If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  Which might go some way towards explaining her behaviour right now.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way?’

  Kate says nothing, just mutely follows Chidi down a narrow corridor and into a dimly lit treatment room, with aromatherapy candles burning and a lovely smell of rose oil. Up she hops on the bed and whips off the dressing gown as Chidi gently covers her with a load of towels.

  ‘OK then, let’s go through your questionnaire, will we?’

  Kate doesn’t even answer, just clicks her tongue in this really impatient way she has.

  ‘Let’s see, now,’ Chidi says, speed-reading her way down the clipboard in front of her.

  ‘Thirty-three years old, no allergies and no previous health problems, is that right?’

  ‘No, I just thought it would be fun to lie on the form. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Ooooookaaaaaay.’ Chidi’s clearly good at picking up narky vibes. ‘There’s just a few more questions I need to ask before we can start the treatment. So, how many hours’ sleep have you been averaging per night?’

  ‘I don’t know. Six or seven. A normal amount.’

  ‘That’s good, considering, well . . . considering what’s happened recently.’

  ‘Well, that’s Valium for you.’

  ‘Oh, right, I see. And how’s your diet been?’

  ‘Fine. Perfectly balanced. Still a size ten, aren’t I?’

  Chidi just smiles politely, and at this moment I’m thinking the girl could probably give lessons in patience and forbearance to the Dalai Lama.

  ‘And no muscular problems to speak of?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘Eughhh, no.’

  Too bloody true. On the rare occasions she’d invite me and James over to her pristine show house (or Ajax Towers, as he nicknamed it), she’d make him smoke on the street outside. Not even in the privacy of her front garden, as it annoys her when smokers tip ash all over her geraniums. And if you think that’s bad, you should see her in action when serving cold drinks on warm days, where the cast-iron house rule is ‘under ten degrees, use a coaster’.

  Poor old Perfect Paul, there are times when you’d really have to feel sorry for him. James and I would often speculate on how he put up with Kate and her worse excesses, such as the ‘no shoes to be worn at any time indoors’ policy, when she got the wooden floors done, or the fact that she sends out her tea towels to be ironed. Or (honestly) the fact that she can’t even put the bins out without her lipstick on. Through romantic goggles, I would put it down to Perfect Paul loving and adoring the ground she walked on so much he’d put up with just about anything, which was always inwardly followed by the tacked-on worry . . . so why doesn’t my boyfriend feel the same way about me? James just reckoned that behind the steel magnolia exterior, Kate was a tiger in bed, and that’s what made it work for them as a couple, but then sex is pretty much always his answer to everything.

  ‘Do you drink alcohol?’

  ‘No.’

  Oh, you dirty big liar, Kate. You can sink a half-bottle of Merlot quicker than anyone I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Do you have a regular exercise regime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Yet more lies. Strolling around the Dundrum town centre does not count as a workout. And don’t get me started on the time Mum and I clubbed together to buy her a course of Pilates classes one Christmas. She managed one, then decided that the floor in the dance studio where classes were held was far too dusty and splintery to lie on for a full hour, and packed it in. If there was an award for the greatest gym dodger alive, it would go to Kate, hands down.

  ‘Would you describe your lifestyle as stressful?’

  ‘Most definitely not. For God’s sake, look at the form, I ticked the box that said I was relaxed, didn’t I?’

  Even though she’s lying down Kate’s arms are tensely folded and I can see poor Chidi discreetly rolling her eyes, probably being made to feel a bit like an interrogator at Guantanámo Bay by now.

  ‘Do we really need the preamble?’ Kate eventually says, sitting up now, face like a wasp. ‘Can’t we just get started? Please? I have a list the length of my arm of things I need to do today.’

  ‘Kate, I really need to ask you these questions before we can begin the course of treatments. You know this. You work here. Be patient.’

  Silence. You can nearly physically see the penny dropping with Kate that she’s gone a bit far.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, moodily lying back down again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So,’ says Chidi, softly, softly. ‘Would I be right in saying you’re here for help with . . . well, with what you must be going through at the moment.’

