Grown Ups

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Nephew’s birthday dinner.’

  ‘So you take a half-day?’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha.’ She was so nervous. ‘Bye.’

  It’s cool, it’s cool, it’s cool, she thought. I’ve totally got this. Just show up, say happy birthday, give him the gift, then go play with the kids. No one will guess anything.

  At home, she let herself in. ‘Hey,’ she called out to Liam. ‘Let’s go.’

  But he looked bedded in for the evening.

  ‘You really going to that prick’s birthday?’ he said.

  She took a breath. ‘Liam, they’re family.’

  ‘Not yours.’ He’d been trying to hurt her. If only he’d known. ‘I’m not going,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I am.’

  He frowned. ‘Wha-at? Really? Driving or cycling?’

  ‘Bus.’ She felt too wobbly to chance driving or – more insane still – cycling through rush-hour traffic.

  ‘Wow.’ His back was still tricky after the holiday. ‘I’d love to be able to jump up on the bike and get a good cycle in.’

  ‘You’ll be better soon.’

  ‘Since when were you a doctor?’

  ‘Hurry up, Mum,’ Vinnie said, as Cara let herself into the house. ‘We’re ready to go to TJ’s.’

  ‘Hello, sweetie.’ Ed kissed her. ‘How did you get on with Peggy?’

  ‘You know, Ed …’ This could be a good time to drop it lightly into the conversation. There’s no need for me to see her. I think I’ll stop. ‘I’m feeling fine. I don’t need to keep going.’

  ‘Honey.’ He looked haunted. ‘She’s your lifeline, you absolutely have to –’

  ‘But I’m doing so well. No compulsions. I’m back to normal.’

  ‘Please don’t stop. Not yet. Sticking with Peggy will give you a much better chance of not relapsing.’

  She wished he wouldn’t say words like ‘relapse’: he made it sound so much more serious than it was.

  ‘Honey, I love you so much.’ He looked dog-tired. ‘But if you start with the food again, I’d have to leave. If I stayed, I’d be enabling you –’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  But today was clearly too soon to change his mind.

  When she’d skipped a few sessions and was still sticking to her plan, she’d have proof that she really was better. She’d tell him then.

  Outside Jessie’s house, Nell faced facts: Perla would be here. Since this insanity had kicked off, she’d become crazy-jealous of Perla. But she could not let it show. A deep breath, a slow exhale, then she was okay to ring the bell.

  The sound of running feet came thumping down the hall. ‘Nell’s here!’

  The door was wrenched wide and Nell was swept into the kitchen by a flotilla of the younger cousins.

  … There he was, taller than everyone else. She couldn’t look at him.

  No sign of Perla yet.

  ‘Nell, Nell, Nell!’ Jessie grabbed her in a hug. ‘Have some wine. Hey. Where’s Liam?’

  ‘His back is still bad …’ She made herself focus on Ferdia. ‘He says sorry.’

  ‘Covering his ass?’ He smiled. ‘You do know you’re waaaaay too good for him.’

  Her face flooded with heat. ‘Happy birthday.’ She gave him a chunky box.

  She focused on his fingers as he carefully unknotted the ribbon and slid his nail under the Sellotape. Every movement of his beautiful hands had her mesmerized.

  ‘What’s in here?’ Easing away the Sellotape, he gave her a quizzical look.

  Methodically he peeled the wrapping paper off the box and removed the lid. Inside was a hand-carved toy car, a sleek walnut Chevrolet, which kicked off a clamour of awe.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Jessie cried.

  ‘Summersgate market.’

  She’d spent too many hours there, when she should have been working, trawling the curiosities at the stalls, looking for something special enough.

  ‘So you’ve given me a plane,’ Ferdia said, ‘and now a car!’

  ‘It’s from Liam too.’ Hah. Liam didn’t even know about it.

  Ferdia ignored that. ‘Birthday hug?’

  She had to step into the circle of his arms, as if he were as safe as Dilly. The heat of his chest travelled through the thin fabric of his shirt, then through her top.

