by Marian Keyes
18.23
Back downstairs I noticed a telly in the corner! Quite annoyed with Bridie! Rang her.
‘There’s a telly here! You said there was no telly!’
‘It’s not a telly,’ she said.
‘It looks like a telly!’
But, worried, I had to go closer and crouch down and check. Was I so distraught that I’d mistaken something else for telly? A microwave, perhaps?
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s physically a telly. But it’s not connected.’
‘So what’s the point, then?’
‘You can watch DVDs on it.’
‘Where will I get DVDs?’
‘In the DVD shop.’
‘I am a long way from a DVD shop.’
‘You’re not. The supermarket on main street has a good choice. Up to date.’
‘Okay. So… ah… any news?’
I meant, any news about Paddy?
‘You’ve only been gone a couple of hours,’ she said.
But had detected hesitation in her delivery. ‘There is news,’ I cried. ‘Please tell me!’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’ve gone down there to escape from news!’
‘Please tell me! Now that I know there is news, I must know. I will die if I don’t know. I won’t ask again, but I need to know now.’
She sighed. Said, ‘Okay. In the evening paper. Date set. Wedding to be held in March. Reception in the K Club.’
Two thoughts. First one: March a long, long way away. He might change his mind. And second thought: ‘The K Club? Only horsey types have their wedding reception in the K Club. He’s not a horsey type. Is she?’
Bridie said, ‘Well, she looks like one. A horse, I mean.’
Bridie, loyal friend.
‘But don’t think she is a horsey type,’ she said.
I said, ‘Everyone knows it’s not on to hold your wedding reception in the K Club if you’re not a horsey Kildare type.’
‘Is tacky,’ Bridie said.
‘Yes, is tacky.’
18.37
Nice little town. Plenty of people about. A lot going on. More than I’d remembered. Hotel, one (small). Pubs, many. Supermarket, one. Boutiques, one. (Awful – Aran ganzies, tweed capes, crocheted bobble hats. Aimed at tourists.) Chipper, one. Surf shops, two! Internet café, one. (Yes, I know. Unexpected.) Huxtery, all-purpose, seaside-town shop, selling Jackie Collins novels, souvenirs and ashtrays shaped like toilets, with writing, ‘Rest Your Weary Ash’ (criminal!), one.
Decision. Would have my evening meal in a pub. I had no one to talk to, but I had a magazine to hide behind. All pubs advertised food so decided to choose one at random and take a chance it wasn’t the place we got barred from on Treese’s hen night.
(Hen nights should be banned. You’re honour-bound to behave atrociously, then feel terribly ashamed afterwards. Didn’t remember much of Treese’s, except that the ten of us – only eight actually, as Treese had passed out in the cottage and never made it to town and Jill was in the pub toilet, collapsed on the floor – draped ourselves all over the barman, pulling at him and saying, ‘Oh baby! You drive me wild!’ And stuff like that. Had a vague memory of the barman begging, ‘Come on now, girls. Cut it out. Is a family pub! Am asking nicely.’ Remember he had seemed on the verge of tears.)
Opened the door of a place called the Dungeon and a knot of hostile male fizzogs glared up like creatures disturbed under a rock. An impression of red eyes, pointy chins and smell of sulphur. Like the video of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Recoiled.
Next pub, the Oak, bright lighting, upholstered seating, family groups eating chicken nuggets. Safer. No one glared.
Took a seat and a barman came over and asked, ‘Have you decided?’
Realized perhaps he wasn’t Irish – non-Irish accent, toffee-coloured skin, black hair and eyes like raisins (actually that makes them sound small and shrivelled, which was not the case at all. Big dark eyes. If looking for comparison to dried fruit, the best description was, eyes like prunes. But could not say that as prunes had unfortunate connotations, putting everyone in mind of old folk in homes, getting stewed prunes and custard to keep them ‘regular’. However, once I had thought it, couldn’t stop thinking of him as Prune Eyes. Ol’ Prune Eyes, even.)
Asked him, ‘What’s soup of the day?’
