If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  I’ll never get over the funny colours James’s face goes when he hears me but is pretending that he can’t. Right now, he looks as though he just walked into a buzz saw, and it serves him bloody right.

  ‘Back to your pitch then, lads,’ says Sir William. ‘You’re telling me you’ve an elderly priest with Alzheimer’s and a young one doing a transition-year project for school. So, the old priest starts rambling on and on and on . . .’

  ‘Absolutely correct,’ says Declan, taking up the baton. ‘But, critically, without realizing that he’s inadvertently breaking the seal of the confessional.’

  ‘Speak English, will you, son?’

  ‘Ehh . . . sorry. Well, the thrust of the story arc is that this is a ten-part drama series, and in each episode, our lead character, the elderly priest, tells a tale he’s heard in confession decades ago, not even realizing what he’s doing.’

  A look over to James, who steps in.

  ‘Over ten weeks, we get to look at each of the Ten Commandments which have been broken, so each episode, if you like, is a mini short story.’

  And then he starts off on what I can only describe as a vicious circle of lies. So and so is interested, he says, naming a well-known international actor. And X, the hottest director in town, is mad about the script. All utter shite, I happen to know, but that’s the way producers seem to have to work. No one ever wants to be the first person to commit to a project, so cue James and his candy floss of spin. Fortunately for James, though, talking crap happens to be his one big strength in life.

  ‘Talk me through one episode,’ says Sir William.

  ‘A pleasure,’ James beams confidently. ‘For example, off the top of my head, we have one hot episode called “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery”. So then we get a story about this guy who’s cheating on his wife with another woman, who he eventually leaves her for and subsequently marries. He’s been married to the first wife for decades, they’ve a big family, and of course she isn’t even remotely suspicious, because he’s always away on business trips anyway, until she comes across his credit-card statement and discovers . . .’

  Sorry, but I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. My will to talk is just too overwhelming.

  ‘You do realize,’ I say right into James’s face, ‘that you might as well subtitle that episode, “The True Life Story of William Eames”? Or maybe, “Billy Eames: E! True Hollywood Story!” Don’t you ever read gossip pages in the papers? Or maybe you’re trying to write his biography for him, you unimaginable moron. Oh, and just so you know? There’s a false laugh coming out of me right now with your name on it.’

  He rubs his temples, and I can see him starting to break a sweat. Good.

  A panicky look back at Declan, who takes over and shuts him up.

  ‘. . . of course, that’s just one episode, there are nine other stories to come. For example, in the episode entitled “Thou Shalt Not Kill”, we tell the story of two middle-aged brothers sharing an old, derelict Georgian house, which has been left to them equally, but they hate each other and each spends the entire show trying to drive the other one away. They even share a bedroom, divided down the centre by a stack of old newspapers . . .’

  ‘Take a look at Billy Boy’s face, will you?’ I say to James. I’m right at his shoulder now, so there’s just no way that he’s not hearing me. ‘The picture of boredom. He’s actually making the same face that kids do when they’re being force-fed spinach. No offence, but your idea is a pile of shite, and if you want my advice, you’d want to come up with some better ideas . . . like . . . now.’

  ‘Emmm . . . I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ says James, looking grey now, ‘but could I possibly get some water?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Sir William, looking at him a bit oddly, and waving for the Batman butler to come back in.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Are you OK, son? You’ve gone very pale, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Fine thanks, just emm . . .’

  ‘Imagining things, dearest?’ I finish the sentence for him. ‘Just like you did this morning? Oh, now this would be after you slept with your screechy-voiced girlfriend in our house, in our bed.’

  I know he’s hearing me. I know by the way that he clears his throat, then sits intently forward, really, really focusing on everything Declan’s saying, as if by just ignoring me, I’ll eventually disappear. Some hope, babe.

  Sir William eases himself back into his chair, contemplating the pile of documents in front of him. ‘You see, lads,’ he eventually says, ‘I have to ask myself, is this show the kind of thing that myself and Eloise would want to sit down in front of the telly on a Sunday night and watch? And, no offence or anything, but the answer is no.’

