If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Hey, hon,’ I say, patting her on the shoulder, although she doesn’t feel it. Not even a shiver, nothing. ‘Just thought of something funny. Remember the time you and me were in Italy on our InterRail hollier, and we were having a full conversation in our rubbishy, pidgin Irish about the general gorgeousness of this really Mediterranean-looking guy on the sun lounger beside us? And you were wondering whether or not he put sand down his Speedos just to impress women? Then he turned round and told us, in flawless Irish, that he was very flattered at our comments, but that he had a girlfriend, and, on a point of order, had never put sand up, down or anywhere near his swimming togs in his entire life. Turned out he came from Belmullet and just happened to be very, very tanned.’

  No reaction. Which is kind of weird, after the way James nearly had a coronary every time he heard my voice this morning. In fact, it’s funny to think I could stand up here in my nip and no one would as much as look twice at me. Ho hum.

  Total silence in the classroom, apart from the furious scratching of pens on copybooks.

  ‘Fiona? Fi? Oh, Fioooooona?’

  Still nothing. Not that I expected there to be, I was just trying to alleviate the tedium, that’s all. Eventually, I decide to amuse myself by reading the screen on her phone over her shoulder.

  ‘Sorry about this, love,’ I say to her. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but the thing no one ever tells you about death is that there’s not a huge amount there, in the line of entertainment. So . . . you don’t mind if I read along with you, do you?’

  She sneezes, which I take as a, ‘Yes, no problem, Charlotte, work away, feel free.’

  As it happens, she’s checking her emails and . . . oh for God’s sake. I do NOT believe this.

  There’s one waiting for her in her inbox.

  From Mr Loves German Shepherds. Sent at 1 a.m. this morning.

  Ooooooh, this had better be good.

  From: lovesgermanshepherds@hotmail.com

  To: lexiehart@yahoo.com

  Subject: Grovelling apologies

  Dear Lexie,

  Firstly, I completely understand if you see my name coming up on your email and delete this message completely. After what happened last night, I wouldn’t blame you. But there is an explanation and I’m cheeky enough to ask you, if you’ve read this far, to read on a little more.

  ‘DELETE!’ I say right into Fiona’s face, but her eyes never leave the screen, not even for a second. ‘Take my advice and delete it now, then run very far in the opposite direction from wherever this git is.’

  But she reads on.

  ‘Fiona,’ I’m insisting at her now, ‘wait till you see, he’ll use the oldest tricks in the book to try and win you round. Mark my words: he’ll tell you he had to take care of his sick granny who mislaid her glass eye at bingo, or else he was about to fly back from Belarus, where he’s building an orphanage for sick kids, to come and meet you last night, when a sudden, freak thunderstorm meant his flight got rerouted to Swaziland, where he’s emailing you from now. FIONA! Please listen to me!’

  No joy.

  Feck it, anyway. And on she reads.

  I know that online it’s de rigueur not to give out too many personal details, but after what’s happened, I have no choice.

  ‘Fiona, he just used the phrase de rigueur. If that doesn’t scream gay at you, I don’t know what will. Gay, gay, gay, gayer than the Christmas window at Brown Thomas, I’ll lay odds on it. Would you please wake up and smell the KY?’

  I’m a vet, and I work in a small practice in Carlow. Last night, as I was driving to Dublin to come and meet you, a local farmer rang my mobile to say one of his mares was foaling early. There was no one else at the practice free to help, so I had no choice but to go. The delivery took all night, far longer than usual, and I’d no reception at the farm, so I couldn’t get in touch. I’m just home now and emailing you immediately, both to let you know what happened and, needless to say, apologize.

  ‘OK, so maybe he’s a gay vet,’ I say right into her face, and believe me, it’s beyond weird that she just keeps reading on, not an eyelid flicker, nothing. Weirder still, me talking about her love life in front of thirty adolescent girls.

