by Marian Keyes
In the book I could have a different job – in fact, I didn’t have to have a job at all: I could be a housewife (oh, the happiness!) with maybe a couple of children of my own.
I could give myself two sisters, or maybe a brother and a sister; I played around with various scenarios and in the end I settled for an older sister called Monica. A nice, capable person, who’d lent me her clothes during our teenage years but who now lived a life of constant on-call in a big, four-square house with four square children and she was too far away (Belfast? Birmingham? still hadn’t decided) for her to be any kind of practical help.
I also gave myself a baby brother, a charmer called Ben, who had a posse of girls after him. Every time the phone rang he’d rattle instructions to Mam, ‘If that’s Mia tell her I’m out, if it’s Cara again, tell her I’m sorry but she’ll get over me – eventually.’ Pause for laughter. ‘And if it’s Jackie I’m on my way. I left ten minutes ago.’
I’d quickly gone off him. The fictional mam wasn’t a fan either, which I knew was swimming against the title; usually mothers are besotted with their selfish, ‘charming’ sons, pretending to tut-tut as they treat their girlfriends like shite, but secretly delighted, both of them convinced that no woman was good enough for him.
Ben didn’t really impact on my plot-line – far too irresponsible and selfish to be of any help to ‘our’ freshly deserted mammy. I was still left carrying the can and was, to all intents and purposes, an only child.
‘My’ name is Izzy and I have chin-length corkscrew curls in great condition. Much as I’d have loved it, I couldn’t imagine being a housewife so I thought long and hard about Izzy’s job. My first choice was a personal shopper but in the interests of realism and popularity – everyone would hate her for having such a jammy job – I decided against it. Instead – and this will probably come as no surprise – she works in PR, and yes, she organizes events.
Izzy also shared a similar romantic history to mine:
myriad unrequited teenage crushes
a passionate drunken ridiculous thing between the ages of nineteen to twenty-one, which I thought I’d never get over
a relationship from twenty-five to twenty-eight with a man everyone thought I should marry – but I just didn’t feel ‘ready’ (in fact every time poor Bryan popped the question I felt like I was choking).
But I didn’t give Izzy an Anton, a love of her life who was cruelly snatched from under her nose by her best friend. What if… I mean… what if Anton read it?
Instead Izzy was having a love/hate flirtation thing with one of her clients. He was called Emmet, a grand sexy name, and he wasn’t a film director/farmer because the book was set in Dublin. He ran his own business (still undecided as to exact nature thereof) and Izzy was organizing a sales conference for him. He was a bit narky – but only because he fancied her – and when she booked all the delegates into the wrong hotel because she was upset about her ice-cream salesman dad leaving her mother, Emmet didn’t sack her as would so happen in real life. For a while he had a scar on his right cheek, then I got a grip and fixed him. Then for another while, Izzy was beautiful but didn’t realize it, but she started to get on my nerves, so I changed her back to being ordinary.
Other modifications: the dad wasn’t having an affair with his secretary, that was too much of a cliché. Instead it was with his golf-partner’s eldest daughter. And the mammy wasn’t quite as incapable as my mother – I suspected that people simply wouldn’t believe it.
Some things stayed the same: my car, for instance. And I kept the nice man in the chemist but changed his name to Will.
It was a funny exercise – like being a different version of me, or perhaps knowing what it was like to be someone else. Either way, when I woke into the acid-bright early morning, paralysed with screaming despair, it took my mind off things.
9
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: I’ve started to write it.
I’ve been thinking about it so much that I felt I’d burst if I didn’t. I write it in the early mornings and in the evenings. Mam goes to bed at nine-thirty, sleeping the sleep of the heavily tranquillized and I’m able to clatter away on the PC. But even while I’m watching Buffy I’m thinking about it and itching for Mam to go so I can get started.
Is this what it means to be a tormented artist? Answers on a postcard, please.
