‘Hard for you to hear, I appreciate that, dear. Remember they married in a terrible rush altogether, and you know what they say: marry in haste, repent at leisure.’
‘But, Kate will be devastated! She loves him, and OK, so he’s been acting like a bit of a prick . . . sorry, I mean, he’s been acting the eejit lately, but . . .’
‘But what? Surely you saw for yourself that he wasn’t exactly behaving like husband of the year towards her? And remember everything she’s going through right now, with what happened to you, and with all the worry over your poor mum, too. Again, I suppose you thought you were helping by planting all those dreams in her head about how in love they were when they first met. But yet again, you interfered where you shouldn’t have, and, surprise, surprise, managed to get everything wrong. Again.’
Once more, I’m silenced. Like I’ve just been punched in the solar plexus. Kate and Paul? Splitting up? Paul, the man I used to hold up as an image of earthly perfection in a male?
‘But . . . will Kate be OK?’
Then, out of nowhere, the tears start to fall, and once I start, there’s not a chance of stopping me. Somehow, this is worse, far worse even than seeing James trying to top himself, and God knows that was traumatic enough to have to witness. All Kate’s hopes and dreams about having a baby, completely gone out the window.
‘The simple answer to your question is, no. It’s going to be a horrible Christmas for Kate, her worst ever. Particularly as Paul, her ex-husband, moves on very quickly. A bit too quickly, in fact.’
‘Oh holy shite, don’t tell me with Julie? The singer one who looks like Eva Braun?’
‘Yes, sadly for Kate. And I’ll thank you to watch your language round here.’
‘Sorry,’ I manage to say, sobbing uncontrollably now. Can’t help it.
‘And you accuse me of playing God?’ I bawl. ‘This is just crap, Kate doesn’t deserve it, none of it! All she wanted was to be a mum, and she’d be a brilliant mother . . .’
‘Oh, she will be, in time.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s see now . . . yes, here we go. Not for a while, of course, healing takes a long time. But by February 2011, she’ll have met someone else, and they’ll adopt. Beautiful little girl, too, a gorgeous soul from China. Then, about a year later, she’ll become pregnant naturally. A boy, a lovely spirit. He’ll bring great joy into all of their lives.’
I heave another sob, half-relieved that things will work out for Kate, and yet still devastated at what lies ahead for her, in the short-term. So Paul ends up with that cow Julie? Jaysus, they deserve each other. And, OK, so there might be someone new for Kate coming down the pipeline, but I get all teary again just imagining what she’ll have to go through in the interim.
What’s weird is that Regina seems to read my mind like it’s a website, and she’s a search engine.
‘Short-term will be a very tough time for Kate, yes,’ she says, studying her files. ‘But remember, in the long run things will work out so much better for her and her ex-husband. They’ll both be far, far happier with their new partners than they ever were with each other, you know.’
The funny thing is, I do know. For a second I get a flash back to Paul’s horrible family, and how vicious they were and always have been to Kate, all the while oohing and ahhing every time Julie’s name was as much as mentioned. It’ll suit them down to the ground anyway, and that’s for sure. And at least poor Kate won’t ever have to see that shower of horrors-in-law ever again, which is small consolation for a marriage break-up, but it is something.
F*ck, I really hate not being there for her. And really I hate being dead. But more than anything, I hate sitting here in this office listening to how much I messed up all around me when I had the chance to go back as an angel.
Useless in life and a failure in the afterlife, too.
‘So . . . what’ll I do now? Where should I go?’
‘Well, where do you think?’
Back to the old folks’ home, I suppose. Sorry, I mean the assessment area, or whatever it was Dad called it. Back to daytime telly and bingo and bridge. Stair lifts and the Queen Mother and sherry in the afternoon. For God knows how long. Maybe even for all eternity. I mean, when I was alive, I used to think it was a long wait for my pay cheque to arrive from month to month, but that’s nothing compared with actual eternity.
