by Marian Keyes
14
Once Lesley Lattimore’s life-sapping bash was over, I could focus on my book, which was motoring along beautifully; I reckoned I was over three-quarters of the way through. I had other jobs on – but nothing like as demanding as Lesley’s – and the only fly in the ointment, a very big one, was my mother. I suspected she’d never OK my novel being published, even though, as I kept saying to myself, it was the oldest story in the book. And the people were no longer anything like us.
I was thinking all kinds of panicky things, like I’d have to publish under a pseudonym and pay some actress to pretend to be me. But then I wouldn’t be able to gloat at Lily and show Anton what a great success I was. I wanted the honour and the glory. I wanted Yeah! to photograph me in my sumptuous home. I wanted people to say, ‘Are you the Gemma Hogan?’
I went to Susan for advice. ‘Just be honest with your mammy,’ she said. ‘It never hurts to ask.’
Now there she was wrong.
I broached it during an ad-break. ‘Mam?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘I’m thinking of writing a book.’
‘What sort of book?’
‘A novel.’
‘What about? Cromwell?’
‘No…’
‘A Jewish girl in Germany in 1938?’
‘Listen… ah. Switch off the telly a minute and I’ll tell you.’
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: Breaking the news
Dear Susan,
I took your advice and told her. She called me a bitch. I couldn’t believe it and nor could she. The worst she ever called anyone was ‘little madam’ or ‘Rip’. Even Colette hadn’t been called a ‘bitch’.
But when Mam heard my story-line, her mouth fell further and further open and her eyes became more and more bulgy. Her face had the look of someone who wanted to say plenty but the appalling shock had wiped out their voice, and then finally, in extremis, words were released from a no-go area in her soul.
‘Well… you little –’ big long dramatic pause, while the word was directed along narrow unfamiliar corridors, like backstage at a rock concert, then ushered upwards, upwards, upwards (‘go, go, go!’) towards the light – ‘BITCH!’
It was as if she’d slapped me – and then I realized she actually had. A belt across the face from the palm of her hand. She caught me on the ear with her eternity ring and it really hurt.
‘You want the whole world to know how I’ve been humiliated.’
I tried to explain that it wasn’t about her and Dad, at least not any more and that it was the oldest story in the book. But she grabbed the bundle of pages that I’d printed out for her. ‘Is this it?’ she snarled. (Yes, snarled. My mam.) She tried to rip it in two, but it was too thick, so she broke it up into smaller pieces and then really went for it. Like, savaged it. I swear to God she was growling and I was afraid she was going to start biting it. Eating it, even.
‘Now!’ she declared, when every page was reduced to shreds and strips of paper were fluttering around the room like a snowstorm. ‘No more book!’
And I hadn’t the heart to explain about how it’s all backed up on the computer.
My ear is still killing me. I really am a tormented artist.
Love
Gemma
It badly damaged things between me and Mam. I felt guilty and ashamed – but very resentful. Which made me feel even more ashamed. And still I wouldn’t stop writing. If I really loved her, wouldn’t I just knock it on the head? But – and you can call me selfish – I felt I’d given up a lot and there was a voice inside me going, What about me?
Meanwhile Mam, who had been improving, went back into suspicion overdrive and tried to monitor my every move. Something had to give – and it did.
It was an ordinary workday, I was running around like a blue-arsed fly, getting dressed, and she cornered me. ‘What time will you be home tonight?’
‘Late. Eleven. I’m having dinner at the new hotel on the quays. The one I want to hold the conference in.’
Why?’
‘Bee–cause,’ I sighed, pulling up my tights, ‘I have to try out the hotel food to see if it’s OK for the conference. You can come with me if you don’t believe me.’
‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, I just don’t want you to go.’
Well that’s tough, because I’ve no choice. I have to do my job.’
Why?’
‘I’ve a mortgage to pay.’
Why don’t you sell up that old flat and just live here?’
AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! My worst fear, by eight million miles.
Something snapped.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ I said, far too loudly. ‘What if Dad marries Colette and we have to move out of here? We’ll be glad then to have my flat to live in.’
I regretted it immediately. Even her lips went white and I thought she was going to have another fake heart attack. She began fighting for breath and between gasps, said, ‘That couldn’t happen.’
She heaved and gasped a bit more then, to my great surprise, said, ‘It could happen. It’s been six months and not once has he picked up the phone. He has no interest in me.’
And you know what? The following day, with almost spooky timing, a letter arrived from Dad’s solicitor, asking for a meeting to discuss a permanent financial settlement.
I read it, then handed it to Mam, who stared at it for a long, long time before speaking. ‘Does this mean he’s going to sell my house from under me?’
‘I don’t know.’ I was very nervous but I didn’t want to lie. ‘Maybe. Or maybe he’ll let you have it, if you give up any further claims.’
‘To what?’
‘His income, his pension.’
‘And what am I to live on? Fresh air?’
‘I’ll look after you.’
‘You shouldn’t have to.’ She stared out of the window and she didn’t look quite so bewildered and beaten. ‘I ran his home all his life,’ she mused. ‘I was his cook, cleaning woman, concubine, the mother of his child. Have I no rights?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to get a solicitor.’ Something I should have done ages ago, but I’d hoped it would never come to this.
Another silence. ‘That book of yours? What kind of light did it show your father in?’
‘Bad.’ Correct answer.
‘I’m sorry now I tore it up.’
‘How sorry?’ Proceed with caution.
‘You couldn’t write it again, could you?’
TO: [email protected]
FROM: Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: She said yes!
She says she wants Dad named and shamed, that everyone knows about her situation anyway and that she might even go on Trisha and name and shame Dad there too. And guess what? I’ve finished my book! I thought I had a good bit still to go but it all came together very quickly at the end. I stayed up till six in the morning writing it. OK, the ending is a bit fairy-tale and I might laugh at it in someone else’s book but, like everything in life, it’s different when it’s your own.
Love
Gemma
I rang Dad to find out what his permanent financial settlement comprised. It was as I’d feared: he wanted to sell the house so he’d have money to buy a new one to house Colette and her brats. Mam and I hired a family lawyer, Breda Sweeney, and went to see her.
‘Dad wants to sell the house. Can he do that?’
‘Not without your consent.’
‘Which he won’t get,’ Mam said.
I expressed pleased surprise because I’d always suspected the law, in these kinds of cases, was skewed against women. This actually seemed quite protective…
Not so fast. Breda was still talking. ‘But when you’ve been separated for a year, he can go to court and plead his case.’
‘Which is?’
‘That he’s got two families to support now and that a lot of equity is tied
up in the erstwhile family home. What usually happens is that the judge will make an order for the house to be sold and the proceeds to be shared.’
Fear seized me and Mam asked – whispered, kind of – ‘Does that mean I’ll lose my home?’
‘You’ll have money to buy a new one. Not necessarily fifty per cent of the proceeds, the judge will decide on that, but you’ll have something.’
‘But it’s my home. I’ve lived there for thirty-five years. What about the garden?’ She was moving towards hysteria. She wasn’t the only one. House prices in Ireland were so high that even if she got half of the proceeds, I knew Mam would never be able to buy anything remotely similar to live in.
This thing just got worse and worse. Mam was sixty-two, a woman in her twilight years and she was about to be uprooted from the home she’d lived in for over half her life and condemned to live in a starter home halfway to Cork.
‘But Dad will have to continue to support her?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily. By law Maureen is entitled to be given as much as can be given to maintain her lifestyle without impoverishing him.’ Breda made a gesture of impotence. ‘There’s only so much money to go round.’
‘I’m running low on tranquillizers,’ Mam said, when we got home. ‘I don’t want to run out of them. Not now, not with this news. Will you go to the chemist?’