  A long, long pause.

  Oh, Kate. If you knew that I’m only inches away, watching over you.

  Mind you, knowing her, if she did know I was right by her side, chances are she’d order me out of here, then rip my head off for daring to invade her ‘me’ time. Prickly gal, our Kate, at the best of times.

  ‘Yes,’ she eventually answers.

  ‘I completely understand,’ Chidi nods sympathetically.

  ‘And . . . no,’ Kate continues, propping herself up on her elbows and eyeballing her. ‘There’s something else. But if you breathe a word to Heather at reception I’ll come after you. You know what a big mouth she is.’

  As I said, Kate’s unbelievably private. About her own stuff, that is. Like me and Mum, however, she’s perfectly happy to gossip away about other people.

  ‘I want to get pregnant.’

  Chidi just nods.

  ‘OK. And how long have you been trying?’

  ‘I don’t know. Three years. Too long. Since we got married, and by the way, up until then, my principal method of contraception was prayer. And before you ask, yes, I’ve tried everything and nothing works. I’m on just about every vitamin known to man that’s supposed to help you conceive, and absolutely no joy. B6, B12, zinc, folic acid. I even have Paul on them as well, I’m not taking any chances. Honestly Chidi, shake me and I’ll probably rattle.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your GP about this?’

  ‘She says I just need to chill out a bit, and that there’s no reason why it shouldn’t happen naturally. She’s the one who suggested I give this a try. If it was up to me, I’d just get hard-core fertility drugs and lots of them, followed by a good blast of IVF. Which is my next stop, by the way. But apparently relaxation is the key. Everyone is constantly telling me to relax, relax, relax. Which is why I fail to understand why I haven’t got pregnant by now. I’m one of the most laid-back people I know. If I was any more laid-back, I’d be dead. Come on, you know how little work I put in: when I am here I spend most of my time gossiping with you, or else reading trashy magazines, or else on the phone. Who, I’d like to know, is more relaxed than I am?’

  I’m not kidding, her knuckles are actually white as she says, or rather snaps, this.

  Chidi just looks on, worried.

  ‘Kate, love, it’s been a terrible time for you and your mum. Your body needs time to recover from what you’re going through emotionally.’

  ‘No, it bloody doesn’t. I want to get pregnant and I want it to happen asap. Over the age of thirty-five it’s far, far harder to conceive, everyone knows that. Which only gives me two years. TWO YEARS. Bloody hell, I barely have time to have this conversation with you.’

  ‘Reiki can help with your reproductive health, Kate . . .’

  ‘Good, then let’s get going.’

  ‘But stress is very often linked to fertility problems and, you’ll forgive me for saying it, but you do seem a little strung-out.’

  Understatement of the millennium. You should just see Kate, lying there drumming her fingers off the edge of the bed, so tightly strung you could tune a guitar by her.

  ‘Which is only natural, Kate, given what you’re going through right now. What I’m trying to say is, reiki can help to restore balance to your body and realign your chakras, but are
you really sure that right now is the best time for you to conceive?’

  ‘Never been more certain. If I’ve learned anything from . . . recent events . . . I mean . . . from what’s happened . . . with Charlotte and everything . . .’

  The voice is starting to wobble a bit now, and I’m willing her not to cry, if only because it’ll start me off and I won’t be able to stop.

  ‘. . . it’s that we have to get on with life. Simple as that. I want babies and lots of them, and I want them now. I have NO TIME TO WASTE. So can we get going? Can you start rearranging my chakras or whatever it is you do to help me chill out, now, please?’

  Chidi sighs, and I wish I had the power to read thoughts, because right now she’s probably thinking this is the single most hopeless case she’s ever had.

  ‘OK, then. I’ll be back in one moment,’ she eventually says to Kate. ‘I just need to get some more rose oil. So, I’ll leave you here to relax.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Kate, you heard me. RELAX.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  She dims the lights, and no sooner has she slipped out the door than I’m over to Kate, sitting on the edge of the bed now, like we used to as kids, when I was pleading for some unwanted, no-longer-loved toy of hers to play with. Usually a doll that she’d have flung away anyway without blinking. She just enjoyed seeing me beg.

