Brian Gallagher - Feng-Shui Junkie

Brian Gallagher

The Feng-Shui junkie

2000

Julie and Ronan are the perfect married couple: with two incomes, and both personal and professional success, theirs is a lifestyle to envy. That is, until the day Julie comes home unexpectedly early from a week away to find a yellow wonderbra hanging from the doorknob. It seems that in the age-old style it has all gone terribly wrong Ronan is having an affair. Fuelled by anger, despair and whiskey, Julie embarks on a campaign of detection. Revenge may not be sweet, but it is most definitely worth it

you see, he thinks Im touchy by nature, a bit moody, mercurial, cantankerous (is that spelt right?), unbalanced evenbut I dont know.

I mean, you dont get to where Ive got in life by being congenitally irritable. You dont get to being a venerated legal professional in a power suit, with an MGF 1.8i convertible, by surrendering to biorhythms and breaking down at magic-mood roundabouts when everyone else is full speed ahead. In a world which treats a woman like a lollipop for the eyeballs, I think I am a model of self-restraint, forbearance and dignity. I am good-natured. No, in fact, I think Im a saint. After all, have I not up to now been a positive, moderating and pacifying influence on the rotten piece of whale-shit that is my husband Ronan? And does all this not imply a certain balance of mind on my part? A certain equanimity, a degree of sanity? You dont think so?

But.

No ones perfect. There are exceptions. Like when I return home two days early from holiday to discover another womans lemon-yellow Wonderbra hanging from the inside knob of our hall door and the place smelling like a Cantonese bidet ignore me if I begin to lose it. Temper, principles, dignity, cool. Everything.

I slam the front door behind me and glare at the offending yellow undergarment as if it recently hatched from a snake egg and might at any time spring up and bite. Theres something outrageous about it. Defiant. Conscious. As if its been hung there to ward off evil spirits.

I take a breath.

Ronan?

Its more a command than a question.

Theres no response. Just silence. A silence with a peculiar buzz, not to be confused with the faint purring of the fridge or the happy gurgling of the aquarium in our living-room. No, its a guilty silence. Its as if Ronan and his hump piece have been sweating guilt into the fresh air of our apartment and its clung to the walls like paint.

Ronan!

Again, nothing.

He must be out. Of course, hes not expecting me back from my holiday until Saturday.

I sniff into space.

Its a strangely sweet, bitter smell. If not perfume, then some kind of aromatherapeutic ointment or herbal infusion, around which Ronan would not be seen dead. It lingers in the sunless hallway. It is warm and moist. It seems to be coming from the bathroom.

Lemon, thats what it is.

There is a trollop in the air. A trollop who divests my husband of his marriage vows, then attempts to cleanse her damned soul in the fruity balm of lemon. A trollop hung up on lemon-yellow Wonderbras. Whats wrong with plain ordinary white?

Who is this person?

I turn up the label. Size 36D. Now Im the first to praise generously where praise is due, especially if Im flattened by the competition. But when its a proven fact that generous breasts are one of Ronans most important life priorities its not so easy.

In fact, I want to take a knife and slash everything in sight.

Lemon.

Calm down, Julie!

There may be no need to panic. Having a size 36D silken lemon-yellow brassiere disgrace our front doorknob should not necessarily worry me. In and of itself.

After all, it could be, for instancewhat if its Ronans sister?

Except.

I know its not his flaming sister. Ronan has been warned to keep her away from this apartment. Shes thirty and brings her cat, Ginger, with her everywhere she goes. I love life. I hate cats. Ginger moults like a hair factory during a Hoover recession. This annoys me so intensely that I have offered to- stir-fry her guts in our new wok if she ever again steps into our apartment. In soya oil.

Do I sound horrible yet?

So no, I dont think its his sister.

I fling my black leather Giorgio Armani bag against the banana-coloured couch on the right: my only token of defiance against the minimalist luxury of our apartment.

I take a left into the kitchen, a sniffer dog baying for bloodAnd when I see what lies here on the floor I stop dead, gripping the counter top beside me.

You are strong. You can cope. There is an explanation. Ronan loves you. Stop being stupid. Be calm. Youre a lawyer, goddamnit. Relax. Lets not make a meal out of this.

I mean, just because theres a shitload of womens garments lying scattered all over our kitchen floor is no reason to hit the roof.

In and of itself.

O kay, Julie, simmer down now.

Think dignity. Think respectability. Youve got neighbours. Youve got a reputation to maintain. Youve got self-respect. Youve got pride. You may well have blood pressure.

Ever so silently, therefore, I hyperventilate.

You see, its not just the cream-coloured high heels perched on the kitchen table like a museum piece, one poised defiantly on its heel and the other lying defeated on its side next to a half-full bowl of nachos and a crudely mauled pair of croissants and three empty bottles of Chteauneuf-du-Pape and two of our sparkling wedding-ware Duiske glasses.

Nor is it just the elegant cream ladies jacket hanging from the back of one of the chairs, its accompanying cream blouse and skirt lying in a light clump beneath the kitchen table.

Nor is it the light-tone tights in the fruit bowl, sitting in a puffy ball alongside two oranges, three apples and one overripe mango.

This alone demands immediate compensation. But it gets worse: a pair of Ronans boxer shorts snuggling across the electric kettle like an art nouveau tea cosy; a pair of black trousers and a black polo-neck sweater bunched up near the door like a pile of dirty washing; Ronans black leather belt, lying snake-shaped on the floor beside the fridge, the pin from the thick metal buckle sticking straight up into the air like something Im too polite to mention; Ronans wine-coloured jacket dropped right in the middle of the floor two feet away from where Im standing, its silken magenta insides spilling out like something else Im too polite to mention.

My body is shaking uncontrollably, as if a pneumatic drill has got to work on my backbone. My mind is racing like its on the Matterhorn ski slope and theres a thousand-foot drop coming up any second now. Voices from deep inside me are spewing out quite the most dirty-mouthed abuse I have ever heard, including vocabulary Ive never heard in my life.

I am speaking in tongues. Four-letter words, juicy and foul, are spouting from my gullet. And several vile six- and seven-letter words too. The walls around me seem to quiver and quake and shrink in fear. I am a fire-spitting bitch-ape who craps on etiquette, screaming strings of filth into our homely kitchen

dont go away.

Just see it as slight turbulence in a sea of sanity.

This is a nightmare. Its like something out of a horror film. Except that horror films however hard they try dont generally lift off the screen and punch you hard in the smacker.

Well clearly, they lunched together. Now I happen to believe that extramarital friendships are healthy: they prove that marriages can still work. Even in kitchens.