by Marian Keyes
‘I’ll take that as a no then, will I?’
‘No. “No” is just a different type of opportunity. I don’t believe in the word “no”.’
‘But you just said it.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Later I tried Gerry Baker, Dad’s golf partner, who did a big, fake, mortified laugh. ‘I thought I might be hearing from you. Well, from your mother, actually. I suppose you want me to have a word in his ear.’
‘Yes!’ Thank Christ, someone who was prepared to help. ‘Would you?’
‘Go on outathat. He’ll come to his senses in his own good time.’
Disconsolate, I rang Mrs Tyndal, in the hope that she might take Mam under her wing. No chance. She was noticeably cool then pretended someone was at the front door, just to get rid of me.
I’d heard abandoned women complaining that their ‘friends’ would no longer play with them in case they tried to nick their husbands. I’d put it down to paranoia, but it was true.
I didn’t get home that night until almost 1 a.m. Mam was still awake, but to my surprise she seemed a bit better. The dead, draggy look in her eyes had lessened and she had a lighter air around her. Then I found out why.
‘I read that book,’ she said, almost jauntily.
‘What book?’
‘That Mimi’s Remedies. It was the nicest thing.’
‘It was?’ I was suddenly very frightened. I didn’t want anyone to like it.
‘It cheered me right up. And you never said it was by Lily! It was only when I saw her photo at the back that I realized. What a great achievement, to write a book.’ Then she said wistfully, ‘I was very fond of Lily, she was always so kind!’
‘Excuse me, he-llo! She stole my boyfriend, remember?’
‘Er, yes. So has she written any more books?’
‘One,’ I said shortly. ‘But it hasn’t been published.’
‘Why not?’ Mam sounded indignant.
‘Because… because nobody liked it.’ I was being cruel. Some literary agents had sort of liked it. They’d nearly liked it. If only she’d take out this character or change the setting to Maine or write it in the present tense…
For years Lily had written and rewritten the book – what was it called? Something to do with water? Oh, Crystal Clear, that was it. But even when she’d made the requested changes, still no one wanted it. Nevertheless she’d succeeded in getting rejected by not just one, not even two, but three agents and I’d been highly impressed by that.
‘I’m going to lend this Mimi’s Remedies to Mrs Kelly,’ Mam said. ‘She likes a good read.’
Mam liking Lily’s book retriggered the anxiety that my horrible week had managed to obscure; the first chance I got the following day, I rang Cody. He wasn’t in the office so I got him on his mobile. He was breathing heavily and I deduced he was on the treadmill. Either that or having sex. ‘How’s Lily’s book doing?’
‘Not setting the world on fire.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Now, now.’
‘Ah, fuck off.’
Then, almost hesitantly, he asked, ‘Have you read it?’
‘Course! The maddest yoke ever. Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
He paused. ‘I thought… actually, it was beautiful.’
I thought he was being sarcastic, I mean this was Cody.
Then I realized he wasn’t and the fear nearly killed me. If Cody, the biggest cynic on the planet, thought it was beautiful, then it must be.
8
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: The demon drink
Saturday night was Cody’s birthday – need I say any more? He had a knees-up in Marmoset, Dublin’s newest restaurant, with twenty of his closest friends and he was raging that I didn’t bring my full organizational skills to bear on it. In fact, it’s only because I’m more afraid of him than I am of Mam that I was there at all. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the relief of Davinia’s wedding going off without too many hitches coupled with the strain of my home life, meant I went pure mental.
Clearly I was worried from the off because I constructed a foolproof plan to keep me on the straight and narrow: I wouldn’t drink wine because with the constant refills, you can’t control the quantities. Instead I’d drink vodkas and tonic and – here’s the foolproof bit – after each one I’d move the slice of lemon to the fresh glass. Thereby keeping a tally on the number of drinks I’d had and when the glass was so full of lemon slices that no more drink could fit in, then it was time to go home. Ingenious, no?
No.
I was one of the last to arrive, not just because Mam kept constructing excuses to stop me from leaving but because Marmoset is one of those pitiful establishments that doesn’t advertise its existence – no name, no street number, no windows. Just like all the cool places did in New York and London five years ago. Anyway, in I go and there’s Princess Cody at the head of the table, receiving his presents. I was in trouble because that afternoon was the first time Mam had let me go shopping since this business with Dad began, and the excitement kind of went to my head and I couldn’t decide where to start or what to buy. So instead of buying Cody a birthday present, I ended up buying – of all things – a coal scuttle. Don’t ask me why, but something about it appealed to me; I was cutting through the homeware department in Dunne’s when I saw it and suddenly I really wanted it. Then – and you’re to keep this to yourself – I went to the toy department and bought myself a fairy wand. It’s a glittery silver star, backed with lilac fluff. I’m puzzled and ashamed by how much I wanted it and I’ve decided it’s because with Dad doing a runner I’ve been robbed of my childhood and this was an attempt to recapture it.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that there was only time left to buy Cody a bottle of champagne and stick a rosette on it, which went on crooked because I seem to have a permanent dose of the shakes, and when I gave it to him, he did his haughty displeased face and sez acidly, ‘I can tell you put a lot of thought into that.’