  ‘Kate?’

  She turns her head sharply.

  ‘Kate? It’s me. Don’t get a fright.’

  Now she’s up on her elbows, looking puzzled. Oh my God, this is amazing, she hears me, she must. YES! This makes the task ahead SO much easier in every way.

  ‘I’m here, Kate. Right here.’

  I touch her hand, but she doesn’t react. Not a shiver, nothing.

  ‘Kate? Katy Katy Kate!! Do you read me? It’s Charlotte, I’m here!! Beside you!! Hello, hello helloooooo? Earth to Kate!!’

  She’s still looking around her, confused. Then, out of nowhere, I start to hear what she’s hearing, or at least I think I do. It’s a very faint buzzing noise coming from inside the pocket of her dressing gown, hanging on the back of the door. In one bound, Kate’s out of bed and over to the door, towel draped over her. Then she fishes her mobile out of the pocket, buzzing away like a vibrator.

  Bugger. That’s what she heard. Not me at all. Which means James is the only one who can hear me. Which, now that I think about it, means I’ve seriously got my work cut out for me.

  ‘Hello?’ she snaps at whatever poor unfortunate just rang her. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, did you have to ring right now?’

  I can’t tell you it is, but I’m guessing it’s Perfect Paul, because you could really only cut the snot off your nearest and dearest like that and still live to tell the tale.

  ‘No, I’m not at home,’ she answers to some unheard question, sitting up beside me on the bed, arms folded, all ears. ‘Why, where are you?’

  More mumbling down the other end of the phone.

  ‘OK . . . well then, you could run into Marks & Spencer and pick up dinner for tonight . . . no, Mum is coming over . . . we’ve already had this conversation, remember? Because it’s not good for her to be on her own. We need to support each other now, more than ever, Paul. You know how upset she is . . . because I worry about her, that’s why. Oh for God’s sake, how many times do I have to repeat myself? Yes, I DID tell you about the dinner, several times in fact. Is it my fault you were watching the bloody Premiership at the time?’

  A deep, put-upon sigh here, and more mutterings from the other side of the call, while Kate starts massaging her temples, like she’s a migraine coming on.

  ‘. . . right then, here’s what we need. Chicken fillets . . . the ORGANIC kind, not the cheapie ones, the ones that are oven-ready . . . Paul, are you writing this down? Because I don’t particularly feel like having to traipse back into town for all the stuff you forgot, that’s why. Because that’s what always happens on the rare occasions that I ask you to do something for me . . . Fine, thank you. Courgettes. Lemons. Parmesan cheese, pre-grated. Dauphinoise potatoes . . .’ She’s ticking things off her fingers as she works through her mental list.

  ‘. . . Oh, and something for dessert. Anything . . . no, no, except that. Because cheesecake gives Mum an upset stomach, as you well know . . . there’s no need to get snappy with me, I’m just telling you . . . I am NOT nagging, and you better take that back . . . Because, for bloody ONCE, I’m taking a little bit of time out today, and supermarket shopping doesn’t happen to be part of my agenda, that’s why . . . (Another big shuddery sigh here.) . . . having reiki, if you must know . . . because . . . because . . . because it might help, that’s why. Because I’m prepared to try anything. But most of all because I need to try to . . . you know . . . get pregnant . . . to help me feel anything other than what I’m feeling right now. Because I can’t cope with it, with . . . what’s happened . . . and . . . just missing my little sister so much that it’s killing me . . .’

  Oh, good God. It’s like the floodgates have opened, and now that they have, the tears won’t stop. She’s sobbing uncontrollably, and I’ve got my arm around her and am cradling her to me, but she doesn’t even realize. I knew it. Knew she was misdirecting anger when she’s actually grieving, and using poor old Perfect Paul as some kind of human punch bag. This is just what she does. I mean come on, no one gets that worked up about organic chickens and cheesecakes from M & S, now, do they?

  Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate, I think, hugging her tight.

