This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  ‘… everything was always someone else’s fault…’

  ‘… one day I woke up and just couldn’t do it any more. I don’t know what was different about that day, maybe I’d just had enough of treating myself and everyone around me like shit…’

  ‘… I thought I was doing everything I could to stop drinking. But the truth was I tried everything to stay drinking. I loved it more than anyone or anything else and it was when I realized I actually couldn’t stop, that my power of choice had gone…’

  ‘Marnie, would you like to say something?’

  All right then, to be fair, Marnie had to admit that they always invited her to ‘share’, but she invariably shook her head and looked at the floor.

  But today she said, ‘Yes, actually, I would.’

  A frisson of anticipation moved through the room: they thought she was going to admit she was an alcoholic. ‘I’d just like to say that my husband left me and took my two little girls and won’t let me see them. He’s cancelled my cards and he’s selling my home.’

  When the meeting was over, the Jules woman appeared, her jaunty ponytail swinging.

  ‘Hey, Marnie, like to go for coffee?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she would!’ Grace shoved her towards Jules, like a pushy mother. ‘Off you go, I’ll come back for you in half an hour.’

  In the coffee shop across the road, Jules put a smoothie down in front of Marnie and said, ‘So how are you?’

  ‘Not so good. I miss my little girls.’ She poured out the story.

  ‘My partner left me too because of my drinking,’ Jules said. ‘Took the kids with him. Well, it was great really. I could drink as much as I liked without anyone on my case. I had such a great excuse. All that self-pity.’

  ‘… But it’s not self-pity, not in my case.’

  ‘No, I’m just saying it was in mine. Yes,’ Jules said thoughtfully, ‘I’d drink red wine and cry and phone them when I was drunk and tell them that I loved them and that it was their daddy’s fault that they weren’t with me. A bit like watching a weepy movie, I suppose, crying for all the wrong reasons, but I enjoyed myself. Terrible thing to do to kids, of course, but I couldn’t help myself.’

  Marnie listened in fascination: Jules had been far worse than her. At least she didn’t ring the girls and slander Nick. Well, not often.

  ‘If you were that bad, Jules, how did you stop drinking?’

  ‘By coming to the meetings.’

  ‘So how come they haven’t worked for me?’

  ‘Are you an alcoholic?’

  ‘… No, no, the opposite, if anything. I’m just very unhappy and alcohol helps me cope.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Jules said cheerfully. ‘Why would they work when you’re not an alcoholic?’

  ‘… But…’ Marnie furrowed her forehead. What had just happened there? Jules had foisted some sort of sneaky mindgame on her, yes? But she wasn’t able to twist her brain around it.

  ‘Sorry, gotta go,’ Jules said. ‘I’ve to pick up my kids. See you tomorrow?’

  ‘… Actually, no, Jules.’ Marnie had just made a decision. ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to stop coming to these meetings.’

  Grace would kick up a stink, but…

  ‘They’re not helping me,’ Marnie said wearily. ‘But why would they? Like you said, I’m not an alcoholic.’

  ‘Actually it was you who said it,’ Jules said.

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, I’m not coming to any more meetings. They’re just a waste of time.’

  Jules nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too,’ Marnie said politely, although she wouldn’t. Not that Jules wasn’t nice. ‘Before you go,’ Marnie said, ‘can I ask you something? Your kids? Who has custody? You or him?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this.’ Jules’s face burst into a grin. ‘My partner and I got back together. After I stopped drinking.’

  ‘No!’ Marnie put her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t want to hear your propaganda. Stop drinking and everything will be perfect!’

  But Jules just laughed.

  She found herself lying on the hall floor. The house felt cavernous and cold.

  A black shadow passed over her, like a bird of prey.

  What was that? A fast-moving cloud beyond the front door? A lorry trundling past?

  It felt like death.

  Lola

  Friday, 16 January 10.07

  Phone rang – Nkechi. Again! She’d gone to Nigeria for first two weeks of January (only genuinely quiet time of year for stylist) but since her return, was all go. Had me effing tormented, if you want the truth. She was in process of ‘hiving off’ her clients from mine. Hiving off?Where she learn that expression? Certainly not from me.