  ‘See?’ I say to James, right into his left ear to be exact. ‘Told you it was a rubbish idea. I’m hoarse saying it, in fact. I don’t get it, why didn’t you just listen to me in the first place? It’s got nothing going for it. Plus you’re trying to cut corners in all the wrong places so it’ll end up like . . . like La Bohème performed by finger puppets. The pilot episode is total crap, too. In fact, the only thing that connects the characters is that their names follow each other on the script. A cat could have coughed a better script out of its bum.’

  ‘The pilot isn’t crap, it’s a gem,’ James says out loud. I don’t think he meant to, that was just the effect of my taunting him; it just slipped out, probably without him even realizing it.

  Both Sir William and Declan turn to look at him in shock.

  ‘Ah now, son,’ says Sir William, completely taken aback. ‘I never said it was crap, I just said it didn’t grab me by the short and curlies, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry about that, yes, I totally understand, that isn’t what I meant at all . . .’ James says, or rather stammers.

  I take a moment and look around the table. Sir William, deeply unimpressed and beginning to suspect that James is losing it, Declan frantically searching through all his spreadsheets and folders trying to whip a last-minute rabbit out of a hat, and James, ghostly pale, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  A kinder, more humane person than me would shut up now, would recognize that these guys are fighting for their professional lives, and would maybe even try to help out. I’ve loads of suggestions that I could have prompted James with, too. Maybe not arty-farty ideas like this one that they’re in mid-pitch for, but other stuff that might have . . . shall we say, broader, mass-market appeal. Declan, I know right well, has nothing else up his sleeve, but then he’s the money man, whereas James is the one in charge of concepts and ‘the company vision’. (His gobshite phrase, not mine.) Anyway, the bastard is always laughing at anything I come up with, dismissing it as ‘lowest common denominator’ TV, although, when it suits him, he’s perfectly happy to filch my ideas and rebrand them as his own, particularly stuff that could be targeted at a female audience.

  So I’ve two clear choices here. I could do a Cyrano de Bergerac and prompt James about another pitch, one that’s been at the back of my mind for a long time, and is titled, God Created Man, But I’d Have Done a Better Job Myself.

  I could, but I don’t.

  Because just then, the haunting, ugly image of Screechy Sophie standing in my bedroom, wearing my boyfriend’s shirt, with me barely cold in the ground, comes back to me . . . and that’s all it takes.

  ‘You should have listened to me about that rubbishy old priest pitch but you didn’t,’ I say to James, and I’m not messing, but now, the beads of sweat are actually rolling down his face and neck. I’m shouting at him now, and I don’t even care. I’m getting so upset that I’m sure the freckles must be hopping off my face, just remembering this morning and the awful shock I got. OK, so this mightn’t be the ideal time or place to have this out with him, but then, do I really care?

  ‘Too busy lying to me, cheating on me, then moving that over-painted trollop into our house. And what really makes me sick is there you are in public, acting the part of the broken
-hearted boyfriend. But here’s the one thing that I just don’t get . . . did I mean that little to you, James? Did I really?’

  ‘No, no, no . . .’ he says, massaging his temples, like he has the world’s largest brain tumour, and it’s about to kill him.

  ‘Son, are you sure you’re all right?’ Sir William asks, concerned.

  ‘He’s . . . been under a lot of stress lately, personal stuff,’ says Declan, trying to salvage the situation. But there’s no shutting me up now.

  ‘I mean, I was so good to you,’ I continue ranting. ‘I put up with all of your moodiness and your arrogance, and it’s only now that I can see things clearly. No one really likes you, you know. Not my friends or my family, and it turns out they were right about you, all this time. They were right and I was wrong. You’re nothing but a self-centred, over-confident, egotistical gobshite. My God, Napoleon probably had a James Kane complex.’

  ‘This isn’t happening,’ he mutters, swaying in his seat, ‘not now, not here.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, dearest, but yes, this is your worst nightmare. I am your worst nightmare. And I don’t even feel remotely guilty for telling you right here and now, because you know what? After the way you’ve behaved, you don’t deserve Sir William and his money. And you don’t deserve a partner like Declan either, who, by the way, will go on to do so much better without you.’