‘Mushroom.’
‘Is it lumpy?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. And a glass of red wine.’
‘Merlot?’
‘Grand.’
20.25
Finished my dinner. (After the soup of the day, had had the cheesecake of the day – strawberry.) I was standing outside the Oak, wondering what to do next.
I could go for walk. It was a beautiful bright evening and there was a lovely beach down there. I could blow away the cobwebs, as people might say. (Actually don’t like that saying. Makes me think of spiders. Will not say it again.) Or I could get a DVD. Yes, I decided. Would get a DVD.
20.29
Supermarket
Wide choice of DVDs. Boy and girl behind the counter (name badges: Kelly and Brandon) tried to help me.
‘Wedding Crashers is good,’ Kelly said. Quite a stout girl. Looked like she enjoyed chips. (Indeed, who doesn’t?) Poker-straight, stripey blonde hair. Pink trackie bottoms pulled very low. Two inches of belly rolling over waistband. Gold bar through belly button, acrylic French manicure. Tacky, yet admired her confidence.
‘Not Wedding Crashers,’ I said.
‘Like your highlights.’
‘Thank –’
‘Did you do them yourself?’
‘No. Er… no. In hairdresse –’
‘Like your jacket. Where d’you get it? Topshop?’
‘… No… Got it in work.’
‘Where d’you work?’
‘… Work for self.’
‘How much was it?’
‘… Well, got it on discount…’
‘How much would it be before the discount?’
‘… Not really sure.’
Was plenty sure, but it was expensive. I was too ashamed to say the price.
‘Shut up,’ Brandon said. Like Kelly, he obviously took an interest in his appearance. Neck-chains, rings, blond hair in Tintin quiff, yellowish tinge to it, probably the result of a home-bleach job, but applauded his efforts.
‘How about Lord of the Rings?’ he asked. ‘We have special extended versions.’
‘No. Good film, am not saying it’s not, but…’
‘What you in the mood for?’
‘Need cheering up.’
‘Why?’ Kelly asked.
Cripes, so nosy!
‘Wee… lll,’ I said, suddenly mad keen to talk about Paddy. ‘My boyfriend is getting married to someone else.’
‘Okay,’ Kelly said, contrarily refusing to take the bait. ‘What about Sleepless in Seattle? That’s sappy.’
Frustrated! Hadn’t wanted to discuss cost of jacket but wanted to splurge info about Paddy.
‘Or One Fine Day. Also sappy. You could have a good cry.’
‘No!’ Brandon said. ‘Get revenge film! Kill Bill. Dirty Harry.’
‘Dirty Harry,’ I cried. ‘Perfect!’
23.08
Dirty Harry is a marvellous film! Was exactly what I’d wanted. There’s a great bit when he gets revenge.
At one stage I looked up from Clint Eastwood and out through the back window of Uncle Tom’s cabin and for a moment thought there was great big Berocca tablet in the sky. Bright orange and looked like it was fizzing, infusing the sky with health-giving vitamin B. The sunset! Suddenly glad I had come to this place. Had learnt to appreciate the beauty of nature.
Quite nice evening. Thought about Paddy non-stop, but only picked up the phone to ring him four times.
23.31
Bedtime. Afraid I wouldn’t sleep, so took two NatraCalms and turned off the light.
23.32
Turned on the light. Took half a Zimovane (a real sleeping tablet
jam-packed with chemicals, not some namby-pamby herbal malarkey). Would be terrible if I couldn’t sleep. No point risking it. Turned off the light.
23.33
Turned on the light. Took the other half of the Zimovane. Couldn’t take a chance on not sleeping. Turned off the light. Pulled the fake patchwork quilt up to my chin and snuggled into the pillow. Now that I was doped up to the gills, I was looking forward to a lovely night’s sleep.
23.34
Very quiet in the country. Nice. Soothing.
23.35
Comforting. Not sinister.
23.36
Calming. Not a bit sinister.