I was about to turn on my heel and go home to watch Winning Streak with Mam. ‘I don’t have to stay here to be insulted,’ I said. ‘There’s loads of other places I can go.’
So he – roll out the flags! – apologized and made Trevor get up so I could sit at his right hand.
It was the usual Cody crowd: screechy, good-looking and great fun. The men had had manicures and the women were all super-groomed and no stranger to Burberry. Sylvie was there and Jennifer and some other ones whose names I can’t remember at the moment.
I launched myself with gusto into the V&Ts and all in all I was having a great old time. Then I mentioned to Cody how much I was enjoying the novelty of eating my dinner off a dinner plate because we’ve been making do with side-plates at Mam’s since the day she smashed them all and I haven’t found time to buy new ones.
So Cody jing-jinged his knife on his glass (knocking a lump of parsnip into his champagne and not even noticing), called for a hush and made me tell the story about Dad leaving. As I was on my sixth vodka, it didn’t seem terrible any more but strangely funny. I had the attention of the entire table as they creased and choked in convulsions at my description of Dad’s new look, of the trip in the ambulance and the many visits to the chemist. Then I told them about the week I’d had, my 5 a.m. starts, then getting home from Kildare at 1 a.m. How, on the morning of the wedding, the main consignment of portaloos turned up in an awful state, and no one would clean them because it wasn’t their job, so I had to roll up the sleeves of my wedding suit, don Marigolds and wield a toilet brush. And as I scrubbed I had to leave on my dramatic peacock-feathered hair ornament because there was nowhere clean to put it down.
At the time it had been repulsive but as I regaled the party, I suddenly saw the funny side. It was HILARIOUS. So hilarious that at some stage I found myself roaring-crying. Sylvie and Raymond took me to the ladies’ to ti
dy me up, then I ordered another vodka and tonic and I was back on track.
I told everyone about the tiramisu bar, even the waiters and people at other tables.
After that things get a bit hazy. I remember that the bill was horrific and everyone blamed me beca use the V&Ts were a tenner a pop, and I’d had at least eleven of them. Hazier still is a paper-thin memory of me refusing to leave Marmoset because I still had room for three or four more bits of lemon in my glass. Followed by an image which may or may not be a dream of me getting into a taxi with Cody and Sylvie and somehow managing to close the door on my ear – although my ear is like purple sprouting broccoli today so perhaps it really did happen. Then I knew no more…
I paused. If I didn’t condense what happened next this email would be as long as War and Peace. Because the morning after Cody’s party I woke up in my own bed in my own flat and even before I discovered I was inside the duvet cover, I was full of foreboding. I had a strange unarranged feeling about me and further investigation revealed that I was fully dressed but my bra was open under my dress and my knickers were pulled down to the top of my thighs, but my tights were still fully on. As soon as I was aware of it, it became so uncomfortable I couldn’t bear it.
While I was wriggling around trying to fix myself I – as you do – glanced over the side of the bed and there, thrown on the floor like a police outline of a corpse, was a man. Dark hair, wearing a suit. I had no idea who he was. None. He opened one eye and squinted up at me and said, ‘Morning.’
‘Morning,’ I replied.
He opened his second eye and then I thought I knew him. I recognized the face, I was pretty sure of it.
‘Owen,’ he supplied. ‘You met me last night in Hamman.’
Hamman was a hot new bar – I had no idea I’d been there.
‘Why are you lying on the floor?’ I asked.
‘Because you pushed me out.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Freezing.’
‘You look very young.’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘I’m more than that.’ Looking around the room, I said, ‘What’s my coal scuttle doing in here?’
‘You brought it in to show me. You told a lot of people about it last night, you seemed very proud of it. Quite right too,’ he added. ‘It’s a beauty.’
He was taking the piss and I wanted him to go away and for me to go back to sleep and find I’d imagined it all.
‘You’re in the horrors,’ he said, which was pretty observant. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and then I’ll be off.’
I cried, ‘No tea!’
‘Coffee?’
‘OK.’
And the next thing I knew was I’d jerked awake, my mouth was lined with sheepskin, and I was wondering if I’d dreamt it all. But there was the cup of coffee beside me – stone cold –I’d lapsed back into my coma before managing to drink it. And the coal scuttle was still on top of my dressing table and all kinds of lovely things – nail varnishes, toner, my Origins powder – were spilled and scattered around the floor looking to my morning-after-the-night-before eyes like rag-doll victims of a car crash.
It was horrific and when I got out of bed my legs nearly gave way on my first attempt to stand. In the front room the cushions had been knocked off the couch, like someone (me and Owen?) had had a wrestling match on it. Sticky red rings patterned my lovely wooden floor, courtesy of an open bottle of red wine and there was a horrible blood-like stain on my eighty per cent wool silver-grey rug. From the broken glass around the stain it looked like we’d landed on a wine glass during the wrestling bout.
Then I was really in the horrors when I thought the wooden floor had come out in strange silver bubbles but a closer look showed that it was just loads of CDs scattered around the room and catching the sun. Out in the hall, an extremely angry note had been shoved under the door: Gary and Gaye upstairs, complaining about the noise. They were RAGING and I wished I was dead. I would have to apologize and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to speak again.
