by Marian Keyes
‘We usually watch a video on a Saturday night,’ her mother informed her.
From Here to Eternity – how appropriate, Ashling thought, as the evening stretched like chewing gum. Chilled by exclusion, she ached to be in Dublin, with her boyfriend. All the while Burt Lancaster romped with Deborah Kerr, Ashling was wondering how Marcus was getting on, and if Clodagh and Ted had gone to the gig. It shamed her that she hoped they hadn’t, that it would make her feel even more left out.
Her parents tried very, very hard. Producing a bag of pick’n’mix that had been bought specially for her, tentatively offering her a ‘drink’while they drank tea, and, when she went to bed at a shamefully early ten-twenty, her mother insisting on filling a hot-water bottle for her.
‘It’s July, I’ll roast!’
‘Ah, but the nights can be cold. And it’ll be August in two days’ time, officially Autumn.’
‘Oh no, nearly August already.’ Ashling squeezed her eyes shut in breath-shortening fear. Colleen was due to be launched on the last day of August and there was still a titanic quantity of work to be done – on the bloody launch party as well as the magazine. While it was still July, she’d been able to reassure herself that they had plenty of time. August felt way, way, way too close for comfort.
Grasping a dog-eared Agatha Christie from the shelf, she read for fifteen minutes, then switched off the peach-shaded lamp. She slept as well as could be expected beneath a peach duvet and in the morning the first thing she did was switch on her mobile, praying there would be a message from Marcus. There wasn’t – this was her darkest hour. Which wasn’t helped by the peach and white stripy wallpaper moving in on her. Reaching for her cigarettes, she upended a little bowl of pot-pourri. Peach flavoured, wouldn’t you know it.
She couldn’t ring him again. He’d think she was desperate. Of course, she was desperate, but she didn’t want him to think it. Instead she rang Clodagh, half-looking for information, but half-hoping that Clodagh wouldn’t be in the position to offer any.
‘Did you go to see Marcus?’ She clenched her spare fist and willed her to say no.
‘Yes – ’
‘You went with Ted?’
‘Sure did.’ This plunged Ashling further into dread. She didn’t really think there was any chance that Clodagh would touch Ted with a bargepole, it was just…
Clodagh chattered on. ‘We had a great time and Marcus was fantastic. He did this hilarious thing about women’s clothes. About the difference between a blouse, a top, a vest, a T-shir –’
‘He what?’ Never mind Ted and Clodagh! Ashling was suddenly concerned with herself.
‘He even knew what a shell-top was,’ Clodagh exclaimed.
‘I bet he did.’ Ashling knew she should be flattered, but instead she felt used. Marcus hadn’t even told her he was thinking of including their conversation in his act.
‘It beats me how he thinks of these things,’ Clodagh frothed.
That’s because he doesn’t.
‘And afterwards?’ Ashling asked jealously, not sure if she could take any more unwelcome news. ‘You went home?’
‘Not at all, we went backstage, met Eddie Izzard, got jarred. Fantastic!’
The farewell to her parents, draining at the best of times, was worse than usual.
‘Do you have a boyfriend at all?’ Mike asked jovially, unintentionally rubbing salt into Ashling’s very raw wound. ‘Bring him the next time too.’
Oh, dont’t.
Every carriage was jam-packed and she was weary and Sunday-evening depressed when, three hours later, the train pulled into Dublin. She pushed towards the taxi-rank, hoping the queues wouldn’t be too insane, when through the crowds milling about on the concourse she saw someone she knew…
‘Marcus! ‘ Her skin sparked with joy at the sight of him standing near the exit, wearing a sheepish smile. ‘What are you doing here?!’
‘Collecting my girlfriend. Often there’s a long queue for the taxis, I’m told.’
A delighted laugh bubbled from her. Suddenly she was wildly happy.
He took her bag in one hand and slung his other arm around her. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about…’
‘It’s OK! I’m sorry too.
Our first argument, she thought dreamily, as he steered her to his car. Our first proper row. Now we really are a couple.
