by Marian Keyes
20.35
Café Albatross
Shaky legs. Nearly fell down the stairs into the restaurant. Stumbled on the bottom three steps and almost made my entrance skidding across the floor on my knees like Chuck Berry. Worse, didn’t care. Couldn’t possibly be more of a laughing stock than I currently am. Bridie and Treese were waiting.
Bridie – like always – was working a most peculiar look. Her straight blondey-red hair was gathered into a low granny-style bun and she was sporting an astonishing green jumper – shrunken, lopsided and embroidered with tiny jockeys. The oddest taste, she always had – right from her first day at school, aged four, when she insisted on wearing tights the colour of dried blood. But she couldn’t care less.
Treese, a fund-raiser for a big charity, was much more chic. Flaxen hair in screen-goddess-of-the-forties waves and wearing an impressive dress-and-jacket combo. (From Whistles but on Treese you might mistake it for Prada.) You would think if you worked for a charity you could come to work in beige cords and a hoodie but you’d be wrong. Treese’s is a big charity working in the developing world (not third world, cannot say that any more, not PC). Sometimes she has to meet government ministers and ask for money, sometimes she even has to go to The Hague and ask EU for cash.
I asked, ‘Where’s Jem?’
Was sure he had cancelled because it was a very rare occasion when all four of us managed to get together, even when the arrangement was made several weeks in advance, never mind a mere matter of hours, as in this case. (Had to admit that in recent months I’d been the worst offender.)
‘Here he is now!’ Bridie said.
Jem, rushing, briefcase, raincoat, pleasant roundy face.
Wine ordered. Drink flowed. Tongues loosened. As I said, I’d always suspected that my friends didn’t like Paddy. But now that he had publicly shamed me, they could speak freely.
‘Never trusted him,’ Jem said. ‘He was too charming.’
‘Too charming?’ I said. ‘How can you say he was too charming? Charming is a wonderful thing. Like ice-cream. No such thing as too much!’
‘There is,’ Jem said. ‘You can eat a litre carton of Chunky Monkey, then a litre carton of Cherry Garcia, then get sick.’
‘Not me,’ I said. ‘Anyway I remember that night and it was the doobie, not the ice-cream, that made you sick.’
‘He was too good-looking,’ Bridie said.
Again I expressed incredulity. ‘Too good-looking? How can such a thing be? It’s impossible. Goes against laws of physics. Or laws of something. Laws of land, maybe.’
And had I been insulted? ‘Are you saying he was too good-looking for me?’
‘No!’ they exclaim. ‘Not!’
‘You are as cute as a button,’ Jem said. ‘Button! Easily as good-looking as him!’
‘Better!’ Treese said.
‘Yes, better!’ Bridie said. ‘Just different. He’s too obvious. You look at him and think, There is a tall, dark, handsome man. Too perfect! But with you, you think, There is a very pretty, medium-height, girlish woman with a well-cut bob, lovely brown colour with bits of purple –’
‘Molichino, please!’
‘– and a very neat figure considering you’re a non-smoker. A twinkle in your eye – both eyes, in point of fact – and a small symmetrical nose.’ (Bridie was convinced her nose pointed to the left. Was envious of all those with noses poking out of their fizzogs with straight-ahead precision.) ‘The more you look at you, Lola, the more attractive you get. The more you look at Paddy de Courcy, the less attractive he gets. Have I left anything out?’ she asked Treese and Jem.
‘Her smile lights up her face,’ Jem said.
‘Yes,’ Bridie said. ‘Your smile lights up your face. Not like him.’
‘Paddy de Courcy’s a fake smiler. Like the Joker in Batman,’ Jem said.
‘Yes! Like the Joker in Batman!
I protested, ‘He’s not like the Joker in Batman!
‘Yes, he IS like the Joker in Batman.’ Bridie was adamant.
21.55
Bridie’s mobile rang. She looked at the number and said, ‘Must take this call.’
She got up to leave, but we indicated, Stay! Stay!
We wanted to hear. It was her boss (important banker). Sounded like he wanted to go to Milan and for Bridie to organize flights and a hotel. Bridie got a big diary out of bag. (Very nice bag. Mulberry. Why a nice bag but peculiar clothes? Makes no sense.)
