Summer Soap episode 2: A picture album, and a mystery photograph

HEY Ali. Great to catch up.

Saw this and thought of you (smiley face).

Cheerful birds sing on a cloudless morning and Ali is beaming. She’s on a high after a torturous Power Pedal class with Susan when she gets Daniel’s message. They sit outside to cool down and Ali sees her reflection in Susan’s shiny forehead.

“So, Miss Ali… how was your date with the gorge’ Daniel yesterday?”

“It was casual. Sure, I don’t even know if he likes me.” Ali sips on a pineapple smoothie. “Some Malibu would really improve this.” Ali glances around before whispering, “But Suze, he did say I was gorgeous.”

“Girl! That is not how colleagues talk. He fancies you!”

“Well, it wasn’t just out of the blue, like.”

“OK, go on.”

“Did you know he lost his dad?”

“No, I didn’t. He’s young for that.”

“I know. So, we were talking about dads and I said I didn’t know mine but Mam met him in Santa Ponsa. And basically, he said I was gorgeous but, no offence, not at all Spanish-looking.’

Susan scoffs, ‘Ali, he fancies you. Give over.’

******

After a steaming shower, Ali considers herself in the mirror. She often critiques her appearance, pulling at her forehead to make it tighter, smacking her lips for the lip-filler-pout everyone wants. Today, she examines her face for a hint of Spanish exotica. She considers herself to be dirty blonde with eyes the colour of the sea on a dull day, a quintessentially Irish look. She’d love thick Spanish lashes or glossy hair, but she literally just got burnt on the Easter weekend.

Neighbours comment that she’s ‘the spitting image of her mam’, though she wonders if that’s because her mam is their only frame of reference. You can’t compare to something or someone you haven’t conceived of before, just like you can’t dream of a face you’ve never encountered.

Her mam is stretched out in the front room when Ali joins her. She sets down a tray of tea and fig rolls on the ring-marked coffee table. They howl laughing at the episode of Father Ted where the priests enter the Eurovision as increasingly decrepit versions of Elvis.

After, Ali asks, “Mam? I was wondering recently; do you have any pictures of my father?”

Lydia shifts in her seat. “I don’t, I’m afraid. You know that we weren’t serious about each other.”

“Yeah, I know. I’d just like to know if I take after him.”

Lydia looks at her and smiles. “Well, he was very handsome. I think you have his smile with that cute dimple of yours. And maybe his small ears. Otherwise, you’re very like me.”

“Lucky, amn’t I?” Ali grins.

“Too right.”

They park the conversation.

Ali tries to sleep but the thoughts in her head refuse to be untangled, like neglected necklaces at the bottom of a handbag. Cupping a chamomile tea, she peruses shelves of books, school medals and tapes in the living room. She pulls a faded, maroon photo album off the shelf and in it, her mam, Lydia, is just a couple of years younger than Ali is now. Ali thinks that they look so similar, with their high babyish cheekbones and square foreheads. It’s impossible to imagine her mam with a baby in her arms a year later.

Gran features in a few shots too, looking glamorous and busy with the same baby cheeks even in her forties. Each photo is meticulously hand-dated in blue ink and sandwiched in plastic film.

Ali flicks through the album and a loose black-and-white photo drops out. It’s taken at a foreign beach and her mam sits cross-legged on a tartan rug beside a young man, with a picnic of apples and lemonade fanned out in front of them.

Ali turns the picture over but there’s no name or date. He’s handsome in a boyish way, and sits up ram-rod straight for the photo.

Ali is ready to fold the photo back into the book when she notices the dimple in the man’s left cheek. Instead, she stows the photo safely in the pocket of her dressing gown. Before she falls asleep, she replies to Daniel.

Hey. I had a nice time too. (smiley face)