Chapter 4

In the meantime, I was working in one of the most famous advertising agencies in the world on two of their toughest accounts, Nikon cameras and Fortune magazine. Miraculously, it was going okay. The boss seemed happy. I couldn't believe it because I was only working with half my cylinders.

So the big night of Aisling's exhibition arrived and I was very nervous. I was going to meet her friends. In my mind I'm still her boyfriend. We're just going through a bumpy patch. I mean, I didn't feel too confident about it. I had a nasty feeling that I would discover some stuff I wouldn't like. I got there and the event was already up and running. I pushed my way through the impressive crowd of fashionable, comfortable looking people. People who appeared as if they were used to being loved (Strange thing to say, but that's how they looked to me...the sought-after). So I tried to find her and couldn't at first. But I could see the huge photo on the back wall of the bar.

That's all it was.

A big bar with a big wall space at the back. The shot was of skaters on ice taken at the Vanderbilt Centre and double exposed so that one image of skaters was superimposed over another in order to give an impression of movement. To me, it was reminiscent of the kind of shot you'd see from a photographer in the 1920's or 1930's. A Russian Man Ray or if Kandinsky had been a photographer. Expressive in the classic sense.

I was shocked that I liked it so much and pissed off. It meant she was more talented than I'd feared. Not only had she stolen my heart, but now she'd stolen the life I would have loved to live had I had the courage not to go into advertising.

I don't think this hit me consciously at the time, but I was uncomfortable. No. I was jealous. And to top it all off when I did find her she was holding a huge fucking Iris that someone had given her (some guy, no doubt) and a dirty great pint of Guinness. A pint of Guinness. I hadn't even seen one in about four years, let alone one attached to a girl I loved. Something cracked under my feet.

I nodded politely as she introduced me to her friend. The tallest girl I had ever seen. She must have been six foot seven. I'm not joking, she was fucking huge. She had come from Maine specially to see her friend Aisling. I said that showed loyalty. She said rather infuriatingly that she did it because Aisling was going to be rich someday. I remember finding that odd.

So I got stuck talking directly to this girl's midriff about sweet fuck-all with the two loves of my life: Guinness and Herself gliding around the bar pecking everyone on the cheek. Her boss had even turned up. Peter Freeman, it turned out, was a slightly cherubic gray-haired thing in loose jeans and woolen sweater. He looked much older than I'd imagined Early fifties. I remember being relieved and thinking, well, at least I don't have to worry about him.

I bought the tall girl a Bailey's, and at my instigation, we sat at a little table because I felt so ridiculous looking up her nostrils while feigning interest in her life in Maine. All I wanted from her was information about her friend, my lover, the rising photographer. I got nothing, of course. We were sitting for a while when suddenly I felt a splatter of Bailey's across my face and chest. I looked at her, incredulous. She was holding a plastic straw. She had flicked it at me. As I heard her apologize I realized there was a droplet on my bottom lip. Smiling, I carefully I wiped my chest and mouth. I was very aware of there only being the need to lick my lips and anything could have happened. As it was, I had arranged with my AA friend Adam to meet later if things got sticky. This, I decided, was sticky. It was good to have someone real I could go and meet rather than having to limp out under some invented excuse. I sat for a while longer and then after getting her another Bailey's (ever the gentleman) I asked her to apologize to Aisling for me as I had a dinner-date.

Happy day. I got out of there. The tall girl was over-apologetic and tried to grab my arm as she bid me to sit down again. No way was I was staying just so I could be ignored more emphatically. Fuck that, I told myself and stepped into the welcoming March air. Superb.Within fifteen minutes Adam and I were walking against ferociously strong wind and rain over the Williamsburg Bridge. It was good for me. And him, too, I think. I kept replaying the Bailey's moment in my mind. How the fuck could that have been an accident? I drank everything I could lay my hands on for over fifteen years and I never had booze splatter on me like that. Not by accident, anyway. It was too monstrous to suggest that she'd done it purposely. Too paranoid. So I forgot about it, sort of.

I didn't call Aisling the next day. I was convinced that I now had the measure of her and her crew. I'd met one or two of her friends (other than that tall thing) and felt justified in labelling them as wealthy, bored Irish. The only types for whom the humiliation of a Culchie (anyone outside of Dublin) still held any interest.

