Rules for a Perfect Life Page 6

  ‘Hang on, I’ll just check if June can meet you there,’ the landlord says now, sounding even more hassled. ‘I’m having a little … domestic difficulty here.’

  The noise has abated – maybe that was some sort of interference on the line.

  ‘He’s going to check if his wife can meet us there,’ I whisper to Claire, who’s still smiling serenely as she negotiates the narrow country roads with care. She hasn’t grumbled once, even while her precious BMW ground through dozens of potholes. I know she’s trying to be at one with nature and pretend that none of it bothers her.

  Suddenly I hear rustling in the background. And more yelling. Someone shouts, ‘Take that off your head, Polly,’ then there’s a crash and the unmistakable wail of a child who has just come a cropper. That definitely wasn’t interference on the line. There’s mayhem going on there.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ a voice swears. ‘Polly, for goodness’ sake, will you take that bucket off your head!’

  I wince. It sounds like World War Three has broken out. ‘Er, I can call back if you like?’ I offer tentatively. I’m not sure if he’s even at the other end any more but it seems like chaos there – which doesn’t bode well for the cottage. In general, landlords who lead chaotic lives have properties that are disorganized and badly maintained. The same is true of landlords who are dishevelled in appearance: the shabbier they are, usually the shabbier their property is. There are exceptions to the rule, of course. I once had a landlord who dressed from head to toe in stinking sweatpants and never seemed to wash but her rental was immaculate. She’d even installed an internal vacuuming system. I can’t help but wonder how she’s faring in this market, when rents have dropped and there are so many properties available. Now that prospective tenants have the pick of hundreds of properties, the tables have finally turned.

  ‘No, no, just give me a minute,’ the voice pants. He’s obviously running with the phone. ‘I can’t find June – she must be in the garden.’

  ‘I’ll call back,’ I say, rolling my eyes at Claire. ‘He’s a total idiot,’ I mouth to her.

  ‘Hang on,’ she mouths back, winking cheerfully at me.

  ‘Look, someone will be there to meet you, OK? I just don’t know who.’

  Then the receiver rattles back into its cradle before I can say any more.

  ‘Talk about disorganized!’ I huff, snapping my mobile shut.

  ‘It’ll be fine, Maggie, chill out.’ Claire has been telling me to chill out a lot recently – it seems to be her new philosophy. She also keeps telling me to stop sweating the small stuff, which is even more disconcerting because that was exactly what she did for years.

  ‘Listen, Claire, I don’t want to burst your bubble,’ I say, ‘but this Edward is a complete flake – I don’t know what was going on in the background but it sounded chaotic. And he made a right mess of giving directions to the cottage. I mean, telling us to go through some random crossroads and then look for a lime kiln, whatever the hell that is. It’s madness – that kind of thing just isn’t on.’

  ‘I think that’s how it works down here,’ Claire says. ‘It’s not like there are street names we can follow. Anyway, we know where it is now, so all’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Yes, well, a good landlord should be far more organized,’ I mutter. ‘What if you get a leak in the middle of the night? If he’s not on the ball it could be a disaster. His attitude just doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to judge people, Maggie,’ Claire says. ‘Live and let live, that’s my new motto. It’s amazing how calming it can be when you take that approach to life.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ I say. ‘Your old motto used to be “Everyone is an arsehole until proven otherwise.”’

  ‘Anyway, I like this country approach to things,’ Claire says stoutly, ignoring me. ‘It’s quirky.’

  ‘You don’t like quirky,’ I remind her.

  Claire thinks that anyone who has more than one body piercing is socially unacceptable. I once got a blonde streak in my fringe and she was appalled. Claire does not do quirky. She does strait-laced. At least, she used to. Now she does patchwork quilted handbags and unplucked eyebrows.

  ‘I’m learning to love quirky,’ she protests. ‘Besides, I like taking the scenic route – it’s fun! It’s just like the road trip we took to Las Vegas.’

