by Marian Keyes
22.56
No word from Jake.
Saturday, 8 November 12.30
The Oak
‘Ibrahim, we need to have private chat.’
He looked nervous. ‘Never said you were racist, Lola.’
‘Never thought you did. As you probably know, from Brandon, I hold… club… on Friday nights in my house.’
‘The revenge film club!’
‘Er, yes.’ In a way. ‘You are welcome to join us. Only condition of membership – and you must tell NO ONE, not now, not ever – is that you have to dress up like a lady.’
Long pause. Eventually Ibrahim spoke. ‘In order to join your film club, I would have to dress up in women’s clothing?’
‘And keep it secret.’
He thought about it. ‘Very well.’
‘Very well?’
‘Very well.’
Very well…
0.6
No word from Jake.
Sunday, 9 November All day
No word from Jake.
Monday, 10 November 11.17
Arrival of SarahJane’s resort-wear. Swimsuits, beach-wraps, filmy kaftans, palazzo pants, towering wedges, whimsical sunhats, massive sunglasses and many, many DVFs. (Diane Von Furstenberg wrap-dresses. Can’t go wrong.)
So many adorable pieces. Prada beach bag, adorned with seahorses. Best bit – matching seahorse-encrusted sandals! Turquoise Lisa Bruce swimsuit with coordinating wrap-around. Raspberry-coloured Gucci sunglasses and vertiginous wooden-soled mules in same colour. Blindingly bright hues, wonderful antidote to dismal grey grip of winter.
Niall from DHL officially hates me. Says he is doing Ennistymon to Knockavoy drive so often, he is actually dreaming about it. After I signed for parcels he stared out at waves and said, ‘If never see that fecking view again, it’ll be too soon.’
Still no word from Jake.
Tuesday, 11 November 19.07
Frenzied knocking on front door. Jake!
No. Considine.
‘Quick, quick!’ He was frantic. ‘Turn on your telly!’
‘No telly.’
He pointed at telly behind me. ‘That looks like telly.’
‘No, is microwave.’ Too complicated to explain true situation.
‘Come to my house, so. Quick. Put on shoes!’
‘Why?’
‘Colin Farrell on telly. Footage of him doing travelling line-dancing.’
Magic words, ‘travelling line-dancing.’
Shoved feet into Chinese satin slippers. Unsuitable for rough terrain, but didn’t care. Ran across field, ducked under wire fence, ran across other field and into Rossa Considine’s house. Sat on edge of couch glued to Colin Farrell programme but there was nothing about him doing line-dancing. Just lots and lots about all the girls he slept with. Went on fearsomely long time.
When show ended, Rossa Considine defensive. ‘There was stuff about line-dancing.’
‘Oh sure.’ Jocular. ‘You just wanted to lure me over here.’ Then remembered girl in wedding dress who was perhaps kept prisoner in bedroom. Brief but genuine moment of fear. Jocular no more. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘How you manage without telly?’ he asked.
‘Oh reading, other things. Don’t miss it at all.’ Airy. Smug. ‘If emergency, need to see documentary or something, can call upon friend.’
‘That’s right. Remember Mrs Butterly mentioning you watch soaps with her every evening.’
Wednesday, 12 November 9.45
SarahJane Hutchinson arrived.
Wonderful day. Uplifting being with magnificent clothing. Both of us in top form. Everything worked.
‘SarahJane, am feeling candy stripes, deckchairs, salty air, screech of seagulls…’
‘So am I, Lola, oh so am I!’
Wrote out detailed list of what SarahJane was to wear every day: for breakfast; at poolside; to dinner; for New Year’s Eve gala knees-up.
She tried to reject list. ‘On holiday. Relaxing. Surely can mix and match?’
‘No! Not! Please do not make that mistake! Remember, SarahJane, you may wear the Missoni swimsuit with the Missoni sarong, but NEVER with the Missoni sandals or sunhat.’
‘Why not?’ Quite mutinous.
‘Unwritten fashion rule. Cannot fully explain. All I know is you will be laughing stock if you do.’
