The Other Side of the Story

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Not just Louisa. I’ve seen it again and again: women who have babies, their priorities change. This isn’t a judgement call, just an observation. It’s their prerogative.’

  ‘I’m different.’

  He shrugged, not agreeing.

  ‘Mark! I am.’

  He laughed at her fury, then she laughed too and they said simultaneously, ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘I have to tell Cassie right now. It can’t be put off any longer.’

  Jojo’s insides crumpled with shame. ‘Me being pregnant is going to make it far worse for her.’

  ‘I know. But it’s not fair to her not to tell her.’

  ‘You’re right but couldja wait until I get a positive result and we know for sure?’

  Mark looked irritated, then he became sorrowful and took her hand. ‘Jojo, listen to me, I want to tell you something very important. Cassie will have to be told some time. Fact.’

  ‘I know.’ But she mumbled it.

  ‘You’ve met Cassie. You saw she’s an intelligent woman with a lot of self-respect, not the type who likes being the last to know. I honestly think she would prefer to be told than to be made a fool of.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘But I’ll tell you now, it’s not going to be pleasant. It will be very unpleasant, but then it’ll be done. I’ve made peace with it and she’s my wife. You’re a courageous person, Jojo, and you’re going to have to be brave for this. It’s not magically going to take care of itself.’

  ‘What if she met someone else and she was the one to leave you. I’d like that.’

  He sighed. ‘OK, pray for Cassie to meet someone else.’ Then his tone changed. ‘Or else stop stringing me along.’

  Something plummeted in her. ‘I’m not stringing you along.’

  ‘Aren’t you, Jojo? Because that’s what it’s starting to feel like. Listen to me, the partnership decision is in eight weeks’ time. Then I am leaving my wife and coming to live with you. If that’s not what you want, you’d better tell me.’

  She felt panicky. ‘I do want it. But this is hard for me. I hate dissing Cassie and stealing her husband. These are not the values I was brought up with.’

  ‘They’re not the values I was brought up with either. You’re not the only one it’s hard for, but I’m doing it because I love you. And I’m beginning to feel we’re not on the same page.’

  Some instinct was telling her she was suddenly in very dangerous territory. She was a hair’s-breadth away from losing him.

  ‘Mark, you were the one who said we should wait until after the partnership decision. I don’t recall being any too thrilled about that.’

  ‘Not straight away. But once you got over your suspicion that I was stalling, then you were keen. Slightly too keen, in my opinion.’

  That was the trouble with Mark. He was way smart.

  She had a choice to make here: jump, or get off the bridge. OK, she would jump.

  ‘Wait until I know for sure that the test is positive, then we’ll tell her. OK?’

  He stared at her with his dark eyes and said, slowly, ‘You’re on notice but OK.’

  ‘“On notice”? Don’t speak to me like that. I’m not a fucking publisher who’s late paying royalties.’

  But he didn’t apologize. He left without saying anything.

  That night she lay awake thinking. Mark, smartie that he was, was right to question her dragging her feet. She was so busted: she’d never wanted to give the signal for Mark to leave Cassie. She’d hoped that some outside event would take care of things – her favourite scenario being Cassie meeting someone else. But Mark was wrong to think she was flaking on him; her core commitment was rock steady. Sometimes she wondered what it was about him. OK, he hit the big three – smart, funny and sexy – but it was bigger and far more ephemeral than that. You can look at the reasons why you love someone, you can even list them – his confidence, his smarts, his bulky physicality, the fact that he never bored her – but there’s always something missing, the x factor, the magic ingredient. And Mark had the magic ingredient, whatever it was, in spades.

  He was her favourite person and everything that she did, she felt – at least subconsciously – that it hadn’t really happened until she’d told him about it. After a couple of days away from him, she began to ache, almost physically. He knew her. Their connection was full-on honest and two people could not be better matched.

  She could see them together years into the future, Mr and Mrs Senior, cryptic crossword ninjas, still wild about each other, still best buddies.