But I broke down the next day, called and left a message saying how much I'd enjoyed meeting her friends and that it would be lovely to have lunch again sometime (fucking idiot that I was). She, of course, left yet another message saying, yes, it was lovely to see me, too, and she'd love to have lunch or something, etc….

We ended up meeting for lunch at Cafe Habana on Prince and Elizabeth just around the corner from where she lived. I was there early, of course, and she turned up about three quarters of an hour late. She only lived around the fucking corner. She even drew attention to the fact. I shrugged it off, Mr. Tolerant, Mr. Understanding. The usual banter followed, nothing really said out loud, lots of bullshit about advertising. Then out of the blue she apologized for a rather sharp remark to me that night. It had the effect of a slap.

"If you'd had your way you'd have had the fucking mass-media down here."

This referred to my attempts to impress her with what I thought would be a good way to "launch" her opening. I wanted to have photographers from various media meccas like Vogue, Elle, and Vanity Fair at the opening. I even went so far as to suggest that she have the shot good and large on the wall so that any photos taken at the opening would have her work prominent in the background. I also remember saying that it would be great if a fight broke out in front of her shot. Because if a fight broke out and she "just happened" to have a camera set up there and she also "just happened" to get a good shot of the fight then that shot in itself could become one of the works. Also, as a media mercenary, I knew a shot like that would be difficult for any editor of any magazine to refuse. They have space on white pages to fill, too, just like the rest of us.

It was ironic that I actually gave her the idea. The thing is, of course, that it

would work best if you could involve someone well known in the fight.

But I'm jumping ahead again. You mustn't let me do that. So here she was apologizing for her remark, saying that it was because she had been nervous

about the opening.

I let it go. Of course I let it go. Then, I said something I regret.

"You can pay for this. You've been wanting to since I met you, it won't

break your heart."

Here's what she did.

She was rummaging in her wallet, probably waiting for me to tell her to put it away but on hearing the words "break" and "heart," she froze. Her eyes (oh, those eyes) lifted from the wallet as if they were about to latch onto mine but they stopped unnaturally. She seemed now to be staring at the floor. I knew she knew I was watching her. For a few beats she let them rest there and then, as if noticing something on the table, she let them rise that far blinking slowly and without moving her body or head those eyes now shifted up and sideways to look over my left shoulder until finally making the last diagonal ascent up my cheek to burrow into my sockets.

"I. Don't. Think. So."

That's what she said. As if she knew she could kill me right there and then, but the timing wasn't right. It was the discipline that frightened me. It meant that she was doing whatever she was doing for professional reasons. There would be no passion here. And therefore, there had been no passion before. The Shelbourne had merely been a necessary act; part of a pre-ordained tried and tested formula. Right down to the part where she tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of our lovemaking and posed like a naughty sixteen-year-old girl complete with a coquettish smile and nodding downwards at her body to ensure that I took away the intended mental snapshot. No one can say she didn't understand the nature of photography. The restraint she showed that lunchtime told me how deeply sophisticated she was, and made me want her even more.

To be honest, I had an idea I was being taken in but I wanted to be taken somewhere...anywhere. After all, if this was what she wanted and I could give it to her

then why not? I was in love with her, wasn't I? Also, I was enthralled. I'd been watching videos in St Lacroix (French films) for two years and hadn't come across anything as interesting as this. And there was always the outside possibility that I might get laid again. But in reality, I was the fish and she was the angler. It was just question of what she

wanted to me to do next.

What she wanted me to do next was accompany her to an exhibition in the New Guggenheim on Broadway. This we did. Only one thing worth mentioning here. When we arrived at one of the cross streets, I forget which one, she spun round as if to save me from walking in front of traffic and hit me really hard in the chest. I mean, really fucking hard.

For a second I couldn't breathe. I was dazed, I'd already lost about a stone from shock. I read somewhere that when someone is in emotional shock the area around the heart loses some of its protective fat and is therefore dangerously exposed. One well-aimed punch can not only be very painful but, when the person who has been in shock starts to put the weight back on, the heart stays bruised and this can lead to aortal fibrillation. It's not life threatening, but it is uncomfortable.