  As she had predicted correctly – what with her being fabulous and everything (not being sarcastic, or perhaps only mildly) – not every client wanted to be ‘hived off’ with her and Abibi, but preferred remain with me. Quite respectable list actually. Heart-warming. Nice to be thought well of.

  But Nkechi – going back on original promise – wouldn’t take some of ‘my’ ladies at their word. Some of mine, i.e. the biggest spenders, she wanted for her own. Kept ringing me. Horse-trading.

  I snapped phone open. ‘Nkechi?’ Tone of voice conveying, ‘What the eff is it this time?’

  ‘How about this?’ she says.

  I listened. What insulting, lopsided bargain she proposing?

  ‘Will give you Adele Hostas, Faye Marmion and Drusilla Gallop if can have Nixie Van Meer.’

  Bloody cheek! Adele Hostas wouldn’t spend Christmas, Faye Marmion pathologically impossible to please and Drusilla Gallop the worst kind of offender: wore the dresses but pretended she hadn’t, then tried to ‘return’ them, stinking of fags and Coco Chanel and with long-last foundation smeared around collar. Nixie, by contrast, was loaded, extravagant and pleasant.

  ‘Three clients,’ Nkechi urged. ‘For price of one. Deal or no deal?’

  ‘No deal,’ I said. ‘Nixie Van Meer not for sale.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Nkechi muttered darkly and hung up.

  Cripes. Put head in hands in attitude of weariness. Was fighting for livelihood here. So – question had been trying level best to duck and dodge – what was I still doing in Knockavoy?

  My time in exile was up, my sentence had been endured, I was free to go. Needed to go, if wanted to hold on to any clients. Had responsibilities to them – a society woman without a stylist is as much use as one-legged man at arse-kicking competition. My ladies had been more than patient during my autumn ‘sabbatical’ (or ‘breakdown’ if we are to speak freely) and if I didn’t appear in Dublin soon, they would think was never coming back and would make alternative arrangements.

  Nkechi, sensing my weakness, was circling like shark. Because, honest truth of matter, unwilling – yes, deeply unwilling – to leave Knockavoy.

  Institutionalized in culchie-land? No longer able to cut it in the big city? Not that Dublin exactly big city. Not talking Sao Paolo (20 million people) or Greater Moscow Area (15 million).

  10.19

  Phone rang again. Girded loins to withstand Nkechi’s pressure. However, not Nkechi but Bridie’s Auntie Bunny (did I mention that family specialize in peculiar names? Even Tom isn’t Uncle Tom’s real name. Real name Coriolanus and Tom only nickname. He insisted on ‘Tom’ because didn’t want people trying diminutives of Coriolanus and calling him ‘Anus.’ True story) saying she wanted to stay in Uncle Tom’s cabin for Easter week. ‘Getting my spoke in early,’ she said. ‘The place gets booked up so fast!’

  ‘Yes, of course, haha. Popular spot, yes, despite no telly.’

  Hung up. Swallowed hard. Tremendous shock. Really quite cataclysmic shock. Ears tingling from it.

  Writing on the wall. Universe entirely unequivocal. Had to return to Dublin.

  Of course had known couldn’t stay here for ever. Of course had known that soon would be spring and Bridie�
�s extended family’s thoughts would turn to minibreaks, fresh air, ozone. Of course knew was lucky to have stayed so long without interruption. Was not stupid, merely gifted at self-delusion. Over the months had elected to indulge in some light denial. If I pretended would never have to leave, then would never have to leave.

  But denial a faithless, flimsy friend and no protection against the truth when it decides to come after you.

  Okay, shameful admission. Here we go. Had been toying with embryonic notion of remaining in Knockavoy. Yes! Surprising, I admit. Had entertained fantasy of somehow managing to retain nicest and/or most profitable (overlap very rare) Dublin clients, commuting to take care of their needs, while building up client base down here. Details not fully fleshed out in head but knew it would be hard work. Would involve lots of driving, lots of sweet-talking clients nervy as racehorses who usually insisted on round-the-clock hand-holding, and would never make as much money as if Dublin-based – but worth it if happy, no?

