This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Do you want everyone to know that your husband takes it up the arse from nineteen-year-old rent boys?’

  ‘Do you?’ She was fascinated.

  ‘Yes.’

  No, she didn’t want anyone knowing that.

  But she wondered if Paddy knew.

  She met him from time to time – not properly, not by appointment, but at big social events, like charity balls, where conversation was brief and jokey. The first time he met Jeremy and Alicia after they’d got engaged, he X-rayed them with an impolite gaze that made her uncomfortable with its intensity. She remembered watching him, watching them – scanning, assimilating, filing – and wondering what it was that he saw.

  Her sister Camilla knew too – because she told her. She had to tell someone, but then she was sorry because Camilla said the worst possible thing. ‘Why are you selling yourself so short? Why don’t you leave him and hold out for true love?’

  ‘Because I’ve met the only one I’ll ever love. I know who he is.’

  Such certainty was a type of comfort. It wasn’t her fault she was hopelessly in love with a man she couldn’t have. In olden times she’d have entered a nunnery and that would have been the end of everything. At least with Jeremy she was living a fullish life, going skiing, shopping, having fun.

  I have a lizard-skin Kelly bag, she reminded herself.

  I have met Tiger Woods.

  I have flown in a private plane.

  But sometimes in the bleak predawn hours, the truth woke her and she couldn’t avoid wondering what was wrong with her. Why did she think so little of herself, that she remained married to a gay man? Why had she settled for a skewed half-life?

  But it’s fine, she told herself. We’re happy.

  She had read a feature in Marie Claire about relationships where the couples no longer had sex. Apparently they were much more widespread than anyone knew, or admitted to. I am actually normal, she whispered to herself in the pearly grey light. It’s the ones who have lots of sex who are abnormal.

  She knew it all came back to Paddy. He’d ruined her for anyone else.

  ‘Maybe you should see someone,’ her sister suggested. ‘A shrink of some sort.’

  ‘A shrink won’t help me find a man as good as Paddy.’

  Her sister didn’t push the point. She fancied Paddy too.

  Despite the absence of sex, Alicia’s life with Jeremy was a good one. He used humour, money, drink, food and travel to keep things from ever becoming too glum or serious. He loved her, she knew he did. He always treated her with great tenderness and affection.

  And when he died, her grief was genuine.

  At about ten-thirty most nights, Sidney dropped the following morning’s papers over to Paddy. Normally it was no big deal – Sidney handed him the bundle, then legged it and Paddy leafed through the pages at his leisure – but this particular night, Paddy brought such a wash of black energy with him when he returned to the living room that Alicia knew immediately that something was up.

  ‘It’s in,’ Paddy said. ‘The interview with Grace Gildee.’

  Alicia’s stomach almost flipped out of her mouth. They hadn’t been expecting it for another week.

  Paddy went straight to the article and was so intent on it that she had to read over his shoulder. It was a big piece, a double-page spread, the headline in big, bold, black print.

  STAND BY YOUR MAN

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of naked political ambition must be in want of a wife.

  God. Alicia flicked a terrified glance at Paddy. He read on for a few sentences, then made an outraged squeak. ‘Why the hell did you offer her a glass of wine at eleven o’clock in the fucking morning?’

  ‘I thought…’ What had she thought? That she and Grace might get mildly drunk together and end up giggling over the old days?

  Paddy read on avidly: boring details of her upbringing, schooling, work history. So far so safe – then disaster.

  Thornton’s values are reminiscent of those of the 1950s, when women stuck by adulterous men, because ‘marriage is a sacred vow. Just because one person breaks the vow, it’s no reason for the other to do so.’

  ‘Did you say that?’ Paddy demanded.

  ‘… Some of it…’

  ‘And she said the rest and you agreed?’

  ‘… Yes…’ Too late she’d remembered that if you agree with any statement that a journalist makes, they can quote you on it.

  ‘I’m meant to represent modern fucking Ireland!’

  ‘Sorry, Paddy.’

  ‘Not some fucking Catholic throwback banana republic! Why the hell did we send you to media training if you can’t remember the fucking basics?’