Love,
Gemma
Back in the real world, I’d finally found a castle with turrets. It was in Offaly – a tough drive if you had to go there and back in a day. I’d also run to ground a dress designer so down on her luck that she was prepared to take on Lesley and her unreasonable requests.
I’d hired twenty-eight Louis XIV chaises and had arranged for them to be re-upholstered in silver lamé. I’d rung a modelling agency and said, ‘I’m looking for a handsome prince,’ and the man on the other end of the phone said, ‘Aren’t we all, love?’ I was carrying a copy of Sleeping Beauty – my source document – with me at all times.
But still no luck with the goody bags and God knows I’d tried.
‘Remind me again, what am I paying you for?’ Lesley asked. (And that was another thing, no money had changed hands yet, despite me asking so many times that I was now too embarrassed to bring it up again.) ‘There are plenty of other party planners in Dublin. Maybe I should go to one of them?’
God, I hated her. ‘I’m working on it.’ And I was. I was in the final moments of securing coverage from a glossy magazine and if the cosmetics people were guaranteed publicity, they were a lot more likely to sponsor us.
Even though I say it myself, I’m GREAT at my job. To take this piece-of-shit party and spin it into something approaching C-list takes some doing!
Lesley backed down and extended an olive branch by asking me to meditate with her. I felt I couldn’t say no, but maybe I should have, because I fell asleep.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: I rang Jojo
and told her that I’m going to write the book and she said, ‘Well, congratulations, you’ve got yourself an agent!’ Then she asked if it was all OK with Mam and I just said, ‘Mmmm.’
I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it
Love
Gemma
I didn’t tell Susan what happened next.
I cleared my throat because I had something important to say. I hovered on the moment for an eternity, then, ‘Jojo, I know one of your clients.’
‘Yeah?’ Not interested.
‘Lily. Lily Wright.’
‘Oh, Lily’s doing great! Really, like, super-great.’
‘Yes, well, tell her Gemma Hogan says “hello”.’
‘Will do. Hey, you know what? I’m jumping guns here but if we sell your book, and I’m so sure we will, at publication time we could do, like, an “Our Friendship” thing for a Sunday supplement. Get you some publicity.’
Time slowed down and my voice echoed in my head. ‘You could suggest it to her. But she mightn’t want to do it.’
‘Sure she will! Lily’s a sweetie.’
See, I wasn’t sure Susan would approve. She was my friend but she was regarding all this agent stuff as very positive and I have to fess up to coming at it in a more mean-spirited way. I wanted to unsettle Lily with my message: I’m in the same business as you now and I’m on your tail.
Well, come on, she’d stolen the love of my life, she was a millionaire and she was in loads of newspapers. What would you do?
Friday nights with Owen had become a regular thing and we usually managed a quick mid-week ride. Owen was great fun and there was no pesky churning-stomach, wobbly-kneed, tongue-tied stuff you get when you’re mad about someone. He didn’t have two heads, he could hold a conversation, I didn’t think about him when I wasn’t with him, but I was always glad to hear from him. And he felt the same way about me.
Funnily eno
ugh we nearly always had some sort of a row – either he was mean to me or I was mean to him – I’m not saying it was healthy but it was a regular event.
‘Guess what?’ I said, the next time we met.
‘Anton wants you back?’
‘No. I’m writing a book.’
‘Are you? Am I in it?’
‘No.’ I laughed.
‘Why not?’
‘Why should you be?’
‘Because I’m your boyfriend.’
I laughed again. ‘Are you?’
A pause and he was still smiling but maybe not as much. ‘What do you call this? Six weeks of drinks, phone calls, regular contact with Uncle Dick and the twins?’
‘You’re not my boyfriend, you’re my… you’re my hobby.’
‘Oh.’ The smiley face had disappeared entirely.
‘Don’t look like that,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m not your girlfriend, either.’
‘News to me.’
