Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  “You know, you don’t actually have to put up with this,” a rebellious little voice whispered in my head.

  “But of course I do,” a dutiful little voice whispered back.

  “No, honestly, you don’t,” replied the first voice.

  “But, but…I agreed to meet him, I have to stay the allotted time. I can’t leave. It wouldn’t be polite,” protested my dutiful part.

  “Polite,” spluttered the rebellious voice, “polite! Is he polite?”

  “Yes, but, I hardly ever meet men and I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and…” explained my dutiful part.

  “I don’t believe what you’re saying,” said the rebellious part, sounding genuinely shocked. “Do you really have such a low opinion of yourself that you’d rather be with a man like this than alone?”

  “But I’m so lonely,” said the dutiful voice.

  “Desperate, you mean,” snorted the rebellious voice.

  “Now that you put it like that…” said the dutiful part reluctantly, loath to turn away a man, any man, even a truly awful man.

  “I do put it like that,” said the rebellious part firmly.

  “Well, okay then, I suppose I could pretend to be sick,” said the dutiful voice. “I could fake a broken leg or a burst appendix, or something.”

  “No, you damn well won’t,” said the rebellious part. “Why spare him? If you’re leaving, do it properly. Let him know how objectionable he is, how obnoxious you find him. Stand up for yourself—make a statement.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t…” protested the dutiful part.

  The rebellious voice was silent.

  “…Could I?”

  “Of course you could,” said my rebellious voice warmly.

  “But…but…what am I to do?” asked the dutiful part, excitement beginning to burn in the pit of its stomach.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Chuck was droning on again.

  “I was on the tube today and no kiddin’ here, Lizzie, I was the only white guy on it…”

  Right! Enough! No more.

  “But I’m afraid of him,” realized my dutiful part. “What if he tracks me down and tortures me and kills me—let’s face it, that’s the kind he seems to be.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the rebellious voice. “He doesn’t know where you live, he doesn’t even have your phone number. All he has is a P.O. box number. Go on! You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Feeling light-headed with unaccustomed power I stood up, gathering my coat and my bag.

  “Excuse me.” I smiled sweetly, interrupting Chuck’s speech about how there should be tighter controls on emigration and how only white people should have a vote. “I’m just going to the little girls’ room.”

  “You gotta take your coat to the rest room?” enquired Chuck.

  “Yes, Chuck,” I said sweetly. Dickhead!

  I walked away from him, my legs shaking. I was afraid but I was also happy.

  I passed our waitress clearing a table and I had so much adrenaline throbbing through me I could barely speak properly.

  “Excuse me,” I said, my words tripping over each other, my tongue far too big for my mouth. “I’m at the table by the window and the gentleman would like a bottle of your most expensive champagne sent over, please.”

  “Certainly,” said the woman.

  “Thank you,” I smiled, and moved past her.

  As soon as I got home I would call the restaurant to make sure that the waitress didn’t end up having to pay for it herself, I decided.

  I reached the Ladies, hesitated for only a moment, then kept on walking. I felt as if I were dreaming. It was only when I crossed over the threshold from the restaurant into the rainy street that I really believed that I had done it, that I had left.

  My initial plan had been to just leave and go home, letting the passage of time be Chuck’s indicator that I was never to return. But that would be a mean thing to do.

  His dinner would get cold while he was waiting for me to get back. And waiting, and waiting…

  Always assuming the revolting man would have the manners to wait for me to get back before tucking into his meal. Nevertheless I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I pulled my coat on, and even though it was a wet, Friday evening, I got a taxi immediately.

  The gods were smiling on me. That was the kind of sign I needed to feel that I had done the right thing.

  “Ladbroke Grove,” I told the driver excitedly, as I clambered in. “But before that can you do me a favour?”

  “Depends,” he said suspiciously. But that’s London cab drivers for you.

  “I’ve just said goodbye to my boyfriend. He’s going away forever and he’s sitting by the window in this restaurant here and I wonder if you could drive slowly by until he sees me so that I can wave farewell one last time.”

  The taxi man seemed genuinely moved by my request.

  “Just like Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner. And I thought that romance was dead,” he said hoarsely, a catch in his voice. “No problem, darling. Just tell me which one he is.”

  “That, er, tanned, handsome man just up there,” I said, pointing to where Chuck was sitting, admiring his reflection in his knife.

  The taxi driver drove up right beside Chuck’s table and I rolled down my window.

  “I’ll turn the light on, love, so he can see you better,” said the driver.

  “Thank you.”

  Chuck twiddled the knife backward and forward, catching his reflection in different lights.

  “Likes ‘imself,” commented my driver.

  “He certainly does.”

  “You sure that’s ‘im, love?” asked the driver doubtfully.

  “Certain.”

  Chuck was starting to look annoyed now. I had obviously spent more time than Meg used to in the Ladies and he didn’t approve.

  “Should I toot the horn, love?” asked my faithful driver.

  “Why not?”

  The driver beeped the horn and Chuck looked out into the street to see what all the commotion was about. I leaned out of the taxi window and waved energetically.

  He smiled in cheery recognition when he saw me and raised his hand to wave back at me.

