If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  I must be alone because the house is so quiet. Whenever James is around, it’s always like a three-ring circus: mobiles going off (he has one for LA and one for Europe, for absolutely no reason that I can see, other than to show off with), people banging at the front door, and him always searching for something he’s lost, demanding to know where it is at the top of his voice. A misplaced script/passport/car keys/a Pop Tart he was eating that’s now vanished into thin air. Honest to God, there are five-year-olds out there who are probably able to take better care of themselves. And the sad thing is that up until my whole life turned upside down, I used to find that carry-on sweet and endearing.

  Absolutely nothing has changed. There’s still a squeezed-out tube of cleanser belonging to me lying on the dressing table. An old Hello! magazine with Kate Middleton on the cover that I bought weeks ago is strewn across the bedside table, even some underwear is exactly where I left it: shoved down the back of a radiator. And it’s not the good, sexy La Perla stuff either, it’s a knackered old bra and knickers, gone grey from several thousand washes. (Not my fault, I mean it’s not like I went into Marks & Spencer and said, ‘Do you have anything faded and droopy with hooks missing at the back?’)

  Suppose somebody was here and they saw that? is the completely irrational thought that goes through my addled brain, like I’d nothing else to be worried about. Instinctively, I go to whip the offending articles from behind the radiator, but nothing happens.

  Shit.

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  I try it slower. Still nothing. I have to do it in slow motion a few times before I finally cop on.

  My hand is going clean through them. Definitely. I’m not imagining it.

  Anxiously, I look around for something else to experiment with, and my eyes immediately light on a photo of me and Kate taken on her wedding day that’s plonked on the dressing table, beside my GHD hair straighteners. She looks like a young, glamorous Fergie, with the red hair piled elegantly up on her head, all tall, thin and gorgeous; whereas I’m like a shorter, more freckly version of her, stuck in a lime-green bridesmaid’s dress (not a good colour if you’re a ginger, trust me), made out of what looks like the same fabric they use to prevent the space shuttle burning up on re-entry.

  I try to pick up the picture frame and nothing happens. Same thing. My hands just glide clean through it. And I don’t even feel a thing, there’s no sensation whatsoever. Tentatively, I move towards the mirror on the dressing table and look in. There’s nothing there, no reflection, even though I know I’m standing right in front of it. I wave, then jump up and down, then stick my face right up close to it, the way presenters do directly to camera on kids’ TV shows.

  Big fat nada.

  So this is it, then, I think.

  I’m really dead.

  I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know, it’s just that somehow, being back here, in this dimension, if that doesn’t sound too Star Trek-ky, is really hammering it home. Half of me just wants to pull whatever emergency cord there is and yank myself out of here, or else find a tardis and make a run for it, like they do on Doctor Who, but the other half is, well . . . a bit curious, if I’m being honest. I mean, it’s not like I just moved out of this house in a huff or something, I actually died.

  All the things I wanted to do and never got to. Like having a baby. Taking a train ride through India. Paying off my credit card. Finally getting around to writing my novella. Meeting Johnny Depp. Telling everyone my Oscar picks for next year. Then I think about the sheer amount of time I wasted worrying about crap. Not fitting into my skinny jeans any more. Will Amy Winehouse get her act together? Is Prince William losing his hair? Would Ikea ever open in Dublin?

  Oh my God, I wonder what my funeral was like? Who am I kidding? By that I really mean one thing: was James there, and did he cry embarrassingly copious amounts? Or maybe give a big graveside oration? Make a holy show of himself telling everyone now that I was gone, his life might as well be over, too? After five years together he must have felt something or . . . was the bastard back here that night with his new girlfriend cracking open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?

  Then I think about Mum, and suddenly all I want is to be with her. What must she be going through? I mean, she gets unbelievably, irrationally distraught when her satellite dish goes on the blink and she has to miss an episode of Agatha Christie’s Marple, her favourite TV show, so I dread to think how she’s dealing with this. Then there’s poor old Kate who had to take a full week off work when her Labrador was put down . . . how is she coping? And Fiona, too . . . oh shit, you know what? I have to get out of here. Right now. I have to find them all, and let them know that I’m OK and that Dad’s OK, and that there’s nothing for anyone to be worried or upset about, and that I’m going to do everything I can to help them and work all sorts of little miracles for them.