It hurt, but I pretended it didn't.

Next port of call on my own personal voyage of discovery was the Chess Café. Yes, they have such a thing in New York. In Soho. It was awful. We were strolling around some of the most romantic real estate on the globe, and I might just as well have been in hell. I was right beside the girl of my dreams, but also the source of some of the worst pain I have ever experienced. In the Chess Café you paid a dollar to rent a table and you could play chess for as long as you liked. They served coffee and true to chess-player neutrality, it was one of the few places left where you were not only allowed to smoke, but actively encouraged. All that frowning looked good through plumes of cigarette smoke.

She beat me easily, and I found myself squirming in my creaky chair just like I'd done in Fanelli's. She leaned back as if mentally warming her hands again, just like she'd done in Fanelli's. I tipped over my king in the second game. She looked up all hurt and cheated. Hurt because I was cutting short her enjoyment. Cheated because she was probably planning a long drawn-out death for me and now I had killed myself and denied her the pleasure. Also, it must have shown her how I played the life game – I'd abstain rather than prolong pain. She protested too much. Like it was significant. Like I'd hit a nerve.

"Finish the game," she cried.

I said something about not wanting to prolong the agony and complimented her on how good she was at chess.

"Why? Because I beat you?"

By now, I was almost limping. I was mentally and emotionally in tatters. One more blow, and I would have started crying. Bawling in the street. Just one more remark and the hairline cracks behind my eyes would begin firstly to squirt and then to gush and finally a deluge would canalize the thin streets of Soho.

I had my good friend and mentor Dean to meet at 6:30 and I told her so. I was never so grateful, and yet heartbroken, to get away from her that afternoon. I didn't have the courage to even kiss her cheek. I feared one last rejection would push me over the edge. I stomped away again filled with rage, confusion, fear, love and relief. We had talked about seeing a movie during the week.

I'm sick of talking about her. But I have to tell someone the whole story. Not just bits and pieces here and there, but the whole thing, partly because I don't know if I believe it myself. I'm of the opinion that if I write if down, I can at last walk away from it all. It will have been dealt with. Maybe it'll act as a warning to the others. So, the next week I was busy at work and even managed to tell Aisling that I couldn't go to the pictures with her on the Wednesday night because I was being "wooed" by another agency. This was only one-third true. A guy from another agency, a writer, wanted to meet me and have a chat and yes, they were hiring, but the place wasn't known for doing great work.

Aisling and I arranged to meet on Friday night for "a drink" at a bar. I didn't know it was to be the last time I'd ever see her. I just thought I was meeting the girl I loved, just one of the millions of times I would meet her over the course of the rest of both our lives. Love was patient, kind and undemanding. A lot of what I'll describe did not occur to me at the time, but later, when I felt calmer and more objective. At the time, I can definitely say, I lived from day to day in a mild form of shock.

No question about it.

I got there early. She'd said 8:30pm-9pm,. I was there around 8:15pm. I was the first. After a few minutes, her friend Sharon (Irish) and a guy (we'll call him "Brazilian Shirt" because he was, in fact, wearing a yellow Brazilian football shirt) came into the bar.

Sharon chatted for a while and when I said I was a friend of Aisling, Brazilian Shirt said, "Oh, another one?". I felt odd immediately and he seemed overly unfriendly. Unfriendly for the sake of it. So this went on for a while, me not saying much and him trying to be unfriendly with someone who was agreeing with him.

Then she turned up. She looked great. I think she'd had a few drinks. Maybe even something else, the way her eyes sparkled. Maybe it was just the anticipation. They all seemed to have a heightened sense of something about them. If my theory is right, they were enjoying the thrill of the pre-kill. Or maybe they were just looking forward to a good night out. Aisling hardly looked at me, barely acknowledged me.

Again I was very hurt by this but moved into autopilot. I told myself, smile politely and whatever you do don't let them know. If I'd left right then I'd have had a much nicer evening and wouldn't be sitting here writing this. But I was curious to see if I might get laid. I knew she'd be getting fairly drunk and after all, I had nothing else to do.

My options were; be tortured by a beautiful blonde girl who looked like the Virgin Mary with at least the distant hint of sex or; go to another AA meeting.