Oh well. Maybe I’ll take up bridge. And get to enjoy it. Or else just raid the drinks cabinet and spend all day every day pissed out of my head on sweet sherry. But at least I’ll get to see Dad again, which is something. Mind you, when he hears how I managed to bugger up my life as an angel, he’ll probably have a few stiff words to say to me . . .
Regina interrupts my thoughts, though.
‘You, Madam Charlotte, are going back down to earth. Just as soon as I have all this paperwork done.’
‘WHAT? You’re sending me back?’
‘That’s right.’
‘After I made such a pig’s ear of everything?’
‘Absolutely correct. We have no room for quitters up here, you know.’
‘But . . . but I was a useless angel, completely rubbish and . . .’
‘So you can consider this your yellow-card caution. Oh, and by the way? Don’t even think about coming back here till you’ve managed to repair at least some of the damage you’ve done. Now close the door on your way out, dear.’
Chapter Twenty-three
FIONA
I am a horrible, horrible person. And a crap, crap friend. There was me, steering poor old Fi away from the man she’s destined to spend the rest of her life with, and all the while shoving her into the arms of Tim. Who still loves Fake Tan Queen and is about to get back with her. Thinking I was doing the right thing by both of them, but still managing to get the whole thing completely arseways.
You couldn’t make it up, you just couldn’t.
No sooner has Regina dismissed me out of her office than I find myself back in Fiona’s living room again. I’ve no idea what time of day or what day of the week it is, or how long has passed since I was last here. None. And there she is, tweaking the curtains back and peering out the window on to the street outside.
‘Fi? Fi, it’s me.’
No reaction, not that I expected one.
‘I know you can’t see or hear me, hon, but if you could, I owe you such an apology. I’ve been a complete gobshite, which isn’t anything unusual, but . . .’
Oh forget it, it’s just too hard to explain properly. I mean, how am I supposed to get her to give Mr Loves German Shepherds a decent whirl, and at the same time, completely extricate Tim from her life? After badgering her to invite him back there in the first place? No, all I can do is wait till she’s sleeping and then have a proper chat with her . . .
Shit. No, no, NO. Except I can’t, can I? Because then I’ll only end up back in Regina’s office getting an earbashing about interfering with free will. Light, guard, rule and guide, that’s all I’m allowed to do. That’s it.
Bugger it, anyway.
Next thing, Fiona’s at the mirror over the fireplace, double-checking her make-up and doing that thing of checking what she’d look like with a facelift. She’s in jeans and a warm woolly jumper with big comfy, flat-heeled boots, dressed casually as though she’s about to go hiking up a mountain, but yet with her hair freshly washed and blow-dried and wearing flawless ‘barely there’ make-up. The kind that takes far longer to apply than normal ‘just lash it on’ make-up.
Which makes me wonder where the hell she’s going. She’s too dressed-down for school and yet, if she’s only kitted out for goofing around the place, why the perfect grooming? Next thing, she plonks down on the sofa, struggles to yank one of her boots off, then slips on a high-heeled wedgie instead. She stands up again, hobbles over to the full-length mirror in her hall, then checks to see which works best, by alternately standing on one leg, then the other.
Flat-heeled boot, or else wedgie that makes her taller . . .
Then two things happen simultaneously. From upstairs, there’s the sound of the loo flushing, just as the doorbell rings, causing Fi to clutch her chest like the Widow Twankey in a panto. All in a millisecond, she manages to whip off the wedgie, shove it under the hall table, grab the matching boot from the living-room floor, shoehorn herself into it, leg it out to the front door, fling it open . . . and gasp in astonishment.
Standing there is one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. Tall, with a chunky build like a rugby player, fairish hair and lovely deep-blue-lagoon eyes. Carrying a bunch of tulips tied together in a pink ribbon, and somehow managing to make it look un-gay. Fiona’s eyes bulge out of her head in shock, and knowing that she can’t rave about his beauteous beauty to his face, I save her the hassle and do it for her.
‘Sweet Mother of the Divine, who rang for the Hugo Boss model?’ I gasp, wondering what he looks like bare-chested. Like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, I’ll bet, in The Tudors.
