The Brightest Star in the Sky

by Marian Keyes

  “Who are you?” she whispered. She’d closed her eyes tightly because she was afraid that if she looked in her dressing-table mirror, she’d see a figure sitting next to her.

  I’m good at this. So good that sometimes I even scare myself.

  “Who are you?” she repeated.

  Me? I am the wind in the trees, the dew on the petals, the rain in the air.

  Ah no, only joking.

  “Granny,” she said. “Is it you?”

  No, Katie, I’m not your dead granny.

  Katie had been very fond of Granny Spade, her mother’s mother. In a way, Granny Spade had been the saving of Katie in the wake of the breakup with Jason. Initially, the split had been fairly unacrimonious, no third parties involved, precious little wrangling over CD collections; Katie was sad but hadn’t lost her faith in hope, happiness and the triumph of the human spirit.

  Until . . . yes, until, four short months after their tearful farewell, word reached her that Jason had a new girlfriend (Portuguese) and—astonishingly—she was pregnant. In the twinkling of an eye, like milk curdling, Katie went bitter. Indeed, her condition got so bad that she had to go to a de-bittering course. (Called Beyond Bitterness: Letting go of blame and learning to love again.) Granny Spade had suggested it on her deathbed. “You’ve become very sour, Katie,” she said. “Go to this course.” She pressed a leaflet into Katie’s hand, then promptly snuffed it. Well, a deathbed request was a deathbed request and Katie was not the kind of person to run the risk of being haunted by an unquiet spirit. It was hard enough to keep her flat tidy without her dead granny flinging eggs around and smashing mirrors and generally making a shambles of the place.

  Every Friday night for four weeks, Katie had to attend and the gist of everything she learned could be reduced to one sentence: the only way to get past bitterness is not, as she had expected, to go and burn down Jason and Donanda’s house but—could you credit it?—to wish them well. In the course of the four weeks, she was encouraged to do impossible things like visualize Jason and Donanda having everything she, Katie, had ever wanted: three children, a flat stomach, someone to do her ironing. The first time she tried it, she dry-retched.

  It was very, very difficult. But, spurred on in no small part by fear of the ghost of Granny Spade, she kept at it and, by the end, she was different from the person she’d been when she started.

  Of course, there were still times when she took pleasure from having lively conversations in her head with all the people who’d ever done her wrong, in which she won every verbal joust and reduced them to remorseful wrecks, but for much of her life she was free.

  Day 50

  “Well, excuse me.” Lydia barreled into the bathroom, in her nightdress (actually, a T-shirt, an old one of Gilbert’s that he’d been about to give to the charity shop and she’d rescued) and collided with Andrei, who was cleaning his teeth.

  She’d overslept. How, when she’d lost so much work lately, could she have overslept? Every second that passed without her being on the road, she was losing money. In a panic, she needed to shower and get moving fast but there was a half-naked Pole in her bathroom. There he was with his bare chest and his muscly arms and nothing but a small towel wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. The . . . the cheek of him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, flapping her arms impatiently.

  He raised an eyebrow in sarcastic query: what did she think he was doing?

  “Whateves,” she said. “Just get out. I’m late. I need to shower.” There was a very brief window of time in which she could bear to wash herself; she had to maximize her chances.

  But why should he get out, Andrei asked himself. He too had a job. He too had ablutions to perform. And—not to be childish about things—he was here first.

  “Outttt,” she repeated, with menace. “Tttettte. And,” she raised her voice in wild irritation, “would you fecking dress yourself !”

  Andrei had thought that Lydia had already left for the day; she usually started work at some ungodly hour. He’d assumed he was within his rights to be in his own bathroom wearing only a towel.

  Surprising them both, he reached out his right arm, his shoulder shifting like there were ropes under his skin, and pulled her to him. Her feet resisted, but he was too strong for her and she found herself pressed against his bare chest. His arm felt rock-like against her back, so hard it didn’t feel human.

  Like the metal bars to stop you falling out of roller coasters.