  ‘Fi, the fact remains, this is NOT the man for you, babes.’ I’m doing my best to sound all Oprah-esque; you know, wise, yet concerned, but, as ever, nothing doing. Her eyes are racing greedily down through the email now, so, it’s a case of, if you can’t beat them, join them. I hop around to stand right behind her chair, so I can get a better view.

  Believe me, I’m not the kind of person who would ever deliberately stand anyone up; this was a bona fide emergency. I know it’s highly unlikely you’d ever agree to meet me again, but if you could see your way to giving me a second chance, I’d really love to hook up with you. Your online profile is one of the funniest I’ve ever read, you look stunning in your photo, and I’d love nothing more than an opportunity to apologize in person.

  If you’re not too busy with all your personal training in the gym, that is.

  Right. Now Fiona’s scarlet in the face remembering that she told him her alter ego Lexie Hart was a fitness instructor. And that bums, tums and thighs was her favourite class, if memory serves.

  All the very best, and please feel free to contact me anytime.

  By the way, the mare had a healthy foal, who we named Nelson. After Nelson Mandela.

  Oh, the barefaced cheek of him, I think, furiously sitting back up on the desk again and kicking my legs off it. Using political correctness to win Fiona over. Times like this, there’s nothing I wish for more than to be able to send her some kind of physical sign. I dunno; if I could only get my fingers to work properly and maybe type out a message for her on the keypad of her laptop? Or somehow, get her to turn on her car radio just as a song is playing which she’ll magically know is a coded message from me. Dad does it with Mum all the time, I just wish I had the knack. Although, mind you, I’m not too sure if there even is a song called, ‘Ignore That Stupid Bastard You Met Online, He Stood You Up and He’s No Find.’ Altogether now for the chorus:

  He’s no uuuuuuse,

  He’s no uuuuuuse,

  He stood you up in town.

  Really let you down.

  Wouldn’t buy you a cappuccino,

  He is such a mean-oh . . . etc., etc., repeat ad nauseam.

  The silence is broken as a bell rings in the far distance, next thing it’s like there’s a sudden thunderstorm, with the sound of chairs being scraped back and desks banging. The girls pack up and start tearing off in about twenty different directions, dumping their answer sheets on her desk as they trundle out, with grunts of, ‘Thanks, Miss.’ With the speed of light, the classroom empties, leaving Fiona all alone, looking wistful and forlorn, staring into space and drumming her biro off the desk.

  Which means there’s a good chance she believes that cock and bull story about Mr Loves German Shepherds going out last night and doing a James Herriot from All Creatures Great and Small.

  Which, incidentally, was Fiona’s favourite programme as a child.

  Which clearly means it’s time for me to intervene. And thank God for her that I’m here, that’s all I can say. Honestly, I’m starting to wonder what she’d do if I wasn’t around to guide her.

  Later on, back in the staff room, Fiona’s in her little cubby hole, face stuck into the computer, when she’s interrupted by Mary Bell, one of the senior maths teachers. A kindly, round-faced, middle-aged woman who I remember Fiona telling me was widowed only last year.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ she says, tentatively, as Fi expertly snaps her laptop shut, which means she was probably either on Facebook or else checking out her online horoscope.

  ‘No, no, not at all, you’re fine.’

  ‘I just wondered how you were doing, I mean, after what happened to your poor friend Charlotte.’

  ‘Emm, well, it’s not been easy, that’s for sure . . .’

  ‘How are her family taking things?’
/>
  Oh God, I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear the answer to that one. Not yet. The thought of Mum and Kate being upset . . . no, you know what? I can’t listen to this. It’s just too painful. And somehow, the longer I spend on this side of the fence, the harder it’s getting, even though I’m still seeing them all the time. Suddenly I have to concentrate on breathing. So I leave them to it and drift over to the other side of the room, fingers stuck in my ears, waiting until kind old Mary Bell has moved off and Fi’s back on her own again. Sorry, but even angels feel heartache, too.