  But then confusion began to inch its way painfully slowly across his stupid face when he noticed that the familiar looking person he was waving to was actually his date for the evening, the woman he was supposed to be having dinner with, the woman whose scampi-in-the-basket was, as we speak, being placed reverently in front of her empty chair, and that she was sitting in a taxi about to depart the scene. The fledgling cheery wave halted abruptly in its tracks.

  He wrinkled his orange forehead. He didn’t understand. This does not compute. And then the penny dropped.

  The look that appeared on his face was worth it all. When he realized that I was not in the little girls’ room but was in fact escaping in a taxi, it was nothing short of beautiful. It had been worth the whole vile evening just to see the disbelief and rage and fury on his smug, weird, tanned face. He leaped up from his chair, and dropped the knife that he had so admired himself in.

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “What the…?” he mouthed out the window, his face contorted with fury. He looked almost animated.

  “Fuck you!” I mouthed back in at him. Then I thrust both my hands out into the wet night and raised the first two fingers of each hand in a ‘V’ gesture at him, just in case his lip reading wasn’t too good. I made short, sharp upward motions with both my hands for about ten seconds while he stared at me in an impotent fury from the window.

  “Drive,” I ordered.

  The driver put his foot on the accelerator just as two waiters appeared behind Chuck, one with an ice bucket and a white napkin, the other with a bottle of champagne.

  In the cab I realized who Chuck had reminded me of. It was Donny Osmond!

  Donny Osmond singing “Puppy Love.”

  Orange, sinc
ere, soulful Donny Osmond with puppy dog eyes to match his puppy love. But a Donny Osmond for whom the glitter had faded, who had had a hard life, a Donny Osmond who things hadn’t worked out for, a bitter, humourless, right-wing Donny.

  Long before I reached home, I felt guilty about Chuck and the bottle of champagne. It wasn’t fair that he should have to pay for it. Just because he was a nasty, horrible person didn’t mean that I had to behave like one too. So the minute I got into the apartment I called the restaurant.

  “Er, hello,” I said nervously. “I wonder if you can help me. I was in your restaurant earlier and I had to leave suddenly, and before I left I ordered a bottle of champagne for my companion. It was an…er…surprise, and I don’t think he would have wanted to pay. And I want to be sure that the waitress didn’t have it docked from her wages or anything…”

  “An American gentleman?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Yes,” I reluctantly confirmed. Gentleman, my foot!

  “And you must be the woman with the mental illness?” enquired the voice.

  The cheek of him! How dare the voice imply that I was crazy.

  “The American man explained how you often do this kind of thing, that you can’t help yourself.”

  I swallowed my rage.

  “I’ll pay for the champagne,” I muttered.

  “There’s no need,” said the voice. “We have agreed to overlook the damage he’s caused to the furniture if he pays for the champagne.”

  “But it hardly seems fair for him to have to pay for it when he didn’t drink it,” I said.

  “But he did drink it,” said the voice.

  “But he doesn’t drink,” I protested.

  “Yes, he does,” said the voice. “Come and look for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

  “You mean he’s still there?”

  “Oh, yes! And that’s not alcohol-free tequila he’s drinking.”

  Oh God! So now I had turning Chuck into a drunkard on my conscience. But what the hell—it might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

  Now for the TV!

  To my great dismay, Karen and Daniel were in the front room. They were sharing a bottle of wine and were sickeningly holdy-handy, watching my shows on my TV.

  “You’re home early,” said Karen, annoyed.

  “Mmmmmm,” I said noncommittally.

  I was annoyed also. That means no TV for me. I couldn’t stay in the same room as Karen and Daniel while they were cuddling. I would have to go and sit in my bedroom while they stretched out on the couch and Karen put her head in

  Daniel’s lap and Daniel stroked Karen’s hair, and Karen stroked Daniel’s…well, whatever else they got up to, which I didn’t really want to think about.

  They were so lovey-dovey, they were disgusting.

  Charlotte and Simon never made me feel awkward, I just didn’t know what it was about Daniel and Karen.

  “How are you?” asked Daniel, looking all smug and superior.

  “Fine,” I said airily.

  “And how was your blind American?” asked Daniel.

  “Crazy.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Oh Lucy, not again,” sighed Karen. “You’re beginning to make a habit of this kind of thing.”

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  “Good,” said Karen, winking lasciviously at Daniel.

  “Ha, ha,” I said, keen to seem like a good sport. “Good night.”

  “Lucy, don’t feel you have to leave just because we’re here,” said Daniel, polite as ever.

  “Do,” corrected Karen.

  “Stay,” urged Daniel.

  “Don’t,” laughed Karen.

  “Karen, don’t be so rude,” said Daniel, looking embarrassed.

  “I’m not being rude,” smiled Karen. “I’m just being honest. I’m letting Lucy know where she stands.”

  I went, feeling inexplicably tearful.

  “Oh, by the way, Lucy,” called Karen after me.

  “What?” I asked, standing by the door.

  “There was a phone call for you.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Gus.”

  Chapter 47

  A great load tumbled from me and I breathed out, a long, delicious sigh—I’d been waiting to do that for three weeks.