Actually that's not fair, because the Soho meeting of New York AA has some of the sexiest women I've ever seen. I was there last week. But here I was, being ignored by the only girl in the world I gave a shit about and getting far too much attention from Brazilian Shirt. After about my third pint of Coke with ice I began to get really bored. Then I got that fuzzy feeling in my head. Numb would be more accurate. Like there was pain, but something in front of it.

Brazilian Shirt leaned in very close to her. Too close. Close enough to be kissing her. He wasn't kissing her, but it wouldn't have seemed strange if he had. At one point, he was standing between her legs and bending toward her as she leaned back against the counter from her barstool.

It was unreal, her looking over his shoulder, at me as if to say, "Look at what I'm doing. Look at what he's doing. Doesn't it make you angry?" It did. It also made me feel foolish. But that was open to interpretation. He might have been trying it on. She was attractive, after all, or she might have been exercising her right as a young chick to flirt on a Friday night in a bar in downtown New York. Sure. But what happened next elevated events to an altogether different level.

Here's what happened. If you can imagine standing in a bar with the counter on

your right with a big mirror behind it. The girl you love is on your right between the bar and yourself. The guy you hate in the Brazilian shirt is standing with his back to you and talking to another friend of She. The girl you love makes a gesture with her hands that can only mean one thing. She holds both hands in front of her as if describing the length of a small fish. Small fish? She's sniggering and looking at you as she does this. You're not really aware of what she means. You look at her quizzically. You're grateful that she's looking at you at all. She glances at you again and as she's making this gesture for Brazilian Shirt, he gazes down at her hands. And then at you. And then he smirks, embarrassed for you.

Almost sympathetic.

She leans forward and whispers something to him. His smirk widens. Her face beams now. She seems happier than you've ever seen her. She's beautiful, but she doesn't want you to look at her like that. She can see how enamored you are. She leans forward again and he stoops to allow her access to his ear. She could be kissing the side of his head. She does the "fish" thing with her hands again. This time it's even smaller. She looks you up and down. So does he. They laugh together. So as not to be totally excluded, so do you.

Awkwardly. Then he says loudly, as if talking to the other girl. "I'd tell him he's dead and buried and that there are four others buried over him. How many...?"

With this he turned to Her to check. She was counting on her fingers. Overacting, intentionally resting a finger on her lips, pretending to think and then count another finger. He continues,

"I'm buried over him... I'd like to be buried over him...or buried in you."

She shoots back with,

"No, I'd be on top."

That clinches it. He's eyeing her like they're going to do it right there and then. You're getting the idea. The only merciful thing you've got going for you is that they

have not done the whole performance to your face, which allows you to pretend that you don't understand. So you move as gracefully as you can to the other girl and open up a polite conversation. You need time. You are dazed. If what you think is happening, is

in fact happening, then you'd better get the fuck out of there because this is some

seriously evil shit.

But you can't be sure. At least not that quickly. What if you're wrong and you make a run for it? It'd be the second time you'd done it. These are her friends, what will they think of you? Or her. If they're laughing at you now what will they do if you go? So you stay. The other friend is giving you nothing. She virtually looks over to Her as if to say, "He's your problem, you deal with him."

She does.

You're leaning on the counter talking to yet another of her friends, some dickhead from Galway. By the way, the whole reason you've been invited is because there are a couple friends who are just in town for the weekend whom you have to meet. These, you later realize, are the publishing students from Harvard. One of them, the girl, is Irish, and

so there you go. Old school buddies, no doubt about it. And they're about five yards

away; with Her.

Then it happens. Slowly. Or maybe it just seems slow like you remember it in slow-motion. Brazilian Shirt putting on a green combat jacket as he picks up a canvas bag.

He comes over to you and places the bag on the ground next to your feet. He pushes both arms out of the sleeves like a pianist before a performance. You feel relief because you think he's about to leave. Now he's standing in front of you, sizing you up and down. He's holding a light meter which you know is used by photographers to measure the amount of light bouncing off a subject, and takes a reading from it. The thing is pointing at you. He gestures some numbers back to what now looks suspiciously like a small audience consisting of the girl you love and her confederates. They chat amongst themselves but look over at you and your new friend with unconcealed smirks and the occasional guffaw. You ask Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket if he's about to take a shot. He doesn't answer. Because you're an art director, you know the gestures he's making, telling the photographer what shutter speed and f-stop to set on the camera. You feel uneasy. There's something not quite right about this.