  ‘Sorry, Paddy.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you let Sidney sit in on it?’

  But he knew why, they both did.

  On she read.

  Thornton reckons the reason she caught the field-playing de Courcy is down to her ‘loyalty and steadfastness.’ This will come as a surprise to mountaineer Selma Teeley who – very loyally, it must be said – used some of her substantial sponsorship earnings to fund de Courcy’s election campaign six years ago.

  Had she? Alicia hadn’t known that. She looked in surprise at Paddy, then looked away quickly. Now was not the time for eye contact.

  Possibly the worst thing about the piece, Alicia realized, was that Grace was reporting it straight. There were no spiteful interpretations; instead she let Alicia’s quotes damn her all by themselves.

  Alicia sounded like a submissive doormat and it was all her own fault.

  When Paddy finished reading, he threw the paper aside with a sharp rustle and sat brooding in his chair. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he said.

  Lola

  Friday, 17 October 11.07

  Wake up. Look at alarm clock. Pleased. 11.07 – good time. Less of day to waste. Best waking-up time to date since arriving at Uncle Tom’s cabin was 12.47 but had been up very late night before watching Apocalypse Now. Intense emotional experience. Also very long. Make coffee and bowl Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, pull kitchen chair round to back of house and break my fast in full view of Atlantic Ocean. Has become my habit because every day, despite it being October, weather is beautiful.

  Ireland strange, strange country. July – summer by my reckoning – weather can be embarrassingly cold and wet. All those poor American tourists doing Ring of Kerry in fogged-up coaches and the weather making show of us. But now look! Middle of October! Every day sunny and blustery, huge blue skies, overexcited sea, young men surfing. Massive sweep of beach, deserted during weekdays, apart from heartbroken women traipsing up and down, hoping to – I don’t know – walk right back to happiness? Still haven’t joined them. Will never join them. Matter of pride.

  In leisurely fashion, pour milk over Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Breakfast in Knockavoy takes average of forty-three minutes – astonishing length of time. In Dublin, would spend nine seconds cramming slice of toast into mouth while simultaneously applying concealer, watching Ireland AM and looking for lost things.

  Six or seven surfers out there this morning, sleek as seals in their wetsuits. Would love to surf. No, that is wrong. Would love to be able to surf. Different thing. Suspect would not enjoy surfing at all. Water up nose and in ears, and think of hair. But if told people – men, let’s be honest, men – that I was surfer, they would think I was sexy. All-over tan (despite wetsuit), ankle rope, body confidence. Yes, hair would be in absolute flitters, but people don’t seem hold it against you if you explain that you are surf girl. Suddenly tangled, broken hair ceases being tangled, broken hair and becomes sexy, surfy hair. Is this right, I ask you?

  Ocean temporarily gone flat. Surfers lying stomach-down on boards, waiting. Surfing requires patience; lots of hanging around and could not pass time sending texts.

  Ate slowly. Have taken to chewing every mouthful of food twenty times because of article I read. Alert! In Western world, we do not chew food enough. We a
re swallowing food almost whole. Bad business because intestines have no teeth. Chewing every mouthful twenty times good for digestion.

  Also helps to pass the time.

  Chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed and surveyed the surfers. Was I imagining it or was one of them looking in my direction? Jake the Love-God? Sudden flash of silver light – small but intense – seemed to leap from his direction and break over my head. Not mini-bolt of lightning but blink of his silvery eyes.

  Was it just sunlight glinting on water? Surely not possible to see colour of his eyes, even if they are abnormally bright? He is some distance away (12 yards? Half a mile?). Narrowed eyes in attempt to see better (strange thing – why would you make eyes smaller when trying to see more?). Next thing, the surfer waved.

  Must be Jake!

  I – slightly self-consciously – waved back. Very faintly, heard call from him. ‘Hi, Loh-lah!’ Words floated on sea air, carried to me by many, many molecules of salt.

  Called back, ‘Hi, Jake.’ But voice sounded thin and weak. Knew, for sure, salt molecules had not helped out, only person who heard me was me. Feel foolish.

  Whenever bumped into Jake in Knockavoy, he gave me sexy smiles and long, meaningful eye-locks, then lounged away without issuing concrete invitation.