  But universe having none of it. Universe was ousting me from lovely little house and ordering me, with long, bony, grim-reaper-style finger, back to big city.

  Was plunged into wretched despair, almost as bad as desperation had experienced during cheerless Christmas dinner with Dad and Uncle Francis.

  Had come to Knockavoy to escape shambles of life, to hide out until restored to mental health, but unexpectedly had become happy here. Only saw it now that it was nearing end. Effing typical, of course.

  11.22

  Wandered into kitchen, stood at window, gazed out at Considine’s house and wondered if Chloe would come to trannie night tonight.

  She hadn’t come last week, our first Friday back after the Christmas break. No invitation had been extended to watch Law and Order. In fact, hadn’t seen her since Thelma and Louise night.

  Exceedingly worried, if truth be known, that my impromptu kiss may have caused trouble for Considine and Gillian and fatally wounded my friendship with Chloe.

  Was not first time had kissed a woman – Paddy had seen to that – but was first time had done so without big hairy man watching and masturbating.

  Chloe exceptional kisser. Slow and sweet and sexy. Kissing with whole mouth, not just doing hard, tongue-darty sword-play that many people think is good kissing.

  Had felt quite swoony in my head and knees were going weak – then Chloe went rigid as plank and wrenched away from me. Outrageous reality of situation was like bucket of ice cubes tipped over head. ‘I forgot…’ I stuttered. ‘Gillian.’

  Poor little Ferret-Face. Thinking her boyfriend was having innocent night out dressing up in ladies’ clothing and instead was in sexy clinch with me.

  ‘Chloe, sorry, I’m sorry–’

  ‘No, Lola! My fault too –’

  ‘Just got carried away, adrenaline of the escape, will never happen again –’

  ‘Yes, me too, adrenaline!’

  We got back into minivan and drove back to get girls in speed-limit-breaking silence.

  Early next morning, went to Birmingham for four days of wretchedness of quite spectacular proportions with Dad and Uncle Francis. I tell you, that pair, they could not enjoy themselves if you put gun to their head. Then on to Edinburgh, with Bridie, Barry and Treese, staying with one of Bridie’s many, many cousins, for several days of drunken debauchery, singing ‘The Flower of Scotland’ and doing strange stuff with lumps of coal. (Although – believe I may have mentioned in passing – am not a coal person, this was not problematic.)

  Without doubt, had developed schoolgirl crush on Chloe, all the more silly because Chloe not a real woman. But worst aspect of whole business was Gillian. I was deeply ashamed. Karmic no-go area, putting moves on ‘attached’ individual. Nice and all as kiss had been, wished desperately had never done it.

  Tried to confide in Bridie and Treese in distressed attempt to untangle snarled-up feelings, but got no sympathy.

  ‘Your life like soap opera!’ Bridie declared, then proceeded to tell all her cousins. Cousins told all their friends and no one stopped telling until whole of Edinburgh Greater Metropolitan Area knew. Kept stumbling across conversations about myself: ‘… So then she gets a ride off this surf boy and apparently you’d want to see him, he’s fucking GORGEOUS, and MAD about her, even though he’s far better-looking than her. And is she glad? NO! Instead she gets this thing for her next-door neighbour, a transvestite. Yes, that’s right, Uncle Tom’s next-door neighbour! The trannie has a long-term girlfriend. But this is best bit – Lola doesn’t fancy the trannie when he’s in man-clothes, only when he’s in ladies’ clothes! Yes, I know! And she’s not even a lezzer!’

  When man in tartan tam-o’-shanter engaged me in chat at a piss-up and told me about ‘Bridie’s loony friend’, the story had mutated so that Jake was now round-the-world yachtsman and Rossa Considine was transsexual who had lopped off his doohickey in bid to woo me.

  ‘Happy now?’ I asked Bridie.

  ‘… Ah sorry, Lola, it was just too good a story…’

  Back in Knockavoy on 4 January, all anxious and longing for it to be Friday so could gauge how things were with Chloe.