‘No,’ she said to the boss. ‘You cannot go to Milan. Is your wife’s birthday tomorrow. No, not booking flights for you. Yes, refusing. You will thank me for this. Am keeping you out of the divorce courts.’
She listened a bit more, then gave very scornful laugh. ‘Sack me? Don’t be so silly!’ Then she hung up. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Where were we?’
‘Bridie.’ Treese sounded anxious. ‘It’s not right to refuse to book flights to Milan for your boss. It might be important.’
‘Not!’ Bridie dismissed it with a flourish of her hand. ‘I know all that goes on. Situation in Milan doesn’t require his presence. I suspect he has his eye on an Italian lady. Will not facilitate his philandering.’
22.43
Desserts. I ordered Banoffee pie. Bananas tasted slimy, like wet leaves in November. I threw down my spoon and spat the bananas into my napkin. Bridie tried my pie. Said it wasn’t slimy. Nothing like wet leaves in November. Treese tried it. Said it wasn’t slimy. Jem tried it. Said it wasn’t slimy. He finished it. As compensation, he offered me his cold chocolate slab. But it tasted like chocolate-flavoured lard. Bridie tried it. Said it didn’t taste like chocolate-flavoured lard. Chocolate, yes, but lard, no. Treese concurred. So did Jem.
Bridie offered me her apple tart, but the pastry tasted of damp cardboard and the apple pieces like dead things. Others did not concur.
Treese didn’t offer me her dessert because she had no dessert to offer – once upon a time, she’d been a tubster and now tried to stay away from sugar. It was okay to eat other people’s desserts but not to order one for herself.
Her overeating was mostly under control now but she could still have bad days. Example, if stressed at work because she’d been turned down by the EU for a grant for latrines in Addis Ababa, she could eat up to twenty Mars bars in one go. (Could possibly manage more but the woman in the shop beside her office won’t sell them to her. She says to Treese, ‘You’ve had enough, love.’ Like a kindly publican. She says, ‘You worked hard to lose all that weight, Treese, love, you don’t want be a porker again. Think of that nice husband of yours. He didn’t know you when you were stout, did he?’)
I decided to give up on desserts and ordered a glass of port instead.
‘What’s it taste of?’ Bridie asked. ‘Rotting ankle boots? Maggots’ eyeballs?’
‘Alcohol,’ I said. ‘It tastes of alcohol.’
After the port, had an amaretto. After the amaretto had a Cointreau.
23.30
I braced myself to be forced to attend a nightclub, so I could ‘hold my head up high’ there also.
But no! No mention of nightclub. Talk of taxis and work in the morning. Everyone returning to their loved ones – Bridie got married last year, Treese got married this year, Jem was living with possessive Claudia. Why go out for steak when you’ve hamburger at home?
Jem dropped me off in a taxi and insisted that any time I wanted to hang out with him and Claudia, I was welcome. He is lovely, Jem. A kind, kind person.
But lying, of course. Claudia doesn’t like me. Not as much as she doesn’t like Bridie, but still.
(Quick aside. You know how they told me Paddy was far too good-looking for me? Well, the same could be said for Claudia and Jem. Claudia is ‘leggy’– marvellous word, so sixties – tanned, blonde and has breast enlargements. She is the only person I know who’s actually had them done. To be fair, they aren’t grotesquely large but, nonetheless, you can’t miss them. Also I suspect her of hair extensions – one week I met her and she had sh
oulder-length hair, the following week it was twenty inches longer. But perhaps she had simply been taking lots of selenium.
She looks like a model. In fact, she used to be a model. Sort of. She sat on car bonnets in bikinis. She also tried to be a singer – auditioned for You’re A Star (reality TV talent thing). She also tried to be a dancer. (On another reality TV show.) She also tried to be an actress. (Spent small fortune on headshots, but was told to piss off for being crap.) Also a rumour circulated that she had been sighted in a queue for Big Brother auditions but she denies that.
But am not judging. Good lord, I only came by my own career by trial and error, failing at everything else, etc. Fair play to Claudia for her have-a-go spirit.