  Speechless at his audacity, that he’d had the nerve to touch her, she moved her eyes past his smooth pectorals to gaze up at him. Frozen in the moment, he gazed down at her. His minty breath was fresh on her face and his eyes blazed blue. She was close enough to see that he hadn’t yet shaved.

  Heat blossomed between them and they both became aware of a growing hardness beneath the towel, then she shook herself free and he gave her one last, puzzled look, before turning away.

  Day 50 . . .

  Maeve was crouched over on herself, her hand in front of her mouth. “I just keep thinking . . .” she eventually said, then meandered off into silence.

  Dr. Shrigley gazed calmly at her.

  Dr. Shrigley was a psychotherapist. Tall, lean and beautiful in a bony-faced way, she was wearing penny loafers, a navy eco-cashmere cardigan that she might have stolen from her husband, and buff-colored, fair-trade chinos that might also have been stolen from her husband. A calm, intellectual lefty, she wore no makeup, had no time for any silliness. You need only look at her to deduce that she read hardback biographies of worthy women and stayed up late drinking red wine and arguing about deconstructionism. There was also a decent chance that she might be good at sailing.

  Her kindly trade was purveyed from a clinic in Eglinton Road, from a small plain room furnished with two comfortable-but-not-too-comfortable chairs. A box of tissues sat invitingly on a self-effacing little table.

  As Maeve contorted herself into a miserable-looking pretzel, Dr. Shrigley presented a wonderful expression: concerned but not patronizing; patient but not martyred; interested but not prurient. She gave the impression she could wait all day, or at least until the hour was up, and that it wouldn’t matter a whit if no one said anything. But if Maeve did open her mouth, well, then she’d be delighted to hear whatever she had to say.

  No wonder people have to study for so long to be therapists; it could take years to accomplish that look.

  Dr. Shrigley was a good woman. Behind her mask of professional detachment, she pulsed on a loving, caring frequency. Although she knew it was a gross violation of boundaries, she couldn’t help worrying about Maeve. She thought of her often, between their weekly sessions. She could see the person Maeve had once been and sometimes she caught glimpses of the person Maeve could become if she stuck with things, but she was afraid that Maeve would run out of hope and abandon the process before she was healed and whole again.

  After some time, Maeve spoke. “I always thought the best of people. I thought the world was a good place. But now . . .”

  “Your trust has been violated and recovery takes time.”

  “But how much longer? It’s taking so long!”

  Dr. Shrigley tried to smile reassuringly but her mouth trembled a little. “This is your journey, Maeve. It’s hard, but you are doing it. Putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward.”

  “Will I ever feel okay again?”

  “Yes. But there’s no time frame.”

  “I’m still doing my daily Act of Kindness and I write my Trio of Blessings every night. I’ve been doing it for months now. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  Dr. Shrigley nodded. She feared that Maeve put too much faith in those practices, but at the same time it probably didn’t do her any actual harm. “That’s certainly one way to try to regain your faith in the goodness of the world.”

  Maeve nodded.

  “Time’s up now,” Dr. Shrigley said. “Same time next week?”

&nbs
p; Maeve nodded again.

  “And your cancellation last week . . .? You were just not feeling well? That was all?”

  Maeve couldn’t make eye contact. “That was all.”

  Maeve needed to cycle fast, to cycle away the feelings. She got a lovely long run of it along Ranelagh Road, her legs pumping, her lungs taking in gulps of air, and when she saw that the lights up ahead were red, she couldn’t bear to stop. She’d take her chances. She shot out into the danger zone, and suddenly a car was there, about to sideswipe her. She pedaled faster and the car swerved and, with lots of beeping behind her, she crossed to safety. It had taken only a second or so. Her heart was beating like the clappers. That had been really, really risky, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself, and she was safe now, wasn’t she? For a moment, she was actually elated, but that feeling began to drain away the closer she got to home. It was that Fionn. She didn’t want to bump into him. She’d seen him again this morning when she’d come out of the house with Matt. He was getting into a car and he’d stopped and stared at her with such . . . such . . . If the driver hadn’t hustled him into the back seat, he might have come over to her, and even as the car had driven away Fionn had gazed out through the back window until they turned the corner at the end of the road.