23.37
Is sinister! Too quiet out there. Menacing. Like the fields are planning to ambush me while I’m asleep! Turn the light back on. My heart was pounding. Needed something to read but was too afraid to go downstairs for my InStyle. Bookshelf in room with ancient paperback books. Thrillers by someone called Margery Allingham. Picked The Fashion for Shrouds, because about fashion designer in 1930s. Although book gone a bit damp, enjoyed it very much. Everyone in story wore hats. No one wears hats any more. Tragic. March of modernity.
Thursday, 4 September 9.07
Woken up by silence. Is very disruptive. Never thought would miss drunken men grunting and wrestling outside window. Life full of surprises.
Mattress feels filled with tennis balls. How did people cope in olden days? Different value systems. Community and wearing hats and children being able to walk to school by themselves. No value put on high-grade mattress, nice sheets, nice pillows.
Lean over the side of the bed and grab copy of VIP and stare, for millionth time, at Paddy, with his grin and his tennis racket, and am astonished by how wholesome he looks. Cripes, if only they knew…
Trip down memory lane
Last year, Sunday in April, blustery and cold. I was visiting Mum’s grave. Perched on little kerb, talking to her, telling how job was going, how Dad was – just a general catch-up, really. Funnily enough was in middle of telling her that still hadn’t a boyfriend, not since gave Malachy the elbow for wanting me to be thinner (photographer, spent too much time hanging around with models), when noticed someone a few rows over, looking at me. A man. Not my type. Too grown-up. Tall. Sober, single-breasted, navy overcoat, cashmere/wool mix (at quick glance), holding armload of technicolour-yellow daffodils. Dark hair, a bit bouffed (although that could have been by-product of windy day).
Instantly felt touchy. I mean, was graveyard. If you couldn’t talk to your dead mother there, where could you talk to her?
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘there’s some bloke over there watching me talking to you. Rude!’
In my head her voice said, ‘Maybe he isn’t looking at you. Maybe he’s staring into space. Give people a chance.’
I looked again. He was definitely watching me and I got sudden flash of his hair slick and flat with sweat, as result of having sex with me.
Sacrilegious! In graveyard. But suppose it makes sense – sex and death.
‘Well?’ Mum asked.
‘Er… is fine…’
Eventually said goodbye to Mum and walked towards exit. Had to pass Overcoat Man to get to main path and although not normally the type who challenges people, was defensive over dead mother. When I reached him, I stopped and said, ‘I’m only talking to a marble headstone because I have no choice. I’d prefer it if she was alive, you know.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’
Suddenly didn’t feel touchy any longer, but sad. Sad for both of us.
‘Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ he said.
‘Well you did.’
He had strewn his mother’s grave with daffodils and don’t know why, but it touched me. Man like him could have (judging from quality of overcoat) bought big exotic bouquet, orchids and lilies and similar, but daffodils humble flower.
He said, ‘I thought it was… good… you could talk so freely…’ He paused, looked down, then looked up again, causing maximum impact with blue eyes. He said, ‘I envied you.’
11.08
I opened front door and took deep inhale of fresh country air. Smelt of cow-shite. Five red and white cows in nearby field lazily flicking tails at me. Culprits.
Walked round to back of house and there was wild Atlantic. Waves and swelling and white bits and sun glinting. Smell of ozone and salt and all that. Gazed upon nature and beauty and everything and thought, I miss shops.
Was no good. Mistake coming here. Had no one to talk to, no telly to watch. Too much time on my hands to think about Paddy.
Should have done bunk to exciting, lively place, like New York, with its many distractions. But New York hotels expensive. Uncle Tom’s cabin is free.
Texted Bridie:
Lonely. Mght cum hme.
Reply:
Frst day alwys hrdest. Stik wth it!
11.40
Ringing clients all morning, explaining ‘out of circulation’ for couple of weeks. Leaving them ‘in capable hands’ of Nkechi. Some happy enough with it. But others not. Afraid of Nkechi. SarahJane Hutchinson point-blank refuses to have any dealings with her.