‘Oh. OK.’ I found I felt funny about going. I hadn’t seen Johnny for a couple of weeks, not since our bout of flirting, when I’d tripped on the way in and conducted a conversation of high innuendo.
Why was I reluctant to see him? I asked myself. After all, he was lovely. It was because I knew what I was doing was wrong. Owen – for good or ill – was my boyfriend and it wasn’t fair on him to flirt with Johnny. Not unless I was planning to do something about it: like break it off with Owen and boldly go into the chemist looking to have more than my prescription filled. And was I going to do that?
It was one thing to spend a lot of my time with Owen fantasizing out loud about Anton, but Johnny was different. He was real. He was near.
He was interested.
I knew I had an opportunity with him and although it gave me the stomach-churnies (the good ones), I was afraid. I didn’t know why, all I knew was that I wasn’t afraid with Owen.
JOJO
15
Book News, 10 June
MOVIE RIGHTS SOLD
Movie rights for Love and the Veil, the debut novel from Nathan Frey, have been sold to Miramax for a seven-figure sum, rumoured to be $1.5 million. Brent Modigliani at Creative Artists Associates brokered the deal with Jim Sweetman of Lipman Haigh. The novel, which was agented by Jojo Harvey from Lipman Haigh, will be published in spring next year by Southern Cross.
Ms Harvey also represents Lily Wright, author of the huge surprise hit Mimi’s Remedies, and Eamonn Farrell who’s been long-listed for this year’s Whitbread.
No mention of Miranda England who’d been in the top ten since January but hey, Jojo wouldn’t kvetch. And nothing like some good news to get the old spending instincts into gear. It was lunchtime. Nearly.
‘Manoj, I’m going out. I may be some time.’
‘Looking at nail colours?’
It was one New York priority Jojo had never lost: the importance of nail-care.
‘Nail colours, handbags, who knows? I’m wiiide open.’
But not for long. Out in the sunshiny street, she was hooked by a pale blue leather jacket in Whistles window; such an object of desire, her mouth went dry.
She went inside, found it in her size, held it at arm’s length and stroked it like it was an animal. The leather was as thin and supple as skin and it was so beautiful it crimped her insides. It was also expensive, impractical and wouldn’t survive more than a season; everyone would laugh at her if she wore it next year – but who cared?
Right on the shop floor, she shrugged it on, found a mirror – and abruptly the buzz drained away. It made her chest look as if it had been inflated with a bicycle pump. It was obscene. Mark would love it, of course, but where would she wear it with him? Her living room? Her bedroom? Her kitchen?
In her head, she had already bought the jacket, brought it home in its great bag and worn it twice – once to impress the Wyatt sisters. But now she reconsidered. It was way pricey for something that would never be worn outside her flat. She wasn’t ruling it out, but she was going to think about it. Is this maturity, she wondered. If so, she wasn’t crazy about it.
Back in the office, Manoj said, ‘Smiler Sweetman was looking for you.’
She looked longingly at her sandwich but Jim would only take a minute. She ran to his office. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve great news. Come in. Sit down.’
‘My lunch is waiting. I can hear great news standing up.’
‘OK, you stroppy cow. Brent Modigliani at CAA wants to have a “relationship” with us. With Lipman Haigh.’
Brent was the US agent who’d brokered the deal with Miramax.
‘Having someone on the ground in LA, fighting our corner, means it’s going to be a lot easier to get all our books onto the desks of Hollywood producers. You’ve got to take some credit for it. Love and the Veil got him interested. Opened his eyes to the calibre of work we represent here.’
‘You got me, I’m sitting down.’
‘He’s coming over next week with a colleague. We’ll have lunch someplace flash.’
‘Who?’
‘You, me and them.’
No mention of Richie Gant. Yay! ‘You know what? Miranda’s work would be PERFECT for Hollywood. Screwball comedies never go out of fashion. And Mimi’s Remedies is made for the screen.’