  Today Mark had articulated her resistance and his anger had forced her past some sort of barrier. He was going to leave Cassie and that was OK. A saying came to mind: The only way out is through. Her only other option was to risk losing Mark and, frankly, that was no option.

  She was ready. Or as ready as she’d ever be. But she felt for Cassie…

  She thought about what Becky had said: that maybe this pregnancy was no accident. Maybe she’d let it happen to take the decision for her. The funny thing was, though, she wasn’t fully sure she was pregnant, everyone else believed it more than she did. But she’d started to believe it a little and she kinda liked the idea. Her and Mark and a baby, it’d be fun. Life would be different, but only a little, and in a good way. She had to fess up that she hadn’t been broody. She didn’t really get the hunger that came over people, to have a baby, no matter what. But because this was part of a package, because it was Mark’s baby, that was different.

  She put her hand on her stomach, because that was what you did, right? See, she was a natural at this mom stuff. What would their baby be like? Dark, fair, red-headed? Strong-willed, she decided. No matter which of them it favoured. In fact, right now, their DNA were probably duking it out, looking to be on top.

  Lily

  ‘Caitriona had been gravid with dread for so long and now her fear was made flesh in the fourth baby affected. She did not need any further proof She knew. She had known for a very long time. This level of cancer was unusually high and something was causing it…’

  They were not listening. I was in a bookshop in Sheffield, on my killer three-week promotional tour for Crystal Clear and the eighty or so women crammed into the room were inspecting their nails, counting the carpet tiles, planning tomorrow night’s supper – anything to while away the boring time until I had finished reading.

  I took a quick look at my audience; the cluster of women in their white robes; the trio who had been asked to move to the back of the shop because their tall pointy hats were blocking the view; the gang of friends in the front row all bearing home-made wands, a riot of glitter and fluff. Of course, there were also many ordinary women in the room; however, the over-the-top ones tended to catch the eye.

  It had been the same all week: at every reading lots of people had made a big effort to look like something out of Mimi’s Remedies. But at the risk of sounding ungrateful, I wished they would not. It made me think, What have I created? (And it diverted attention from Crystal Clear, the book I was very much hoping they would buy.)

  Another bout of restless shifting reached me, perched on my high stool, and I decided to cut the last page of the reading: I had done so on every other night also. I was simply too aghast at their manifest boredom to prolong their agony.

  ‘Caitriona picked up the phone. This call was long overdue…’

  I let a little pause build up, to let them know I had finished, then said, ‘Thank you,’ and quietly lay down the book on the lectern. Polite applause ensued and when it had died away I asked, ‘Does anyone have any questions?’

  One woman leapt to her feet. Don’t ask it, I begged. Please don’t ask it. But of course she asked it. It had been the first question at every reading on every night of the tour.

  ‘Will you be writing another Mimi’s Remedies?’

  The approval of the room was almost tangible. Everyone nodded. I was going to ask that, hung in the air, like a whisper. Good q
uestion. Yes, very good question.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Awwww,’ the room went, as one. Their tone was not mere disappointment, but hurt, almost anger. The front-row line of home-made wands waggled in agitation and the three ‘witches’ at the back removed their pointy hats and held them to their chests, as if showing respect for the dead.

  Desperately, I tried to explain how Mimi’s Remedies had been a one-off, written as a response to being mugged.

  ‘But couldn’t you try getting mugged again?’ another woman asked. Joking, of course. I think.

  ‘Hahahah,’ I said, my smile stapled to my face. ‘Any other questions?’ I touched the copy of Crystal Clear beside me, just to remind them why we were here, but nothing doing. The ensuing questions were all, without exception, Mimi’s Remedies related.

  ‘Is Mimi based on you?’

  ‘Is Mimi’s town a real place?’

  ‘Did you do any training as a white witch before you wrote the book?’

  I tried to answer graciously but I was starting to hate Mimi and it was leaking out in my answers. Then came the signing and the line snaked gratifyingly towards the back of the shop. But instead of picking up lovely hardback copies of Crystal Clear, everyone fetched from their handbags copies of Mimi’s Remedies which were so battered they looked as if they had been fought over by marauding gangs of cocker spaniels. I felt slightly sick.

