Love & The Goddess (32 page)

I’d arranged to meet Isaac in a Quay Street fish restaurant at twelve thirty. As soon as I entered the room, I could see his gleaming mahogany tan offset by a white clingy t-shirt, all the
better to show off his toned torso. Either that or the white was intended to match his glow-in-the-dark polished teeth. As we exchanged pleasantries, he pecked both my cheeks in a very “hello
darling” continental manner. I noticed his thick dark-rimmed sun glasses bore the logo “Tom Ford”. I grimaced to myself – if the designer resemblance was such a coincidence,
he was REALLY going out of his way to avoid it! As I sat down, the waiter handed me a menu which I scanned.

Isaac leaned towards me. “You’re lovely, Kate. Just like your pictures. I’m sorry to have asked for extra ones. It’s just that I have gone on these dates and the women
end up being so much fatter and older than their pictures. One night I met a woman in a pub in Cork and I was terrified someone could walk in and recognise me. I would have been so ashamed to be
seen with her.” He broke into a laugh.

“But she could have been a very nice person,” I said, smiling at him.

He bit his lip. “You’re right. But she came under false pretences. She looked nothing like her picture. She was huge.”

The waiter came to inquire were we ready to order lunch. I ordered baked salmon, French beans and fries while Isaac ordered grilled lemon sole and a side salad. When the waiter left I took up
the conversation where it had left off. “You were talking about someone having weight on. I always think that any one of us could end up overweight at any given time. A hormonal imbalance or
a need to go on cortisone tablets can add three to four dress sizes to a slim woman.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Can I tell you a secret?”

I murmured that he could.

“I was overweight when I was at school. The guys used to laugh at me for having man boobs. Imagine!”

His confession made me wonder why he didn’t have more empathy for others in the same position. “So how did you get rid of them?” There was no sign of excess flesh through his
super-tight t-shirt.

“Lipo-suction!” He arched his eyebrows. I felt myself mimic his expression, my eyes widening with incredulity as our steaming hot plates were delivered.

“Did you get anything else done?” I tried to feign indifference, digging a fork into my salmon.

He frowned down at his plate. “Oh, no.” Then he smiled. “But my ex got loads of stuff done: breasts, botox, lipo and fillers. I’ve a client who’s a plastic surgeon
so instead of him paying me he would do work on the ex. She misses that now, I’ll tell you.” He shrugged. “Anyway, tell me about yourself, Kate. They say we’re not supposed
to talk about our exes.”

I thought to myself that he was a bit late discovering that pearl of wisdom, after the way he’d already gone on about her in emails and over the phone. I recounted my experiences in Brazil
and Peru, and he was an attentive listener, asking pertinent questions every so often. As I spoke, I noticed that the only part of his meal he touched was the fish, ignoring all carbohydrates. He
returned to the subject of having deactivated his profile on the website in the hope of us having a relationship and was disappointed when I mumbled that it was a bit early to know if we were
suited.

“I suppose you’re right, Kate. It’s just I’ve met so many women and you’re the first one who has the whole package. I mean, you’re so slim.”

“Isaac,” I said, quite sharply. “I have to say I think you judge women as though you were looking for a mail-order bride. How on earth can you reconcile kindness to the
environment with your awful attitude to women?” I hadn’t noticed my buttons being pushed until I was truly in mid-flow, my teacher’s voice escaping.

He turned crimson. “God, you sound exactly like my wife. This is why I left her. I did nothing to you. It’s true what they say about internet dating – you must be the fourth
looper I’ve met on that site!” He stood up and threw a fifty euro note on the table, sneering, “That should cover the bill.” As he sashayed out the door, I noticed that the
logo on his jeans pocket read “Tom Ford”. What a mess of contradictions! As far as I was concerned, he could look elsewhere for a skinny barely-sustained woman to share his sustainable
home with. He definitely hadn’t posed much of a challenge to my gut instinct – it was a case of instant revulsion.

But would I feel the same way about Geoff when I finally got to spend time with him?

G
eoff had suggested we go out for a meal but I’d quietly decided I’d rather cook. We had been in touch for long enough for me to
feel I could trust him. By five o’clock, I had the table set and the food prepared, when my phone beeped with a message saying he was in Galway and was just about to leave the Rehab art
exhibition in Dominick Street.

I texted him back saying I hadn’t seen the exhibition but I’d love to come in for a look right now since it was only down the road. He sent a message back:
“C u
dn.”

I barely understood what he meant. I would never get used to text speak, I thought, as I changed out of my leggings into slim white jeans and a long-sleeved Inca-inspired tunic with a subtle
take on the famous intarsia pattern.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the tiny gallery housed in a Georgian town house. A plain room with white walls and uneven oak-stained floorboards, it was unfurnished save for three old pine
chairs with basket-weave seats in a far corner. Geoff was in the main gallery area as I walked in, chatting to a group of people who seemed to know each other. My heart skipped a beat as I watched
him run his hands through dishevelled curly hair, a cleft in his chin becoming more pronounced as he smiled – something I hadn’t previously noticed. After the designer’s processed
look of mahogany tan and glowing teeth, Geoff was all man, well-built with broad shoulders but not toned to ludicrous perfection. He was wearing indigo jeans with a light blue chambray shirt,
relaxed and comfortable. A petite dark-haired girl in her mid thirties was hanging on his every word, her lips parted as though she hoped he’d kiss her.

Three young men and slightly older girl, all of whom had the distinct features of Down syndrome, were also part of the group around Geoff, and after a while I realised they were the artists. The
petite dark-haired girl was discussing the paintings on the wall – colourful bold abstract canvases encased in pale wood frames. “For people who were once considered devoid of an inner
life, they can be amazingly creative,” she warbled in an affected “arty” manner. I thought she sounded very condescending. Just then Geoff caught my eye, smiled and beckoned me
over with a wink and a nod of his head.