  ‘’E fancies you,’ Cecile says, whenever we meet, which is most days.

  ‘So you keep saying,’ I reply. ‘But he does nothing about it.’

  ‘’E is not used to making the running,’ Cecile said. ‘The girls always do it for ’im.’

  ‘This girl doesn’t,’ I said, as if I was full of self-esteem, dignity, self-worth. Not the case. Truth of matter, Jake and his Love-God antics were mild diversion, but too destroyed by Paddy.

  Wind quite blustery. Lifted a Crunchy Nut Cornflake from bowl and bounced it across fields to sea. Neck cold. Went inside to find scarf or something. Pink feather boa thrown on couch. That would do. Or would it…? Suddenly noticed was wearing pyjamas, wellingtons and pink feather boa. Danger of living alone. Must take care not to turn into eccentric. If sharp eye not kept on things, might end up asking Bridie to loan me her jockey jumper.

  12.03

  Did washing-up, bowl, cup, spoons. Daily routine. Wiped down sink, hung up tea towel and had tiny, tiny moment when wasn’t entirely sure what next move would be – mistake! It was enough for terror to barge in and squeeze me so tight I could hardly breathe. What the hell am I doing here?

  Could set clock by arrival of terror. Every single day, as soon as hung up tea towel, got the twitch. Wanted to ring Nkechi, Bridie, anyone, and beg, ‘Please can I come back to Dublin? Can I come home yet?’

  Had stopped actually making the calls because was pointless. No one would let me return to Dublin. But oh my job, my job, my lovely job…

  Because have no husband, no children, no family, no great talent – e.g. ability to carve carrots into flower shapes, foxgloves, rhododendrons – without my job I am nothing.

  Couldn’t stop thinking of Nkechi plotting and planning to steal business from under my nose, but then remembered appalling shambles had made of it last time had tried to work and acknowledged probably just as well was in Knockavoy. Self could destroy business faster than Nkechi.

  Didn’t help that phone rang constantly. ‘Nkechi doing fabulous job!’ ‘Nkechi fabulized me for Chicken Pox Gala!’ ‘Thanks to Nkechi I dazzled them all at the Dysentry benefit!’ Message: Nkechi is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. You are worthless, worthless, worthless.

  Bridie takes different view. ‘They are being nice –’

  ‘Nice? Those women don’t know how to be nice.’

  ‘– and Nkechi is keeping your business up and running while you’re away.’

  ‘They’ll all want to be her clients when she sets up on her own.’

  ‘They won’t. Law of averages, if nothing else.’

  Only comfort: Abibi not popular.

  12.46

  ‘Lola?’ Man’s voice calling from outside house. Surprising. ‘Lola?’

  Paddy coming to claim me! To tell me it had all been terrible mistake!

  Not. Of course not. But it just doesn’t go away. Even when not thinking specific thoughts, am operating in mesh of free-floating dread and only takes something very, very small – e.g. mention of Louise Kennedy in magazine – to trip off high-speed chain of painful thoughts. Like this:

  ‘Louise Kennedy’s latest collection…’ = Alicia Thornton wearing Louise Kennedy suit in photo in paper = newspaper crowing that she was woman who ‘won Quicksilver’s heart’ = Paddy is getting married to other woman = Excuse me? Paddy is getting married to other woman? = unbearable sorrow.

  All happens in less than second. Red-hot skewer of agony has pierced me before my brain has had time to figure out why. Every other cell in body in on the news; poor brain is last to know.

  Being without Paddy is defining fact of my life. Whenever had split up with other boyfriends had been sad, yes, not denying it. But always had hope that a future still awaited me. But I’d met Paddy, I’d met my Real One. He’d been and gone and my future was empty.

  12.47

  Opened door. Heavy-set man. Out on road, DHL van parked.

  Heavy-set man said, ‘Lola Daly?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Parcel for you. Sign here.’

  Wondered what it was. Who was sending me stuff?

  Under ‘Contents’ it said ‘Shoes.’ Now knew what it was.

  DHL man turned box upside down to read it. ‘Shoes, is it?’

