If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back
Claudia Carroll
Dedication
For Pat Kinevane.
With love and thanks for his endless patience, wisdom and humour during late-night phone calls when I’m just about ready to smash the computer up against a wall.
I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Claudia Carroll
Credit
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
In relationships, there are two types of women. The ones who bail at the first sign of trouble, and the ones who stick with it, if only just to see exactly how bumpy the road ahead will get.
I belong to the second kind.
Which I suppose, is how I ended up here. Not that I’ve the first clue where the hell I am, exactly, all I know is that it’s very peaceful, muffled, calm and so, so still. Nothing but me and my own thoughts, which is kind of nice. In fact, I like it down here. It’s almost like being on a spa break, minus the treatments and the annoying pan-pipe music.
There must be countless fathoms of air up above, between me and that other world, the one that I don’t think I’ve actually left; I’m just taking a little commercial break. Just till I get my head together and sort out the mess I’m in, that’s all. The thing is, though, the longer I’m down here, undisturbed and silent, the less I want to go back.
Not that that’s stopping them. My mother, sister, VBF Fiona – in fact just about everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life – seem to be determined to drag me out of this. Someone must have told them that people in my state respond to stimulation, that hearing is the last sense to go, and that, just by chatting to me, or playing music or doing some heavy-duty emotional cheerleading, there’s a chance they might be able to haul me back up from the depths.
Between the whole lot of them, they have me demented.
I’m not kidding, it’s almost like there’s a competition going on: who’ll be The One To Bring Me Round? They’re at it day and night, telling me all the minutiae of everything that’s going on in the outside world; and I really do mean everything, from Mum describing at length the lovely banana soufflé Delia Smith made on TV last night, to Fiona filling me in about this guy she met on Facebook who, honest to God, told her on date one that what he’s looking for in a woman is a female John Wayne. Highly unsuitable, but then given what’s happened to me, who am I to pass judgement when it comes to useless men? Besides, I think her plan is to try and squeeze a few more dates out of him, like gathering nuts for the winter. Fiona’s a bit like a sex camel: she can store up romantic encounters and make them last for months on end.
Mum, I don’t care if Delia says it’s now OK to cheat, and Fiona, you have to stop thinking you’ll find true love on the net, otherwise everyone is going to start calling you Facebook Fi.
I know I must be in a really bad way by how infuriatingly upbeat they’re all being around me, particularly Mum, who’s starting to sound more relentlessly cheery than a Blue Peter presenter trying to put you in a good mood. Then there’s the music they keep playing over and over again, stuff they insist is my favourite, but it isn’t. It’s all stuff they like. Mum has clearly decided that I love all these Rat Pack, Vegas-y type songs, and I’m not messing, if I have to listen to ‘My Way’ once more, I’m staying down here for good.
You’re only playing these because they remind you of Dad, that’s all. He loved Frank Sinatra, and his party piece was always . . .
‘You’re nobody till somebody loves you,’ I can hear Mum sighing softly, wistfully. But then her voice always shifts gear whenever she talks about Dad. ‘I heard it on the car radio when I was driving to the hospital just now, and, do you know, to this day it still chokes me up. I’ll never forget your father singing that song to me on our silver wedding anniversary. ’Course you were only about fourteen or so . . .’
I remember, Mum.
‘He’d such a beautiful singing voice. Everyone said he could have been a professional, you know, if God hadn’t taken him so young. Anyway, love, good news and bad. The bad news is your car is a complete write-off . . .’
Least of my worries. You didn’t see the knickers I was wearing when they brought me in here. Up to my collarbone and the colour of wet cement.
‘But the good news is that a very helpful girl from the insurance company rang me, and, well, in light of what’s happened, she said you’re completely covered for a nice new car when you get out of here, and when you’re all back to normal again.’
If there’s one thing I love about you, Mum, it’s your boundless optimism.
‘Something a lot safer this time, though, do you hear me now, Charlotte? A Toyota Yaris would be just the thing. Or maybe you could go completely mad and splash out on a lovely, sensible Ford Ka. And if you ever even think about going above fifteen miles an hour, you’ll have me to answer to. I am not going through all of this worry again as long as I live.’
Oh, come on, it was an accident; it’s not like I did it on purpose.
‘Anyway, I got chatting to that very handsome doctor from Ghana yesterday, don’t ask me to pronounce his name, but he said the next few days are critical, and all going well, the swelling to the brain should die down a bit. Some long word he used to describe it, I can’t remember. So I was asking Sarah, the night nurse who was on duty last night, all about him. Divorced, it seems, with two kids, but definitely not seeing anyone. Now that’s the kind of fella I’d love to see you with.’
I’m lying here in a coma and you’re trying to fix me up?