  We did that legendary trip across California back in 1999, when we were young, free and single. We travelled to San Francisco, Napa Valley and Yosemite Park, but Vegas had been the highlight. I’ll never forget driving through the desert, spotting the twinkling lights in the distance and whooping and hollering with glee. We’d only planned to stay in the Luxor Hotel for two nights, but we were there for four. Just strolling through the foyer was incredible – we felt like we’d been transported back to ancient Egypt.

  And the buzz in the place was amazing. Within an hour we’d become addicted to the slot machines and the free cocktails. We never mastered any of the more sophisticated games – like blackjack or poker – we never wanted to: the slots were exciting enough for us, and when we got bored with pouring buckets of money into them, we’d wander over to the high rollers and watch them casually throw thousands of dollars’ worth of chips on to a table, like it meant nothing at all. Then there was the shopping. God, I loved that place – even thinking about it makes me feel all nostalgic and gooey.

  ‘How is driving to a shack in the middle of nowhere like our road trip to Vegas?’ I grin at her.

  ‘Maggie,’ she mock-tuts, ‘Rose Cottage isn’t a shack, it’s quaint. And doesn’t this trip remind you of driving to Vegas, just a little?’

  ‘We don’t have an open-top car,’ I point out, laughing.

  We’d hired an amazing red convertible in California – we had the roof down constantly so we could soak up the glorious sun. We spent most of the journey pretending to be Thelma and Louise. It really was brilliant fun.

  ‘That’s true,’ she admits. ‘But I do have the Thelma and Louise soundtrack on CD!’ With a flick, music booms round the car.

  ‘Do you remember the all-you-can-eat buffets?’ I say, thinking about the spectacular spreads we used to have. When they said ‘all you can eat’, they really meant it. I’d never seen such monstrous displays of food in my life. It was heaven.

  ‘Oh, yeah, they were amazing, weren’t they?’ Claire’s eyes go misty at the memory. Before that holiday she used to pride herself on having a tiny portion of toast, no butter, for breakfast but even she couldn’t resist the Vegas food – she really let herself go. She put on seven pounds from the buffets alone.

  ‘Yeah, they were.’ I nod. ‘Do you remember the muffins?’

  ‘Seventeen different types? Oh. My. God. Amazing.’

  ‘What about … the pancakes?’

  She knows exactly what I’m talking about and we both burst out laughing.

  One morning, Claire had been wobbling towards our table with a stack of pancakes so high I could barely see her face. It was her second trip to the pancake stand – she’d already eaten a huge pile but couldn’t stop herself going back for more. She was setting her plate on the table when the server appeared and asked if we wanted a coffee refill. Spotting Claire’s oversize stack he’d done a double take, then asked, ‘Y’all want extra syrup?’

  For some reason, that had really set us off. We’d laughed so hard some blueberry pancake had shot right out of my nose – which only made things worse. The poor server didn’t know what to do.

  ‘I figured out why I was doing that.’ Claire giggles now.

  ‘Doing what? Eating enough to feed a small army?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She laughs. ‘It was a famine thing.’

  ‘A famine thing?’

  Claire has come up with some outlandish theories in her day, but even I want to know how she can link her greedy raids in Vegas to the Irish famine of the 1800s when thousands died of hunger and even more emigrated to avoid starvation.

  ‘I reckon we Iri
sh go mad at the all-you-can-eat buffets because we somehow feel, deep in our subconscious, that we might one day go hungry again – like we did during the potato famine. It’s a collective-consciousness thing.’

  ‘Right … So you stuffing your face in the Luxor Hotel was because our ancestors starved?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She chuckles, knowing how absurd this sounds.

  ‘Or … it could just be because you’re a pig.’

  We both dissolve into giggles again. God, it feels good to laugh. It feels like I haven’t had a good laugh in a million years.

  ‘Speaking of pigs, I’m thinking of getting a real one when I move down here,’ she says.

  I guffaw again – that’s a good one.

  ‘No, seriously. I mean it. I might even get goats.’

  ‘Goats?’

  ‘Yes. For milk. And hens too. I’ll probably become self-sufficient.’

  ‘Claire, have you ever actually tasted goat’s milk?’ I ask. ‘It’s vile.’