  “Well, what did he say?” I demanded, excitedly.

  “That he’d call again in an hour and that if you weren’t back then he’d call every hour until you got home.”

  Happiness flooded through me. He hadn’t abandoned me, I hadn’t done anything wrong, my position hadn’t been usurped by Mandy.

  A thought struck me.

  “Where did you say I was?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Out.”

  “Out with a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! That might worry him. What time is he calling back at?”

  Karen sat up straight and stared at me.

  “Why?” she asked. “Surely you’re not going to speak to him?”

  “Er, yes, I am,” I said sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Daniel shook his head in a “will she ever learn” kind of way and gave an exasperated little smile. The gall! What would he know of the agonies of unrequited or semi-requited love?

  “Haven’t you any self-respect?” asked Karen disbelievingly.

  “No,” I said absently, wondering what tone I should adopt with Gus—amused? cross? stern?

  I knew I was going to forgive him—it was only a question of how hard I was going to make him work for it.

  “Well, it’s your funeral,” said Karen, turning away from me. “He should call in about twenty minutes.”

  I went to my room and jumped up and down with delight. Twenty minutes—how could I contain myself?

  But I had to be calm, I couldn’t let him know how thrilled I was so I forced myself to take deep breaths.

  But I couldn’t stop smiling—at five to ten, I’d be speaking to Gus, Gus whom I thought I’d lost forever, and I could barely wait.

  When my digital alarm clock said nine-fifty-five, I placed my feet in the starting blocks and waited for the starter gun.

  And waited. And waited…

  He didn’t call. Of course, he didn’t call.

  How could I have possibly thought he might?

  So that I wouldn’t cry, I fed myself all the usual excuses. My clock could be fast. Gus couldn’t tell the difference between five minutes and an hour, he was probably in a pub where, if there was a phone at all, it was probably broken and if it wasn’t broken it was probably being hogged by some young woman from Galway on a marathon tearful call home.

  But after eleven I admitted defeat and went to bed.

  “The little bastard,” I thought angrily. “He had his chance and he blew it. When he does ring, I’m not going to speak to him. And if I do speak to him, it’ll only be to tell him that I’m not speaking to him.”

  Some time later I heard the doorbell ring and I sat up in bed in horror. Oh no! He was here, on the premises and I’d taken my makeup off! Christ, what a disaster. I leaped out of bed and heard Karen or Daniel pressing the buzzer.

  “You keep him talking,” I hissed at Karen, sticking my head out of my bedroom door. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  “Keep who talking?” she asked.

  “Gus, of course.”

  “Why, where is he?”

  “On his way up—you’ve just buzzed him in.”

  “No, I haven’t,” she said.

  “Yes, you have,” I insisted. “Just now.”

  She was behaving very oddly, but she didn’t look drunk.

  “No, I haven’t,” she insisted. She looked at me closely. “Are you all right, Lucy?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s you I’m worried about. If it wasn’t Gus, then who did you open the door for?”

  “The pizza man.”

  “What pizza man?”

 
; “The pizza man delivering the pizza for me and Daniel.”

  “But, where?”

  “Here,” she said, flinging open the front door, revealing a man in a red plastic suit and a bike helmet, with a cardboard box in his hands.

  “Daniel,” she shouted. “Get out the plates and napkins.”

  “I see,” I whispered, and slunk back to bed.

  Why had Gus ever bothered phoning at all, I wondered tearfully. What good had it done me? None whatsoever. Just caused upset and upheaval.

  Hours later, when everyone was in bed and the flat was in darkness, the phone rang. I woke immediately—even in

  my sleep my nerves were still on full alert, hoping for Gus’s call. I stumbled out into the hall to answer it because I knew it had to be Gus—no one else would call at such an hour, but I was too asleep to be happy about it.

  Gus sounded drunk.

  “Can I come over, Lucy?” was the first thing he said.

  “No,” I said, as I wondered, “Whatever happened to ‘Hello’?”

  “But I must see you, Lucy,” he shouted passionately.

  “And I must get my sleep.”

  “Lucy, Lucy, where’s your fire, your passion? Sleep indeed. You can sleep anytime. But it’s not every day we get the chance to be together.”

  I knew that only too well.

  “Lucy, please,” he said. “You’re angry at me, is that it?”

  “Yes, I’m angry at you,” I said evenly, trying not to sound so angry to frighten him away.

  “But please, Lucy, I’ve got an excuse,” he promised.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “The dog ate my homework, my alarm clock didn’t go off, my bike got a flat.”

  I didn’t think it was funny.

  “Oh-oh,” he sang. “She’s gone all quiet on me, that must mean that she’s mad again,” he said. “Seriously, Lucy, I do have an excuse.”

  “Please tell me it.”

  “Not over the phone. I’d rather come and see you.”

  “You won’t see me until I hear your excuse,” I said.

  “You’re a hard woman, Lucy Sullivan,” he shouted sadly. “Hard! Cruel!”

  “The excuse?” I asked politely.

  “It’s really better if I explain it in my full three dimensions. Disembodied voices aren’t half as good,” he said wheedlingly. “Please, Lucy, I hate the phone.”