There's a professionalism about this guy that's starting to unnerve you. It's Friday night, shouldn't everyone be more relaxed? Why's he taking such a serious stance? Then you see that the light meter is gone. Back in the bag? And he's holding a camera lens. Holding it away from him. Squinting with one eye shut tight, he's looking firstly upwards through it against the light, then down. He's overacting. His movements are clown-like and grotesque. As if he's performing the actions for the pleasure of others. What pleasure, though? He's only looking at a camera lens. He picks some dust out of it to see through it more clearly.

It hits you.

At first you think you're being paranoid because, let's face it, you are. But then you realize it's the only solution to this whole escapade. Cushioning it in a creative distraction, you say to him:

"You could make it look like I've got a small dick."

The lens he's holding has been pointing down directly at your groin. His squint becomes more pronounced when it's pointing there. You laugh. You don't like it but you laugh. Laughing along is better than being laughed at. You think. You see him react as if to say how-did-you-know-that. He looks over at the audience for directions. He makes shoulder-shrugging gestures. He points to you and then his own temple and mouths the words "he knows" or at least that's how it seems to you in retrospect. He eyes you, perplexed. You smile. You think you've given him the idea. He does it again.

This time openly.

And here's where I'd like to make a suggestion for the film version of the

book you're reading. The screen goes black after the introductory credits. We hear the Dante Symphony by Franz Liszt, the customary pretentious quotation in white lettering on

black reads:

Through me you enter the city of sorrow

Through me you pass to eternal pain

Through me you reach the people that are lost

All hope abandon ye who enter here.

Maybe Dante's warning should be written over the door of the Cat and Mouse Bar on Elizabeth Street. By this time, Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket is pointing the lens at your dick and openly grimacing with the supposed effort involved in trying to see your little thing. He picks at an imaginary speck of dust that must surely be hiding your minuscule member. He looks at you in mock-sympathy.

You're not enjoying this. But you can't let him know it. You laugh as if you think he's very witty. So does the audience. You know what's going on now, you think. They're making a fool of you. You're the entertainment. It's Friday night in the pub and you, my friend, are it. You risk a look at the girl you love.

She's lovely. Even if she's laughing at you. And she is. You've always liked her laugh. You laugh along. Her laughter increases. She's laughing at the fact that you are laughing. Now she's pointing at Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket.You follow her laughing eyes. You turn your head towards him. He's handing you the lens. He's offering it to you. It occurs to you that if you have it, then at least there will be an end to the whole ordeal. So you take it. It feels warm. But hang on, I forgot to say, how could I have forgotten this? Earlier you tried to get to the toilet, thinking "Fuck this, I don't have to stand here and take this." you made a move in that direction with the intention of gathering your thoughts and maybe even your bag and coat and getting the fuck out of there.

But no.

There are two guys, one of them about six foot five and very aristocratic-looking putting their hands on your shoulders far too firmly "Hold on," he says pleasantly "let's see this," pointing to the lens. "I'll be back in a second," you say, trying to smile. But now you're beyond hurt or even angry. Now you're frightened. They're pleasant enough, but they're holding you back from going to the toilet. What the fuck is that? You stand still.

You need to think. The guy with the lens winks at you and the audience laughs. You think you might try and barge your way through them, but you don't. You turn around and ask

the bartender to call the cops. You're smiling as you do it, but you do it and though he looks at you strangely, it's not strangely enough. Could he be in on this little parlour game? He doesn't seem surprised enough. He asks you why. You tell him you're being harassed by these guys, jabbing a thumb against your chest. He seems to be complying, but he saunters over in the direction of the audience instead and leans into conversation with them.

Now you're very worried.

So you've taken the lens, thinking that maybe your idea of calling the cops has shown Brazilian shirt that continuing this humiliating fiasco is pointless. But you can't resist trying it out. You hold the lens at the same angle that he was subjecting you to. You point it at his groin and squint. You feel slightly avenged. You do it again. This is more like it. But it takes you a couple of beats to realize that he now has another lens pointing at your already ridiculed rod.

