by Cathy Kelly
With each week, the letters got more serious, as the audience could see that the woman behind the Girlfriend column had changed.
Girls wrote in about eating disorders and hating their bodies; about whether they should sleep with that guy who really wanted them to but they didn’t want to go that far, and if they didn’t, he’d dump them. They wrote in about having sent semi-naked pictures of themselves to guys on their phones. They wrote in about being gay or bisexual and worrying about who to tell.
Ginger learned the hard way how to deal with these letters; she learned to explain the rules of the law, but she learned that the law didn’t protect the girls who found themselves at the mercy of the modern world.
Instead she went up to Alice on the tenth floor and said, ‘I’d like to do some feature articles.’
‘On what?’
‘This week about some guy who wants you to send him topless pictures of yourself. Because that’s what’s happening to thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds’.
‘OK,’ said Alice, who never appeared shocked no matter what Ginger came up with. ‘Write it under the Girlfriend pseudonym.’
‘Absolutely’ said Ginger, ‘that’s what you pay me for.’
‘I like you, you remind me of . . .’ began Alice and Ginger thought that perhaps she had been about to say ‘. . . me when I was younger’, but Alice didn’t finish it because her phone rang and she nodded at Ginger to go.
All the way down in the lift, Ginger thought of how Alice was skinny and all gym-toned. There was no way she’d ever looked like Ginger.
No way she’d ever bought clothes from a catalogue, no way she had ever slid into a room sort of sideways, hoping that was the thinnest way possible to enter a space. No.
Alice’s strength was real and Ginger’s was a cloak she put on every morning she entered the Caraval Media building. Still, she thought, taking a deep breath as the lift slid to a smooth halt on the fifth floor, the cloak was working so far.
If work was busy, her private life was busier.
Twenty-six years after they’d bonded in the classroom with lots of crying four-year-olds, her best friend, Liza, was getting married and Ginger was asked to be chief bridesmaid.
However, Liza’s desire to get married quickly, because she didn’t do delayed gratification, meant the day had to be planned in just three months. A wedding planner had managed to swing a marvellous deal on a beautiful hotel because of a wedding that had been cancelled. Ginger had promised to help plan all the other details.
A fan of internet ‘magical weddings’, Liza first decided she wanted white horses with crimped manes faked up to look like unicorns – ‘impossible’, the wedding planner had sighed and had launched into a long and complex story of brides who had gone down this road before. The horn/headdress creations had frightened every horse bar a nearly-blind one and had been a health and safety danger on many grounds.
Once the unicorns were nixed, Liza was fiercely determined to be even more creative. This would be a fairy-tale marriage because she had waited until she was nearly thirty – thirty! – to be married and it had to be the most special ever.
Ginger forgave her the comment about being nearly thirty. Ginger was the same age and Ginger had never even dated anyone. Liza just wasn’t thinking when she’d said it, she convinced herself.
‘Let’s have a serious planning night where we fill in all the extras,’ Ginger suggested.
Liza was delighted, but the wedding planner couldn’t make it.
So in the end, it was just Liza, Ginger and Charlene, the other bridesmaid and a friend of Liza’s from beauty college, who congregated in Liza and James’s rented flat.
The flat didn’t have the homey touches of her own place, but then, they couldn’t paint any walls and do their own thing.
Liza positioned herself on a leather couch once they’d organised the snacks they had brought.
Charlene had brought wine and sushi.
Ginger had brought wine and chocolates. She felt stupid now, looking at the big box of Dairy Milk, untouched on Liza’s coffee table, while the two other women wielded chopsticks and discussed how helpful sushi was for dieting.
‘A thought occurred to me last night,’ said Liza. ‘Swans. What do you both think?’
‘Swans, right.’ Ginger wrote it down in her notebook doubtfully.
Swans were beautiful, wild birds and were definitely not to be used as part of a ceremony. She could explain it all to Liza later, she thought and absently reached over and picked up the unopened chocolate box.