This carried weight. SarahJane does not want to be laughing stock. Has had quite enough of that, what with husbands running off with Filipino houseboys, thank you very much.
Thursday, 13 November
No word from Jake. But forgot to notice.
Friday, 14 November 10.14
Into Ennistymon with Boss and Moss to sign on. Didn’t want to. Getting plenty of money ‘under the counter’ from Blanche and SarahJane, but Boss wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Is your right, Lola,’ he kept insisting. ‘Is your right.’
Mart Day. Place overrun with filthy lorries; mooing, slow-moving cattle doing poos in middle of street; farmers in antediluvian three-piece suits and pork-pie hats spitting on their hands and doing deals. Disgusting. Very swaggery farmer-type swaggered towards me in swaggery fashion. Our eyes met, normal eyes to swaggery eyes. Why would my eyes meet with swaggery eyes of swaggery farmer-type? Then knew! It was Blanche. Swaggery farmer was Blanche!
12.23
Boss and Moss dropped me home in filthy van.
‘You have company,’ Boss said.
Looked. Stunningly handsome man was sitting on my front step.
Jake.
Just when I had decided I no longer cared about him. Effing typical.
I emerged from van, which immediately screeched away, Moss and Boss yelping, ‘Yee-haw!’ like ribald country and western types.
Jake clambered to his feet. Asked, ‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘Oh… Can I talk to you out here?’
‘Make it quick. Is cold.’
‘Oh… Where’ve you been?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t call round, you didn’t ask Cecile about me…’
‘You wanted breathing space.’
‘Yes! But thought you would…’ Big, frustrated sigh.
Suddenly I understood. Jake was used to ‘breathing space’ women stalking him and lurking outside his house in floods of tears, the way I did to Paddy.
‘Have been waiting to hear from you,’ he said.
‘You could have got in touch with me.’
Extreme bad, burny feeling. Jake is spoilt brat, too sexy for his own good.
‘Let’s get back together,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Manifestly unsettled by my question. I experienced strong sense of satisfaction. ‘Because am crazy about you. Have had many girlfriends, but you are different.’
‘Am only different because I didn’t stalk you.’
‘No! Nothing like that. Is because you are sweet. Cute. You are like kitten. Little quirky kitten. Knew from first time I met you, you were different. Asked for breathing space because was afraid of feelings for you. Too strong, too quickly.’
Either he had read manual on winning women over or was sincere.
‘Please give me second chance,’ he asked.
‘No.’ But was weakening. Was flattering, him being so tortured.
‘Please.’
‘No.’
‘Could you even say you’ll think about it?’
Made him wait long time for answer. ‘Okay. Will think about it.’
19.01
Noel and Blanche arrive. Disappear into kitchen to change.
19.47
Knock on door.
‘Probably Osama,’ I say.
But wasn’t Osama. Was a woman, swaddled from head to toe in black cloth. Even her face wasn’t visible.
‘Hello,’ I said, thinking, What now? Hallowe’en was a couple of weeks ago!
‘Lola! Is me!’ woman said. ‘Ibrahim!’
‘Ibrahim! What you wearing? Oh! I get it, you are in burka!’
‘Is on
ly ladies’ clothing I have. Not exactly clothing but drop cloth left over from painting pub.’
‘Come in, come in.’
In he came, acres of black cloth flapping. He nodded at trannies in all their finery, refused Noel’s offer of ‘little drinky’, and eyed television, clearly keen for movie to start.
19.54
Noel tried to persuade Ibrahim to try a little black eyeliner. ‘Is kohl. Is Egyptian, part of your culture.’
Ibrahim eschewed it firmly.
I started film.
20.13
Knock on door.
We froze. Air electric with fear. If we were animals, our fur would have stood on end.
‘Upstairs, upstairs,’ I hissed at the three men. ‘Quietly.’
When they had vamoosed (that strange word again) I composed self. Cleared throat. Opened door. Beautiful woman standing there.
