomaniac brother, Tighe. (When he was sent to jail and his picture was in the papers, Jennifer informed all and sundry that he was in that section of Mountjoy reserved for the better class of criminal: embezzlers, forgers and tax evaders).

"Love the hat," whispers Tighe as the rake of daughters aim with varying success at the high notes. "Where's Astor?"

"Banned."       

The service takes its usual meandering course. Eoin and Molly promise to love each other forever and all that rubbish and sign something to that effect. The Catholics take communion, Jennifer leading the way like a battering ram charging the walls of unbelief. Then suddenly it's over and the bride and groom walk down the aisle to the accompaniment of the theme from The Godfather.

"Am I hearing things?" I ask Tighe.

Fond as I am of Molly, I have to concede that the dress she has chosen does nothing for her. She looks like a large portion of cream-filled meringue. But Eoin is licking his lips at her like crazy, so I suppose that's what matters.

The reception is in some fancy hotel with a golf course instead of gardens. We perch by the eighteenth hole and pop chocolate-covered strawberries in our mouths and guzzle champagne while those five inexhaustible daughters sing a medley of songs. Although "The Way We Were" and "I Never Promised you a Rose Garden" seem strangely inappropriate to me. Maybe the girls are bitching because none of them has yet found a steady beau. We move into the bar, because a group of golfers want access to the course without the risk of knocking cold some vision in pastel. I sense already that it's a mistake to keep pouring champagne down my throat but can't stop. I feel like I'm drinking for two.

They've seated me for dinner between a banker and a dentist. Both of them take one look at my hat and turn to the people on the other side of them. To counter boredom, I consider flicking the prawns from my cocktail at the mountainous cleavage of the banker's wife opposite me but instead catch the amused eye of Tighe across the room. Turns out, there's an empty seat at his table, so I stand up (as best I can), smile sweetly and say, "I'm going to be awfully rude and abandon you." Then I wobble across to Tighe. The banker's wife actually turns round in her seat to stare at me. Maybe she was hoping to make me her new best friend.

Astor peeks in during the dessert. There's a book going round, organised by Tighe, to guess how long the speeches will take. One pound a bet and winner takes all. I refuse to participate due to an uncharitable suspicion that Tighe will somehow manage to pocket the takings. Instead, I go over to Astor, who is looking gorgeous in his orange silk shirt and tight black trousers.

"It's safe to come in," I say. "Everyone's legless."

Even Jennifer is grinning foolishly by now, her Philip Tracey creation askew on her big hair and her lavender tulle all puckered.

There's a band. Not bad, in fact, and seemingly able to turn their nimble fingers to anything. We jive and shimmy and line dance and cling. At a certain point, Astor has a word with the concertina player. I can guess what's coming next and sure enough, after a short discussion, the band hits a significant chord and launches into "Jealousy." Astor extends his right hand to me. God, I wish I was as svelte and beautiful as he is; as young. I wish I could carry off a tight dress with a slit up to my forehead, but I'm built like a typical colleen, sturdy collops and all. It doesn't matter because when Astor looks into my eyes, I know I'm beautiful. I toss my hat off (minding the bejewelled pin) and sashay towards him. No wobbling now. Some of the others shuffle courageously to the melody but they soon stop and stare as Astor throws me back until my hair brushes the floor. Then we slowly circle each other in the mating ritual that is the tango.

When it's over, I'm exhausted. People smile or frown. A few clap. Jennifer glares. My brother raises his brandy glass and puffs on his Cuban cigar.

Astor pulls me out through the French windows. There's a sort of balcony here overlooking a rose garden I didn't know existed. The air is balmy and a fingernail of moon scratches at the stars.

"Did you arrange this on purpose?" I ask.

"Querida!" he says, and pulls out a little velvet box.

I dread what's coming next.

"Open it."

Of course, it's a ring. Rather a nice one actually, a tiny ruby clutched by tendrils of thin gold.

"I won't marry you, Astor," I say for the nth time.

"No.... I suppose you want this Tiger."

Tiger? Tighe! What!

"I see how you look at him. How he look at you. How you laugh together."  

Jealousy! Was that why he requested that particular number? We soon start shouting at each other and then I storm off to the bar to drink daiquiris. "Why not marry Astor?" Molly asked me once. "You adore each other."  I suppose I'm afraid that once wed he'd want me to start producing a rake of babies, while he goes off tangoing with someone else.

I pick up the box which I forgot to fling back in Astor's face, and rub its soft blue velvet. I discover that tears have welled up in my eyes and are spilling down my cheeks. Probably carrying with them little train tracks of mascara.

"Is it that bad?"

Oh, no! It's Molly's horny Uncle Bob.

"Weddings always make me sad," I say.

"I know what you mean," he replies gloomily. He has been married for twenty-seven years to Eileen.

Then Bob buys me a drink and starts to chat me up. His leg rubs against mine. Surreptitiously, I slip the ruby on to the fourth finger of my left hand and pick up my glass.       

"Well, it'll be me next," I say.

"At long last! Who's the lucky man?" His leg is still rubbing mine. I hope Astor comes and gives him a puck on that big red nose. "Not the Dago, surely!"

If I still had the hat pin, I'd ram it into some tender part of him.

Luckily Eileen arrives and scoops him up, looking at me as if I'm something she's stepped in.

Several daiquiris later and I can no longer move. Life is terrible. Astor has disappeared. Whatever will I do if he's gone for good! It's at this low point that Molly finds me.

"Thank God someone's conscious," she says. "Come. I need you."

We step over prostrate bodies - I notice vaguely that the accordion player seems to be in a compromising position with the banker's wife, both, however, comatose.

Molly leads me to the bridal suite where Eoin lies fully clothed across the bed, snoring.

"I can't get my dress off," she tells me. "And he's no use."

My fingers clumsy with alcohol, I finally release her stays. Molly bursts out of her dress like risen bread dough.   

"Phew," she says. "That's a relief. Where's Astor?"

"don't know."

"Where are you sleeping?"

"don't know."

"Have you a room here?"

"No."

So that's how I end up in bed with Molly and Eoin on their wedding night, her in the middle as a large, soft buffer. But I'm restless despite the drink. For one thing, there's something uncomfortable under my head. When I look beneath the pillow I find a large knife.

"It's a kukri," Molly explains. "Eoin picked it up in Thailand. Likes to have it by him in case of thieves in the night."

It's difficult to sleep after that. I imagine any sudden movement on my part and I'll wake up to find my head neatly detached from the rest of me. But I must have dozed off eventually because I am woken by golden light cascading through a crack in the curtains. I get up and don't get dressed because I already am.

I go downstairs. Mysteriously, most of the bodies have been removed in the night but there's still no sign of Astor. I go through the deserted ballroom, stale with smoke and spilled drink. I fling open the French windows and breathe scented air. Suddenly I glimpse a splash of orange down among the rose beds. Oh, these passionate Latins!  Evidently in a fit of despair Astor has flung himself from the balcony! I clamber down to find if he is dead, grazing my leg on the rough stone. But my love is sleeping peacefully on a wooden bench, a petal stuck to his dew-damp cheek, my hat on his chest.

"Astor," I breathe and kiss his forehead.

"Querida!" waking up.

He touches the ring still on my finger.

"I refuse to wear white," I tell him. "It'll have to be turquoise, or emerald or ruby red."

"And we'll have many babies," he smiles.     

What can I say? What would you say? Whatever rubbish is usually said on such occasions.

We climb back into the ballroom and dance a tango to the strains of an imaginary orchestra.