Sushi for Beginners

by Marian Keyes

  ‘No, I’m not staying. I’m knackered.’

  Indecision zigzagged across Ted’s thin face before he surprised everyone by saying, ‘Hold on, I’ll come with you.’

  Outside, in the cool night air, Ashling exclaimed, ‘What are you at? She was into you.’

  ‘No point being too eager.’

  Ashling felt a pang. She and Ted used to take it in turns to be the walking wounded. His new-found confidence had altered things between them.

  ‘Anyway, she’s a comedy groupie,’ he said. ‘I’ll see her again.’

  You couldn’t get a taxi in Dublin for love nor money on a Saturday night. Those who lived in distant suburbs tried to beat the four-hour queues by walking out of town in the hope of flagging a taxi on its way back in. Which meant that on Ted and Ashling’s walk home into town, there was a constant stream of Night-of-the-Living-Dead-style drunken zombies lurching in their dozens towards them.

  ‘So how’s the job going?’ Ted asked, side-stepping another zigzagging reveller.

  Ashling hesitated. ‘Great in lots of ways. It’s glamorous. Sometimes. When I’m not cross-eyed from photocopying press releases, that is.’

  ‘Have you found out why the Mercedes girlie is called after a car?’

  ‘Her mother is Spanish. Actually, she’s very nice, once you talk to her,’ Ashling elaborated. ‘She’s just quiet and extremely posh. Married to a rich fella, hangs around with a horsey crowd and I get the impression her job is only a hobby. But she’s nice.’

  ‘And how are you getting on with the boss-man who doesn’t like you?’

  Ashling’s stomach tightened. ‘He still doesn’t like me. Yesterday he called me Little Miss Fix-it just because I offered him two Anadins for his headache.’

  ‘The bollocks. Maybe you were enemies in a former life and that’s why you don’t get on in this one.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Ashling exclaimed. Then took one look at Ted’s grinning face. ‘Oh, you don’t, I see. Oh, ye of little faith. The next time you want your future foretold, don’t come to me.’

  ‘Sorry, Ashling.’ He flung his arm confidently around her neck. ‘Well, this will cheer you up – I’m doing a gig at the River Club next Saturday night. Will you come?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say that I’m not foretelling your future? You’ll have to wait and see.’

  13

  On Monday morning Craig followed his mother around the room, whining, ‘Why are you tidying?’ Clodagh snatched up a snarl of tights and flung them in the linen basket, then launched herself on the mountain of clothes on the bedroom chair, her arms a blur as she tossed jumpers into drawers, dressing gowns on to pegs and – after a short hesitation where everything became just too much – everything else under the bed.

  ‘Is Grandma Kelly coming?’ Craig pestered.

  He fully expected the answer to be in the affirmative – this sort of frenzy was usually followed a short time afterwards by a visit from Dylan’s mother.

  ‘Nope.’

  Craig ran behind Clodagh, as she Tasmanian-devilled into the en suite bathroom, and noisily jostled a toilet-brush around the bowl.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because,’ she hissed, irritated at the stupidity of the question, ‘because the cleaning lady is coming.

  ‘Molly, hurry,’ Clodagh roared in the direction of Molly’s elephant-friezed room. ‘Flor will be here any minute.’

  The thought of staying in the house while Flor did her stuff was beyond the pale. Not just because all Flor wanted to talk about was her womb, but because Flor’s very presence made Clodagh feel horribly middle-class and exploitative. She was young and able-bodied – having her house cleaned by a fifty-eight-year-old woman with problems up the frock was indefensible.

  She’d tried staying in for a couple of Flor’s visits, but ended up feeling like an outlaw in her own home. It seemed that every room she went into, Flor arrived seconds later, girt about with vacuum cleaners and varicose veins, and Clodagh never quite knew what to say.

  ‘Ah…’ followed by an uneasy smile. ‘I’ll just, er, move, ah, out of your way.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Flor would insist. ‘Stay right where you are.’

  Only once had Clodagh taken Flor at her word, and sat flicking through an interiors magazine, pulsing with shame, while Flor huffed and puffed with the Hoover around her feet.