  Tentatively she touched his back, but when her fingertips felt the knobbles of his vertebrae, she stepped, too quickly, away from him. To her relief, the arrival of Ed, Cara and the kids shifted the focus.

  Still no Perla – not even when Jessie laid several platters of Korean dumplings on the table and there was a sudden scramble for chairs. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Jessie wouldn’t have dished up the grub if they were waiting for more people.

  Patrolling with the wine, Johnny stopped at Ferdia. ‘More?’

  ‘No. Pacing myself.’

  ‘Big sesh tonight?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Gig in the Button Factory. You should all come.’ His glance skimmed around the table and snagged on Nell.

  ‘My gig days are long behind me,’ Cara said. ‘If I don’t have a seat, my suffering is unquantifiable.’

  ‘Old age comes to us all,’ Ed said.

  ‘And we’re too young,’ Bridey piped up.

  ‘But Nell could go,’ Dilly said. ‘She’s the right age.’

  ‘Do, Nell,’ Jessie insisted.

  ‘Do,’ Ferdia said.

  ‘Ha-ha.’ She didn’t know if she was being humoured. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘All the days right now. Only eleven days till opening night. Anyone wants free tickets, let me know.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Good.’ She paused. ‘I think. If nothing goes badly wrong between now and Tuesday week, we’ll make it.’

  Once she’d made her escape from Jessie’s, she rang Garr. ‘Where are you at? Meet me? In about forty minutes?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Tell you when I see you.’

  ‘I’ll be in the Long Hall.’

  When she arrived, Garr had a drink waiting.

  ‘I …’ She hardly knew how to get into this. ‘I feel like I don’t love Liam any more.’

  The great thing about Garr – maybe about men in general – was that they didn’t start telling her what they thought she wanted to hear. Triona, for example: she’d have said, ‘Of course you love him! It’s just a phase.’

  ‘Did something happen?’ Garr asked.

  ‘A few somethings but I don’t know that they’re deal-breakers. Maybe I just know the real him now. This is awful, but I actually don’t like him. I married him too quickly, Garr. It was bullshit. Nana McDermott was right. And it’s not fair to him.’

  ‘Talk to him.’

  ‘I’ve tried. He said we’re just getting to know each other better. But the more I know him, the less I like him. I feel like a terrible person.’

  ‘You need to tell him what you’ve told me.’ He paused. ‘Not word for word. Maybe ease up on the negative stuff. You can probably fix this.’

  ‘You think? I feel so guilty about his family – they’ve all been so sound. I love Cara. And Jessie, too, even though she’s stone mad. Ed is great, and Johnny is gas. And the kids. Dilly, TJ, Vinnie and Tom. Even Bridey. Saoirse is a sweetie. And –’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What?’ Garr asked.

  She couldn’t speak.

  Garr’s face was all disbelief. ‘Nell … Jesus Christ, is something going on between you and the young lad? The son? Your nephew?’

  ‘No. No. No way. No.’

  ‘Nell, what?’

  ‘Garr, it’s horrific. I’m … sort of … obsessed with him.’ Tears were pouring down her face. ‘I’m scared out of my mind. Am I mentally ill? Is this a thing?’

  ‘But what age is he? Nineteen? Twenty?’

  ‘Twenty-two. I’m nearly nine years older than him, Garr. But it’s not illegal. Falling in love with your nephew. I loo
ked it up.’

  ‘Oh, Nell. Lemme ask, which came first? Going off Liam? Or getting a thing for the nephew?’

  ‘Going off Liam.’ She needed that to be true. If she’d lost interest in Liam because she’d got a thing for Ferdia, what kind of a person was she?

  ‘Do you fancy your man? Or …?’

  ‘“Fancy” isn’t the word, Garr. I want him so much it’s … insane. I think he’s good, his heart is good. He was an eejit and now he isn’t. And he’s gas and lovely …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, he has a girlfriend.’

  ‘Stay away from him. I totally mean it: stay the hell away from him. And sort your shit out with Liam.’

  ‘Thanks, Garr. I’ll do that.’

  The Button Factory was dark, crowded and very noisy. Had she lost her damn mind? Besides, she’d never find him in this chaos. But there he was, pushing through the people, his gaze intent on hers.