‘No, no!’ I insisted. ‘I’m your older-woman experience. Your, er, lovair, if you prefer. A rites of passage thing. It’s al right,’ I reassured him. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘So all I am to you is a piece of ass.’
‘No,’ I protested. ‘You’re not just a piece of ass – what a great saying – no, I also love Uncle Dick and the twins.’
He got up and left. I didn’t blame him but I didn’t get up and follow him either. I knew the drill by now – he was always stomping off in a strop and stomping back five minutes later.
I sipped my wine and thought about nice things until – yep – here he was, re-emerging through the door and over to the table.
‘You big eejit,’ I said. ‘Sit down and finish your drink. Crisp?’
‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly.
‘What’s up with you?’ I asked kindly.
‘You don’t take me seriously.’
I stared at him in confusion. ‘Of course I don’t. But you don’t take me seriously either.’
‘I might be starting to.’
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘That would be awful.’
‘Why?’
‘One,’ I declared, listing on my fingers, ‘I think all men are bastards. Two, whenever I start listing things out on my fingers I get distracted by my nail colour, and three, now I’ve lost my train of thought – see! And three, I think all men are bastards. We haven’t a hope. Anyway, you’re too young for me. It doesn’t work. My father was a younger man and look at what happened.’
‘They were married for thirty-five years,’ he cried.
‘Listen to me,’ I said. ‘I’m in no state for a relationship. And neither are you. Look at the way we always have a fight, that’s because we’re both fuck-ups. Only temporarily, but fuck-ups all the same. And you’re on the rebound.’
‘Do you want me to find someone my own age?’
‘Not at all. Well, yes, obviously. But not yet.’
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: The word is out
Frances comes up and goes, ‘I hear you’re writing a book.’
Christ, who’d squealed?
‘We’ll sue, you know,’ she sez. ‘We’ll sue for every penny you’ve got.’
But they’re not called Frances and Francis, of course. Any real people in the book are completely disguised and my fictional pair of bosses are called Gabrielle and Gabriel and known affectionately as Bad Cop and Worse Cop.
I’ll keep you posted…
Love
Gemma
10
On Sunday I was doing the weekly shop and dithering before the wall of boxes in the breakfast cereal aisle. My plan had been to wean Mam off her beloved porridge and onto solids like Fruit’n’Fibre but instead I’d fallen in love with porridge: lovely comfort food that was microwaveable and came in flavours. I’d just caved in and picked up a carton of banana-flavoured porridge when I noticed a man down by the CocoPops, looking directly at me and smiling warmly.
But he wasn’t a comb-over lech, he was In The Zone – you know, the right age and nice-looking. The novelty of it nearly made me laugh out loud; I was being picked up. In an Irish supermarket! Howsabout that, San Francisco, I thought proudly. We too can find love amongst the groceries.
But your man looked familiar. Ish…
‘Gemma?’ Christ, he knew me! And I couldn’t place him.
‘Gemma?’ Now he was frowning while still smiling, if such a thing is possible, and I began to panic. That’s the trouble with Dublin, it’s so small that any attempts at velvet-dark nights of anonymous passion are shot to hell when you come face-to-face with your nameless lover in the merciless strip-lighting of the breakfast cereal aisle. (Mind you, I’ve only had a couple of one-night-stands and if ever I run into them they completely ignore me, which suits me just fine.)
OhthanksbetoChristitwasonlyJohnnythepharmacist!
‘Oh Johnny, I’m really sorry.’ Relief made me feel floaty and I abandoned my trolley and porridge to grasp his arm tightly. ‘I thought I’d slept with you.’
‘No, I’m sure I would’ve remembered.’
‘I didn’t recognize you without your white coat.’
‘The story of my life.’
A woman picking up a five-kilo sack of Alpen paused in her labours and gave us a look.
Izzy was doing the weekly shop and dithering before the wall of boxes in the breakfast cereal aisle. Her plan had been to wean her mother off her beloved porridge and onto solids like Fruit’n’Fibre but instead Izzy had fallen in love with porridge: lovely comfort food that was microwaveable and came in flavours. She’d just caved in and picked up a carton of banana-flavoured porridge when she noticed a man down by the CocoPops, looking directly at her and smiling warmly.