Obviously this sort of scene was once par for the course every Saturday and Sunday morning, but it was literally years –well, a year, anyway – since I’d gone this mad.
Mind you, something must have changed since the last time I brought home a man I couldn’t even remember meeting, because the smart-arse youth had left me a note. I thought those sort of blokes normally scarpered at 4 a.m. with their underpants in the pockets, never to be seen again. The note – scribbled with my eyeliner on a colonic irrigation flyer (I’d been sent millions of them) – said:
Coal Scuttle Angel, I find you strangely alluring. Let’s do it again sometime. I’ll call you, just as soon as my bruises have healed. Owen
PSLive long and prosper.
I’ll call you.
With those words something made its way through my aching eye-sockets, my bruised hair, into my swollen brain and I knew that the horrible ominous feeling weighing me down wasn’t just the hangover horrors, but Mam! My eyes went to the phone – I was almost afraid to look. The answering machine light was hopping; it looked like it was going at triple speed, like it was furious. (Could that actually happen? Does it speed up if you’ve got a lot of unlistened-to messages on it?)
Oh the dread. The horrible, awful, dreadful, dready dread. Like my alarm clock didn’t go off and I missed my best friend’s wedding, a free flight on Concorde to Barbados, life-saving surgery…
I wasn’t supposed to be in my flat. I should have gone back to Mam’s last night. I’d promised, it was the only way I was able to persuade her to let me out at all. But how could I have forgotten? How could I have gone back to sleep this morning? How could I not have remembered about her until now?
I pressed ‘play’ and when the flat Margaret Thatcher voice intoned, ‘You – have – ten – new – messages,’ I wanted to die. The first four were from Gary and Gaye upstairs. They were very, very angry. Then the messages from Mam began. The first one was at five in the morning. ‘Where are you? Why haven’t you come home? Why aren’t you answering your mobile? I haven’t been able to get to sleep at all.’ Another call at six-fifteen, then at eight-thirty and twenty past nine. She sounded more and more frantic and on the ten-thirty call she was wheezing, ‘I don’t feel well. It’s my heart. It really is this time. Where are you?’
The next message was not from Mam but from Mrs Kelly. ‘Your poor mother’s gone to hospital in a terrible state,’ she said coldly. ‘If you could find time to contact home we’d all appreciate it.’
9
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: It took three days for the horrors to lift
It’s only today that I’m back on solids.
Mam – thanks be to Christ – didn’t have a heart attack, just another panic attack. The nurses gave her a little talking-to, along the lines of ‘It’s an offence to waste police time.’ But when she explained to them about Dad leaving and me not coming home, they redirected their annoyance to me and I felt so guilty I took it on the chin.
Dad still hasn’t come back. All last week when I was working like a machine, I didn’t have time to think about it, really. But now that my routine is back to normal, I’ve realized it’s over two weeks since he went. It’s like I’ve been in a trance – how on earth did it get to be two weeks? It’s a shockingly long time but I’ll give it a month and he’ll probably be back by then.
Cody and Mrs Kelly and everyone at work keep tut-tutting and saying what a stupid old bastard he is, but as soon as I try to agree I go wobbly and weepy and they look at me funny and I can see what they’re thinking – it’s not like it’s my husband who has left. Wives are allowed to go wobbly and weepy but daughters are supposed to join in with the insults. I tried calling him ‘a mad old gobshite’ and Mrs Kelly said, ‘Good girl.’ But then I started to cry and she was visibly irritated.
Thi
s thing has layers. I keep thinking I understand that Dad has left and has ruined everything, then I perk up and think he’ll have to come home soon. But then the fact that he hasn’t come back yet kicks in again, deeper and much more painful than the previous time. But like I say we’ll give it a month, that’s a nice round sum.
And yes, about the wand, thank you for reminding me that I was always partial to cheesy kitsch. Although what’s cheesy about my ‘Kitty goes to New York’ shower cap? It’s beautiful, not to mention functional.
I’m back in the office all this week. It’s such a relief to be working only ten-hour days – and to be near the shops. I am buying things. Odd things. Yesterday at lunchtime I bought a keyring in the shape of a sparkly glass stiletto with a blue flower on the toe. Then I painted my nails ten different colours, each one more sugary pastel than the previous. Thank God for middle-youth.
Anawah, on we trudge. Send me a joke.
Lots of love
Gemma xxx
On the way home from work that evening – like most evenings – I popped into the chemist to get something for Mam. This time it was athlete’s foot ointment – I had no idea how she caught that, considering that the most athletic thing she ever did was open a packet of biscuits. But before I even got to ask for it, the nice man behind the counter said,’ You were in good form on Saturday night.’
All the blood that had been milling around in my face began a sudden and speedy exodus and my legs and hands started their shaking lark again, which was very annoying because I’d only just got them to stop.
‘Where did I meet you?’ I asked through bloodfree lips.
He paused, looked surprised, then uncomfortable and said, ‘In Hamman.’
‘In Hamman? Jesus Christ, who else had I met in Hamman on Saturday night?