  However, I could not help but be humbled by the warmth of every single person who came to the table.

  ‘Thank you for writing Mimi’s Remedies…’

  ‘I loved this book…’

  ‘It saved my life…’

  ‘I’ve read it at least ten times…’

  ‘I’ve given a copy to all my friends…’

  ‘It’s better than anti-depressants…’

  ‘Better than chocolate…’

  ‘I couldn’t wait to meet you…’

  I was presented with wands, home-made fudge, spells written on little scraps of paper and an invitation to a Druidic marriage. Most people asked to have their photo taken with me, like they had that day with Miranda England so long ago.

  If my career had not depended on Crystal Clear selling well, I could have enjoyed their kindness and savoured that I had created something which had touched so many lives. But the fact was, my career did depend on Crystal Clear selling well and of the eighty or so people who had come to the reading, only two had bought copies. The previous night in Newcastle, only three copies had sold, the night before in Leeds only one had gone, the same number in Manchester, and in Birmingham at the start of the week, not a single copy had been shifted. This was not good. And nor was the news from the best-seller list.

  On the walk back to the hotel I turned on my mobile and prayed with every fibre of my being for a message from Jojo. Saying that Dalkin Emery wanted to offer me half a million pounds for my next book, I thought, indulging in a sudden desperate flight of fancy. Or anything, anything at all. She had sent Tania the seven chapters of my new book over a week ago now, surely she must have some news? But the horrible electronic voice intoned You Have No New Messages so I rang Anton who was at home with Ema. ‘Heard anything?’

  ‘Jojo rang – she didn’t want to ring you at your reading – but she has nothing to report. Tania didn’t get back to her this afternoon and she thought it was better not to badger her.’

  I swallowed hard. Today was Friday. That was it until Monday. A whole weekend to endure, wondering what our future was.

  The extent of Anton’s and my miscalculation appalled me. Clearly we should have signed the contract with Dalkin Emery back in May when it was offered to us. But at the time things were going so wonderfully that it was unthinkable that a few short months down the line, my new book would be selling badly enough to signal the end of my writing career.

  In retrospect I could see that Dalkin Emery had begun their retreat from me as long ago as August. Tania’s hissy fit over the cover was triggered, I subsequently discovered, by some of the major trade buyers getting the wobbles when they discovered Crystal Clear was as different from Mimi’s Remedies as carrots are from Adolf Hitler’s moustache.

  Nobody ever said anything. I was never told officially that orders were being reduced and that Dalkin Emery had lost faith in me, but I intuited it from the forced cheer in their greetings and the wary expressions in their eyes. However, this reality was so bloody that I kept pushing my hope to the forefront. If I did not acknowledge how dreadful the situation was, then perhaps it was not.

  The bottom line was this: if Dalkin Emery decided not to renew my contract, not only was my career in publishing over, but Anton, Ema and I would probably lose our home; the loan to buy our house had been given on the condition that we paid the bank a lump sum of a hundred grand when I got my new deal with Dalkin Emery. We had no other sources of income. All we had was my next royalty cheque, which wasn’t due until March, almost five months away. The bottom line was: no new deal equalled no money to pay the lump sum equalled no house.

  I went back to my lonely hotel room and had a large gin and tonic and a bag of cashews from the minibar. I was exhausted – it had been a tough week of early starts, countless bookshop visits and so many local radio and press interviews they had all blurred into one – but terror had me in its grip and prevented me from sleeping.

  To cheer myself up I thought, Anton has left me for the head waiter at the Fleet Tandoori, I have gangrene of the foot and everyone is complaining about the smell, and some soothsayers in Tibet have decided that Ema is the next Dalai Lama and she’s going to be taken from me, to a Himalayan eyrie, where she will sit cross-legged in orange robes and say wise, incomprehensible soundbites.

  I lay on my bed, drinking gin and savouring my misfortune.

  How awful… especially the smelly gangrenous foot. And the wise, incomprehensible soundbites.

  I waited until I felt really dreadful, then did the mental equivalent of jumping out of a cupboard and shouting, ‘Gotcha!’

