by Marian Keyes
‘Deal.’
26
Another week passed. And another. Macko and the boys continued to appear spasmodically and unexpectedly – enough to keep us balanced precariously on a knife-edge of hope – but not so often that anything meaningful was achieved. They had removed the old lintels, but done very little about installing the new ones.
Having holes in the bedroom wall is fine in July and August – agreeable even – but not when it is almost September and the weather is heading towards autumn.
Every morning, I felt as though I was holding my breath until one of them arrived and Anton rang me about twenty times a day to see if anyone had showed.
I bartered away most of my phone obligations – I was having a lot of sex with Anton, and Zulema had just about cleared me out – so I did not get to hear most of the builders’ inventive excuses, but according to Anton they were good; Spazzo broke his wrist, Macko’s uncle died, Bonzo’s uncle died, Tommo’s van was stolen, then his uncle died.
What is this?’ Anton raged. ‘Dead Uncle Week?’
Then, just when we managed to get a couple of days without anyone’s uncle dying, it rained; the new lintels could not go in while it was raining. For four unprecedented weeks the weather had been glorious but as soon as we needed it to be dry, it rained.
I was being dragged, dragged up from the bottom of the sea. With effort I broke the surface of sleep. Woken by the sound of Ema crying, the fourth time tonight. It had been a bad night, even by Ema’s standards.
‘I’ll go,’ Anton said.
‘Thanks.’ I tumbled back into a coma. Then someone was shaking my shoulder and I was a dead weight, trying to hoist myself to consciousness. It was Anton. ‘She’s sick. She’s puked on herself.’
‘Change her clothes and bedclothes.’
It felt only two seconds later when I was again pulled up from the bottom of the ocean. ‘I’m sorry, baby, she wants you.’
I must wake up, I must wake up, I must wake up.
I forced myself from my bed, one of the hardest things I have ever done and went to Ema. Her face was bright red, her room smelt of sick and she was still grinning like a loon.
‘Lily!’ She was thrilled to see me, even though it was only fifty minutes since the last time.
I lifted her to me; she was so hot. She rarely got ill. She was a hardy little creature who, when she fell over and sustained the kind of bumps that had other children shrieking the house down, just rubbed her wounded limb and got up. In fact she was so hardy that there were times when she mocked other children who had hurt themselves and were crying: she laughed at them, then screwed her knuckles in her eyes and went, ‘Boo hoo, hoo,’ mimicking their wails. (I had tried to stop her from doing this because it went down extraordinarily badly with the other mothers.)
‘Let’s take your temperature.’
Her armpit temperature was 98.1, ear 98.3, oral, 98.5, rectal – ‘Sorry, darling’ – 98.6. In every orifice, no matter what way you looked at it, she was OK.
I checked for a rash, then lifted her neck to see if it was stiff. ‘Oi,’ she said. That worried me, so I did it a few more times, until she began to laugh.
‘You’re fine,’ I told her. ‘Go back to sleep. I have to write a book tomorrow.’
She placed her hand over her eyes and sang, ‘I see you.’
‘Darling, it’s quarter past four in the morning, visibility is terrible.’
I sat down in the rocking chair, hoping to lull her back to sleep when, to my enormous astonishment, a head appeared at the bedroom window. A man who looked to be in his early forties. It was a moment before I realized he was a burglar. I had always thought burgling was a young man’s game. Evidently, he had climbed up the scaffolding. We looked at each other through the window, frozen in surprise.
‘Don’t bother,’ I said. ‘We have nothing.’
He did not move.
‘Our Venezuelan au pair refused to live in,’ I called, holding Ema tight to me. ‘She would prefer to stay in Cricklewood with a man she barely knows. A man called Bloggers. I had some expensive skin-care but she’s cleaned me out. It’s all in Cricklewood now.’
I let that information settle and when I looked again, the burglar had gone as silently as he had arrived. Then I went back to my bedroom, woke Anton and told him what had happened.
‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to Macko in the morning.’
