Authors: Amanda Brunker
My older sister Ruth drives me mad with nasty comments like, ‘Eva. I love you, but if you want a man to love you, you better grab one quick.’
‘Women over thirty stink of desperation – and you’re already starting to whiff. But you’ll only end up with the dregs if you don’t hurry up.’
And I kind of believe her. But what really annoys me is that she has been with her hubby since she was sixteen and hasn’t the slightest clue what it’s like trying to meet a man in the big bad world.
In a way I envy how she fell in love, literally with the boy next door. But the idea of just being with one bloke for the rest of my life is a tad scary in my book.
I mean, OK, like a pair of shoes she tried him on, and he fitted. But what if there was a better fit? What if her perfect fit lived down the road and around the corner? Was Joe just a pair of comfy slippers? Or could it be my sis got it right first time?
I’m glad for her ’cause she’s a born mammy. She’d have topped herself if she was still looking for a man to impregnate her. But I’m the stronger of the two. And worryingly, it seems, too bloody fussy.
Thankfully I’m not alone on the road to spinsterhood. I’ve got a few desperado pals to accompany me along the way.
First, there’s my model mate Maddie, my most
beloved
sister in crime. Her full name is Maddie Lord, and the boys cry ‘Oh my Lord’ ’cause she’s so bloody beautiful. Needless to say she’s the better-looking version of me. She’s even wittier – which kills me, but I never let her know that, and strangely enough she hasn’t figured it out.
At thirty-three (though her Hollywood age is twenty-nine) she’s had her fair share of lovers and heartache; in fact she’s a bit of a slapper. Whoever said models were easy spoke the truth.
For example her phone reads Tony 1, Tony 2, Tony Mechanic, Tony Big Foot! Previously there had been a Tony Tiddler, but understandably he got deleted from her memory. She’s had some close calls down through the years when she’s arranged bootie calls with a Brian P instead of Brian B, but if there’s one thing our Maddie can do well, it’s juggle men.
Saying ‘Hello Tasty’ to everyone usually saves embarrassing mistakes. Except for that time when we had a ridiculously hilarious encounter with a priest in Wicklow.
Father Eugene, I think was his name. Sadly for us he wandered into our path while we were celebrating pulling a sickie from work. Maddie did her usual ‘Hello Tasty’, and a rather frisky Father Eugene thought he was on to a winner.
With several glasses of Sex on the Beach in our bloodstream we thought a lecherous man of the cloth highly entertaining.
Maddie teased him: ‘I’ve always had a thing for men
in
uniform’ and he scared the pants off us by removing his collar and declaring, ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing this now’, while eyeing up our cleavage. It was when he uttered, ‘God can’t watch me all the time’ and ‘I’ve dreamt of worshipping girls like you’ that we sobered up and decided we
definitely
didn’t want sex on the beach with him.
Being my best bud I can call her the ‘Tart with a Heart’, but that privilege is reserved for me, and me alone. If anyone else dared to slander her slightly tarnished name they’d be nursing a burst lip and fifty stitches. Thankfully it’s never come to that, but it’s been handbags at dawn on many an occasion.
We’ve been mates since I moved out of home at 18 and broke my mother’s heart. As I was the baby of the family she never wanted me to grow up. Of course I did the opposite: I grew up to be an adult far too fast.
There was never much money; Mother didn’t believe in spoiling us. Her money was much better spent on new curtains or carpets, which seemed to be changed as often as Angelina Jolie’s lovers. But just like Brad, my mum’s last makeover curtains have hung in for a lot longer than everyone thought, and she’s now turned her attention to collecting ceramic pigs.
Anyway, back to Maddie. She lived in the digs next door to mine in dingy Rathmines flat-land, and we became firm friends after she lost her key one night and ended up knocking into me with a bottle of vodka and three DJs she’d picked up on the night bus.
Our motto is, when the lovin’ is this good, it’d be a waste not to spread it around. No wonder really the Southside Fannies of Southside suburbia look down their perfectly straight noses at us.
Still, I’m not doing too bad myself in the figure department, I’m five foot five, got a Katie Holmes brunette bob crop, though I’m a tad big bummed – or should I say bootylicious – compared to Maddie. Effortlessly she fits into a size 10 Diesel jean, and bounces on top with a luscious 34D bust.