  ‘I do deserve it,’ he’s half-moaning now, like he’s lost all grip on reality.

  ‘Oh, and one last thing? Copernicus called. It turns out you’re not the centre of the universe after all.’

  I had scarcely realized it, but James is practically gibbering, repeating everything I say over and over. Like Rain Man.

  ‘I think maybe we should call a doctor,’ says Sir William, who’s standing up now, really concerned. ‘That fella’s not well. Look at him, rambling on about Copernicus and Napoleon. I don’t get it, you pair are normally on top of things, what’s the deal here?’

  It’s left to poor Declan to try and do damage limitation, but it’s waaaaaayyyyyy too late.

  Because that’s when disaster number three strikes.

  Disaster Number Three

  With impeccable timing, two particularly vicious-looking Dobermanns come around out of the house, sniffing for trouble.

  ‘Ah, here’s the lads,’ says Sir William, probably delighted with the distraction, as he takes a fistful of posh finger biscuits and waves them at the dogs. ‘Who’s been my good little fellas, then? Who wants a little treat?’

  With that, the pair of mutts are over to him, licking his hand and gobbling down the biscuits.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I half-scream, ‘James, get rid of them!’

  I’m actually standing on a chair now, terrified. And, true to form, they smell the fear.

  Honestly, if it wasn’t so frightening it would be funny. Me on a chair, screaming for all I’m worth to get them away from me, James rocking back and forth, massaging his temples with the sweat pumping out of him, and the two Dobermanns at my feet, snapping and growling, completely sensing that I’m there.

  The rest is a blur. I remember the following in no particular order. Sir William trying to coax the mutts away, unable to understand why they’re barking at thin air. James gulping back water, trembling and shaking and generally acting like he should be in an intensive-care unit and not the garden of a county mansion. Declan frantically gathering up all his files and folders and telling Sir William that they have lots of other ideas they could discuss in the future? Down the line? Maybe? If he’s still interested? Please and pretty please with knobs attached? ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Sir William says non-committally. ‘We’ll all have dinner sometime,’ I remember him saying, dismissing them off-handedly. But you’d need to be a right thicko not to pick up on the clear, underlying implication.

  Dinner for you and a CAT scan for your mate.

  Next thing, I’m back in the car, safe from dogs and with James at the wheel beside me, clasping on to it for dear life. Trembling, shaking, breathing deeply, in for two, out for four.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’ asks Declan through the passenger window beside me. James just nods. He can’t even answer him, he’s that shell-shocked. Like he’s going to turn around at any minute and ask, ‘When, oh when, will the lambs be silent?’

  ‘Well, I’ll drive behind you, just in case.’ Poor old Declan, always so concerned.

  Just then his phone beep-beeps as a text comes through.

  ‘Oh, it’s from Sir William,’ says Declan, holding out his phone, so I’m conveniently able to see it but James can’t.

  It reads thus:

  HOPE YOUR MATE IS OK. I CAN GET YOU NAME OF TOP HEAD SHRINK IN COUNTRY IF YOU WANT. SUGGEST HE SEES SOMEONE ASAP.

  NOT NORMAL BEHAVIOUR.

  Declan scrolls down and my eyes follow the rest of the message.

  GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR TV SHOW. INTERESTING IDEA . . .

  He keeps scrolling right down to the very last, killer line.

  JUST DON’T EXPECT ME TO INVEST.

  Chapter Twelve

  FIONA

  ‘Sarah Casey, will you kindly stand up and tell the class what is so funny? If it’s that amusing, maybe you’ll be good enough to share it with the rest of us?’

  Fiona is soooooo scary in class. I should know, I’m right at the back, quelle surprise, having left James to stew in his own juice for a bit, after the unmitigated disaster of this morning. And oh my God, but it’s boring. It’s also stifling hot, sticky, and for some reason, there’s an overpowering smell of cheap perfume mixed with gone-off egg sandwiches and cheese and onion crisps, which immediately brings me back to my own miserable and wasted schooldays. Written on the board is today’s topic: ‘How successful were Stalin in Russia and/or Mussolini in Italy in using the personality cult as an instrument of propaganda?’