47
The pile of discarded clothes on Clodagh’s bed grew higher. The tight black dress? Too sexy. The palazzo pants and tunic? Too glam. The see-through dress? Too see-through. What about the white pants? But he’d seen them already. The combats and trainers? No, she just felt silly in them. Of all the fashionable clothes she’d bought over the past two months, they’d been her biggest mistake so far.
For a moment the cloud of clothing anxiety cleared and she was inflicted with a sudden, unwelcome overview. What am I doing?
Nothing, she thought defensively. She was doing nothing. She was meeting someone for a cup of coffee. A friend. A friend who happened to be a man. What was the problem? This wasn’t some Muslim country where she’d be stoned for being seen in public with a man who wasn’t her husband or brother. Anyway, he wasn’t even her type. She was just having fun. Harmless fun.
But she shook back her swishy hair, feeling exhilarated, buzzy, tingly.
Black trousers and a tight candy-pink T-shirt were what she eventually decided on. She looked into the mirror and she saw herself through his eyes. His regard for her was endearingly obvious and she felt beautiful and powerful.
Coffee, she reminded herself firmly, as she swung out into the street. That’s all. Where’s the harm in that? And she pushed away the guilt and anticipation that swirled nauseously in her belly.
*
Ashling raced into the pub. She was late. Again.
‘Marcus,’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry. Bitch-face Lisa decided at the last minute to make me input my horse-riding feature. She wants to get a “feel” for the November issue.’ She rolled her eyes contemptuously and luckily Marcus joined in. So he couldn’t have been too pissed off at being left sitting in the Thomas Reid for nearly half an hour.
‘I’ll just have a quick quadruple vodka-and-tonic, then we’ll go for a bite, OK? Are you ready for another pint?’
Marcus got to his feet. ‘Sit down, the hardest-working woman in magazines, I’ll get the drinks. Do you really want a quadruple?’
Ashling slumped gratefully into a chair. ‘Thanks. A double will do.’
When Marcus returned with the drink, he swung back into his seat and said, ‘Listen, I just wanted to remind you that I’m going to Edinburgh on the sixteenth. For the Festival.’
‘Sixteenth of August?’ Ashling was horrified. She had some vague memory of him having mentioned it ages ago. ‘But that’s only two weeks away… Look,’ she was craven and frantic, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Marcus, but I’m not going to be able to go with you. Really, you wouldn’t believe what work is like. We’re flat out and there’s so much work to be done on the launch party alone, never mind the magazine
Marcus assumed a wounded expression.
‘I could try to swing a weekend,’ Ashling offered breathlessly. ‘Even though Lisa says we’ll be working every weekend, if I ask nicely she might say…’
‘Don’t bother.’
She hated when he got like this. He was lovely most of the time, but whenever he felt insecure or unsupported he became cold and aggressive, and she couldn’t bear confrontation.
‘I’ll try,’ she said desperately. ‘Really, I will.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Look,’ her voice quavered, ‘after the end of August, work will totally quieten down for me. Maybe we could even go away together, grab a late-availability week in Greece or something.
‘Cheer up,’ she softly urged his stony face. Still no reaction. ‘Ah, come on, funny-man,’ she cajoled. ‘One of Ireland’s top comedians, tell us a joke.’
Marcus almost catapulted from his seat. ‘Tell you a joke!’
he demanded, in shockingly unexpected rage. ‘It’s my fucking night off. I don’t ask you to write a magazine article about faking orgasms when you’re out for the night, do I?’
Ashling froze.
Then Marcus leant his forehead on his hand. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I see,’ Lisa said, with icy politeness. ‘Yes, I’ll call back.’ Then she slammed down the phone and screamed, ‘Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers!’
Bernard tutted, ‘Language,’ but no one else even blinked.
‘Ronan Keating’s manager,’ Lisa yelled to an uninterested office, ‘is in a fucking meeting. For the quazillionth time. Nearly three weeks to D-Day and we still have no celebrity letter.’