‘The other thing is, love, they did mention something about long-term damage, but don’t you worry, I have that all covered. I’m doing three separate novenas, one to Our Lady, because she never lets me down, one to Saint John Licci, who’s the patron saint of head injuries apparently . . . did you know they had a separate saint for that? So your Auntie Anne was telling me, although I’ve a feeling she might have got him mixed up with that saint that’s in charge of hangovers. Anyway, I’m doing my magic, fail-safe novena to Saint Jude as well, just so we’re really on the safe side . . .’
She chatters on, and God love her, I know she must really be climbing the walls about me, because this is what she does whenever she’s worried out of her mind: fills air with words. And there’s nothing I can do to reassure her or to let her know that I’m grand really, I’m just taking a bit of time out, that’s all. So down I float again, sinking all the way back to the lovely, restful depths. I feel no pain here, not a single thing; I’m just peaceful and warm and completely blissed out. Better than being on a tropical island any day. I
n fact, throw in a margarita, a spray tan, and a good trashy novel, and I could almost be in heaven.
They must have me on some really serious class A drugs.
I don’t know how long has passed, but I come back up when I get a sense that Fiona’s here. I know it’s her because I’d swear I can get a smell of cheese and onion Pringles, and she’s the only person I know who always carries an emergency stash of crisps on her person at all times. Fiona’s a secondary-school teacher (English and History, Higher Level, if you don’t mind), and spends so much of her spare time correcting essays with titles like ‘Heathcliff is a man more sinned against than sinning, discuss’, that she never gets time to actually sit down to a proper meal eaten off a plate, like anyone normal. So either she just eats on the go, or else plonked at home in front of her computer, usually scouring Facebook looking for fellas.
She sounds so frazzled that my heart goes out to her. ‘. . . James has rung loads of times, he’s really up the walls with worry about you, Charlotte, I’ve never seen him this strung out. He’s gone up a fair few percentage points in my estimation after this, I can tell you. He mentioned something about the two of you having a bit of a tiff the night of the accident?’
No, honey, we didn’t have a bit of a tiff. It would be more accurate to say the bastard ripped my still-beating heart out, flung it against a wall, and then, as cool as a fish’s fart, demanded to know exactly how soon I could move out of the house.
Sorry, that’s HIS house, lest we forget.
‘. . . in fact, he said he’d try to get in to see you this evening . . .’
Great, all I need.
Then I think Mum must be back in the room by the skilled way that Fiona effortlessly switches the subject, putting on her best ‘now, pay attention’ classroom voice.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, I really liked this guy’s photo and profile, so we swapped numbers, and at the moment our phone-call frequency is twice a week, which I think is promising. I can definitely tell by his basic level of courtesy that he’s interested. And I know you hate me picking up fellas online, Charlotte, but let’s face it, I now have cellulite and everyone knows that’s God’s way of telling you it’s time to settle down.’
Mum doesn’t even like James’s name being mentioned in front of her.
Which should tell you a lot. And believe me, at this stage she’d gladly put up with any aul eejit, just to see me happy and settled. Any eejit barring James Kane, that is. In fact, only the other day she was unsubtly telling me that her organic vegetable delivery man is now newly separated. He’s fifty, by the way, and has about three teeth in his head.
Don’t get me wrong, my family and friends are all perfectly nice to James – to his face that is – but deep down, I’ve always suspected they were only tolerating him for my sake. Then, on his side, he doesn’t really have any pals, only ‘second-string friends and interested parties’, as he puts it himself. Yet another warning sign I chose to ignore. In fact, with misguided loyalty, I always put this down to a touch of the green-eyed monster, and figured that it must be hard for anyone to be matey with Mr Big Successful Hotshot Producer-Pants with movie deals hanging out of him, and with all his talk about nights on the town with Colin Farrell, then Bono owing him fifty euro for the taxi-fare home. Besides, I used to think, no one gets to the adorable, sweet, private side to him that I do. If you only knew the sheer amount of time I spent going, ‘Us, problems? Ha!’
Then, the night of my accident, I find out, in the worst way imaginable, that everyone else was right and I was wrong. Turns out the guy was a horse’s arse all along.
And there’s something else, too. Something I’m racking my brains to remember, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. It’s like I’m grasping through fog from the haziest depths of my poor befuddled brain, desperately trying to unlock something . . . just for the life of me, I can’t think what it is. The more I try to run at it, the more it slips away from me. All I’m certain of is that it’s something painful, so painful that I must have locked it away and filed it under, ‘To be dealt with at another time, when I am a bit more able to handle sheer, unquantifiable misery.’ And now, here I am with nothing else to do but lie in bed all day, and it’s gone. Bloody typical. What’s worse is that I don’t even have the best memory in the world to begin with. I mean, I’m total crap at remembering even little things, and am constantly having to leave Post-its around the house with scribbles on them saying, ‘Put out bins. Set Sky Plus to record Grey’s Anatomy. Buy Cillit Bang.’ So trying to remember some major event in my recent life history will be great crack altogether. For God’s sake, I could be lying here, racking my brains for months. Might even end up needing hypnosis.