  ‘Nell.’ His eyes glowed. ‘You came.’ He took hold of her face, the palms of his hands rough and soft against her cheeks. Moving so close that they were breathing the same air, he asked, ‘Are you on your own?’

  She could see the pores of his beard, the slight chapping on his lips, how his dark eyelashes clumped spikily together.

  ‘Let me get you a drink.’

  She was seized by fear. ‘Ferdia. No. Sorry. I should go.’

  The surge of panic propelled her through the crowds and out of the front door. In the busy street, she dodged and swerved, putting distance between them, her heart hammering.

  Her phone buzzed with a text. Please come back. She moved faster, trying to breathe away the anxiety in her chest. Her phone began ringing. She shouldn’t talk to him, she couldn’t go back. This was scary and dangerous.

  What had he been doing, holding her face and looking at her like that?

  Maybe he was drunk. Stoned? Just being friendly? Looking to get one over on Liam? Anything was possible. The important thing she needed to keep remembering was that as of right now, at this exact moment in time, she’d done nothing wrong.

  I’m safe. I’m still a normal person. I haven’t done anything bad.

  If she crossed the line, she’d create a whole world of pain and regret. Not just for herself, but for other people, especially Liam. He deserved better.

  Walking fast, she focused on Garr’s advice: to sort her shit out with Liam.

  They needed to talk about the expectations they’d had of each other. They needed to adjust to reality and – maybe – be honest about their disappointments.

  Communication was vital, everyone was always saying that – when they weren’t going on about marriage being ‘hard work’.

  There was also the matter of his baggage: Liam had two daughters whom he never saw. That had to be eating away at his self-esteem.

  By the time she’d reached home, she’d made a decision: she wasn’t giving up yet.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  She was embroidering a barcode onto a ticket for the opening night of Human Salt. It was fiddly, intricate work, so easy to get wrong, and she had several hundred more to do … A hand on her naked hip surprised her. Fingers were pitter-pattering along the top of her thigh, lightly touching off her most sensitive spot, and moving away again. Hot breath on her face, then a voice said thickly, ‘I let you sleep as long as possible.’

  Adrenalin spiked, moving her from the anxiety dream into grim reality. Liam was in the mood for sex. They hadn’t done it since they’d got home from Italy. It was no accident: she’d been keeping out of his way, up early and home late. The few times he’d put the moves on her, she’d been blunt about how knackered she was.

  Today, though, he’d obviously decided she’d had enough of a rest.

  Going through with this would be a challenge. Right now, Liam was just a man with an erection who wanted to have sex with her body. If she refused, it would trigger a crisis. Which she didn’t want. Not after last night’s decision that there was still hope for them.

  I am agreeing to this.

  I am consenting.

  I am doing this to buy myself time.

  She closed her eyes, tried to disappear into her head and reminded herself that she was giving Liam permission to do whatever it was that he was doing.

  It was over quickly. Panting, he lay on top of her. ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine. Tired.’

  ‘Grand.’ He toppled onto the mattress and within seconds was snoring.

  ‘Should I wear my boots?’ Saoirse called, to the household at large.

  ‘It’s sunny!’ Bridey said.

  ‘But it’s September – it’s autumn. What if autumn arrives while I’m out and I’ve to come home in the cold in my sandals?’

  Johnny kept his head down, afraid that Ferdia or Saoirse would ask for a lift to Errislannan.

  Something about this, the turn in the seasons, made him remember other long-ago Saturdays when it had felt as if he practically lived down there.

  After Rory’s death, he’d been given his own key and an open invitation. Almost every weekend, he’d driven there, had a quiet dinner, then watched Saturday-night telly, reassuring in its crapness. Sometimes Keeva dropped in, sometimes Izzy came by, but often Johnny sat there alone with Ellen and Michael and no one seemed to find it odd. Being with Michael had made Johnny feel slightly less weirded out by everything.

  If, for any reason, Michael had to leave the house, Johnny followed him like a faithful dog. When a last-minute ticket-checker was needed for the GAA quiz night, both Michael and Johnny rose from the couch simultaneously. Johnny was quite content to spend ninety useless minutes sitting next to Michael in a draughty porch, watching him tear tickets in two.