‘Is this party invite-only?’ she asked in sexy, husky voice. ‘Or can any girl join in?’
I was struck dumb. Like automaton, I opened door wide in invitation to join us. This creature was dazzling. Tall, elegant, glossy dark hair, black satin cocktail dress, elbow gloves, taffeta wrap and Swarovski-like choker.
Not exactly sure when I realized she was a man. Perhaps slight ungainliness in narrow, high heels gave game away. But that realization was simply subsumed in all the other dazzlement.
‘I’m Chloe,’ she said, smiling winning smile, navy-blue eyes sparkling. Her eyeliner perfect! Better than when I do own! She flicked quick glance at television. ‘I knew that wasn’t a microwave!’
Excuse me…?
‘I hope you don’t mind me arriving like this.’
‘No, no, more the merrier.’ Didn’t mean it. Noel had gone too far this time. ‘I’ll just get the others for you. Girls, you can come down now!’
Chloe put the others to shame. Beside her groomed beauty, they looked like brickies in lopsided wigs.
‘I’m Chloe.’ Chloe extended elegant arm.
‘Natasha,’ Noel grunted shyly.
‘Blanche.’ Poor Blanche couldn’t even make eye contact.
Osama pulled her burka tighter and hung back on fringes of little group.
‘Lola, a word.’ Noel grabbed my arm, moved me short distance and in small, angry voice said, without moving his jaw, ‘You didn’t say other lady would be joining us tonight.’
‘Wha –? What you mean? I didn’t invite her. You mean, you don’t know each other?’
Much shaking of heads. Sudden and extreme fear in me. How did this Chloe get here? Where did she come from? Is Uncle Tom’s cabin on trannie ley line? Will more and more trannies start making their way here every Friday night, impelled by forces greater than themselves? Where will they all fit?
‘Please! Let me explain,’ Chloe said.
‘Yes, would be obliged if you would!’
‘Saw the girls getting changed in the kitchen. Have seen it for past few weeks. Wanted to be sure before showing up.’
‘But how did you see?’ The kitchen is at back of the house. Chosen for its hiddenness.
‘From over there.’ She tipped elegant head towards Rossa Considine’s house.
‘You know Rossa Considine?’
Long pause.
‘Lola,’ said very, very gently, ‘I am Rossa Considine.’
20.27
Extreme shock. Had to repeat words to self a few times before I understood.
Peered at beautiful woman and once I knew what was looking for, could definitely see Rossa Considine under there somewhere.
‘Oh my God! You are girl in Vera Wang wedding dress!’
‘Only a copy, not actual Vera Wang, but yes! I thought you knew all along I was cross-dresser!’
‘Why? How would I know?’
‘Whenever meet you, you are sarcastic.’
Am I? No, am not. Am not sarcastic person at all. Except, actually, had to admit something about Rossa Considine did trigger sarcastic impulse…
‘And you caught me burning clothes.’
‘What was that all about?’ I asked.
‘The purge.’
Noel and Blanche nodded and repeated, ‘The purge.’ Rueful laughs.
‘What on earth is the purge?’ I asked.
‘When we decide we are giving up cross-dressing for good and burn all lady belongings.’
‘A regular thing?’
‘Oh yes!’ Laughter all round. ‘Always regret it!’ Further group laughter. ‘But can’t help it. Self-hate. Resolution to never lapse again. Always do.’
‘Then I saw the girls getting ready in the kitchen every Friday and was like all my dreams had come true.’ Sudden look of mortification crossed her face. ‘Apologies! Should have waited for official invitation before landing on top of you. Got carried away.’
‘But you have a girlfriend,’ I accused.
She smiled. ‘Yes, have a girlfriend.’
‘And you go potholing. Have seen you with ropes and stuff.’
‘Am a man.’ Another smile. ‘And sometimes I like to do manly things.’
‘Oooo-kaaaay.’ My mind being opened.
‘And sometimes I like to wear beautiful things.’
‘Give me example.’
‘You like Alexander McQueen?’