I’m not sure exactly how long I drift off for, but the next thing I know, the room is filled with American accents: two shouty women at first, threatening to rip each other’s heads off because one of them has had an affair with the other one’s ex-husband, but then some guy starts screaming it from the rooftops that his mother, who he thought was dead, is actually doing a life sentence in prison . . . oh shite, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about. Now what? Have some lunatic, gatecrashing junkies wandered into the hospital, and are they about to start flinging furniture across the room at each other, over my poor, smashed-up head? Suppose they start ripping up the bedside lockers looking for syringes full of drugs?
My lovely, lovely drugs, the only things that’re getting me through all of this.
Then I get a sense that my sister Kate’s here. I know it’s her by the smell of Estée Lauder Pleasures that always trails obediently around after her.
‘Mum, turn off that TV, it could be disturbing her.’
‘But it’s Desperate Housewives! Her favourite programme, love. If that doesn’t bring her round I don’t know what will.’
‘No, I’m putting on some music. Apparently, this song gets a great reaction from unborn babies.’
Next thing I can hear Kate’s high heels click-clacking across the floor, followed by a bit of fumbling, then Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black album, which I love, fills the room.
Thanks, Kate, big improvement on all the Rat Pack stuff Mum had me tortured with. Although I’ve a strong feeling you’re only making that up about foetuses responding to R&B.
I drift off again, but when I come back up, I think it’s just me and Kate on our own. I’m fairly sure of that, because she’s telling me stuff she’d never in a million years say in front of anyone else, barring that they were in a coma. Kate’s very reserved. She’s also a bit scary, and right up until she met her husband I don’t think she was ever single once in her entire life, something me and Fiona used to look on with awe and envy. Fellas were too terrified of her to break it off, we figured. She’s the sensible, slightly bossy older sister that everyone should have in their life, but some of the stuff she’s telling me now almost makes me feel like I’ve turned into a kind of mute confession box.
‘. . . so I’m ovulating right now, and, typical, Paul’s gone down to the west of Ireland to practise with his bloody atonal band; why he bothers I don’t know, all their songs sound equally crappy to me. You know, sometimes I don’t think he’s taking this seriously at all, I really don’t. So I’m giving it another three months and then, that’s it, I’m going for IVF, which by the way, only costs about four grand a pop, can you believe it?’
Kate, do you know how lucky you are to have a good man who loves you? Do you know that behind your back, me and Fiona call him Perfect Paul? And all you can do is sit there whingeing about your ovaries.
‘. . . and I am so fed up with Mum’s heavy hints about how much she’s dying to be a grandmother. The other day she asked me was I was putting it off so I could concentrate on “scaling the heights in my career”? I felt like screaming at her, “And what ‘career’ would that be, exactly?” I’m a part-time receptionist in a health club, for God’s sake, and my sole contribution since I started there was to get two new treadmills put in. I only took th
e bloody gig because I thought I’d easily be pregnant by now, and that it might just suit me to do a doss job. Then on top of everything else, we’ve to go to a christening next weekend. Which means I get to spend the entire day surrounded by mothers who have at least two perfect kids each, all looking at me with pity, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Rock bottom, that’s where I’m at right now.’
That’s your rock bottom? That’s my retirement plan. Kate, you’re only thirty-three; you’ve done everything you were supposed to do in life. You’ve got Perfect Paul and a showroom home. You’ve a downstairs bathroom that no one’s allowed to use because it’s so new, and you’ve a spare room that you probably have the Farrow & Ball nursery-wall colours already picked out for. Of course, when the time’s right, you’ll be a yummy mummy in a four-wheel-drive jeep, along with the rest of them. Now go away, I want some peace.
But it’s not to be. There’s a string of visitors tonight, including my boss, Anna, who smells of stale cigarettes and tells me in a voice like aquarium gravel that all our clients keep asking about me, and when I’m coming back? She’s an actor’s agent, by the way, and I’m her lowly assistant, which basically means she swans off to opening nights and award shows with all her big-name actors, then spends the next day lying in bed with a minging hangover while I hold the fort and spend my time trying to convince her non-A-list clients that things are just really quiet right now, but that their big break is only around the corner.
‘. . . and you know, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing once since you’ve been out. It’s literally been non-stop.’
It always is, Anna. You’re just never there, that’s all.
‘All these actors I haven’t spoken to in months demanding to know why they haven’t been seen for that Henry the Eighth series. Quite snippy with me, too, some of them, as if I hadn’t enough on my plate . . .’
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 1