In despair she lay across her phone, then noticed Jack watching her. He raised his eyebrows with are-you-OK? concern. He did that a lot. Ever since she’d cried in his office, a solid, silent support wafted from him. A kind of our-little-secret intimacy that no one else received.
But exactly what good were raised eyebrows to her? she thought irritably. It was other parts of his body she’d like raised for her, thanks very much. Fair enough, he was just out of a relationship and perhaps he needed time to recover. But he’d had, oooh, at least two weeks, how much longer did he need?
She smiled sadly to herself. She hadn’t been in great shape either, after the Oliver episode. She’d wanted to run back to London, get into bed with him and never leave again. He still hadn’t rung her, he clearly wasn’t going to, but life must go on…
‘The pressure getting to you?’ Jack came and sat on her desk.
She was mortally offended. ‘No, just, you know,’ she sighed. ‘Bastard celebrities.’
‘You never give up.’ His admiration could have been photographed. ‘D’you need some time out? How about we have sushi for lunch? On me.’
‘I wish.’ The words were out before she could stop them, prompted by the vision of eating sushi from his naked body.
‘Um, excuse me?’ His laugh was pleasantly dirty.
‘Nothing.’ She wall-eyed him, but couldn’t help a knowing smirk. For a long moment they locked eyes, then simultaneously the flirty tension dissolved into laughter.
‘You mean you’re going to take me out?’ she asked.
‘Aw, no, sorry, I can’t spare the time. But how about a takeaway, like the last time?’
‘Get someone else to do your dirty work,’ Trix snapped.
‘I’ll go.’ Jack surprised everyone. ‘Anyone else want some? How about you, Ashling?’
‘No, thanks,’ Ashling said huffily, suspecting she was being patronized.
‘Sure?’
‘Quite.’
‘Not even if I get you some of the less scary pieces, and take you through it all?’
‘No.’
‘Right, I’m off,’ Jack announced. ‘And take it easy,’ he advised Lisa. ‘Everything’s coming together nicely.’
Though she told everyone that their work was crap and that the magazine looked like ‘a piece of shit’, Lisa couldn’t deny that progress was being made. The books, film, music, video and net pages were in place. As were the horoscopes, Trix’ s ordinary-girl article, the sexy-hotel-bedrooms piece, Ashling’s salsa spread, a gorgeous food page from Jasper Ffrench, a profile of an Irish actress who’d starred in a controversial erotic play, a warts-and-all ‘My Day’ from the novelist, and Marcus’s ‘It’s a Man’s World’ article, which everyone loved. Plus, of course, that fashion spread.
Eight pages at the front of the mag were devoted to showcasing four achingly hip, up-and-coming Irish stars – a handbag designer, a DJ, a personal trainer and an articulate, sexy eco-warrior who was king of the soundbite. The ‘What’s Hot and What’s Not’ list was nearly ready. Lisa knocked most of it up in five minutes and gave it to Ashling to finish. According to Lisa’s list, hillwalking was ‘Hot’ and Hilfiger was ‘Not’.
‘Is hillwalking hot?’ Ashling enquired, in surprise.
Lisa shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. But it goes nicely with Hilfiger.’
As well as the content, the magazine looked great. The colours, images and typesetting were slightly different to those of other women’s magazines and Colleen looked somehow edgier and funkier. Lisa had pushed Gerry to the outer limits of his patience before she got a look she was happy with.
‘Where do you sail?’ Lisa asked, as Jack arrayed sushi on her desk.
‘Dun Laoghaire, where the boats come in.’
‘Dun Laoghaire,’ she mused meaningfully. ‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You’d like it.’
‘I must get out there sometime.’
‘You must.’
Oh, for crying out loud! How heavily did a girl have to hint around here?
Perhaps he was wary of her combination of dynamism and good-looks, she acknowledged. It wouldn’t have been the first time. And there was the added complication of them working together. And of her being married. And of him being on the rebound…
OK! She realized she had no choice but to open her mouth and say, ‘You could take me the next time you’re going.’