  Just from this side of the fence, that’s all.

  I stride over to the door, grab the handle and . . . my hand just swipes clean through it. I try again and again, but no joy. Honestly, it’s like slicing a knife through butter.

  Oh, for f*ck’s sake, does this mean I’m going to be trapped here until James decides to show up and let me out?

  As if on cue, there’s a deep, rumbling, oh-shit-isit-morning-already moan from under a big mound of duvet, and I nearly leap into the air with the fright.

  I don’t believe it, he’s here. Actually in the room with me. My heart’s having palpitations, and then I remember . . . he can’t see me. To all intents and purposes, I might as well be the invisible woman.

  I stand there, completely frozen as, first, his fist comes out from under the mound of bedclothes, and then his head appears, with the hair standing up on end, like he’s just stuck two fingers into a plug socket. You should see the state of him: right now, Russell Brand is probably better groomed. He’s looking dog-rough and dishevelled, with the eyes completely bloodshot.

  Good.

  He looks around, disorientated, then picks up the clock on the bedside table. Just gone eleven a.m. Which is about the normal time he’d be getting out of bed at. He shoves the clock back and slumps back on to the pillows, rubbing his eyelids with the palms of his hands. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do a thousand times, but right now, it’s making the breath physically catch at the back of my throat. I feel like an intruder in my own home, watching a live theatre show being played out in front of me. Watching, and yet distant from it. Then, I’m not joking, James looks directly at me. Right over to where I’m rooted to the spot, standing at the edge of the bed. My side of the bed.

  ‘Fuck,’ he half-whispers.

  He sees me.

  ‘I am so fucking late,’ he mutters under his breath, hauling himself out of bed and pulling himself into a pair of the underpants strewn across the floor, right beside where I am.

  He doesn’t see me.

  Next thing he’s out the door and stumbling down the narrow, uneven stairs, dodging the overhead beams because he’s tall. He heads into our, sorry his, gorgeous living room, with its amazing view right out over Sandymount Strand, providing the traffic’s not too heavy, and you don’t end up looking out at ten-tonne haulage trucks, backed up along the road for miles. Except staring out at gridlock isn’t what’s bothering me right now, it’s the state of the place. I only wish I was joking, it’s messier than Jackson Pollock’s studio. Even worse than a nightclub the morning after the night before, with empty bottles of wine and Jack Daniel’s strewn all over the floor; I’m numbly staring at the mess thinking, who exactly did James have over last night? Metallica?

  The coffee table is piled high with piles of scripts, more scripts, and an empty pizza box, but somehow he manages to unearth a half-empty box of Marlboro and lights up.

  James, outside! You know it’s a non-smoking house!

  Oh, would you listen to me. Trying to nag from the other side of the grave.

  Then his mobile rings, and it almost makes me laugh wat
ching him delving through the mound of crap on his desk trying to find it.

  On top of the fireplace, gobshite.

  He eventually finds it and answers. It’s his business partner, Declan, and although I can only hear one side of the call, I’m guessing it involves a finance meeting which James has just slept it out for. He slumps down on the couch, pulling on the cigarette right down to his feet, nodding mutely as poor old Declan rants on and on.

  Couple of things you should know about James in business.

  1. His production company is called Meridius Movies, named after the lead character, Maximus Meridius, in the movie Gladiator. (Russell Crowe is James’s big role model in life.)

  Couldn’t make it up, could you?