Her fingers froze mid-cellophane-rip as she realised Liza and Charlene were staring at her, not a hint of muffin top between them.
‘You skinny girls can eat all the sushi you want, but us big girls like chocolate!’ she said valiantly, and the other two laughed.
‘Ginger, you’re so funny,’ said Liza. ‘I told you she was brilliant, didn’t I?’ she added to Charlene.
Because there was nothing she could do at this point, Ginger had beamed at the other two girls and opened the chocolates rapidly as if she could not possibly exist without oxygen, water and Dairy Milk.
‘Chocolate and nuts, yummy,’ she said, picking up two and putting them in her mouth.
‘You’re fabulous,’ squealed Charlene, who didn’t appear to have much else to say other than fabulous, Ginger thought, with a hint of sourness despite the chocolate melting in her mouth.
No, she thought, stop being an absolute bitch. Just because Charlene and Liza’s apparent closeness meant she appeared to have taken over Ginger’s position as Liza’s best friend, there was no need to take it out on the poor girl.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘What next?’
‘Butterflies,’ said Liza, ‘I’ve been thinking that butterflies would be lovely as soon as we arrive at the hotel.’
‘Right,’ said Ginger in relief, scrawling a big line through swans on her notebook. ‘So, no swans then?’
Butterflies had to be easier to organise, but where did they go afterwards, poor things. She wondered how to nix this idea.
‘No,’ said Liza, ‘swans and butterflies, I mean it’s got to be magical and special.’
‘I’m just a bit nervous about the swans, Liza,’ Ginger said, because she felt this was slightly getting away from them with all the wildlife.
‘Oh for goodness sake, Ginger,’ snapped Charlene, ‘it’s got to be possible to organise swans and butterflies. People do it all the time. I’ve seen it in the magazines. It’s going to be a very special wedding.’
Liza beamed at Charlene and Ginger felt that horrible pang of jealously again. It had been the same the day Liza had gone off to choose her wedding dress. She wasn’t sure how Liza had ended up picking a day when she couldn’t go, but Charlene had been happy to step into the breach, and from all accounts, it had been a glorious day of trekking around beautiful shops trying on fabulous bridal gowns without Ginger.
As the only way Ginger felt she was ever going to get into a wedding shop to look at bridal gowns was with a friend, she felt her chances were gone.
‘Next, we have to discuss the bridesmaids’ dresses,’ Liza went on, looking meaningfully at Ginger. ‘Charlene and I have been speaking about this and we don’t want you to get upset.’
Ginger blinked.
‘Why would I get upset?’ she stammered.
‘Because, you know . . .’
Liza looked at Ginger, who felt every inch of her size eighteen at that exact moment. Nervously she stuffed another chocolate into her mouth and took a big gulp of wine, not a good combination.
‘Er . . . OK, what were you thinking of?’ said Ginger, feeling the colour begin to come up from her chest into her neck.
Soon it would hit her face and she’d be bright orange. She used to go that particularly unappealing shade during sports in school.
; Liza warmed to her theme: ‘I was thinking that we should perhaps go for a similar colour for you and Charlene but a different shape. Charlene loves elegant streamlined dresses, quite like my own actually,’ said Liza. ‘So I’m thinking violet or a sort of a blush pink or . . .’
‘Or crimson,’ said Charlene.
Ginger, who had never hated anyone in her life, felt a tinge of loathing.
Crimson would be absolutely beautiful for someone with Charlene’s colouring and shape. But for a woman who went orange when she flushed, a woman with rippling auburn curls, crimson was the very worst colour in the book.
‘I’m not really much a fan of crimson,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ Both Liza and Charlene stared at her as if she’d just mentioned clubbing baby seals.
‘It doesn’t suit my hair colouring,’ said Ginger.
‘I love the idea of crimson,’ said Liza mournfully.
The Ginger who had let Liza Hannon walk all over her for twenty-six years resurfaced.