  My oh my, won’t knowing the answer to that particular conundrum come in handy later on in life.

  ‘Sarah Casey, I’m waiting. In your own time, please.’

  Poor old Sarah, the chief messer herself, is actually doing something completely innocuous: reading this week’s Heat magazine under her desk, and filling out a questionnaire entitled ‘What’s Your Sex Number?’ Nothing Fiona herself didn’t do in her day. In fact, she got up to an awful lot worse back in college: she was forever being kicked out of lectures for acting the eejit, and on one famous occasion, even turning up pissed out of her head.

  There you go, beware of the poacher turned game-keeper, and all that.

  Sarah’s Heat magazine is duly confiscated, Fiona shoves it into her briefcase, and I know right well she’ll spend her lunchbreak probably filling out the sex number quiz herself. Anyhoo, she tells the class that they’ve got from now till the bell rings to answer the question on the board, and that they’ll all be subsequently graded on their answers. Honest to God, you’d need a heart of stone not to melt at the sight of the pale, drawn faces scribbling their little hearts out about Mussolini and Stalin, the rise of fascism in the early twentieth century and yawn, yawn, yawn.

  ‘Such a total waste of time,’ I can’t help saying out loud, but no one reacts to me.

  No one psychic in the class, then, which I suppose is kind of a relief.

  ‘Sorry, everyone, but where I’m coming from, there’s nothing more maddening than seeing people wasting time.’ I turn to the poor unfortunate next to me, who has train-track braces on her teeth, smells of Dove deodorant, and is tearing across the page with a biro like her life depends on it. Her name is written at the top of her copybook . . . Oonagh, spelt like that, with two ‘o’s.

  ‘Come on, Oonagh, do you honestly think it’s going to matter in ten, twenty years’ time that you know all about Mussolini and Stalin and on what exact dates they came to power? Do you think you’ll even remember it the day after you finish your exams? Look out the window, it’s a beautiful sunny day! You should be out meeting boys, hanging out with your friends, having fun and . . . you
know, actually enjoying the few precious years we’re all given on this earth, instead of stuck in here learning boring crap that you’ll forget all about the minute you get out of the exam hall and set fire to your history books. And that goes for the lot of you, too. Take it from the dead girl: you’ll leave school, and one day you’ll all look back and only regret the things you didn’t do when you were young and gorgeous and free and you had the chance.’

  I look around, feeling like I deserve a round of applause, and half-wondering whether or not I should leap up on to a desk and start shouting out ‘carpe diem’, like Robin Williams does in Dead Poets Society, but, as usual, all my best speeches fall on dead ears. I head up to the front of the class, then something strikes me, and I turn back to talk to the top of all their frantically scribbling heads.

  ‘Ohh, here’s some unasked-for advice, though, something that no one ever tells you. Much as we all hate the misery and torture of having Irish rammed down our throats, it comes in very handy for when you’re abroad and need to communicate with one of your pals in such a way that no one will understand. Like having a secret code, almost. Mark my words, you’ll all be travelling on the Metro in Paris one day, and you’ll urgently need to tell whoever you’re with to check out the cute fella sitting opposite. If you ask me, that’s really the only Irish vocabulary you need bother your heads with. How to talk freely about foreign guys abroad, in public, at the top of your voice, so they’ll never understand. Trust me on this: get your Irish teacher to teach you phrases like, “Would you say your man opposite is married/gay/seeing anyone?” Or here’s another one, “Please can we get the hell out of this dump of a hellhole, the guy to my left has halitosis and the one on my right thinks we’re a lesbian couple.” Please listen to me, girls, in five years’ time you’ll be glad you did.’

  They can’t, of course, so I go up to Fiona and plonk down on her desk, with my feet up, the picture of boredom. She’s on her BlackBerry, discreetly checking her emails under the desk, so no one can see.