  2. Actually, he’s not at all bad at what he does, and, in the past, has had a good few hits, mainly because he applies the Madonna principle: i.e., surround yourself at all times with the most talented people working in your industry, and you’re laughing. Declan, for instance, who’s brilliant, and who has quite highbrow taste, always wanting to produce the kind of TV series you nearly feel you deserve a graduation cert after watching. He’s also such a sweetie, I once tried to match him up with Fiona. She rejected him out of hand on account of the following: she thought his skin resembled a topographic map of the Alps, that his man-breasts were bigger than hers, and that she had twice his upper-body strength. Very choosy girl, but fear not, fixing her up is high priority on my list of miracles to perform.

  3. James always reckons that being a producer is a bit like being a plumber. Do your job right and no one notices. Do it wrong and everyone ends up covered in shite.

  4. When filming, his motto is, ‘If less is more, then think of how much more that more would be.’ No, really. When not filming, his motto is, ‘Live fast, live hard, die young.’ Whereas there I’d be in my furry slippers and PJs, sipping a marshmallow hot chocolate in front of Desperate Housewives, nice and early on a Thursday night; ever the stabilizing influence. And yet I’m the one who dies first. Now do you call that fair?

  ‘Dec, just listen to me,’ he’s growling down the phone, spewing out cigarette smoke, then sitting forward and tipping ash into the empty pizza box.

  That is disgusting!

  ‘It’s been a rough few days, what with Charlotte and everything . . .’

  Suddenly I catch my breath. That weird, intriguing feeling of eavesdropping on a conversation about yourself.

  Declan says something I can’t hear, but it must be sympathetic.

  ‘. . . thanks, yeah, thanks, man, I appreciate it. It’s so hard for me, being here without her . . . I’m still in shock, I suppose . . . yeah, you’re right . . . time will heal but, man, I really hope you never have to go through this. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. You really don’t know how much someone means to you, until you see them lying in a hospital bed and know there’s damn all you can do for them . . .’

  Oh my good God.

  ‘. . . yeah, I know, she’s one gal in a million. Can’t believe how much I’m missing her . . .’

  I’m sitting right beside him now and I’d almost swear I can see his eyes glistening.

  ‘. . . no, I haven’t the first clue what I’m going to do, I mean, how do you even begin to get through something like this . . . hey, man, thanks for being so understanding.’

  No, there’s no mistake. He’s actually crying, he really is. Definite tear action going on. Half of me is so overwhelmingly touched, and the other half wants to hug him and let him know I’m actually right beside him, with my bum wedged on top of the remote control, to be exact. I move in close and gently put my arm around his shoulders. He shudders like a wet dog, then gets up and staggers to the kitchen, also like a pigsty, but right now I don’t care.

  I did not come back from the afterlife to load dishwashers.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ he mumbles to Declan down the phone, ‘gotta switch on the heating. It’s like a fucking fridge in here.’ Then he stumbles back to the living room and slumps back on to the sofa, pulling a throw I got in Avoca around his shoulders.

  You should see him. Dark circles under the eyes that Jack Sparrow would be proud of, stinking of stale booze, with nesty hair and days of stubble covering his pasty, knackered-looking face. Right now, there are hobos sleeping rough out there in better nick. He keeps grunting down the phone at whatever Declan’s saying, and all I can do is stare open-mouthed.

  I had no idea. None. Only that I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, I’d never have thought he’d be this . . . lost without me. He’s even still talking about me in the present tense, like he just can’t accept that I’m gone. There’s only one logical conclusion. The whole Sophie Kelly thing was just a blip, temporary bewitchment, no more, and now that I’m not around any more, James is officially falling apart.

  Which means that all this time, he really, truly loved me. Without question.

  Next thing, there’s a knock on the door and he goes to answer it.

  ‘Someone here, Dec, probably FedEx with a delivery, yeah . . . great . . . call over and pick me up now if you can . . . oh, thanks for offering, man, yeah . . . ehh . . . some Marlboro Lights and maybe an Americano . . . great, see you shortly. And . . . hey . . . thanks,’ he says, hanging up as I follow him to the front door.

  I do not bloody well believe this.