True to his word, first thing, Anton got on the phone with jauntiness born of terrible rage.
‘Moring, Macko. Any chance of seeing you and your colleagues today? No? Why’s that then? A death in the family? Don’t tell me who, let me guess. Your dog? Your fourteenth cousin, once removed? Oh, your father? That must be, ooh, the third time this month your old man has passed over. Another bout of death, eh? He really should try a course of cod liver oil.’
Anton fell silent, listened, listened some more, then muttered something and hung up. ‘Shit!’
‘What?’
‘Macko’s father really has died. He was crying. They’ll never come back now.’
I was in despair. I could not blame Gemma for this, but I decided I would anyway.
*
Later that morning, I had reason to think once more of Gemma: Tania Teal biked over a completed copy of Crystal Clear. It was a beauty, an impressively weighty hardback with a cover similar to Mimi’s Remedies. That cover had been a slightly blurry oil-painting of a pretty, witchy woman against a background of duck-egg blue. This was a slightly blurry oil-painting of a pretty, witchy woman against a lavender background. It actually looked like the same slightly blurry oil-painting until I compared it with Mimi’s Remedies and saw there were tons of differences. The Mimi’s Remedies woman had blue eyes. The Crystal Clear lady had green eyes. The Mimi’s Remedies woman wore button boots. The Crystal Clear woman wore kitten heels. Tons of differences.
It would go on sale in two months’ time, on the twenty-fifth of October, but from tomorrow would be on sale in the airports. ‘Good luck, little book,’ I said and kissed it, trying to protect it from whatever black magic Gemma had spun.
If I had not died of exhaustion by tonight, I would bring it to Irina’s.
Irina’s circumstances had changed. She had met a Ukrainian ‘businessman’ called Vassily who had plucked her from grim old Gospel Oak and installed her in a serviced apartment in St John’s Wood. He was bonkers about her. She still worked part-time but that was only out of love of Clinique, not because she needed the money. ‘I think of having to live without the free semples and I think I might die.’ (She had struck her breast dramatically, then flipped a compact to examine her lipline.)
I had already visited her in her new home: a large, three-bedroomed apartment in a purpose-built block boasting a service entrance. Green leaves clustered at the second-floor windows and even though this was the home of a Russian kept-woman who was being bankrolled by a Ukrainian gangster, it felt terribly respectable. A little bit more gold than I would choose, but all in all, it was very nice. I especially admired the lack of dust.
27
We sent flowers to Macko’s dad’s funeral and he must have forgiven us because the following Monday four of the builders appeared. They had an unfamiliar air of purpose about them and it looked like the lintels might finally be installed when Bonzo veered around too quickly and accidentally stuck a scaffolding pipe through the stained-glass fanlight over the front door, shattering it as if he was splintering light.
I had endured these neanderthals discussing my au pair’s nipples, spending far too much time in my bathroom with the Sun, and teaching Ema how to swear in Irish, all without a word of complaint. But the fanlight was old, beautiful and irreplaceable. It was too much for me. Everything, all the waiting and disappointment and terror that the house would never be finished, tumbled in on top of me and, in full view of Bonzo, Macko and Tommo, I cried my heart out.
Weeks of exhaustion, money worries, trying to write a book
that did not want to be written and dread of what Gemma would do to my family, all washed out through my eyes.
Tommo, the most soft-hearted of all of them said, awkwardly, ‘Ah, now.’
But as punishment for criticizing him, even obliquely, Bonzo stalked out. Then he stalked back in again and angrily summoned his colleagues, who trooped sheepishly after him. Two days later, they had not yet returned and I hit rock bottom. Every time something went wrong I thought of Gemma. I feared she had magical powers. Bad ones. She was Darth Vader to my Luke Skywalker and Voldemort to my Harry Potter and – illogically – I felt she was orchestrating the demise of every good thing in my life. I tried telling Anton, but he – quite sensibly – said it was nothing to do with Gemma.