  Flor charged five pounds an hour. Guilt compelled Clodagh to pay her six. So uncomfortable did she feel that Clodagh couldn’t bear to even see Flor, always making it her business to be well gone before she arrived.

  ‘Molly,’ she bellowed, thundering down the stairs. ‘Hurry!’

  In the kitchen, one eye on the clock, she grabbed her pile of wallpaper samples and scribbled a note to Flor on the back of one. In a couple of strokes she drew a Hoover – an upstanding rectangle with a twirly lead snaking from it. Then she sketched a few squares and drew rainfall coming down on top of them. Next she drew two arrows – one pointing to the pile of shirts on the table, the other pointing to the duster and Mr Sheen next to them.

  Now Flor would know that Clodagh wanted her to hoover, to wash the kitchen floor, to iron clothes and to dust and polish.

  Anything else? Clodagh did a quick zoom around her head. Next door’s cat, that’s what. She didn’t want Flor letting him in like she did last week. Tiddles Brady had made himself so comfortable he was practically watching telly with the remote control in his paw when she’d got home. And the minute Molly and Craig saw him they fell in love and roared crying when the cat was promptly escorted off the premises. So, speedily drawing a circle for his face, on top of a bigger circle for his body, Clodagh finished the quick portrait of Tiddles by doing his ears and whiskers.

  ‘Get me a red crayon,’ she ordered Molly.

  Molly duly returned, offering a blunt, yellow pencil and a Banana-in-pyjamas.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get it. If you want anything done properly, you have to do it yourself.’

  Talking angrily to the air, Clodagh rummaged madly through the painting box and found the crayon, then – with no little satisfaction – gouged a big, red X through the cat. Surely Flor would understand that?

  Her last drawing done, Clodagh sighed heavily. She’d love a cleaning woman who could read. It had taken her weeks to find out that Flor was illiterate. In the beginning, she used to leave her all kinds of complicated notes, requesting Flor to do specific things like take the washing out of the washing machine when it finished its cycle, or defrost the freezer.

  Flor never complied and although Clodagh used to lie awake at night fuming, she was too mortified to take her to task. Despite the problems, she didn’t want to lose her. Cleaning women were like gold-dust. Even the crap ones.

  Not to mention that Clodagh had no faith in her own ability to command respect in this situation. She had visions of herself trying to berate Flor in a voice that quavered with lack of conviction, ‘Now look here, my good woman, this simply won’t do.’

  In the end she forced Dylan to be late for work one morning so he could have it out with Flor. And, of course, she ‘fessed up to Dylan, who was sympathy itself. Dylan had what they called Good People Skills. And, on Dylan’s suggestion, they came to their current arrangement where Clodagh drew her instructions to Flor.

  Between the guilt and the drawings, it almost seemed easier to do the housework herself. Almost, but not quite. Despite everything, Clodagh savoured the one morning a week when the pressure was off her. Taking care of the house was like painting the Forth Bridge, only worse. She was never on top of things, and the minute something was done it needed to be done again. No sooner was the kitchen floor mopped – no, wait! Even while she was mopping it – they were skidding across it in their shoes, etching stripes of mud through her good work. And her linen basket seemed to be like the refillable pint of mythology. Even after she’d done three loads of washing and to her knowledge laundered every item of clothing in the house, her warm glow of achievement disappea
red the instant she went into her bedroom – for the linen basket which had been empty mere minutes previously would be mysteriously once more full to overflowing.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about the garden. Not because it was nice. On the contrary, it was a muddy shambles, the grass flattened and sparse due to being overrun by children, and there was a great bald patch beneath the swing. But she was absolved from having to do anything about it until Molly and Craig were grown up. Just as well. She’d heard terrible horror stories about gardeners from hell.

  After several false starts – Molly wanted to wear her hat, Craig had to go back in and get his Buzz Lightyear – Clodagh hurriedly piled them both into the Nissan Micra. As soon as she put the key in the ignition, Molly screeched, ‘I have to go wee-wee.’

  ‘But you’ve just gone.’ Clodagh’s exasperation was heightened by the fear of running into Flor.

  ‘But I have to go again.’