To this minute I’m still stunned she hasn’t been whisked off her dainty fake Manolos by some hunky Brad Pitt type. On drunken nights we tell each other that if we don’t find our knights in white Porsches by the time we’re forty, we’ll become lesbians and adopt Chinese babies. A notion that is secretly starting to scare Maddie big time, as she’s convinced herself that she’s running out of fresh playmates.
Third in command – after Maddie and me – is Parker. As I’m a girl who loves to accessorize he’s my must-have pink pal. Although he’ll declare, ‘The HOMO’s in the house’, he thinks he’s straight. Though still fancies men. Go figure?
Disillusioned with the gay scene, he prefers to trawl the straight bars with me as it’s ‘more of a challenge’. Yes, we often fancy the same guys, though I tend to lose interest when Parker pipes up, ‘He’s definitely gay. I could
so
have him!’ Although he doesn’t like to admit it, he’s a total star-fucker, and if ever there was a man who wanted to use his gaydar to discover
big
Hollywood name stars, it’s him. He’s forever in waiting for the right moment to pounce. Bless. And yes, occasionally he does get lucky. It’s just as well Ireland has a thriving film industry.
It’s because of his predatory intentions that he pretentiously titled himself the Pink Panther. Because he’s always dressed in black, he’s kinda tall and slim and he fancies himself as a serious mover, he thinks it suits him.
Maddie lets him get away with it because he’s such a lovable cartoon, and so do I; well, most of the time. Some of his unplanned hissy fits can be hard to forget in a hurry.
We do tend to have diva meltdowns regularly. ‘
No
– it’s all about
me
!’ is our usual rant. Other people can’t understand how we’re still pals. But through the huffs and his puffs, it works. I think it’s our common spoilt gene that is the cement for our relationship. When Maddie, Parker and yours truly get together we’re more like the Bitches of Eastwick: Maddie plays Susan Sarandon, I’m Michelle Pfeiffer and, quite aptly, Parker is Cher.
Thursday night is our favourite night out. Being an art director, Parker has plenty of uber-cool media pals he loves to schmooze, but never before we have a bottle of Laurent Perrier rosé in his Docklands apartment, and scream ‘Mirror mirror on the wall, who could be the biggest diva of them all?’ Then we descend to the city to cause mayhem.
The fun we share could be classed as bold, bordering
sometimes
on immoral or illegal. It’s a dangerous friendship at times. But Parker is my addiction.
Speaking of addicts – well, of a fashion and Dior addict – Parker is closely followed by Princess Lisa Tiswell. And she does very well. But although she’s tall and blonde, she’s no Elle MacPherson. Never fazed by a minor detail like manly features, she does her best with what she’s got; which it turns out, is Daddy’s flexible friend.
While the rest of us save up for shoes and other essentials, Lisa’s rich ole man proves a constant source of finance for Botox, collagen and monthly flush-outs of colonic hydrotherapy. ‘What’s good enough for Princess Diana is good enough for Princess Lis-za,’ it seems.
By chance I found out through her mother over a few G&Ts one lazy bank holiday Monday that Lisa had had rhinoplasty aged sixteen. That’s a nose job, to us mere mortals. And it didn’t stop there.
At seventeen she increased her measly bee stings to a 36B. Then for her eighteenth she got her boobs pumped up again to a more generous 36C. Her mother even produced before and after photos, slurring, ‘She was a bit of a mongrel back then!’
While I avoid places like the dentist because I’m terrified of needles, I support Lisa in most of her outrageous beauty enhancements. After all, what fun is an Amazonian woman without a decent pair of knockers?
But what she lacks in natural femininity, she makes
up
for in balls. Unlike yours truly, who plays the stupid Cupid waiting game, Lisa is not backward about coming forward, and has no problem approaching men and making her sexual intentions known.
But all credit to her, she has a knack of pulling gorgeous men, and often hanging on to them until she is bored. Literally, she’ll say ‘I’m done with him’ and move on. No obsessing, no deliberating … she’ll just coldly change gear and not look back. I call it her ‘man-itude’. An enviable trait.
With the confidence of a female Simon Cowell, she says she has great pheromones that no man can resist. I say it’s her short skirts and Brigitte Nielsen appeal that draws the boys to her lucky charms. Lisa is only ever single by choice, and thankfully for my selfish ego, she’s currently flying solo.