‘Even I feel homicidal,’ he said. ‘The Dalai fucking Lama himself would lose his equilibrium in this house.’
We talked about getting another crew in to finish the job but we had no money and would not have until I got my royalty cheque at the end of September, a month away.
Anton was too depressed to have sex and I had given Zulema every cosmetic I owned except for my Jo Malone flight bag, so I had no choice but to ring Macko and ask for Bonzo to return.
‘You’ve hurt him,’ Macko said. As I was hurt, his tone said, when your live-in lover mocked the death of my only father.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’
‘He’s sensitive.’
‘I really am sorry.’
‘I’ll talk to him and see what I can do.’
The phone rang. It was Tania Teal. But her voice was stretched thin and she was speaking very quickly.
‘Yes, Lily, news, good news really. Decided to redo the jacket for Crystal Clear. Old one, very pretty, but too similar to Mimi’s Remedies. Done a new one, biking it over to you for approval.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Good really. Don’t want confusion with Mimi’s Remedies.’
‘Are you OK, Tania?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Yes, fine, fine. But need fast appro. Must get to printer today. Can’t miss our pub date. Bike on its way now. Ring me if it’s not there in half an hour, I’ll send another.’
Within half an hour the new cover arrived. It was brown and blurry, very serious-looking. The polar opposite of the current jacket, but actually far more appropriate for the book. I liked it. I rang Tania who was still talking a mile a minute.
‘You like it? Good, great. Obviously the airport editions have the lavender cover but when the book comes out in the real world, it’ll have this new one.’
‘And you’re sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, fine, fine.’
Something’s going on.
It was quite the Dalkin Emery day because then Otalie, my publicity person, rang.
‘Great news! Elevenses want you on!’
Elevenses was a cheesy daytime television show; despite its name, it was on from ten-thirty to midday and was presented by two women who allegedly hated each other but treated each other with disturbing sweetness. It got massive viewership.
‘I know Crystal Clear isn’t out yet, but it’s national television, too good a chance to pass up!’
‘When do they want me?’
‘Friday.’
The day after tomorrow. I spasmed with fear. I was a mess. Again I thought of Gemma; if she were to go on Elevenses, she would look stunning. Gemma had sharp suits, glossy (thick) hair and high heels, she always looked groomed. At the best of times I was a mess and these were not the best of times.
‘Lovely!’ I said, hung up and rang Anton.
‘I have to go on Elevenses on Friday!’ I was almost shrieking. ‘National fucking television! And I hate myself. I have no clothes, I still haven’t got my Burt Reynolds-style weave and I hate myself.’
‘You already said that. Let’s go shopping.’
‘Anton! I need you to be practical. I need you to HELP ME!’
‘Meet me under Selfridges clock in an hour –’
‘We can’t go to Selfridges. WE HAVE NO MONEY.’
‘We have credit cards.’
‘WHAT ABOUT EMA?’
‘I’ll ring Zulema on her mobile and ask her to stay late.’
‘SHE’LL BLEED YOU DRY!’
‘So be it’
He was so calm that it began to affect me.
‘Selfridges,’ he repeated. ‘One hour, we’ll kit you out.’
‘Anton.’ I managed to hook some air and drag it down into me. ‘Seriously, we have no money.’
‘Seriously, we have two credit cards. Which are not up to their limits. I don’t know about you, but I’m never comfortable with a credit card that isn’t at its limit. I get that nagging feeling, like I’ve left the gas on…’
He was already waiting when I showed up, my face like thunder. I reached him and kept walking. ‘Come on. I need black trousers and some type of top. As cheap as possible.’
‘No.’ He stopped and made me stop too. ‘No. We’re going to have fun with this. You deserve it.’
‘Let’s go to the ground floor. The clothes there are reasonably priced.’
‘No. We’re going to the unreasonably priced second floor. That’s where the good stuff is.’
I took a breath. Another one, then I surrendered to him. I felt myself do it, like it was an actual physical sensation. He was taking charge so I did not have to feel guilty. Responsibility lifted, leaving me giddy, almost airborne.