Jim laughed at her enthusiasm. ‘You’ve gone all Howard Hughes on us lately, but tonight you are coming out for a drink to celebrate.’
She thought about it. Nothing really on. Mark was at Sophie’s school play. OΚ.’
‘You gave up on the hypnotherapist?’
‘No. Well, yeah, I like smoking, I’m a smoker. Even though we’re a dying breed.’
‘Dying, yeah.’
‘No zeal like a convert.’
Back at her desk, she ate her sandwich and checked her emails. Just one, from Mark.
TO: Joio.harvey@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
FROM: Mark.avery@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
SUBJECT: Monday night?
Can I pencil it in? I’m sorry about this weekend. Bloody parents’ golden wedding anniversary. Bloody daughter’s school play tonight. Have a nice – but not too nice – weekend without me.
M xx
PS Yvooluie
It had snuck up on them but in the past few months she and Mark had been spending more and more time with each other. They spent most Sundays together, Shayna had got them over for her precious brunch and they’d even, on occasion, taken their love to town: they’d gone to Bath for a two-day mini-break over Easter where they’d enjoyed lots of sex between professionally starched sheets and went for meandery strolls through the streets, holding hands, certain they were so far from London, no one would see them. At the end of the two days Mark had had to hurry back to take his family to Austria for a week’s skiing, and this suited Jojo just fine. She’d had him full-on for forty-eight hours and now he was being nice to his family so she didn’t even have to feel guilty.
‘You sure skiing is a good idea?’ she had asked. ‘Your little guys are kinda accident prone. And don’t they have lots of cheese in Austria?’
‘That’s Switzerland. You Americans, you know nothing about Europe.’
‘You are so wrong.’ Playfully she’d poked his crotch with the toe of her boot. ‘I know about Danish pastries. I know about Swedish massages. I know about Spanish Fly.’ She increased the pressure with her boot and began moving it gently back and forth. ‘And I know,’ she said tantalizingly, ‘all about French kissing.’
‘You do?’
‘Like, all about it.’
In silence they both watched her boot rise, lifted by som
ething rising beneath it. ‘Show me,’ he asked.
‘No. Not until you apologize.’
He apologized.
Since the night with the Italians when Mark had accidently slept through to morning, he now stayed over in Jojo’s about once a week. Cassie didn’t complain about him not coming home and Jojo was baffled by her passivity. ‘What do you tell her?’
‘That I’m talking to the West Coast or I’m entertaining publishers and that I don’t want to disturb her by staggering in at three in the morning when she’s got work the next day.’
‘She buys it?’
‘She seems to. She just asks that I let her know by midnight so she can put the mortice lock on the door.’
‘Where does she think you sleep?’
‘In a hotel.’
‘No way would I buy that. No way. If my husband suddenly started staying away nights, when his job hadn’t changed, I’d beat the shit out of him with a tyre-iron and wouldn’t stop till I’d gotten some answers.’
‘Not everyone’s like you, Jojo.’
‘Yeah.’ And she understood that sometimes it’s too painful for people to see what’s under their noses. That hurt. She didn’t want to cause Cassie – anyone – pain.
But what could she do? Stop seeing Mark? Not possible.
TO: Mark.avery@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
FROM: Jojo.harvey@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
SUBJECT: Nice weekend?
Monday night good. Far away but good. But excuse me? Have a nice weekend? How can I have a nice weekend? I will never forgive you for the way you treated me on my birthday.
JJ xx
PS Eoovilyu too
Four weekends previously, on the twelfth of May, Jojo had turned thirty-three. Some time before it, Mark said to her, ‘I’m taking you away for your birthday.’
‘Yeah?’ Hot with pleasure at his thoughtfulness. ‘Where?’
He paused. ‘London.’
‘London? This London?’
Before she had time to tell him to go and fuck himself, he passed her a sheet of paper. ‘It’s a timetable.’