  Day 49

  Katie had spent a fortune on her dress. And a fortune on her shoes—gold sandals, Dolce & Gabbana, very glamorous. And a fortune on her hair. And now she was having a deluxe pedicure. Conall was picking her up in an hour, which gave her plenty of time to get home, change into—Her phone double-beeped and she knew: he was canceling on her.

  Still in Helsinki. Emergency. Very very very sorry.

  She read it again, wanting it to say something different, then she swallowed hard and her throat tightened with the onset of angry tears. She wanted to kick something but her toenails weren’t dry and she wasn’t going to risk her pedicure. He wasn’t worth it. If she had to go to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding on her own, at least she could hold her head up, secure in the knowledge that her feet were second to none.

  As it happened, the pedicure was a godsend, especially during the church bit. It took her mind off the radiant beauty of Donanda, the sincerity of Jason’s vows and the pitying sidelong glances from those who’d been friends of Katie’n’Jason but who had backed the winning side after the split. Indeed, her embellished feet were nothing short of a lifeline when Jason and Donanda’s little girl presented the rings on a white velvet cushion. You may have a delicious toddler daughter wearing a crown of flowers,but I have beautiful pink toenails.

  However, when she got to the restaurant, her poise faltered: the room-plan revealed that she was seated at TST—The Shit Table.

  She gave herself a pep talk, counseling against paranoia. She and Jason were fond of each other, why would he insult her? But her table was right down at the back, with a wall on two sides—one beside her, one opposite her. The other guests, all Portuguese, clearly part of Donanda’s extended family, were four ancient, black-clad women and a burly man in his fifties who sported a magnificent mustache and a shirt opened to mid-chest. They didn’t speak a word of English. Yes, undeniably the shit table.

  There was one empty space—apart from the seat that Conall wouldn’t be filling—and Katie hung all her hopes on it. She couldn’t believe it when she saw a dishevelled, very attractive man approaching. What had he done to merit a place at TST? Obviously, some family black sheep. Drug problems. Embezzlement, perhaps. They’d decided to put him somewhere he couldn’t do much damage.

  As he got closer, the alarm on his face became visible. He picked up his name tag and read the gold calligraphy as if he couldn’t believe it was true then, with eyes that bulged with panic, he scanned the six eager faces, slipped his name tag into his pocket and scarpered.

  “They never saw him again,” Katie said.

  Joking aside, this was it. No one else would be joining them. She was stuck.

  With exaggerated gallantry, the man with the mustache moved places so that he was beside Katie.

  “Ohhh-hooooh!” All the old women egged him on. Clearly they doted on him.

  He hit his chest and said, “I, Nobbie.”

  “Katie.”

  “You har bee-oodiful kwoman.”

  “You have a magnificent mustache. You must be very proud of it.”

  “Donanda great-aunt.” One of the women pointed at herself. Then she indicated the other three women. “Great-aunt, great-aunt, great-aunt.”

  Katie poked a finger at Nobbie and said, “Great-aunt?”

  Well, how they laughed!

  “Oncle, oncle,” Nobbie said, in his deep, macho voice. “You?”

  “Ex-girlfriend of Jason’s,” she explained, as if they spoke perfect English. “Probably the love of my life.” The Portuguese people nodded politely. “From thirty-one to thirty-seven. I’ll tell you what was gas.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward in a confiding manner. “We decided it was time to have a baby and it was only when we had to have lots of sex that we discovered we didn’t fancy each other any longer! Terrible, as you can imagine. For a while I thought I was going to lose my reason.” The Portuguese people were starting to look nervous. But, in fairness, Katie thought, they had asked. “Then Jason met Donanda.”

  “Donanda.” They nodded to each other, relieved to understand something. “Donanda.”