This time, it's a huge telephoto lens.

This should be where you hit him. Where enough meets enough. But somehow, you're ok. You can take it. So much so, that you smile at him. Smile at him?

Yes. And it's a genuine smile.

For some reason you suddenly find it all sort of flattering. Flattering that these urbane, cosmopolitan people have gone to such trouble to humiliate you. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, but that's honestly how you feel. He winks at you again. The kind of wink that is the last gesture before two people start fighting. I've seen that wink before. I've been in a lot of bar fights. Correction. I've been beaten up in a lot of bar fights. That wink means the exact opposite of what it normally means. It's the kind of wink that a man uses to another man when it's been revealed that he's had illicit sex with his wife. It says in a mocking friendly way, "I've fucked your wife, and therefore you." It's as intimate as the fight that follows. But you don't feel like getting to know this guy any better than you do. You're smiling. Your smile is saying the very opposite of what it would normally say, too. It's saying, "I'm not going to be drawn into a fight with a fuck like you. I'm not stupid."

He's still holding the telephoto lens.

Suddenly, there's a huge flash of light.

Huge. At first you think it's lightning. But inside?

Then you realize that it's a camera flash and because you're an art director, you know it

isn't just an ordinary camera flash. It's the kind of flash professional photographers use in studios. The light seemed to reach over everybody like a gigantic white hand and tug at

your chest with its forefinger and thumb. It almost took something from you.

Almost. Afterwards, you remember something about the Aborigines or New Guineans or some such primitive types believing that the camera can steal your soul. Not too long after all this, you agree. But somehow you're intact. You just know it. You feel it. An assault has been made on you and you've deflected it. You don't feel great but you know you'll survive. It's a good feeling. You know now that for some reason they are taking professional shots of you. You don't care. All you know is that a photo of you standing in a bar smiling can't be much use to anyone.

So you keep smiling.

And without thinking you raise the fuck-you digit on your right hand and in turn raise your right arm in the direction of the audience. Not exactly a victory, but you feel compelled to acknowledge openly that you're aware you're being humiliated.

So there.

Looking over at them, you wait for the next shot to be taken. You're trying to tell them, "Okay. So you want a shot of me? Take this. This is the only shot you'll be taking of me tonight." But Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket has an idea. Not a bad one, you have to concede. He begins squinting through the telephoto lens at your upraised finger. It's not your dick, but it'll do.

You realize what he is up to and bring your arm down to your side again. He's disappointed. He motions for you to raise your arm again. You refuse. He's annoyed now. Things aren't going to plan. He looks over to the girl of your dreams for inspiration. She's busy congratulating him on the finger idea. Applauding him noiselessly. He bows.

She wants it again.

"We didn't get it,"

Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket says,

"Just do that with your hand again and we'll leave you alone." This you take as victory. Up to now you haven't been sure whether this whole farce is real or imagined, you have after all been under

a lot of stress lately, but now you know. You resolve in yourself that whatever else happens this night he, they, she will not get that picture of you.

You smile. You want him to know that you're winning or that you at least believe yourself to be winning. Next, he takes out a comb. He holds it high for everyone to see. Like a magician, he holds it between finger and thumb. He deftly combs first your right shoulder and then your left. You are genuinely perplexed by this latest development. Then it hits you. You look at her. Her face is exquisite but her eyes are glazed with hate.

For you. She hates you? Why? That's not important right now. Right now you've got to get out of this. To your shame and constant embarrassment, you have hair on your back and shoulders. You will later have it waxed, but for the moment, there it is.

The only person in the room who knows of your vegetation is Aisling...and now Monsieur Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket. She told him. The enormity of this begins to uncoil. She is out to destroy you. This is when you actually have to restrain yourself from making some pathetic gesture like punching or kicking somebody.

You will always be grateful that you didn't.

Lawsuits in the United States are commonplace and someone who makes $200,000 a year is worth the effort. Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket is now flagrantly trying to provoke you with the comb, the lens and the occasional finger jab to the chest, coupled with the wink. You continue to be shielded by shock. You want so much to attack him, but something stops you.