  When the Kinsellas’ nearest neighbours were short-handed on a night’s lambing, both Michael and Johnny got up, put on wellingtons and crossed the fields to the barn, where Johnny obediently yanked lambs into the world.

  All the same, he wasn’t doing so well. Even he recognized that.

  At work things, people made polite enquiries about how he was coping without really wanting the answer. He’d perform a palatable version of grief: a soft, wry smile, a sad shake of the head and some platitude, like ‘You learn to live with it.’

  But the truth was, he’d scare people if he told them how he really felt.

  One night, at an industry party, he crossed paths with Yannick, a man he hadn’t seen since Before. He liked him – he’d always seemed warm and easy-going.

  ‘Johnny, how have you been?’

  There followed that weighted pause, the unspoken words: Since Rory died?

  Johnny had had too much to drink and strange thoughts began to leak from his mouth: ‘I … ah. Yannick … You know that painting of the man holding his face? Is it called The Howl?’

  ‘You mean The Scream? By Munch?’

  ‘Maybe I do. The other day I saw it on an oven-glove – I know, an oven-glove. Aren’t people mad?’ He gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Anyway, I saw it and for a split second I thought I was looking into a mirror.’

  Yannick’s pupils flared in alarm. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh.

  ‘Where do we come from?’ Johnny asked. ‘I don’t understand any of it. We get born and we do some stuff and then we die and … why?’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘Does it make any sense to you?’ Johnny realized he was pleading. Abruptly he stopped, made himself smile, and said, ‘I’m doing okay, Yannick. How are you?’

  He struggled on, and one Saturday, not long before the first anniversary, when the leaves were turning red and orange and the air had an autumnal chill, Johnny drove to Errislannan and found Izzy at the kitchen table doing a Sudoku. ‘You’re supposed to be in New York.’

  ‘I broke it off with Tristão. Planes, lemon-scented towelettes … Johnny, suddenly my life seems so flashy.’

  Johnny understood. Rory dying had bumped each of them out of their habitual groove and caused them to re-examine how they were using their s
hort, precious days.

  ‘Those fancy holidays Tristão and I went on …’ Izzy said ‘… all I was doing was experiencing sensations.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘There is if that’s all it is.’ Fiercely she said, ‘Johnny, I want to live in one place and get on a plane twice a year. I want to be part of a community and have a husband and children. I want to be in a book group and join the neighbourhood watch.’

  He said nothing. If that was what she wanted, that was what she wanted.

  ‘What about you, Johnny? You’re not getting any younger.’

  He wanted the same things Izzy did. Over the years, he’d had relationships, some of them looking like they’d go the distance, but whenever it had come to crunch time, he’d backed away. During this time, his feelings for Jessie had risen and fallen. His longing would reach a peak, then ebb away, and for months, maybe even years, they’d be back to being mates. During those spells he was certain he was finally done with it all. But it kept recurring. So much so that he’d wondered if he should just accept that it would continue to afflict him occasionally, as if he were a person prone to chest infections. Meanwhile, he’d got himself a name as a heartbreaker. In his more self-pitying moments he felt that was undeserved, but there was no denying that actually he had, albeit temporarily, broken one or two women.

  Every time another one bit the dust, Izzy would joke, ‘No one’s ever gonna measure up to me, Johnny Casey. You might as well just make your peace with it.’

  They’d always been that way, him and Izzy, sparking off each other. Once upon a time, when they’d all been so ridiculously young and carefree, he and his housemates were woken at 3 a.m. by a persistent ringing on their bell.

  When a bleary Johnny had opened the door, Izzy was outside, laughing. ‘Open wide, as the bishop said to the actress!’

  ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ she said. ‘Where’s your bedroom?’

  He’d tensed. He fancied her but he was besotted with the entire Kinsella clan and he didn’t want complications.

  She had already disappeared up the stairs. ‘Feck’s sake, Johnny Casey,’ she called down. ‘I don’t want to marry you. I just want a ride. C’mon!’