  Molly was only recently toilet-trained, and the novelty of her new-found skill hadn’t worn off yet.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Roughly, Clodagh bundled Molly from her car-seat and hustled her back into the house, turning off the alarm she’d only just set. As predicted, despite much contorting of her face and promises that ‘It’s coming,’ Molly couldn’t summon any wee-wee. Back to the car again and away they went.

  After she’d dropped Craig at school, Clodagh wasn’t sure where to go. Usually on Mondays, she dumped Molly in playgroup and took herself off to the gym for a couple of hours. But not today. Molly had been suspended for a week from playgroup for biting another child, and the gym had no crèche. Clodagh decided to go into town and go around the shops until it was safe to go home. The day was sunny and mother and daughter traipsed slowly up Grafton Street, stopping – at Molly’s urging – to stroke a homeless boy’s dog, admire a flower stall and dance to a fiddle player. Passers-by smiled indulgently at the beautiful Molly, cute and ludicrous in her pink, furry, deerstalker hat, attempting to do Riverdance.

  As they made their way up the street Clodagh was in a pocket of besottedness, her heart swollen and sore with love. Molly was so funny, with her little sergeant major’s strut, marching along with her chest puffed out, wanting to befriend every child she encountered. It wasn’t always easy being a mother, Clodagh admitted dreamily. But at times like this she wouldn’t change her life for anything.

  The paper seller openly admired the short, shapely woman trailing a small girl in her wake.

  ‘Herald?’ he offered hopefully.

  Clodagh looked at it with regret. ‘But what would be the point?’ She elaborated. ‘I haven’t had time to read a paper since 1996.’

  ‘Not much profit in buying one so,’ the paperman agreed, appreciating the back view of Clodagh as she walked away from him.

  She knew he was watching her and it felt surprisingly good. His bold, roguish stare stirred memories of when men used to look at her like that all the time. It felt like a very long time ago, almost as if it had happened to someone else.

  But what was she doing? Getting excited because a newspaper seller had given her the glad eye?

  You’re married, she scolded herself.

  Yeah, she answered wryly, married alive.

  It took a contented hour and a half to reach the Stephen’s Green Centre and by then, according to the law of averages, Molly and Clodagh were due a bust-up. Sure enough, when Clodagh wouldn’t buy Molly a second ice-cream, Molly promptly threw the mother of all tantrums. She behaved as though she was having an epileptic fit, thrashing about on the floor, banging her head on the tiles, screeching abuse. Clodagh tried to pull her up but Molly wriggled like an octopus. ‘I hate you!’ she screamed and though Clodagh was ashrivel with embarrassment, she forced herself to speak in a steady voice, assuring Molly that a second ice-cream would give her a stomach-ache and promising that if she didn’t get up and behave herself immediately, she’d be going to bed early every night for the next week.

  Scores of hard-faced mothers passed, laden with children, whom they cuffed and hit on an automatic rota. ‘Hey, Jason,’ Ddush! ‘leave Tamara alone.’ Smackkk! ‘Zoe,’ Thump! ‘if I catch you at Brooklyn again I’ll fucking kill you.’ Clouttt! With their scornful looks, the women derided Clodagh’s liberal principles. Give that brat a good belt, their school-of-hard-knocks’ faces sneered. Going to bed early, my foot. Bate a bit of sense into her, it’s the only language they understand.

  Clodagh and Dylan had made a decision never to hit their children. But when Molly started kicking her, while continuing to screech, Clodagh found herself yanking the child off the floor and administering a smart smack to her bare leg. It seemed as if the whole of Dublin gasped. Suddenly all the slab-faced child beaters had melted away, and instead Clodagh was assailed by pair after pair of accusing eyes. Everyone around her looked like they worked for ChildLine.

  A wave of crimson shame slapped her in the face. What was she doing, assaulting a defenceless little girl? What was wrong with her?

  ‘Come on.’ Hastily she tugged the roaring Molly away, appalled by the mark of her hand on Molly’s tender leg. To atone for her guilt, Clodagh immediately bought Molly the ice-cream that had prompted the ructions in the first place, and expected peace for precisely the length of time it took Molly to eat it.