You pray.

Maybe that did it. Actually, I have to be more concrete than that. I know that's what did it. Otherwise, I'd have tried to kill him. And looking back, the fact that he had donned the combat jacket must have meant that he fully expected me to try. With photographs being taken and witnesses everywhere, that wouldn't have been a good move. My publicity idea of getting someone to fight underneath her photograph would have come true. Poetic.

It would've made an excellent contribution to her book. The ad-man who fell on his own poisoned sword. She could play the avenging angel. I imagined the pretty innocent face looking out from the back of the dust jacket. Nice black and white portrait taken by

Peter Freeman.

No, she wouldn't bring this book out until she'd finished her stint with him. Mind you, even he wasn't safe. He'd need to tread carefully. She could get as many shots as she liked of him over a four-year period.

So in the end, I managed not to give her everything she wanted for her book except a few static shots of me standing by a bar with a silly grin on my face. Maybe that was good enough for her to use. Maybe not, but at least I didn't give her a shot of me rolling around on the floor in a barroom brawl.

I suppose my writing this down is an attempt to make sense of what happened and to try to get it out of my system. Again, I wonder if it even happened at all. It's as if I might have imagined it. The strange thing is the cleverness of the scheme. I would love to have involved myself in something like this seven years ago when I myself was playing similar games. But my efforts were no more than spiritual vandalism.

This was professional.

I cut myself on a girl I'd been with for four and a half years.The half is important. I was a pig to her. Unfaithful, uncaring and on the piss most of the time. She said she wanted some space. I was delighted at first, and then I was devastated. Great excuse to drink. So I drank. A lot. But while all that booze was going down I entertained myself by using my story of heartbreak to "bag" other girls who were wandering around in the sordid bars I was frequenting. I'd lull them into my so-called web and when I was convinced they were in love with me I'd start to turn on them. I fancied myself the nonchalant playboy in the smoking jacket and cravat. I enjoyed hurting them. I wasn't aware of the depth of effect I was capable of achieving. I only knew how much they liked me after I'd hurt them, by which time it was too late. Correction. I know. That's exactly why I hurt them. How could they like me? I was punishing them for liking me. I also knew that even after hurting them, they would continue to like me sometimes even more, because of their well-meaning nature.

It is shameful for me to say that I considered this to be the most devilishly clever part of the whole thing. The very fact that they were naturally caring and loving would be the millstone that drowned them. The formula is perfect. The nurse becomes willing to sacrifice herself for the patient. But the patient isn't suffering from an external illness, he's suffering from self-inflicted wounds. The nurse wants to prevent him from this pain. The patient wants her to feel the pain, too. How else will she understand him? So she joins him. Now there are two patients. Something like that. But I, at least, was able to recognize some of the signs of what was going on. Which I would never have been able to do if I hadn't actually been there myself.

Also, I want to just get a mention in about the French connection here. I've since heard that in Paris there is among the more aristocratic French a fashionable habit of inviting, what we in Ireland used to call, a verbal punch-bag to a social gathering. It's very important that the victim not know what's occurring.

The victim is invited to a dinner or gathering and unknowingly supplies the other guests with much mirth. The evening is a success if everyone is allowed a stab at the poor bastard and an even bigger success if the poor unfortunate doesn't know what's going on. So I know you must be thinking. Jesus, this guy has got a chip on his shoulder about this whole thing, but I tell you, I don't want her book coming out without some sort of reaction from me. I'll be completely defenseless.

Of course, I don't even know if I'll get someone to publish this, but my hope is that I can get it out and published before her book comes out. That way I'll have the first word in. Then I don't give a shit what shots she's got of me.

I mean can you imagine it?

A photo-fucking-essay of a part of your life. Justice? Is it justice that I should have someone manipulate my image after I've spent the last ten years in advertising manipulating other images for money? Maybe it is. At least if you read this, you can hear my side. I know that if I saw her book and it had some guy connected with advertising I'd just assume he deserved what he got. Stereotypes, you see. Like I expected to be shot dead in New York as soon as I stepped off the plane.