  There’s a group of teachers, all the Marys, sitting around the coffee table and yakking, so I join them. Honest to God, one of the Marys is holding court about an article she read about how to read your cat’s mind, another is giving out handy tips to keep your compost bin smelling nice and fresh, and the one nearest me is telling anyone who’ll listen that she thinks she might be suffering from the early stages of gout. Gout? I’m thinking, isn’t that all a bit, you know . . . Jane Austen? Poor old Fi, no wonder she spends so much of her free classes with her head stuck in her computer. Nothing against the Marys, they’re all lovely, they’re just so, so, SO much older than our Fi, that’s all.

  Anyway, I notice that she’s back on her own again, so I muscle into the little cubicle space beside her and start reading over her shoulder.

  She’s typing out a list. Called ‘Things I’d Really Like To Tell Charlotte.’

  1. You won’t believe item one on the agenda. Had the weirdest dream about, of all people, Tim Keating last night. Can’t believe it, have scarcely thought of him in years. Presume he’s living the high life now with what’s her name, Ayesha, and their twin girls, best of luck to them. Bizarre dream, too. You and me were at the church bit of his wedding, and I had the horrible jam-jar glasses on . . . why did you never tell me at the time how crap they looked on me? Anyway, you kept poking me and saying that Tim didn’t look too happy to be taking his vows, and that you reckoned I was his one true love . . . hilarious. At least it would have been if it wasn’t just a dream.

  2. I saw your mum. I think it hasn’t hit her yet, to be honest. She’s numb, and in some ways, maybe that’s not such a bad thing . . .

  Sorry, but my eye just skims over this one. Mainly because I know if I start bawling crying, there’ll be no shutting me up, and I’ve far too much else to be getting on with.

  3. Match.com have just given me an extra six months’ free membership as a consolation prize for not having met anyone yet. Now, lesser women than me would be mortally embarrassed by this, but I’m choosing to take it as a sign that I should stay on this path. For the time being, at least. Mind you, give or take a few protracted flings, the last proper, serious long-term boyfriend I had actually was Tim. That’s seven full years ram-packed with rejection. Puberty is a phase, seven years is a lifestyle.

  4. If this losing streak keeps up, then I’ve spotted another online dating service, ‘for the busy professional’. You would roar laughing, the web address is www.nevertoolatetomate.com. Their advertising slogan is what really impressed me: it actually says, ‘We Delete Members Unfit To Date.’ Guerrilla dating, clearly, is the new way forward.

  5. Mr Loves German Shepherds apologized and actually sounds fairly normal. A vet, which, as you know, is one of the careers my fantasy boyfriend would have. That and New York firefighter. And US marine, and pilot with any airline at all, I’m not fussy. (I just have a thing about uniforms.) I like the sound of him, Charlotte. I shouldn’t, but I do.

  I’m back to almost yelling in her face and thank God no one can hear me.

  ‘NO, Fi! After how he stood you up in public? And gave you that lame excuse? Why can’t you just think of him, if you must . . . as an utter arsehole?’

  6. The only other response from Match.com that I’ve had asking me for a date is from a Lufthansa steward called Günter. God help me. I don’t like uniforms that much.

  7. May give my vet another crack at the championship title. I know you’d go mental if you knew I was picking up fellas online, but . . .

  8. Am not prepared to settle for myself. At home. Alone. With only a bottle of wine and the TV for company. I’ve my twilight years to look forward to all that in.

  9. You know what really annoys me about the society we live in? If you’re a battered wife, a heroin addict or a recovering alcoholic, you get sympathy, a government handout, sent on a methadone course, a charity ball is held to raise money for you, and you get a big round of applause when your support group go on the Late Late Show. If you’re single, in spite of all the humiliation, misery and loneliness you suffer on a day-to-day basis . . . you get sweet shag all.

  I read on, over her shoulder, shaking my head sadly.

  OK, nothing for it, then. Time to implement part two of my cunning plan.

  Just something else I need to check out first, that’s all. But don’t worry, I’ll be right back.