“Meet a friend of mine from Galway. This is Kate,” he said. One of the young men with Down syndrome came over and took my hand in both of his to shake it vigorously. “This is
Pete, one of our wonderful artists,” said Geoff, before introducing me to each of the group in turn.

An older woman, who seemed to be looking after the artists, explained to me, “Geoff did great work with the group. We’re thrilled to have the exhibition travelling around the
country. Well, we’d better go. The bus back to Dublin will be waiting for us.”

The young man tugged at Geoff’s arm. “Come with us!” and the other young artists clustered round, also begging him to join them.

“Sorry, Pete. Not this time.” Geoff was laughing heartily; he placed his hands on Pete’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “But I want you to promise me
you’ll finish that great painting you started last Monday.”

“I will, I promise. I’ll do it for you.”

“They love him,” the older woman said to me, as she urged the young people towards the door, adding, “Sometimes it’s like herding mice at a crossroads!”

Geoff grabbed his jacket from behind a chair and, turning to the petite woman, said, “Myra, I have to go now too.” She looked sulky, threw me a dagger’s look, then sidled up to
him and pecked his cheek. “See you in Dublin then,” she called after him as we left together.

Once outside, I said to Geoff, “You never told me you taught art.”

“It’s just two mornings a week. It’s been great. I think I get more out of it than they do. Do you want to get a bite to eat?”

“No, I’ve actually been cooking so I’ve plenty of food in my place – I only live a few minutes’ drive away. I thought it would be quieter, we can chat
better.”

“That sounds great. I’ll take my car and follow you out. I’m not drinking – early start in the morning. Where are you parked?”

“Here on the street.”

“Great! Me too.” He pointed to a wreck of a Toyota, two cars up from where my silver Audi was parked. As he followed me home I could see his car in my rear view mirror, choking and
coughing. I was sure the emissions in Galway were hitting their highest ever.

Once we got the flat he asked, “Would you mind if I smoked outside?”

“Of course not. I’m not fond of the things, but outdoors is fine.”

“I’d given up but reached for them after my friend died. We used to smoke together as students. Silly I know, and I’ll chuck them again soon,” he explained
apologetically.

Opening my back door on to the garden which was shared among all the residents in the building, I put on a CD of the Beatles’ greatest hits. Then I busied myself in turning on the oven and
tossing the salad of rocket and
lola rosa
. As I glanced at Geoff reclining against the wall, it struck me that he had a way of making smoking look sexy; his long graceful fingers held the
cigarette and he languidly drew on it, before puffing out circles of smoke. No wonder they banned adverts for smoking if it could look so provocative. After finishing his cigarette he walked inside
and bolted the glazed double doors back into place, then smiled his beguiling smile. He began singing along with the song “Money can’t buy you love”. He had a great voice. The
lyrics suited him, of course, but I had my doubts about their veracity. Being broke and down at heel wouldn’t be great for keeping the flames of passion ignited after the initial sparks began
to dwindle. There again, I had plenty of money with Trevor and look where that ended. I found myself wondering if my new-found spirituality could obliterate my desperate need for financial
security, especially if I met the right person.

“Ready whenever you are.” I headed through the archway from my sitting area to the kitchen and pointed to the table which I’d set with a cream linen cloth, the starter of
seafood sushi ready to go.

“Christ, Kate! You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

“It’s just second nature to me - no more than you dabbing a few brush strokes on a canvas,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to a piece of sushi with soy sauce and
wasabi. I ate as I spoke: “I couldn’t believe you were into mythology – you never mentioned it to me.”

“I love it.” He buttered a slice of brown bread. “But I think I’m coming from a different angle to you. I love fantasy. Lord of the Rings and all that. I love magical
realism where art remains representational, but with dream-like and fantasy elements included. Myths are a great way to incorporate these elements. My interest is not as pure as yours.”

“There’s no such thing as coming from a purer perspective. My dad read myths and legends to me as a kid, so my interest is quite childish. But tell me more about magical realism.
Some of the South American authors like Borges and Gabriel Garcia Márquez use it in their work, don’t they?”

“Absolutely… Yep, I love it. Are you familiar with some of the South American poets? Neruda and Salinas?”

“Just Neruda, whom I love, along with the Argentinian poet Borges. Do you know his poem ‘You Learn?’”

He said, raising an eyebrow, “
’After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul …’
”

“Yeah, I feel it’s about what a loving relationship should be. Each person having independence and yet being part of one loving unit.”

“That’s it exactly. You’ll also like Salinas. I’ll read him to you sometime, when… When I’m not getting heated up on wasabi! Whew!” He gasped and
groped for a drink of water. “It’s just gone shooting up my sinuses!”

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine … Great for clearing the head.”

“Well if you’re okay, I’ll put on the steaks.” I was laughing as I stood up to prepare the pan and check that the
gratin dauphinois
was not burning in the oven.
“Keep talking as I’m cooking, Geoff. I’ll keep my concentration on the steaks but you talk away. How do you get that magical realism effect in your paintings?”

“I use photographic images. I’ll explain it to you later when I show you images of unfinished canvases. That picture you like, Pandora opening the box, is of my daughter Shannon.
She’s eighteen now. It’s from a photo of her when she was fourteen so she’s a little bit childlike in it. She’s starting art college next month.”

“She’s gorgeous. You must be proud of her. She’s your only child then?”

“No, I have a sixteen-year-old son, Liam. He’s special: he has Down syndrome and he’s very loving. He’s part of the group you met but he didn’t travel today because
he had an earache.”