So, anyway, there I go again straying away from the point. Where was I? Oh yeah, The Cat and Mouse, Christ, I still shiver when I walk past it. I have a girlfriend now who lives in that area. I often walk past that bar. I don't like it. She knows all about this. She's French. Freaked me out at first that she lived nearby because I thought she was one of Aisling's crew enlisted to fuck me up even more. She thinks I should go to a therapist. Bloody cheek. I'm already going to six AA meetings a week. She's nice though, I like her. She likes me. Let's just say we like each other. The French for dick is "bitte," by the way. So, I suppose that's a sort of happy ending because nothing's finished really, I'm still alive and fully intend to continue that way and I'm still waiting for Her book to come out.

Actually, it's just occurred to me that there is no ending to this book, if it is a book, happy or otherwise. It'll only be a comma in the sentence that will be added to when her book comes out. There is a revenge element to all this. I can see there's a side of me that's being small-minded and sad and twisted and bitter and generally like the roots of a European tree (you don't see gnarly roots in this fucking country). Page after page of pinched-faced bile. I honestly don't feel like that, though.

Wait until you hear this. Just before I decided to leave the Cat and Mouse that

night, a pint glass of Coke was passed to a man from Galway by a blue-eyed blonde girl who looked too young to be served alcohol. The Galway man then passed the pint glass of Coke to a Kilkenny man who hadn't taken a drink in just under six years. He was an alcoholic. He shouldn't have been in a bar in the first place. He was living dangerously. He was, after all, dangerously in love with the girl who had just bought the drink. That pint of Coke didn't look an awful lot different from the pints of Guinness that everyone else seemed to be clinging to.

That was the idea. To fit in. And he'd had a strange night. He'd also had a lot of Coca-fucking-Cola. But this one was from Her. It was special. He knew it. She knew it. The Galway man knew it. Let's say it was known. The Kilkenny man took the glass. She looked at him from over there. She seemed keen to keep a safe distance. As if she was afraid he might lunge at her without warning. Almost as if she wanted him to lunge at her. She stood there, braced for action, ready to flee. Her pose had a strange effect on him. He found himself soul-searching for reasons why he might want to lunge at her.

He found none. He was protected from something. By something else. Something had stepped between him and the urge to lunge. He knew logically that he had been made a fool of, expertly, but his right to reply had been postponed. Not cancelled, just deferred.

She raised her glass in a mock salutation and winked a wink that said "Gotcha" and it should have hurt but it didn't. Not that night. Later, it cut him so deeply that he had to grit his teeth to breathe. The realizations would sear through him like his blood had turned poisonous. Like ground glass flowing through him. He could see her lovely face

laughing at him.

That night, though, none of this affected him. He raised the pint glass and held it aloft creating if only for a few moments, a symmetry between them that hadn't until then, existed. If this was a movie, we'd be close-up on her smile sipping her Guinness, and then tight on his mouth as he raises the Coke. Cut back and forth. Her top lip sinks into the foamy liquid. So does his. She swallows. He doesn't. She takes her glass from her lips and holds it up high in a triumphant gesture.

His glass remains in front of the lower half of his face. His top lip is cold in the Coke. He can smell Vodka. He believes he can smell Vodka. The Galway man is looking

at them like they're playing tennis. The Kilkenny man is obeying some voice he only acknowledges days later. Do not drink that. He's not thirsty. He has after all drank about five pints of the stuff already. Vodka isn't supposed to have a smell. AA is full of people who used to believe this, That was the reason they so vehemently downed the stuff. An alcoholic doesn't want to smell like booze. Funny really, you'd have thought we

wouldn't care.

But one little trick you learn if you don't want to start drinking again is to get into the habit of smelling everything you drink.

Even tea.

It's a good habit. Might save your life.

So here's the thing...if this gets published then the likelihood is they won't publish her book of photo-essays because her methods were exposed. Or if they do, then at least I'll get the first word in, and I will have aired all my feelings about what happened. If this doesn't get published, then her book will probably come out in a year or so and I'll be humiliated or at least mildly embarrassed and she'll be the victor and I will remain in awe of her forever. On the other hand, if you are reading this, then it not only got published but I'm now working either on my next book or the screenplay for this one.

Congratulate me.