  Sophie bleeding Kelly. Wearing her usual dressed-down faux-hemian gear that tries its best to say, ‘Look at me, classically trained, ready to play Chekhov at a minute’s notice, and yet still finding the time to dress like a bargain-basement Sienna Miller.’ Her Mini Cooper with the top down in my parking space, and the blonde hair in stupid-looking curly pigtails.

  Wish I had the power of my hands; right now I’d love to rip the beret off her poodley head and pour extra-strength Domestos all over the car seats.

  And by the way, Sophie, on Carla Bruni, berets look chic and sophisticated, on you, more like you’re trying to channel Frank Spencer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ James almost hisses at her, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her into the hall. ‘Declan’s on his way over, suppose he sees you?’

  ‘Well, excuse me for being worried!’ she snaps back, and I’m not messing, anger makes the screechy voice sound, if possible, worse. Thank God we don’t have a dog, is all I can think, the poor creature would be persecuted listening to her. Then a horrible thought hits me right in the solar plexus: he must really be in love with her. Because, let’s face it, you’d have to be; there’s no other way you could put up with that decibel level otherwise.

  The bastard. Bad, bloody bastard.

  ‘Your phone’s been off all last night and all this morning, I’ve been out of my mind. And what’s more, I was right to be worried: it’s a Monday morning and look at the state of you!’

  ‘Sophie,’ says James, folding his arms and sucking in his lips, something he only ever does when he’s at boiling point. He also tends to talk reeeeeealllllly reaaaaaalllllly sloooooowly when majorly pissed off, the way FBI counter-terrorists do in films. You know, ‘Step awaaaaaay from the veeeeeehicle.’

  ‘I thiiiiiink I made it cleeeeeear,’ he says, ‘that this is a veeeeeery sensitive time right now, and that it’s an unbelieeeeeevably bad idea for you to be seeeeeen here.’

  ‘I know, I know, you already spelt it out to me. Suppose Charlotte’s elderly, interfering bag of a mother, or that poker-faced sister of hers, who’s more tightly coiled than a walnut whip, called to pick up her things, seeing as how they both feel they’ve carte blanche to barge in here at any hour of the day or night. Suppose that happened, and suppose they found me here? Believe me, I know all the risks; I just wanted to see you.’

  WHAT did she just say?

  I’m looking at Screechy Sophie now, shocked. I mean, how bloody dare she? I just stand there speechless, trembling with rage, giving her the evil eye and wanting nothing more than to bitch-slap the stupid, poodley head off her. If I wasn’t dead, that is.

  ‘They�
�re still Charlotte’s faaaaaamily, and right noooooow, we neeeeeed to respect that, OK?’

  Next thing, completely ignoring his hung-over narkiness, not to mention the stink of stale booze, Sophie’s right in on top of him, rubbing his arms suggestively and pulling down the throw he has around his shoulders. My throw.

  ‘Oh, now come on, babe, don’t be annoyed with me just because I was worried,’ she half-whispers with studied sexiness, moving in to nuzzle against his earlobe, which I happen to know is a major turn-on for him.

  ‘I missed you, that’s all, Jamie,’ she murmurs slowly, sensually.

  Jamie?

  ‘I was lonely without you. We haven’t been together since before, well . . . what happened to Charlotte . . .’

  Oh PLEASE, it’s eleven in the morning!

  ‘Mmmm,’ he mumbles thickly, letting her play with his lank hair, then letting her kiss his neck. With the eyes darting guiltily around the front drive in case Declan arrives, I notice.

  OK, if it’s possible for angels to barf, then I think I’m going to throw up. Right now.

  ‘You still feel the same about me, don’t you?’ she murmurs, moving up to kiss his face now, the voice so saccharine, it would nearly give you diabetes.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he half-groans, kissing her back and feeling up her thigh at the same time. ‘And I’m sorry for snapping at you, baby.’ He’s breathing heavily now, murmuring into her ear.

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  ‘Still love me? Even though I’m a cruel bastard?’

  ‘Still love you. And you’re not cruel, you just like people to think you are. Underneath, you’re really a pussycat.’