  “When she got knocked up I was devastated. Then after a year or two I met Conall, who sadly couldn’t be here today because he’s slashing jobs in Helsinki. So I’m here on my own to celebrate the marriage of my ex-boyfriend!” The moment she finished, shame washed over her. These poor people were only trying to make conversation. What was she like? She had been a far nicer person when she was in her thirties.

  Instantly, she resolved to be extra-polite and kind but making small talk across a language divide was hard work and it was a long reception, with rambling speeches and terrifyingly lengthy gaps between the courses. And there was no respite. The few familiar faces in the crowd no longer counted as allies; they’d cut off all contact with her in the wake of the split. Indeed, they were the only reason she didn’t simply get up and leave—she could just hear their fake pity: “Poor Katie, poor, poor Katie. Her imaginary boyfriend couldn’t make it and she had to come on her own. And did you see her shoes? Can you imagine what they cost? Well, when you’re childless, you might as well try to fill the hole in your heart with gold sandals.”

  Funnily enough, the most painful emotion she was feeling was boredom. It was just so bloody tedious. She would have loved a magazine to flick through. Now and then she’d stick her foot out and admire her toenails: they were still nice. Then she’d get up and go to the ladies, just for the laugh. On one of her excursions, Jason lunged at her.

  “Is your table okay?” he asked. “Because your boyfriend speaks Portuguese we thought it would be a good idea . . .”

  Conall spoke Portuguese? News to Katie. That was because Conall was a liar. A liar who had promised he would definitely be here with her today and who wouldn’t shame her by coming up with some urgent work thing at the last minute.

  “Yes, Jason, Conall is accomplished at many things.”

  Most of all lying.

  “I must be off now. Enjoy being married to someone other than me.” Up to that point, she’d gone easy on the drink because a) she was driving, b) she didn’t want to get scuttered and start crying and get Jason in a headlock and slur at him, “Remember the time you made the picnic for me in bed? And remember the time we . . . And remember the time I . . . Six years, Jason, six YEARS. And here you are, getting married to a Portuguese woman and I’m going out with a liar.”

  But when she got back to the table, all her resolve was gone and she drank four double rum and Cokes in twenty-three minutes (curiously, a drink she’d never before had in her life), then she was drunk, then she wanted to go home and she was unfit to drive and had to get a taxi.

  To her surprise, her taxi driver was a g
irl. And Katie knew her! They lived in the same house!

  “I never knew you were a taxi driver!”

  “You know now.”

  After driving some distance in silence, the girl asked, “Nice night?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “I was at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”

  “Who? The testy looking bloke who comes with the flowers?”

  “Who—? Oh you mean Conall. No, another ex-boyfriend.”

  Day 48

  Lydia slammed her door shut and cantered down the stairs, deep in thought. It was a fairly new thing for Lydia, loving her mum. Not that she’d previously disliked her or anything; if she noticed her at all, it was with a vague, fuzzy fondness. Ellen had always been a warm, capable presence in the background, the glue that held things together; she calmed down Auggie’s scattergun anger and quietly provided high-quality catering and laundry services even though she was also a full-time member of Operation Duffy (“Wheel get you there!”).

  Now and again, like when Lydia witnessed Poppy in tears because her mother, Mrs. Batch, a sour, disappointed woman, was making her feel like a failure for not getting married at nineteen to a dentist, the way her perfect cousin Cecily had, Lydia realized that, as mums went, she’d got herself a good one. But she and Mum, they weren’t, like, best of friends or anything. Not like Shoane and her mum, Call-me-Carmel. But Call-me-Carmel was freaky; she dressed just like Shoane—they swapped clothes—and she’d come out drinking with them one car-crash night and got into a face-lock with a bloke who couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven. It had been unbelievably horrific and it had plunged Lydia into deep gratitude for Ellen. Ellen would never, ever, behave like Call-me-Carmel. Ellen was the best mum in the world! But the moment passed and all the other stuff in Lydia’s head rushed back in—hair care and hangovers and flatmates and boyfriends and overdrafts and nice trainers—and her mum sank back to where she usually lived, buried several layers down.