  In Dublin would stare at him coldly for his nosiness. But in Knockavoy can do no such thing. Am obliged to lean shoulder against door-jamb in attitude indicating have all time in world for in-depth chinwag. ‘Yes, shoes.’

  ‘For a wedding, is it?’

  ‘… Er, no, not for a wedding.’ Shoes not even for me, as it happens, but cannot tell him that, no matter how talkative I’m obliged to be. Am bound by bonds of secrecy. Dilemma. Am pulled in two different directions, ruled by two masters.

  ‘Just felt like buying new shoes, was it?’

  ‘That’s it. Just… you know… felt like it.’

  ‘Down here on your holidays, is it?’

  ‘Er, no, longer.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘No… er… plans.’ Ashamed by my life. Couldn’t say, Am stuck here until my friends and colleagues decide I am sane enough to be allowed back to Dublin. ‘Just… ah… playing it by ear… you know?’

  ‘So I might see you again?’

  ‘You might.’

  ‘Niall,’ he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

  ‘Lola,’ I said.

  ‘Oh I know.’

  12.57

  Waited until he was well and truly gone, then opened box to check it was what thought it was. It was. Rang Noel from Dole.

  Said to him, ‘Your package has arrived.’

  ‘Finally? About time. Mint.’ (‘Mint’–word he favours, meaning ‘great’, ‘excellent’, etc.) ‘Will call this evening after work. When suits you?’

  Tricky. Evenings my busiest times. Had to sit on sea wall and exchange pleasantries with strangers about beauty of sunset. Had to have non-lumpy soup of day in the Oak. Had to watch soaps with Mrs Butterly. Had to have long, in-depth chat with Brandon and Kelly over DVD selection. Had to spend time in the Dungeon with Boss, Moss and the Master, listening to the Master recite unfeasibly long poems. Packed schedule.

  But today there was far bigger spanner in the works.

  ‘I’m sorry, Noel from Dole, I have friends coming for the weekend.’

  Startled-sounding pause. Then he said, ‘Oh fine! Be like that. From Dublin, I suppose, these friends of yours?’ Said sneerily, as if Dublin pretentious hellhole.

  Just minute… ‘You are the one who insisted on absolute secrecy,’ I said. ‘Don’t mind if you come to collect parcel while others are here.’

  Noel quite tricky character, prone to volatile outbursts, but my welfare payme
nts had been expedited with unprecedented speed – without me having to produce powdered unicorn horn or brass rubbing of Holy Grail. Most irregular. Still expecting to receive terrifying letter saying it was all a mistake and had to pay back every penny, plus interest.

  Under circumstances, probably better not to rub Noel up wrong way.

  After surly silence he said, ‘Is okay, will wait. But you are not to tell your Dublin friends about me.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Was lie. Was going tell them, but – obviously – swear them to secrecy.

  ‘How about Monday?’ Noel asked.

  Monday long way away. Might have been pronounced fully restored to mental health and on way back to Dublin. But not very likely.

  ‘Monday fine. Come after work.’

  13.06

  Late. Hurried to town. Like it mattered. Conducted business briskly – buying food, wine and much, much chocolate for arrival of Bridie, Treese and Jem – then hurried home again. Changed back into pyjamas, wellingtons and feather boa. Pulled couch round to back of house and spent afternoon lying on it, reading Margery Allingham thriller.

  Funny thing. If people were asked to describe perfect life, they might describe mine: living in beautiful, beautiful place – sea, nature, all that; not having get up crack of dawn, sleeping half the day, none of stresses of work, having time to watch DVDs on revenge, read damp thrillers and chew each mouthful of food twenty times. But cannot enjoy it. Anxious, antsy. Feel life passing me by. Feel everything have worked hard for slipping away.

  Ashamed of my ingratitude. Now have other unpleasant emotion to feel. Variety is nice, I suppose. Makes change from terror and heartbreak.

  Gave self pep talk (silent one, not yet at stage where talking out loud to self): One day life would be different and stressy and busy again and I would love to disappear to small beautiful place and do nothing. So really must try to enjoy my time here. This is not for ever!