‘You must be Fiona,’ he smiles, a bit nervously, thrusting the tulips at her. ‘It’s really lovely to finally meet you. These are just to say sorry for last week, and thanks for being so understanding about it. Not many women would be.’
Soft-spoken, gentle, hangs his head a bit, either to compensate for being tall or else shy. Overall effect: devastatingly sexy.
‘Emm, not at all, and thanks, they’re lovely,’ she somehow manages to say, still gazing at him. As am I.
‘It’s Gerry, by the way.’
‘Hi, Gerry,’ she and I say together.
A lovely, warm moment where the two of us just stare adoringly at him. Then I cop on.
‘Jaysus, this is him, the vet! Oh, Fi, you are one lucky bitch, that’s all I’ll say. Go on, tell him his online profile picture doesn’t even begin to do him justice. He’s given you non-garage flowers, he’s divine-looking, throw in that he comes from money, and I’ll come back from the dead to haunt you if you don’t wear the face off him before this day is out.’
‘Emm, thanks for coming all the way from Carlow to pick me up,’ she smiles, looking all pretty and feminine, and even managing to blush.
‘My pleasure. Least I could do. You’re a sport to agree to come to the fair today, but I think you’ll enjoy it. At least I hope you will. Hey! And ten out of ten for wearing boots; you’d be amazed the amount of girls who come to this festival in high heels and end up looking like eejits traipsing through fields of mud.’
Fiona does a tinkly, girlie little laugh, while kicking the discarded wedgie surreptitiously under the hall table.
Oh, I could watch this all day. Their first date. First of many, hopefully. Today must be Sunday, then, the day of the summer fair he invited her to in the last email I read from him. My God, she even trusted him enough to give him her home address? This is amazing!
And then I remember my last horrible conversation with Regina. I’m not allowed to interfere, meddle or mess with Fiona’s head in any way. This has to evolve naturally, if the two of them are to make a go of it. No, I’ll just be like an impartial observer on the sidelines. Besides, so far so good. Off to a flying start. My work here is done. Not that I did anything, exactly, but you know what I mean.
Then a man’s voice from upstairs.
‘Fiona? Is there any hot water? I wanted to have a shower.’
Oh, for f*ck’s sake.
Tim. He mustn’t have left. He must have just crashed out here yesterday, after his fist-fight with Rick the Prick.
‘Sorry, Gerry,’ Fi says, flustered now, the mood shattered. ‘That’s . . . emm . . . a friend of mine who stayed over last night.’
Now, I’m fully certain that Tim stayed the night in the spare room, of course he did, but just then he appears at the top of the stairs, with only a towel wrapped around him, and nothing else. Which, from Gerry’s point of view, doesn’t really look so good.
Fiona must be thinking along the same lines, because she immediately starts over-compensating.
‘Oh, emm . . . Gerry, meet Tim, who’s a friend, who emm . . . who stayed over last night,’ she manages to stammer, mortified.
‘Hi, there,’ Gerry smiles politely up at the semi-naked stranger standing at the top of the stairs.
‘Hi,’ Tim calls back down, watching them both, taking it all in, in no hurry whatsoever to move off.
Fi, just go, leave now. You and Gerry. Just get in the car and go. This first date is too, too important. So GO. Choose the future and not the past!
An awkward moment, while the three of them just look at each other. Now ordinarily, I enjoy tense moments, God knows I’ve witnessed enough of them lately, but not this.
‘So how do you two guys know each other, then?’ Gerry asks pleasantly.
‘College,’ says Fi, a bit too fast, dumping the tulips on the hall table and not even stopping to put them in water. That’s how awkward it is. ‘So, will we head off then? Tim, just bang the door behind you when you’re ready to leave.’
Good girl, now off you go!
‘We dated in college, actually,’ says Tim as he comes down the stairs, and I swear I could thump him. I mean, come on, was there any need for that completely useless bit of extraneous information? What is it about guys that they have to get all competitive over women, even the ones they aren’t particularly interested in?