‘But, of course, if that’s what you want,’ said Ginger, abandoning all hope of looking beautiful in an elegant bridesmaid’s gown. She was going to look like a giant cherry. Red all over and round.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Liza, ‘let’s pick a date to go shopping.’
In order to keep her cheerful, us-fat-girls-LOVE-chocolate thing going, Ginger had to eat half the box, even though it made her feel ashamed. Comfort eating always did. That was why she could never lose weight: when her heart was heavy, she numbed it with chocolate or biscuits or ice cream. Hating herself for being fat meant she could keep all other feelings at bay.
And for a while, food filled all the dark, sad holes inside her.
Liza and Charlene were still talking about swans, butterflies and how crimson bridesmaids’ dresses could suit redheads if they made the effort.
Liza’s mother had always been on a diet. Maybe Charlene’s had too. Was that the trick, Ginger wondered: to have a mother who showed you how to do dieting and things like make-up or clothes?
Dad was brilliant, but he didn’t know any of that stuff.
‘I’m sorry your Ma isn’t here to help you with this,’ he’d say mournfully, and Ginger would change the subject at speed. Under no circumstances did she want to talk about her mother. The lack of her hurt too much. Some pain needed to be buried deep. The deeper the better.
When she was growing up, he dressed her in the same sort of stuff as her brothers. For years, the three siblings all had the same short haircuts until Ginger was about six and Liza, who’d been her bestest friend for two years, said, ‘Why do you have boys’ hair?’
Ginger had gone home crying to her dad. He’d felt so bad, he always said when he remembered the story now.
‘I said, “Right, long girly, hair, let’s do that. Grace has been nagging me about it, but I said kids get nits in school. Still, we can’t have my girl looking like a boy.” And oh, Ginger my love, when it grew, it was stunning, but the tangles! I wasn’t used to combing out tangles, but we did it. And now look at you,’ he liked to say, pride in every word. ‘Your hair is your crowning glory.’
In misery, Ginger ate another chocolate, swallowing it down like sawdust. Her crowning glory would look horrendous on top of a crimson gown.
She’d had such plans for this wedding: she’d be part of Liza’s life in a way that she wasn’t anymore, not really. Liza hung out with people from work and Ginger was always so busy. This wedding and her being chief bridesmaid would bring the closeness back.
But it wasn’t looking that way at all.
Callie
Callie sat in the back of the limo with Jason on the way home and felt herself relax into the buttery soft leather seat. It had been a wonderful dinner after all. A Saturday night, an elegant restaurant with soft lighting, a jazz pianist in the corner and a busy, happy crowd of diners, enjoying fine dining.
Rob was on form, telling stories, being charming and funny, and Jason – Jason had been his charismatic self.
Everyone, from the sommelier to the waiters, loved him. Her husband treated everyone well – he was not one of those people who talked down to waiters and looked over people’s shoulders to see if another more important personage was in his eyeline.
They’d been celebrating some tricky business deal in Bulgaria and both men were on a high. Vintage champagne had been ordered and as she’d watched Rob dickering over the wine list, laughing that they needed the most expensive vintage, Callie had felt a blast of anger that he’d tried to hide money from her dear friend in the divorce.
It was a sliver of gritty harshness piercing this lovely atmosphere. Did you ever truly know anyone else? Rob always appeared so honest: it was part of his charm, part of why so many people wanted to invest with the business.
Jason noticed the look on her face.
Leaning so that he was close to her neck, he had put one arm round her waist and with the other, he adjusted the platinum and sapphire necklace he’d bought her several years ago, and which worked so wonderfully with the silver lace dress she wore. His large fingers caressed her collarbone delicately.
‘OK, honey? You looked like you might reach over the flowers to stab Rob there for a moment.’
She hauled her anger back in. ‘It’s nothing,’ she lied. ‘Tell you later?’
He nodded.