  ‘I’ll get used to it,’ she answers airily.

  ‘And how will you survive without your espressos – or will you be too busy collecting eggs to miss those?’ I snigger.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I’ve given up coffee, remember?’

  ‘But you’ve lived in the city all your life. How are you going to cope when you’re miles away from the nearest shop?’

  We’ve already passed through the village of Glacken and, by the look of things, it doesn’t even have a proper supermarket, let alone a coffee shop or a wine bar. Who knows where the nearest decent nightclub is?

  ‘Maggie – look at the scenery!’ she says gleefully. ‘It’s heaven on earth down here! I won’t care about shops!’

  ‘You think?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, I mean, just look at all this.’ Claire gestures to the fields that surround the lane we’re currently crawling up. ‘You’d never see this in the city.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ I agree, eyeing the herd of cows trotting slowly along in front of us. An elderly farmer is ambling behind them, as if we have all the time in the world to get to where we need to go. He tipped his hat at us when we rounded the bend and came face to face with dozens of black and white rear ends, but since then he’s simply continued meandering up the road at a snail’s pace. Claire’s sporty BMW is now travelling at less than 10 k.p.h. per hour.

  ‘Do you think you should bip him?’ I ask, a wave of impatience washing over me. It’s going to take us all day to get to the cottage at this rate.

  ‘Maggie, you can’t bip a farmer because his cows aren’t going fast enough for you. This is the country – he has right of way if he needs to move the herd from one field to another.’ Suddenly Claire seems to know all the rules and regulations of country life – or, at least, she’s pretending to.

  ‘Well, there has to be a quicker way of doing it. I mean, can’t he make them go any faster?’

  My hand is itching to honk the horn. It’s infuriating the way the farmer is just strolling along. It looks like he’s going as slow as he possibly can on purpose, and he’s encouraging his cows to do the same. We’re almost stationary now.

  ‘What’s your rush? You need to slow down and smell the roses, Mags.’ Claire leans her head back against the car seat and rolls down the window. ‘Take a nice big breath – doesn’t that fresh country air smell wonderful?’

  I inhale and then splutter with the shock of the ghastly stench that assaults my nostrils. ‘It smells like cow shit, Claire, if that’s what you mean,’ I gasp, covering my mouth and nose with my sleeve. ‘Shut that window, quick.’

  ‘Come on, Maggie,’ Claire laughs, ‘it’s all part of country living!’

  ‘Well, good luck to you. I prefer nice city diesel fumes myself.’

  ‘Even if it’s polluting your lungs?’

  ‘I’d choose polluted lungs over that any day,’ I say, as a cow pauses directly in front of the car. It lifts its tail and a great whoosh of green slime spatters all over its legs and the road. ‘Oh, God, I’m going to be sick,’ I mutter, as Claire giggles beside me. My stomach heaves – I may never drink milk again. Up close and personal, cows aren’t nearly as cute as they look in those TV ads for cheese. I’ve never noticed before, but they aren’t at all cuddly: their legs are really spindly and their bodies are out of proportion to their heads. Looking at them now, I realize they’re positively ugly and the way they poop themselves all the time is really gross. What if some of that poop ends up in the milk? I know the manufacturers pasteurize and everything – but does that even work? I make a silent vow to swear off all dairy products for the foreseeable future, just in case. Of course, that might make it tricky to have my favourite toasted cheese sandwich, but it’ll be worth it.

  I can’t take my eyes off the green slime that now seems to be sliding down the back legs of almost every cow in the herd ahead. Isn’t there something they could wear to stop all that stuff dripping everywhere? Some sort of cow nappy maybe? Surely all that gunk can’t be good for the environment. Didn’t I read somewhere that cow gas is one of the main contributors to the destruction of the ozone layer? These ugly animals are the reason we’re all getting fried alive by the hole in the atmosphere. I’ve a good mind to give that slowcoach farmer a piece of my mind about it.

  ‘How can you not love all this … greenery?’ Claire breathes. ‘I mean, don’t you find it so restful?’