  I know you want a child so much that it’s eating you up, and I know that’ll help you heal. And you’ll be a wonderful mum, too. OK, maybe a zero-tolerance one, but there’s no doubt about it, you’ll be great.

  I just haven’t the first clue what I can do this end to help. Apart from going in there and magically fertilizing an egg for you.

  I am not the bleeding Little Flower.

  So what AM I going to do?

  Chapter Seven

  JAMES

  I don’t even know how it happened, but now I’m suddenly back with James again. In the meeting room of Meridius Movies, as it happens, which is in one of those old Georgian houses in the centre of town, except recently it’s been converted inside out. Well, for ‘converted’, read ‘tarted up a bit’, so now it’s all restored pine floors with every spare surface painted white. Lovely, or at least it would be only James insisted on putting a snooker table into the bay window, for no other reason I can think of than to impress boys. Women, myself included, tend to just roll their eyes heavenward at such a shameless display of boy-toyism. Kind of like walking into an elegant, fabulous town house, then, once you’re inside, discovering you’re actually in the Playboy mansion.

  James is sitting here with Declan, looking a hell of a lot more sparky than he did first thing this morning. I mean, OK, so he mightn’t exactly look like he was carved by Michelangelo, but you get the picture; in the interim, somehow he’s managed to have a shower and clean himself up a bit. Anyway, from what I gather they’re going through their pitch for some big investors’ meeting they have coming up. Really boring idea too, called Let He Without Sin, about an elderly priest with Alzheimer’s who breaks the seal of the confession box and starts telling anyone and everyone who’ll listen about all the sins he heard down through all the decades. Woman in the thirties goes to bed without nightgown shock, and lonesome farmer terrorizes sheep, that kind of thing. I know, yawn, yawn, my, won’t that pack them in at the multiplex. Believe it or not, it’s actually based on a bestselling novel of the same name, written by an ex-priest, who launched the book to great acclaim, then spent what felt like the next two years permanently on the telly plugging it. In fact, when James first optioned the book, I used to get him to read chunks of it out loud in bed to help me fall asleep. Better than half a Mogadon any night for knocking me out for the count.

  Back to the meeting, and honestly, it’s like James and Declan are stuck in first gear: they’re crunching out boring, boring budget costings
in advance of said investors’ meeting, and it’s the same boring figures that are being bashed out over and over again, till I’m so brain-fried I’d nearly hurl myself out of the window just to get away. What the hell, I’m already dead.

  I’m just picking my moment to start a conversation with James, mainly to double-check that he can still hear me, seeing as how no one else seems to be able to, when out of nowhere, in bounces Hannah, Meridius’s TV development executive. A very posh and important title, I know, but basically her job involves wading through the mountainous slush pile of scripts they get sent daily from hopeful screenwriters, sifting the filmable ones away from the dross, then developing the ideas from there to something that we end up watching on TV on a Sunday night and saying, ‘Jaysus, how in the name of God did that crap ever get made?’

  Hannah’s worked here for ever, and aged about forty or forty-one, she’s that bit older than everyone else. She’s attractive in a Teri Hatcher sort of way, you know: wears barely-there make-up with tight denims, high heels and Zara tops all the time. She’s also unbelievably discreet about her own personal life. Which, let me tell you, is kind of unheard of in the independent production business: a tiny, close-knit community, where everyone’s private stuff is kind of like a soap opera for everybody else to enjoy. I mean, God alone knows the sheer hours of entertainment James and I must have provided over the years with our many flaring rows and public bust-ups, and you name it. Then there’s Declan, who tries his damnedest to cultivate this hard man ‘rock and roll’ exterior, right down to the leather jackets; always going to gigs of bands you never heard of, with names like the Ting Tongs, and always out late-night carousing, probably as much to keep up with James as anything else. But within the business, everyone knows right well that he still lives with his mammy, and each evening goes home to his dinner on the table, all his washing and ironing done, plus cable telly. Bloody hell, I’d move back in with my own mum tomorrow if I could look forward to that kind of red-carpet treatment.