Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy & Peter de Rosa

Author:Annie Murphy & Peter de Rosa [MURPHY, ANNIE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780316084161
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2009-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

ABOUT 2:00 P.M., Eamonn put me on the train for Dublin. The ride in that bumpy old train really made me afraid of a miscarriage. Abortion of bishop’s baby, courtesy of Irish Rail.

Bridget and Wentworth had already moved into the flat. I arrived home to find guests drinking, smoking, and making a terrible din.

1 was back about a week when Bridget said one morning, in her superior accent: “Thanks to you, Murphy, I have already missed a period.”

She had morning sickness; curry smells and orange colors made her ill. “If your disgusting seed has done this,” she said to Wentworth, “I shall rip it out of me with my own hands.”

Wentworth adored her and, wounded by her sharp tongue, took refuge in alcohol.

Among the guests at one of Bridget’s parties were two hoteliers from England and a rich Arab who took a fancy to me.

I called Eamonn from my bedroom.

“Annie,” he inquired, “what are you doing?”

I pointed the phone toward the living room.

“Hear it? One of Bridget’s many parties. Wild.”

“God Almighty, I knew it.”

I whispered, “You were so right, Dublin is wicked. Shush. Bridget’s invited an… Arab.”

“An Arab?”

“I know he wants to rape me.”

“What? How do you —?”

“I was dancing with him and believe me…”

“What did he do, Annie, you must tell me.”

“He bit me.”

There was a silence on the line before: “Where?”

“Say, Eamonn, is this a confession or something?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“On my—I hardly know how to tell you—on my… ear.”

“Your ear? They’re infidels. This probably has some special significance.”

“It has special significance for noninfidels, too. The things he whispered in my ear after he bit it.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You’ve got to get out of there this minute, Annie.”

“This party’s going on all night.”

“Oh, God, dear God, how did I get mixed up in all this?”

“Hey,” I said, “it’s me who’s mixed up in all this.”

I slammed the phone down.

Seconds later, it rang. “Yes, Eamonn?”

He solemnly said, “Don’t ever hang up on me again.”

“I was paying for the call.”

“All right. How many people has she invited?”

“Dozens.”

“Please, don’t drink any more. I don’t want you having a panic attack. And don’t go near that Arab.”

“But you said you’d never stand in my way.”

“Indeed, but he’s probably got six wives already.”

“I think we should all respect one another’s unbeliefs.”

“Listen —”

I hissed, fibbing, “He’s coming.”

“Annie, for God’s sake.”

To annoy Eamonn, I raised my voice, “Abdullah, so nice of you to drop in.”

“Annie, Annie, get that man out of your bedroom.”

“Abdullah, darling, make yourself comfortable. Not on the bed, no.” Into the phone: “Daddy, I do hope your wooden leg is not bothering you. Take care now.”

I was pleased with myself until the Arab really did appear and sat on my bed. After several ear-nibbles, he asked me to marry him.

“I don’t even know your name.”

He told me. It was guttural and as long as the alphabet.

“I still don’t know your name.”

“What are names?” He undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing a bronzed chest. “Feel me and you will know.”

“Pardon me if I pass on this one.

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