  Poor old Fi, by ten o’clock that night, she’s fast asleep again, out for the count and snoring gently. She even lets out quite a girlie-sounding fart at one point.

  I will never get over the things people do when they think they’re alone.

  Anyway, she’s in her living room, stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV, which is still on, with a rerun of an old Sex and the City episode blaring away in the background. The one where Mr Big’s marriage to the five-foot-ten modelly one breaks up, and he tells Carrie she’s the real love of his life. Which is ironic, or at least it will be, when Fiona realizes where I’ll be taking her later on tonight.

  There’s a pile of neatly corrected essays on the coffee table in front of her, and an empty tub of Ben & Jerry’s Rocky Road ice cream, with the spoon still sticking out of it. Oh, and a lovely Diptyque lavender-scented candle burning away in the fireplace. I bought it for her last birthday, it cost a small fortune, and it’s annoying me now that it’s blazing away while she’s sleeping and not getting the full benefit of it. That’s the thing about dying young: all waste really gets to you. Even over-priced aromatherapy.

  I try blowing it out, really try hard, till my cheeks are all puffed out and I’m sure I must be purple in the face. Nothing. I try again, blowing till I’m fit to burst a blood vessel, and . . . I’m not imagining it, it does . . . it actually does seem to flicker a tiny bit. Oh my God, this could be so amazing! If I could only just train myself to do physical things, then how much easier would it be for me to give little signs to Mum and Kate and Fi? And batter James across the head with a hockey stick while I’m at it? Maybe it’s a bit like training for a marathon: you start with little things like making candles flicker, then gradually work your way up to making butterflies land on people’s shoulders and songs loaded with meaning play for them on the radio on cue. So, in no time at all, I’ll end up being able to steer Kate and Fiona with all the precision and accuracy of a surface-to-air missile.

  Then I look around the living room and realize.

  She just went to sleep with the window open, and now the night breeze is fluttering in, making the candle flame flicker, that’s all.

  Shite.

  Anyway, there’s no more time to waste, so I wait till she’s safely passed through that membrane between being awake and asleep, and in I go.

  ‘Wakey wakey!’

  She turns over on her side and keeps on sleeping. Jesus, it’s like trying to wake the living dead.

  ‘Fiona?’ I say, gently at first, but then getting louder and louder, until her eyes gradually open and she sits sleepily up beside me.

  ‘Hey, babes!’ she says, hugging me warmly. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

  ‘And you, hon.’

  ‘Second dream in a row I’ve had about you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Ehh, long story. Let’s just say, I’m kind of on a bit of a mission here, and we need to get moving fast . . .’

  ‘On a bit of a mission?’

  ‘Yeeeeeeah, and it’s importa
nt that you trust me. Now take my hand, there’s something I need you to see.’

  ‘Cool. Any clues as to what it is? The inside of the Brangelina mansion? One of the Wilson brothers in the nip? Luke or Owen, you know me, I’m not fussy.’

  ‘Fiona! Shut up and grab my hand, will you? We’ve so little time before you wake up!’

  ‘Or you know what would be really useful? If you could fix it for me to dream what comes up in this year’s English and history Higher Level papers. Not that I’d cheat; let’s say I’d just gently steer the girls towards what to focus on when they’re doing their last-minute cramming, that’s all.’

  ‘Fiona! Just hold on to me and stop bloody yakking!’

  ‘Or any chance we could beam into an RTE studio to get next Saturday’s Lotto Plus numbers?’

  ‘Last chance.’

  ‘OK, OK, OK. Jeez, can I just point out that you’re an awful lot bossier in my dreams than you ever were in real life?’

  We lock hands and we’re away.

  Next thing, the two of us are standing in the front garden of a perfectly normal-looking suburban house, with a huge sycamore tree growing right at the gate. It’s daytime, bright, warm and sunny, and there’s a gang of kids going up and down the road on their bikes, screaming abuse at each other, like they’re having a race.