‘Yes!’
Fell into passionate chat. Discovered I had much, much in common with Chloe – admiration for Alexander McQueen, Thai food, Smythson’s passport covers, Nurofen Extra, sycamore trees, Law and Order –
‘– Law and Order! I LOVE Law and Order,’ I said. ‘Is best show on telly.’
‘Yes! “These are their stories” –’
‘Duh-duh!’ we both exclaimed. (Duh-duh is gavel noise at start of each episode. Very pleased that Chloe knew to say it. Not some dilettante Law and Order fan, but the real thing.)
‘Only a true believer would know that noise,’ I say.
‘That’s because I AM a true believer.’
‘Tell me what is happening in it,’ I beseeched. ‘Haven’t seen it since September.’
‘Why not? What is the true situation with your microwave-telly?’
‘Only plays DVDs.’
‘But you must come to me to watch Law and Order! Is not right that a true believer should miss a single episode. Thursday nights, ten p.m. It’s a date!’
‘To you, Chloe – or to you, Rossa Considine?’
Pause. ‘To me, Rossa Considine. Am not usually Chloe during the week. Too much work.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Problem?’
Might as well admit it. She had alluded to it earlier. ‘Perhaps. When you are Rossa, we…’ What were the right words? ‘We seem to rub each other up the wrong way.’
Chloe considered the matter. Didn’t deny it. Admired her honesty and maturity. ‘Let us consider it an experiment. If it doesn’t work, notice can be given on either side.’
‘Very well. Thursday ten p.m. it is.’
Other trannies were clamouring for a ‘go’ of Chloe, wanting to hear her stories so turned her loose onto them.
You know what? Had a fantastic night. Enthusiastic discussions of clothing. Only sad note: Osama didn’t seem to enjoy self. He tried hard to hear film – much shushing from him – over racket of the rest of us making whooping noises.
22.13
Musing on events
Trannies gone. Thinking about evening’s strange revelations, to wit: Rossa Considine a trannie. You would NEVER think it to look at him. When he’s a man, looks like he doesn’t even comb his hair.
22.23
Further musing on events
Jake. Could you credit it? Isn’t it always the way? The minute you decide you no longer care about a man, they show up, cap in hand. Decide to decide that I no longer care about Paddy, just as an experiment.
Imagined self at some time in the future, having conversation with invisible person. ‘Oh yes, madly in love with Jake. Yes, Love-God. Of course, will always think fondly of Paddy. But have to admit, could
never really love a man with hair that bouffy.’
Enjoyable. Uplifting.
Phone rang, jolting me from reverie.
I looked at it. Recognized number. Stared hard. Wondered if mind had finally cracked.
Through bloodless lips I answered, ‘Lola Daly.’
‘Lola? It’s Paddy.’
Roaring in ears. Hope. Never before felt hope in such quantities.
‘I…’ His voice choked. ‘… really miss you.’
‘You’re a stupid, useless bitch and this is your own fucking fault.’ He was panting from exertion as he stood over her, curled in a ball beneath him. ‘Say it. You’re a stupid, useless bitch and this is your own fucking fault.’
He was pulling his leg back for another kick. No. She didn’t think she could take another one and still live. The toe of his boot slammed her stomach against her spine. She retched, retched, retched, retched, nothing but bile left.
‘Say it!’
‘I’m a stupid, useless bitch,’ she whispered, tears streaming down her face. ‘And this is my own fault.’
‘Own fucking fault. Can’t you get anything right?’
Grace
‘Oh here’s Paddy,’ Dee Rossini said. ‘I need a couple of words with him. I told him we’d be having a quick drink in here.’
For a moment I thought she was having me on. With trepidation, I raised my eyes. Christ. There he was, filling the pub doorway, darkening the room.
Panic swelled. I had to get away, but I was trapped; there was only one doorway and he was in it. My head swivelled, as I sought an escape route. The Ladies – there might be a window I could climb out of. At the very least I could hide there until he was gone. ‘Dee, I’ll have to go now…’