The only reason I don’t like Claudia is because she is not pleasant. She barely bothers to speak to me, Treese and especially Bridie. Her body language always says, Can’t ABIDE being with you dullards. Would prefer to be in a nightclub snorting cocaine off a newsreader’s thigh.
She behaves as though we would all steal Jem from under her nose, given half a chance. But she has nothing to worry about. None of us has designs on Jem. We all got off with him when we were teenagers. His face was not as round and trustworthy back then. Had slight rakish edge.
If you want my honest opinion, sometimes I worry that Claudia doesn’t even like Jem. Feel she treats him like an idiotic, repeat-offender dog, who would chew good shoes and tear open goosedown pillows if he wasn’t watched with a basilisk eye.
Jem is a lovely, lovely person. He deserves a lovely, lovely girlfriend.
Final piece of information. Jem is very well paid. Am not implying anything. Just making an observation.)
23.48
Let myself into my tiny flat. I looked around at a life that amounted to nothing and thought, I am all alone. And will be for the rest of my days.
Not self-pity. Simply facing facts.
Thursday, 28 August 9.00
Phone rang. Very friendly female voice said, ‘Lola, hi!’
Cautiously I said, ‘Hi.’
Because it could be a client. I have to pretend I always know who they are and must never say, ‘Who’s that?’ They like to think they are the only one. (Don’t we all?)
‘Lola, hi!’ the female voice goes on, very friendly. ‘My name is Grace. Grace Gildee. I wonder if we could have a chat.’
‘Certainly,’ I said. (Because thought it was woman looking to be styled.)
‘About a good friend of mine,’ she said. ‘Believe you know him too. Paddy de Courcy?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, wondering what this was all about. Suddenly I got it! Oh no! ‘Are you… a journalist?’
‘Yes!’ she said, like it was all okay. ‘I’d love to have a chat about your relationship with Paddy.’
But Paddy had said, No talking to the press.
‘Obviously we will compensate you well,’ the woman says. ‘Believe you’ve lost a couple of clients recently. Money might come in handy.’
What? Had I lost a couple of clients? News to me.
She said, ‘It’ll be your chance to give your side of the story. I know you feel badly betrayed by him.’
‘No, I…’
I was afraid. Really quite afraid. Didn’t want a story about Paddy and me in the paper. I shouldn’t even have admitted I knew him.
‘I don’t want to talk about it!’
She said, ‘But you did have a relationship with Paddy?’
‘No, I, er… No comment.’
Never thought I’d have a conversation where I said the words, No comment.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ the Grace woman said. She laughed.
‘Don’t!’ I said. ‘Don’t take it as a yes. I must go now.’
‘If you change your mind,’ she said, ‘give me a shout. Grace Gildee. Features writer for the Spokesman. We’d do a lovely job.’
9.23
Call from Marcia Fitzgibbons, captain of industry and important client. ‘Lola,’ she said, ‘I heard you were jonesing at the Harvey Nichols shoot.’
‘Jonesing?’ I said, high-pitched.
‘Having withdrawals,’ she said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I heard you were a shaking mess,’ she said. ‘Sweating, vomiting, unable to do a simple task like press a dress without destroying it.’
‘No, no,’ I insisted. ‘Marcia, I mean Ms Fitzgibbons, I wasn’t jonesing. All that is wrong is that my heart is broken. Paddy de Courcy is my boyfriend but he’s getting married to someone else.’
‘So you keep telling people, I hear. But Paddy de Courcy your boyfriend? Don’t be ridiculous! You have purple hair!’
‘Molichino,’ I cry. ‘Molichino!’
‘Cannot work with you any longer,’ she said. ‘I have strict zero-tolerance policy on druggies. You are an excellent stylist but rules are rules.’
That is why she is a captain of industry, I suppose.
Further attempts to defend myself proved futile, as she hung up on me. Time, after all, is money.
9.26
Missed my mammy very much. Could really have done with her now. I remembered when she was dying – although I didn’t really know that was what was happening, no one said as such, I just thought she needed lots of bed-rest. In the afternoons when I came home from school, I’d get into bed beside her, still in my uniform, and we’d hold hands and watch EastEnders repeats. I’d love to do that now, to get into bed beside her and hold hands and go to sleep for ever.