It’s awful, I know, but unless I’m in a loved-up state myself, I much prefer my mates to myself.
Today we’re hooking up for lunch with herself and her somewhat nauseating sister Joy. These days she insists on being called Mrs Joy Deltour, which Maddie and I choose to abbreviate to a worthy Mrs Brain Detour.
Apparently, Lisa mentioned talk of winter holiday brochures for herself and the sis. Thankfully Maddie is joining us, so I don’t have to be embarrassed about the Tiswell family wealth and my relative poverty alone.
Of course I’d never begrudge Lisa anything – even that Swedish waiter guy Sven I’d hinted I fancied. He worked at the local Mexican restaurant, Tequila
Sunrise,
we all loved, and after three consecutive Tuesday nights eating there, Lisa did a Lisa on it and left the place early without us. But with him. It was an empowering Samantha Jones moment, straight out of
Sex and the City
.
Anyways, Lisa jetting off to St Moritz to pick up loose ski instructors is not a problem. But listening to the less Joy-ous sis moan on about how her hubby Tristan doesn’t respect her enough, and how being a modern stay-at-home mom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I’d certainly need back-up.
Even though she had all the money in the world, and then married more, Joy always leaves me feeling drained. She should
pay
people to listen to her problems, not insist on dividing up the lunch bill. Although prettier by far than Lisa, not to mention more married than her (or any of us for that matter), she still obviously covets her younger sibling’s carefree lifestyle.
All our lives revolve around the Dublin social scene. We couldn’t live without it. In the past, it defined who we were. We all enjoyed being liggers and turning up to the opening of an envelope. It was a shallow existence of freebie drinks that came with the bonus of seeing our photograph in a glossy magazine or an evening newspaper. If celebrity was a disease, then Ireland was dying of a vanity plague. We all wanted to be famous. Children no longer dreamt of being firemen or zoo keepers; modern kids craved
X-Factor
or
Big Brother
success.
If we couldn’t achieve fame in our own right, shagging someone worthy of column inches was a very close second. That was sort of Parker’s hobby, though he’d never admit it.
I had not become a WAG myself so I was still trapped in a singleton vortex of insincerity. When the post arrived I still got a buzz about opening the invites and imagining the mayhem that could be caused at them. First I’d envisage the setting, then I’d place in it the usual suspects, those I admired, liked, and those I couldn’t bear standing close to, and then I’d place myself in the middle of them all, wearing the sexiest outfit possible, holding whatever the branded cocktail might be, flirting, joking, posing for photographers and of course being the centre of attention.
Once you were in the coveted clique, you were made. You could eat canapés, drink alcohol and retain a certain level of minor celebrity all year round, once the PR companies deemed you fit. It was cheap fun, and we all truly loved it. We never wanted to be stranded on the wrong side of the velvet rope.
Sure I wanted more out of life, like a lucrative career, a caring husband and the white picket fence with the 2.4 kids. Not to mention matching Range Rovers in the driveway, and holiday getaways in Brittas Bay, Cannes and Dubai.
Was this fantasy life unattainable? Never. I was a Celtic Cub, and self-belief was everything in this town. Talking yourself up was what us Dubs did the best. No one had to know the real truth – that your
mortgage
was interest only, the Jeeps would take five years to pay off, and the holiday homes were studio dives kitted with bunk beds and padlocks on the doors. I didn’t know why I wanted to mix in such social circles, living beyond my means, spending more money on hair-care products than on my nutrition. My job as a journalist, which included celebrity interviews and other features for a glossy mag, paid well enough, but it’s almost impossible ever to make enough money to survive in this town. I knew this socializing of ours was a sickness, but I didn’t care. I was always afraid I’d miss the best bashes. There would always be more parties, but I still hated to miss one, just in case it ended up being the best party of the year.
Your friends would laugh and recall stories of the arguments, the unsuitable public displays of affection, the drug busts and the giant bottles of vodka that were being drunk by the neck, and then tut, ‘Ah, it’s just one of those location stories, you really had to be there …’
I’m hoping I’ll outgrow this social-climbing obsession before I completely lose my soul. But not yet. There’s far too much trouble to be had for this Valentine.
As I walk through the doors of Le Café I spot the gang already tucking into a bottle of white. It’s only twelve noon but that’s why I love them.