‘Remember, Lily, we’re not here for a long time, we’re here for a good time.’
‘OK. Lead on.’
On the second floor, Anton began pulling clothes from rails and loading up his arms. He chose things I had not even noticed and although some were unwearable, some surprised me with their desirability. This was a metaphor for my life with Anton: he expanded my vision, made me look at life, and clothes – and myself – in a new way.
In no time he had bagged an assistant, who picked up on his mood; between the two of them they drowned me in beautiful clothes.
He urged me to try tons of things: short leather skirts, ‘Because you have the legs, Lily.’ Sexy black Lycra dresses, with panels cut out, ‘Because you have the skin, Lily.’
I tried out several identities – I was an angular rock-chick, a soignée French film star, a Prada-clad librarian. My black fear had dissipated and I was laughing and having fun. This was Anton at his very best; a man of big gestures, extravagance and vision.
Since we had first got together, he had regularly bought me presents – things I would not buy for myself because they were so indulgent. Like my Jo Malone flight bag, which I had read about in a magazine and longed for like a six-year-old girl longs for a pink bike. I rarely went on flights, I did not need a perfect little bag of goodies but Anton, with his incredible attention to detail noticed that I wanted it. And although I berated him for spending money we did not have, I loved it so much I slept with it. It was the one thing I had not – and would not – give to Zulema.
He fully indulged this you-may-not-need-it-but-do-you-want-it sensibility as he ferried clothes to and from the changing room. I was forbidden from knowing the price of anything and he said, ‘I will only close this changing-room door if you promise not to look at the tags.’
After over an hour of trying beautiful things, I made my decision: a pair of black trousers with a breathtaking cut and a strange torn top which revealed my shoulders. Anton also persuaded me to buy one of the short leather skirts and a clingy, cashmere dress.
‘Can I wear the trousers and top now?’ I asked.
Compared to these beautiful duds, the clothes I had come in were elderly and saggy. Having endured months of dust and squalor I discovered I was longing for shiny new things.
‘You can do whatever you like.’
Anton went to the cash desk to pay and from the wistful looks on the girls’ faces, they were thinking he was a flash fuck and I was a spoilt bitch. If only they knew that both Anton and I were praying for
the card not to be declined.
But the card was not declined and the dress, the skirt and my nasty old clothes were wrapped in tissue. As we moved away from the cash desk, Anton said, ‘Now for the shoes.’
‘What shoes? You’re pushing your luck.’
‘No need to push it, the luck is with us.’
That was how it was with Anton. If you got him on a good day, life with him was supercharged. I went along, happy to be compliant; it took him moments to find the perfect shoes – boots, actually. I tried them on and they seemed to nuzzle my feet, whispering reassurance.
Anton watched me and his face was set. ‘They’re yours.’
‘They’re Jimmy Choos! I don’t even want to know what they cost!’
‘You’re a best-selling author. You deserve Jimmy Choo boots.’
‘OK.’ I could not contain a – mildly hysterical – giggle. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Do you want to wear them right now?’
‘Yes. And what shall I do about my hair?’
‘Blanaid’s got you an appointment tomorrow morning in some new groovy Soho place.’ Blanaid was his and Mikey’s assistant. ‘She says all the models go there. She hasn’t booked you for a follicle transplant,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t think they do that. But they’ll blow-dry it the way you like it.’
‘With volume,’ I said anxiously.
‘Yes, with volume, that’s what I told her to say.’
‘And what about my nails? I can’t paint them myself, I get varnish all over my fingers.’
‘I can ask Blanaid to get you a manicure. Or I can paint them myself.’
‘You, Anton Carolan?’
‘Aye. In my youth I used to paint model soldiers with some degree of precision. At the time I was accused of being a geek, but I knew it’d come in handy some day. I also painted my van with the Furry Freak brothers. I’d broken my leg and couldn’t get around on my bike so I took up painting instead. I’ll do your nails.’
‘Fabulous!’