But he wasn’t a comb-over lech, he was In The Zone – you know, the right age and nice-looking. The novelty of it nearly made her laugh out loud; she was being picked up. In an Irish supermarket! Howsabout that, San Francisco, she thought proudly. We too can find love amongst the groceries.
But your man looked familiar. Ish…
‘Izzy?’ Christ, he knew her! And she couldn’t place him.
‘Izzy?’ Now he was frowning while still smiling, if such a thing is possible, and Izzy began to panic. That’s the trouble with Dublin, it’s so small that any attempts at velvet-dark nights of anonymous passion are shot to hell when you come face-to-face with your nameless lover in the merciless strip-lighting of the breakfast cereal aisle. (Mind you, she’d only had a couple of one-night-stands and if ever she ran into them they completely ignored her, which suited her just fine.)
OhthanksbetoChristitwasonlyWillthepharmacist!
‘Oh Will, I’m really sorry.’ Relief made her feel floaty and she abandoned her trolley and porridge to grasp his arm tightly. ‘Ι thought I’d slept with you.’
‘Νο,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘Ι’m sure I would’ve remembered.’
Suddenly she became aware of the heat of his arm beneath her hand and she stammered.
‘I didn’t recognize you without your white coat.’
‘The story of my life.’
I stopped typing, pushed myself back from the keyboard and stared at it. Oh my God, I thought, I think Izzy fancies Will.
11
After the day in the car park I didn’t ring Dad again. I’d been in the habit of calling him at least once a week but I was so hurt I didn’t bother any more.
Nevertheless, his absence was ever present and frequent painful reminders jabbed me. Like the night I was flicking through channels and Tommy Cooper appeared on the screen. Not my bag of frogs naturally, but Dad was mad about him. ‘Look!’ I pointed and my first instinct was to summon Dad to come and watch it, then I closed my mouth, excitement draining away into foolishness, then into grief. Was he watching it with Colette? In their sitting room, whatever it was like.
It was painful even imagining it and immediately I switched my thoughts to my book. Thank
s be to Christ for it. It really was the most pleasurable escape, I’d just disappear into it and hours could go by and even though Izzy and her mammy were going through stuff, I knew good times were a-coming. Helmut and the mother were still going strong and had just gone into business together importing La Prairie products into Ireland; they were even thinking of opening a La Prairie spa. Meanwhile things were gorgeous between Izzy and Emmet – he was mad about her, which he showed by being super-narky with her and really nice to everyone else, especially other women.
And while in real life I suspected that Dad and Colette got along very well, in my book I could still comfort myself that their life together was a hellish round of trouser-press dances and pork pie deprivation.
Then one day at work the phone rang and it was Dad. I nearly gawked into the mouthpiece.
‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Is she pregnant?’
‘What? Who? Colette? No.’
‘So why are you ringing?’
‘I haven’t heard from you in a while. Is there a law against ringing my own daughter?’
‘Dad, this is the first time you’ve rung me since you left and that’s nearly five months ago.’
‘Come on now, Gemma, don’t exaggerate.’
‘I’m not. It’s a fact. You haven’t rung me once.’
‘Ah, I must have.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘Well, I’m ringing you now. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Fine. I have to go now, I’m busy.’
‘Have you?’ He was surprised I wasn’t all over him but he’d hurt me too much and I was in no humour to make things easy for him. Anyway I was busy, I was on my way to see Owen.
‘What do you think will happen?’
Owen and I were lying in his bed in a post-ride rosy glow, fashioning imaginary, happy futures for each other.
‘Your book will get published,’ Owen said. ‘You’ll be famous and Lily Every-man-for-myself Wright’s publishers will be dying to have you but you won’t go to them unless they drop Lily.’