‘Would you like to?’ His eagerness was so – well – eager, that Lisa knew instantly that she’d been right to take control. ‘How about Friday evening?’ he offered. ‘We could walk the pier and I’ll show you the boats. It’s good stuff after being stuck in the office all day.’
Hmmmm. Walk the pier. Walk the pier. She wasn’t really a ‘walks’ kind of woman. ‘I’d love to!’
48
Clodagh dug her heels into his buttocks, banging him ever deeper into her. Every time he stroked himself up into her, a word was dragged in a hoarse whisper from her chest.
‘God!’
He slammed into her again.
‘Harder!’
Another slam.
The bedhead slapped rhythmically against the wall and her hair was tangled and soaked with sweat. She clutched him ever closer, as the ripples of pleasure built and built. Into the vortex she spiralled. With each pulsation, she thought that that must be it, until another, even more beautiful, throbbed from her. She quivered on the top note, and she felt it in her fingertips, her hair follicles, the soles of her feet.
‘God,’ she gasped.
He must have come too because, panting and drenched, he lay upon her, his weight pinning her to the bed. They lay still, gasping and spent, until she felt their sweat begin to cool, then she buckled beneath him and roughly pushed him off.
‘Get dressed,’ she ordered. ‘Hurry, I’ve to collect Molly from playgroup.’
This was their third time together and she was always abrupt – cold, almost – when the sex was over.
‘Do you mind if I have a shower?’
‘Be quick about it,’ she answered curtly.
When he emerged from the bathroom she was dressed and refusing to meet his eye. Then she froze, sniffed the air and exclaimed in disbelief, ‘Is that Dylan’s aftershave I smell?’
‘I suppose,’ he mumbled, furious at the mistake.
‘Isn’t it enough that you’re fucking his wife in his bed? Have you any respect?’
‘Sorry.’
In contrite silence, he put on the clothes that she’d torn from his body only an hour previously. ‘When can I see you again?’ He hated himself for asking, but he had no choice. He was besotted.
‘I’ll ring you.’
‘I can take time off work whenever you want.’
‘I’ve got neighbours.’ She was tight-lipped. ‘They’re bound to notice.’
‘Well, you can come to my place.’
‘I don’t think so.’
A silence followed.
‘You act like you hate me,’ he accused.
‘I’m married.’ She raised her voice, ‘ have children. You’re ruining everything.’
At the front-door, as he bent to kiss her, she said angrily, ‘For God’s sake, someone might see.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Hurry,’ she urged, fumbling with his fly, pulling him out and holding him silky and erect in her fist. She sank to the hall floor, clawing down her jeans, pulling him on top of her. ‘Quick, we haven’t much time.’
She flexed her buttocks, rising to meet him, desperate for him. He entered her and thrust with short, intense stabs. Instantly the ripples began to flood through her, rising in intensity, spreading outwards and inwards, peaking into almost unbearable pleasure.
After he came, he wept into her golden hair.
49
On Friday evening, dressed in trainers, silk cargo pants and her Prada sleeveless viscose top, Lisa loitered by her front-door. She was going on a date with Jack, and an unfamiliar warmth twinkled within her.
A car pulled up, the man within leant over and opened the door for her and, feeling mildly like a prostitute being picked up by a kerb-crawler, Lisa got in. Closing her ears to the singsong shouts of ‘Wooooooooh!’ and ‘Seck-zee!’ and ‘Lee-sa’s got a boyfriend!’ from Francine and all the other kids, she and Jack drove away.
‘Hey, you turned up,’ Jack grinned.
‘Looks that way.’ She stared out the window, biting back a smirk. He’d been nervous. Well, perhaps that made two of them.
During the drive, the sky, which had been peachy-clear in town, transformed itself to heavy, lowering grey-blue. When they got out of the car at Dun Laoghaire pier Jack felt the air doubtfully. ‘It might rain. Do you want to skip the walk?’