Or if only I had a big extended family who would cosset me and surround me and say, ‘Well, we love you. Even if you do know nothing about current affairs.’
But I was all alone in the world. Lola, the little orphan girl. Which was a terrible thing to say, as Dad was still alive. I could have gone and visited him in Birmingham. But I knew that would be unendurable. It would be like after Mum died and we were living side by side in a silent house, neither of us with half a clue how to operate a washing machine or roast a chicken and both of us on anti-depressants.
Even though I knew it was a pointless exercise, I rang him.
‘Hello, Dad, my boyfriend is marrying another woman.’
‘The blackguard!’
Then he gave big, long, heavy sigh and said, ‘I just want you to be happy, Lola. If only you could be happy, I would be happy.’
I was sorry I’d rung. I’d upset him, he takes everything so hard. And just listening to him, so obviously depressed… I mean, I suffered from depression too but didn’t go on about it.
Also he was a liar. He wouldn’t be happy if I was happy. The only thing that would make him happy would be if Mum came back.
‘So how’s Birmingham?’ I asked.
At least I got on with my life after Mum died. At least I didn’t move to Birmingham, not even Birmingham proper, which has good shops, including Harvey Nichols, but a Birmingham suburb, where nothing ever happened. He was in such a hurry to move. The minute I turned twenty-one, he was off like a shot, saying his older brother needed him; but I suspected he moved because we found it so hard being with each other. (In fairness, I must admit I was considering moving to New York myself but he saved me the bother.)
‘Birmingham’s grand,’ he said.
‘Right.’
Big, long pause.
‘Well, I’ll be off so,’ I said. ‘I love you, Dad.’
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’
‘And you love me too, Dad.’
18.01
I go against every one of my instincts and watch the news, hoping to see coverage from the Dail and possibly catch a glimpse of Paddy. Have to sit through terrible, terrible stuff about seventeen Nigerian men being deported even though they have Irish children; and European nations dumping their rubbish mountains in third world countries (and yes, they said ‘third world’, not ‘developing world’).
Kept waiting for Dail report, for pictures of fat, red-faced, corrupt looking men standing in a room with a blue carpet, shou
ting Rawlrawl-rawl! at each other. But it never came.
Too late I remembered it was the summer holidays and they wouldn’t be back in session (or whatever they call it) until two weeks before Christmas. When they would have to break for Christmas. Lazies.
Before I turned the telly off, my attention was caught by an item about the Cavan to Dublin road being closed because a lorry carrying six thousand hens had overturned and all the hens had got loose. The screen was full of hens. I wondered if my grief was inducing hallucinations. Hens are funny things to hallucinate about, though. I looked away, squeezed my eyes tightly shut, then opened them and looked at the telly again and the screen was still full of hens. Marauding gangs making for the open road, a great swathe of them disappearing over a hill to freedom, locals stealing them, carrying them away by their legs, a man with a microphone trying to talk to the camera but up to his knees in moving sea of rust-coloured feathers.
18.55
I can’t stop ringing Paddy. It’s like OCD. Like washing hands constantly. Or eating cashew nuts. Once I start, I can’t stop.
He never answered and he never rang back. Was aware I was debasing myself but couldn’t stop. I longed for him. Yearned for him.
If I could just speak to him! Maybe I wouldn’t get him to change his mind, but I could get answers to questions. Like, why did he make me feel so special? Why was he so possessive of me? When there was another woman all along.
There was a horrible niggling feeling that this was my own fault. How could I have believed that a man as handsome and charismatic as Paddy would take a person like me seriously?
I felt so very, very stupid. And the thing was, I wasn’t stupid. Shallow, yes, but not stupid. There was a big difference. Just because I loved clothes and fashion didn’t mean I was a thicko. May not have known who the president of Bolivia was but I had emotional intelligence. Or at least, had thought I had. I always gave great advice on other people’s lives. (Only on request. Not uninvited. That would be rude.) But clearly I’d had no right to. Cobblers’ children, etc., etc.