Now, in the back of the car, she allowed herself to lean against him, smelling his cologne and feeling the warmth of his body as he put an arm around her. She wanted to ask him about Rob, find out if he thought his best pal might really have hidden money from Evelyn in the divorce. But Jason was obviously so happy with the whole evening and she didn’t want to ruin the closeness between them.
‘Great evening,’ he said, loosening his tie and popping his collar button. ‘You looked amazing, babes. Did you see those guys at the table to our right? They kept looking over at me and Rob: full of naked, undisguised envy.’ His hand slid under the bodice of the silvery dress and he cupped her breast with longing.
‘Not in the car!’ she said, although the feeling of his warm hand on her flesh gave her a shiver of desire.
Wonderful, she thought with pleasure. It seemed that Old Crone was off duty tonight. Maybe her menopausal flesh hadn’t withered and died.
Jason’s hand kept stroking. ‘The driver’s paid not to notice or watch.’
‘If I want an audience, I’ll try being a porn star,’ joked Callie. ‘Honey, let’s wait till we get home.’
Reluctantly, he pulled his hand out, but not before squeezing her nipple.
‘Jason!’
‘You look so hot tonight,’ he murmured. ‘Rob and I are lucky guys. Talking of which, what was up with you and Rob? You looked so angry with him. Don’t tell me – Evelyn was spinning more anti-Rob propaganda?’
Just like that, she felt her sexual urges vanish. Callie was so annoyed, she slid across the leather seat away from him.
‘Anti-Rob propaganda?’ she said. ‘He tried to hide assets from her when they were getting divorced. They have three sons, were together since school, Jason. That’s not how you treat someone you respect.’
‘He didn’t hide anything,’ said Jason, jaw tightening. He stared straight ahead, not looking at her, which was what he did when he was angry. ‘Don’t swallow everything you hear, Callie. You’re so bloody naïve sometimes.’
‘I’m naïve?’
‘Yeah, very naïve. Rob was good to Evelyn. He’s a rich man, he didn’t want to give her everything he’d worked his butt off for. So what? Does that make him the bad guy?’
‘They were together since they were teenagers!’ went on Callie. ‘Fine, he didn’t want to pony up every penny he ever had, but please don’t tell me that he treated Evelyn with respect when they were married. He screwed everything that moved, Jason: you knew that, even if you never told me. So he o
wed her decency and some honesty when they were divorcing.’
‘She got a good deal,’ said Jason.
‘Why did she need to get forensic accountants onto it then?’
‘It was a misunderstanding. Rob didn’t want to go through all that. He was good and fair to her in the end. Hell, he was just upset it was over. He loved her, despite the women, you must know that. Rob just needed a bit of variety. He’d have stayed with Evelyn forever if she hadn’t pushed him out.’
Callie said nothing. Was that really what Jason thought? That it would have been better for Evelyn to turn a blind eye to her husband’s philandering and then they’d still have been together?
The car pulled up outside their house and the driver silently got out and opened Callie’s door.
‘Thank you,’ she said, feeling ashamed that this was the first time she’d spoken to the man. Once, she’d have talked to every cab driver.
‘You’re better than nobody and nobody’s better than you, Claire’ – that had been her mother’s mantra.
Now she’d turned into one of those people who said nothing to the man who’d driven her home, and she’d let her husband feel her up in the back of the car, treating the driver like he was nobody, just hired help to be ignored. What sort of awful cow was she turning into?
Thoughts of her mother made her think of the row – again. Her birthday was looming and some of the most important people in her life wouldn’t be there.
That horrible scene from ten years ago was burned into her brain like a cattle brand. Jason and her mother had never got on, but when her mother had come for a rare trip to Dublin, Jason had had a few drinks at dinner at home – Jason would not bring his unworldly mother-in-law out to a posh restaurant – and unwisely, Pat Sheridan had sparked it all off by wondering why they needed such a big house, so much money? Would he never be satisfied? His own mother, long since widowed, missed him. His brother had long left Ireland, whereabouts unknown. Pat had not bitten her tongue on the matter.