  Except the ice-cream started to melt and Clodagh was asked to leave a fabric shop after Molly rubbed her cone carefully along a bolt of curtain muslin, patterning it with a thick white trail. The morning had soured and, wiping a Father Christmas beard of ice-cream from Molly’s chin, Clodagh couldn’t help feeling that life seemed to have had more of a sparkle to it once, a kind of yellow glow. She’d always rushed forward to greet her future, blithely confident that what it delivered would be good. And it hadn’t ever let her down.

  Her requests of life had never been overly ambitious and she’d always got what she wanted. On paper everything was perfect – she had two healthy children, a good husband, no money worries. But lately everything felt like unrelenting drudgery. Had done for quite a while, actually. She tried to remember when it had started, and when she couldn’t, fear squeezed perspiration through her pores. The thought of this mind-set crystallizing into anything like permanence was terrifying. By nature she was a happy, uncomplicated person – this she could see by comparing herself with poor Ashling who tied herself in knots about almost everything.

  But something had changed. Not so long ago she was fuelled by anticipation and optimism. What was different, what had gone wrong?

  14

  ‘Diet Lilt or Purdeys?’ Ashling mused. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, make your mind up,’ Trix urged, her pen poised over her spiral-bound notebook. ‘The shop’ll be closed if you don’t hurry.’

  Though the Colleen team had been working together less than two weeks, already they had a routine. A shop run was done twice a day, morning and afternoon. This was separate from the lunch run and the hangover-cure run.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Trix observed. ‘Here’s Heathcliff.’

  Jack Devine strode into the office, all tumbled hair and troubled face.

  ‘I just can’t make my mind up,’ Ashling lamented, agonizing between drinks.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ Jack said nastily, without breaking stride. ‘After all, you’re a woman?’

  His office door slammed behind him and heads were shaken in sympathy.

  ‘The reunion lunch with Mai obviously wasn’t,’ Kelvin observed, wagging a beringed finger.

  ‘What a tormented man.’ Shauna Griffin looked up from proof-reading this Summer’s Gaelic Knitting, her voice trembling. ‘So handsome, yet so unreachable, so unhappy.’

  Shauna Griffin was a large, fair woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Honey Monster. She regularly exceeded the recommended dosage of Mills & Boons.

  ‘Unhappy?’ Ashling asked scornfully. ‘JD? He’s just bad-tempered.’

  ‘That’s the first bitchy thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyo
ne,’ Trix exclaimed hoarsely. ‘Congratulations. I knew you had it in you! You see what you can achieve when you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Diet Lilt,’ Ashling replied drolly. ‘And a bag of buttons.’

  ‘White or brown?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Money.’

  Ashling handed over a pound, Trix wrote it all down on her list and moved on to the next person.

  ‘Lisa?’ Trix asked, adoringly. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Lisa jumped. She’d been far away. Jack had discovered that she hadn’t found anywhere to live yet, so after work he was taking her to see a house that a friend of his wanted to let. She’d been worried that he would get back with Mai over their lunch, but it looked as if her path was clear…

  ‘Cigs?’ Trix urged. ‘Sugar-free gum?’

  ‘Yeah. Cigs.’

  The door opened again and Jack emerged, looking faintly distraught. Trix hopped nimbly back to her desk, and with a practised flick of the wrist opened her drawer, threw her cigarettes in and slammed it shut. Jack roamed amongst the desks and no one would meet his look. Those that could inched and hid their cigarettes behind something. Lisa had a box of Silk Cut open beside her mouse-pad, but though Jack wavered and seemed like he might stop, he sped up again and passed by. Everyone flinched. Then he got to Ashling and halted and the office exhaled silently. Safe, for a while.

  Against her will, Ashling’s face was pulled up to look at him. Silently he tilted his head at her box of Marlboro. She nodded warily, hating her compliance. He was so unpleasant to her, but she seemed to be the only one he cadged cigarettes from. She obviously had Gobshite stamped on her forehead.

  His eyes coolly watching her, he fastened his lips around the filter and, as usual, slowly, smoothly slid the cigarette from its box. Jerkily, she passed him her box of matches, taking care not to touch him. Without moving his eyes from hers, he struck a match, held the flame against the tip, then shook it out. Inclining the cigarette upwards, he pulled deep. ‘Thanks,’ he murmured.