  But Friday came and Chloe didn’t. Natasha appeared, and Blanche, then Sue and Dolores. But no Chloe.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know we had started back,’ Natasha said, brow furrowed unbecomingly. ‘Maybe she thinks next week is first week back.’

  As if trannie nights were like evening classes.

  ‘Maybe.’ Felt sick.

  Of course she hadn’t come! Chloe’s loyalty was to Gillian.

  But was hungry to promise Chloe that Thelma and Louise kiss would never happen again, that it was one-off reaction to unusual, highly fraught situation. Had to take bull by horns (rural phrase which now understand – bulls terrifying), but could not summon required nerve to propel self across the grass to Considine’s front door and request audience.

  Too scared – yes – that he would tell me baldly to fuck off and that would be end of that.

  Hoped that could just leave it to fate, that might bump into him over weekend. Kept nervy eye out but no sign. Short relief from hideous anxiety when jumpy thoughts alighted on notion that he might be away on minibreak, down some foreign pothole. But early Monday morning, was woken by him slamming front door. Hopped out of bed and spied on him striding to eco-car, leaving for work as normal. He didn’t look up and then knew for sure something was awry. Hated self. In despair.

  Spied on him Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and today and he never once looked up. Obvious was blanking me. But I still hoped that Chloe would show up tonight, as usual.

  16.01

  Popped over to graveyard before it got dark.

  ‘Mum, I don’t want to go back to Dublin.’

  ‘All have to do things we don’t want. You think I wanted to die and leave you?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Only ever intended to be temporary thing, you living in Knockavoy.’

  ‘… Okay.’ After all, was probably not really in communication with Mum. Was just listening to voice in my own head, and in fact could do exactly what wanted to…

  ‘Why you ask my opinion, if you just going to disregard it?’ Mum’s voice exclaimed.

  … Although, of course, might be wrong on that score.

  ‘Am sorry. While am here, what will happen with Chloe? Will she come tonight?’

  No answer.

  ‘Mum? Mum?’

  ‘You will have to wait and see.’

  18.29

  Phone rang. Bridie.

  ‘Come in, Lola Daly, your time is up! Believe you’re being turfed out of house.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So question is, are you well enough to come home or are you still nuts? Ask me, I think you’re worse. You went down to Knockavoy nice heterosexual girl, now you coming back part-lezzer.’

  ‘Is there purpose to this phone call, Bridie?’ Attitude of coldness. ‘Or are you doing it simply to taunt me?’

  ‘Only joking. You
seemed sane enough in Edinburgh. So how you feel about de Courcy?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You wish him well? You feel you could throw confetti at his wedding? Only truly over a man when you can throw confetti at his wedding.’

  ‘Certainly don’t feel like that.’

  But no longer thought about Paddy every waking second and no longer dreamt about him every night. The days were gone when was hair-rendingly crazy because couldn’t be with him. In fact – narrowing feelings down here – didn’t want to see him. Actually didn’t want to. Ever again. Now that was new.

  Also something else new, but couldn’t identify it. Sadness? No. Longing? No. Grief? No. Anger? Getting warmer. Hate?… Mmm, maybe, but not quite… not exactly… something… what was it? Fear? Could it be fear? Yes, might be fear.

  19.01

  Natasha and Blanche arrived.

  19.15

  Dolores arrived.

  19.27

  Sue arrived.

  As I granted her admission, was frantic with anxiety.

  ‘Where’s Chloe?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Not coming tonight,’ Natasha said. ‘Yes, Lola, sorry, forgot to tell you. Chloe texted me. Can’t make it tonight.’

  ‘Why not?’ My voice shrill. And why she not text me? She had my number.

  ‘Didn’t say why. Now, does my penis look big in this?’

  19.56

  Sat girls down and broke news that current arrangement was nearing an end.

  ‘Tom Twoomey’s family want the house for minibreaks. And time I went back to Dublin for work.’

  ‘Oh,’ Natasha said. ‘When you going?’

  When indeed? ‘Sometime in next two weeks.’

  Nothing to stop me from going right now – wouldn’t take ten minutes to fling clothes back into suitcases – but needed time to come to terms with departure.