This week Moville writer Sharon Thompson shares another tale exploring the life of local people.
Each Sunday this series will showcase works of literature written by local women for readers to enjoy.
This week Sharon shares the story of Felicity, who comes across a potential love interest in a way only fate can explain.
Were their paths destined to cross?
The voice is sleepy and doesn’t sound like my mother. There’s a manly cough. It isn’t my mother!
‘Sorry. Wrong number,’ I mumble pinching the bridge of my nose.
‘Course it is,’ he coughs. ‘I was asleep and got up to answer the telephone and it’s a feckin’ wrong number!’ The harshness leaves his voice and turns into a chuckle. ‘What’s that weird noise?’
Misty, my miniature dachshund has joined me on the couch and is trying to lick away my hangover from hell, thrusting her large tongue in lashes at the phone. Marmalade breath from me and perhaps the sticky residue on my hand causing her to French kiss the retro-phone.
‘What noise?’ I push Misty away slightly. ‘Sorry, I got the wrong number.’
‘Who were you looking for?’
‘How blonde are you?’
I gasp, running my fingers through my blonde hair.
‘I mean… how can you not know your own mother’s phone number?’
‘It’s a new one for her.’ I lie. ‘Anyhooo…. sorry again.’
‘You sound sexy,’ he says.
I gulp. Not wanting to hang up despite the statement. It’s a long time since someone said the ‘sexy’ word in my orbit.
‘Sure you might as well talk to me now? What number did you mean to ring?’
I’m not sure why this stranger’s voice sounds so nice or why he is trying to garner information from me at this ungodly hour of 11 am.
‘Does it matter?’ I ask.
‘It does to me.’ His voice has a lilt. An accent. Scottish? Is there a hint of a kilt about him?
‘I must go.’
‘Don’t leave my life now, Blondie. Fate would be cross.’
I hang up.
Misty looks mystified as my hand runs over her smooth coat. My phone rings.
‘Call me soon, Blondie,’ his voice says. ‘It was nice to fall in love with your voice this morning.’ Then he is gone.
Talking to Mam, isn’t easy. One digit that’s all it was. A number 9 instead of a number 8. A simple mistake. How I got it entirely right this time I will never know. The new phone has no speed dial, but looks the part. ‘Retro-chic,’ I had convinced my flatmate and best pal, Tilly.
‘Are you listening to me, Felicity?’ Mam’s shouting. ‘Your father’s going to freak when he hears I’ve bought a new fridge freezer.’
Mam’s on a roll and I’m not listening. Misty has taken to rattling her bowl in the corner. I lift the bowl, noticing the pain in my head is worse when I bend over.
‘So, any nice men out last night?’ Mam croons. ‘You’ll be like that Brigid soon! Only child, lunatic parents, love-less.’
‘Brigid?’ My eyes squint for dog food.
‘Jones! As in Brigid Jones,’ Mum’s slurping tea. I can hear the familiar intake of liquid in her voice.
‘Brigid Jones?’ I ponder aloud. I’ve never even met a Brigid. I’m lost in the chunks falling into the bowl.
‘Felicity, you’re away with the fairies this morning.’
‘I am.’ The admission is intensely painful in all senses of the words. The word morning is painful. It cannot be morning yet? I was only home at four am. The word fairies is not nice either. I had worn my fairy costume and felt very ethereal, but don’t feel like that now. And away – yes I just want to go far away under my duvet.
Mam’s still speaking on about freezers, as I inhale some instant coffee. I flick through my art books to calm me as Mam mutters on and say ‘Yes’ and ‘Um’ occasionally.
Monday morning looms ahead and I can tell The Gallery will have one of its busiest week when I’m really not in the mood. There’s a mugginess as I recall snippets of the night before. The fancy dress, the Hallowe’en Haunting of Temple Bar. The vomit at the bus stop a few doors down that I’d stood in, in my new knock-off Jimmy Coos. The little smidgen of grass, that I’d rubbed them in, as I sat in the dog poop.
‘Glamorous,’ I sigh at Misty. ‘My glamorous life.’
Sharon is the co-founder of #WritersWise a trending, writers’ tweet-chat (www.writerswise1.wordpress.com).