  There’s a look of rapture on her unmade-up features. I’m almost starting to get used to her without makeup now – and somehow she’s seeming less naked without the warpaint. Her skin is great – really clear and dewy, almost like she’s wearing illuminating concealer, except I know she’s not because she’s already told me she’s decided to go barefaced to allow her skin to detox. I have to admit, it may just be working – her face is aglow. She’s an advertisement for the au naturel look.

  ‘Restful? Are you kidding me?’ I snap. ‘If that farmer doesn’t get out of our way soon I’m going to have a coronary right here. Or else I’m going to massacre all his cows.’

  I imagine jumping into the driver’s seat, revving the motor and ploughing through the entire herd – for a split second it makes me feel better.

  ‘Is that a sycamore, do you think?’ Claire says idly, pointing to the branches of a tree that are brushing against the car as we inch past.

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s scratching your paintwork,’ I say. ‘Honestly, who’s in charge of pruning the hedgerow round here? It’s completely overgrown – how are people supposed to get by without destroying their cars?’

  I wince as more branches scrape against the passenger door – the lane is so narrow it’s impossible to avoid them.

  ‘It’s the countryside, Maggie.’ Claire laughs. ‘I believe the hedgerows are allowed to grow. It’s not like a city garden where you practically have to measure your grass to make sure it doesn’t get too high!’

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for a bit of order, you know,’ I reply, resisting the urge to push Claire aside and step on the accelerator. ‘Those hedges are so … untidy. And they must be a hazard.’

  ‘To what?’ Claire smirks. ‘The cows?’

  The cows have slowed down even more. A few have now stopped completely to chew the grass at the side of the road. The farmer is nowhere to be seen – surely he should stay at the back to make them move along? Or he should have a sheepdog at least to keep them on their toes. Or do sheepdogs only work with sheep? I’m not sure, but in these recessionary times they should learn to multitask. They should be back here, forcing these cows to move along. Because these are definitely the dimmest cows in Ireland. Possibly the world.

  ‘Well, I’m going to buy a book about trees so I can recognize all the different species,’ Claire says. ‘Nature is just fascinating! I want to learn all about conifers, deciduous trees, evergreens. I want to be able to tell them apart.’

  ‘You never cared about trees before,’ I say sharply. Maybe a bit too sharply. It’s
not a crime to want to learn about trees, I suppose, but I’m getting totally fed up with Claire rewriting her entire personal history to make herself sound like a soft and cuddly person when in fact she’s nothing of the sort.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ she replies.

  ‘No, Claire, you didn’t,’ I snap. ‘In fact, if I recall, you even refused to have a real Christmas tree in your living room last year – you said you couldn’t stand the smell. And you hated having to vacuum the needles out of your rug – remember?’

  There’s silence in the car. I may have gone too far but, honestly, Claire has lost the run of herself. What is the point of learning about trees? What possible use is that ever going to be in daily life?

  ‘You’re right,’ she says quietly, and even though I feel a little bad, I sigh with relief. Finally, she’s seen sense. She realizes this whole charade is a complete waste of time. I had to be brutally honest with her, but if it’s made her see the light it’s been worth it. And she can’t be too cross with me because she’s still smiling.

  ‘Can you believe I was that self-centred?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I’m confused now.

  ‘Imagine, I was so self-obsessed that I couldn’t even appreciate the wonder of nature! My God, I was a monster.’ She shakes her head, as if she just cannot grasp the fact that she ever had a plastic, pre-decorated Christmas tree from Homebase in her pristine living room.

  ‘You weren’t self-centred, Claire, you were normal.’

  ‘No, I was wasting my life. And now I’m going to devote it to things that are really important.’

  ‘Like learning the difference between tree species?’ This is all going horribly wrong. I thought she’d seen how silly this country plan is, but in some strange and warped way, I’ve actually managed to validate her new lifestyle choices. Which is just my luck.

  ‘You think it’s a waste of time,’ she says calmly.

  I raise my eyebrows in response.

  ‘Well, if I’m going to be living down here full time, I’m going to need to learn the lingo. I can’t go round thinking oaks are sycamores, can I? I’d be a laughing stock.’