Made self walk into town. Could have driven, but only five minutes’ walk. Shameful to drive. Also remember what shrink used to say after Mum died. Best way to keep depression at bay is to get out and about and take short walk. Quite funny really when you think about it. Because when you’re depressed, the last thing you want to do is get out and about and take short walk. Tablets far better.
11.42
Strangest thing. Beautiful really. Tramping into town in pastel wellingtons, nearing next-door-neighbour’s cottage, when through small window in the side of house, high up under the roof, caught a glimpse of sparkles and shine.
Stopped. Twisted head. Something about the direction of the window – it faced almost towards the sea – meant it was unlikely passers-by would see in. (Hard to describe. Not good at things like that. A man-type 200-yards-style description.) I had been at peculiarly angled bend in road and just got lucky.
Next thing, I saw woman in a wedding dress twirling around and around! Smooth, shiny, white satin, tight bodice, wide skirt, not risible meringue, but like exaggerated A-line, if you can imagine. Like upside-down cone. Almost certain was a Vera Wang. Arresting image. Despite self’s tragic circumstances, couldn’t help but be happy for her beauty and evident happiness.
White elbow gloves. Elaborate diamanté; choker – might have been Swarovski, but couldn’t be certain at this distance. Stunning dark hair, thick and long and smooth, swinging as she twirled, perfect little tiara perched on crown of head.
She came right up to window, mouthing words – probably practising vows – chatting away to herself, good old chinwag, then she did that thing people do in films when they suddenly realize they are standing on a crocodile. She froze, slid eyes downwards very, very sloooowly until got to my level, when she forced herself to look at me, standing in road, gazing up at her, like supplicant. Even though still too far away to be able to say if choker was Swarovski, no denying the shock, horror even, on her face. She backed away from the window as if on castors. Why? What is big secret?
I remained rooted in place, wondering if she would reappear, until farmer chugging along in tractor emitting evil-smelling black smoke, shouted, ‘Out of the way, Jackeen!’ and tried to run me off the road.
11.49
Internet café
Have BlackBerry, no real need to go to internet café but, honest admission, wanted reason to talk to someone.
Inside was a girl, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a stool, legs crossed elegantly. Very short dark hair, like Jean Seberg in À Bout de Souffle. Few faces can take haircut that severe. Beautiful pointy eyebrows. Dark red lipstick. Matte. Interesting choice in these glossy times.
I said, ‘Er… hello.’
‘’Ello.’
She had to be French. That or cockney.
Clothes sim
ple but beautiful. Black polo-neck, black and white skirt, almost puffball, but pulling back just at vital moment. Wide belt tight around waist. Black ballet slippers. Understated but chic. French women simply have knack. Like Irish people are skilled at being great craic and getting green freckles instead of tan.
Said, ‘Can I use internet?’
‘Certainement’ she said. ‘Work away.’
Asked her, ‘You local girl?’ (Knew she wasn’t. A conversational pretext.)
‘Non. De France.’
Can understand now why girl in DVD shop was so forward last night. Only way to get kicks around here is to poke nose into other people’s lives.
Said, ‘I love France! In fact, j’aime France!’
Hoped we could talk about shops in Paris. But she wasn’t from Paris. From somewhere called Beaune. Never heard of it but she seemed proud. That is French people for you. They are proud of being French, smoke Gauloises and are excellent at going on strike. Sometimes whole country does it.
Introduced myself. Hoped not coming across as too desperate.
She said, ‘Bonjour, Lola. Je m’appelle Cecile.’
Asked, ‘Why you live here, Cecile?’
Reason? A man.
‘Am crazy in love,’ she said. ‘He is surfer.’
‘What is name?’
‘Zoran.’
‘Irish?’ Thinking, Can’t be.
‘No. Serbian. Lives here now.’
Only one email of interest. From Nkechi. She has persuaded woman who imports Roberto Cavalli to Ireland to sell to ‘us’ exclusively. Is good news. Excellent news, really. All Irish women hot for Cavalli will have to be styled by me – or ‘us’ as Nkechi so ominously put it. Cripes. Have only been gone a day and already she is taking over the world.