‘Oh, but that was years and years ago,’ Fi chips in, over-brightly. ‘Tim’s married now.’
‘No, I’m not.’
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tim, just turn around, go back upstairs, get into the shower and leave them alone! At least give her a chance with this fella, will you?
It’s as if he can hear me, because just then he turns on his heel and heads back upstairs.
Good.
Fi grabs her bag, and is just on her way out the door when he calls after her again.
Not good.
‘What about the alarm?’
‘Ah, sure there’s no need to bother, nothing here worth robbing!’ She’s on the doorstep outside now, dying to get out of there and start the date, as you would be if you saw the sublime gorgeousness of Vet Man.
‘Right, then,’ Tim calls back, looking all forlorn, and fidgeting with the towel. ‘Well . . . I suppose I’ll talk to you later on, then?’
She’s gone, though. Thank Jaysus.
Let the date begin.
My God, Gerry even holds the door of his jeep open for her to clamber up into. Nice touch. Like it.
11.30 a.m.
Absolutely, one hundred per cent could not be going better. They’ve chatted away non-stop in Gerry’s big jeep, the whole way to Carlow, and have so far traded the following information about each other. Fiona has confessed that:
1) she can’t sleep in bed without her electric blanket on, even in summer, and that she always takes it with her whenever she’s away, as otherwise she has to ask housekeeping at whatever hotel she’s staying in for half a dozen extra blankets, and they look at her like she’s deranged.
2) Whenever she confiscates either chewing gum or crisps from her students, she keeps them, then eats them later on herself.
3) Her deepest, darkest secret is that, at aged fourteen, she shoplifted a hair scrunchy from Boots, was never caught, but the guilt was worse than in that Edgar Allan Poe story, The Tell-Tale Heart, and now, to this day, she still can’t cross the threshold of Boots without breaking into a sweat.
Gerry, for his part, has fully entered into the spirit of the conversation and has owned up to the following:
1) He only became a vet because there was a girl he fancied in his school who said she thought vets were the sexiest men around. He never got it together with her, and loves his job now, but when people talk about it being a job you need a ‘vocation’ for, he just snorts laughing.
2) His sister bet him two hundred euro that he couldn’t quit smoking, and he told her he’s fully off them, but has the occasional sneaky one while on Facebook.
3) His deepest, darkest secret is that he hates Top Gea
r and can’t see what all the fuss is about, but has to pretend to like it when in the pub with his mates, all of whom think Jeremy Clarkson is the ultimate lad-god.
‘But, I’m warning you,’ he grins across at her, ‘that information does not leave this car.’
So all is going swimmingly, with me perched on the back seat behind them like some kind of invisible, angelic chaperone. They even stop off at a garage for petrol, and end up buying a toasted cheese baguette each to munch at in the car. I can’t help noticing Gerry look admiringly at Fi when he sees just exactly how much she enjoys her food.
And then her mobile rings.
She answers it, and I’m guessing that it’s Tim from the amount of times she goes, ‘Oh no, that’s terrible. You mean you never got to see the twins at all today? And Rick the Pr . . . ehh . . . sorry, I mean Rick is absolutely insisting on pressing charges?’ She makes an apologetic face across at Gerry and tries to wind up the call but it’s like he just won’t let her off the phone.
Hang up, Fi, come on, positive selfishness, today is about YOU, not Tim!
Eventually, after about twenty minutes more of her making soothing noises and saying things like, ‘But look, Tim, I promise you, there’s no problem that can’t be fixed,’ we finally arrive in Carlow, at the country fete. Which is basically in a big field outside the town all dotted with tents, with music playing loudly and a load of kids tearing around, having great crack altogether. Then, a bit more firmly, she tells him she has to go and hangs up, thank God.
‘I don’t mean to be nosy,’ Gerry says politely, ‘but is everything OK with your ex-boyfriend?’
Fiona dutifully fills him in, and Gerry says all the right things: how terrible the whole situation is and how a friend of his went through something similar recently, but without the added annoyance of a Rick the Prick in the background.
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 30