  Yes, I thought, a slight but definite uplift in my gloom, this reverse psychology thing definitely works. Then I noticed I had drunk three gins and that the mood improvement was probably thanks to them.

  Jojo

  Wednesday morning

  When Jojo’s period arrived, ten days late, she was actually a little embarrassed; she wasn’t usually a drama queen. Because the test had continued to be negative, she’d never fully believed she was pregnant, so she didn’t feel like she’d lost a baby. But she was vaguely interested in what had caused the delay: anxiety about Mark leaving Cassie? Waiting too long for the vote on the new partner? Work stress? And, yeah, there was lots to be stressed about.

  On Lily Wright’s second week on sale, there had been an improvement, but nothing like enough. She ‘shot’ from 168 to 94, selling a paltry 1743 copies. Considering there wasn’t a railway station in the land that wasn’t plastered with ads for Crystal Clear, this wasn’t good.

  Dalkin Emery were way rattled. They’d printed a hundred thousand hardbacks – an initial run, so they’d thought at the time, the first of many – but now were already calculating the hit their Profit & Loss was going to take.

  On the third week, Lily got as far as number 42 in the chart but celebrations were premature, because on her fourth week, she slipped back to 59.

  Jojo continued to push Dalkin Emery for more ads and further discounting. Patrick Pilkington-Smythe obliged and that was scary. The rule was that agents pushed and marketing men resisted. To be on the same page meant things were bad.

  Then Book News ran a snide little piece on the situation and although Dalkin Emery insisted that it was still too soon to call and that sales would pick up nearer to Christmas, Jojo knew that privately they were not optimistic.

  What was really wrecking her head was that Dalkin Emery were dicking her around on Lily’s new contract. They weren’t saying they wouldn’t re-sign her but Tania kept stalling, saying that she needed the higher-ups in Dalkin Em
ery to read Lily’s new book, before they could make any decision. Jojo had thought that showing Tania the new book was a mere formality but now she knew Dalkin Emery’s game: they were hedging their bets, watching to see how Crystal Clear performed, before deciding if Lily Wright was still a viable investment.

  Poor Lily had dragged her sorry ass around the country, doing one gnarly reading after another. Daily, either she or Anton phoned, their voices small and scared, as they asked, ‘Is there any news? Any word on the new deal?’

  They were horrified that Dalkin Emery were taking so long but the situation was too delicate for Jojo to force.

  Several times she reassured them, ‘Tania has promised me a decision by the end of the week.’ But the end of the week would come and a phone call from Tania Teal wouldn’t and somehow over four weeks had passed, without an offer coming through.

  Jojo felt very, very badly for Lily. No one liked watching a much-hyped book bomb but in this case there were serious consequences for Lily’s career. Advising Lily to wait for a new deal had been a gamble. Now it was clear she’d miscalculated the odds: after a disaster the size of Crystal Clear, chances were that Dalkin Emery wouldn’t sign her for any more books. And nor would any other publisher.

  Tuesday afternoon, end of November

  ‘Tania Teal on line one.’

  ‘Accept!’

  This was the call, Jojo knew. The one that would condemn or save Lily Wright.

  ‘Tania, hey.’

  ‘Sorry, Jojo, it’s no go on Lily Wright.’

  ‘Slow down a minute –’

  ‘We’re not going to renew her contract.’

  ‘Tania, you cannot be serious. Have you read her new book, do you know how great it is –’

  ‘Jojo, I’m going to say what everyone is thinking. Mimi’s Remedies was a one-off, a one-hit wonder. Readers’ loyalties are not to Lily Wright the author but to Mimi’s Remedies, the book. Crystal Clear is the biggest disaster we’ve ever had.’

  ‘OK, the hardback sales are slow but you know what this means?’ Jojo forced herself to sound wildly cheerful. ‘The paperback will go through the roof! Just like Mimi’s Remedies did! I guess it was too soon to publish Lily in hardback. Writers have to build a fanbase before hardbacks are a dead cert. Coupla books’ time, that’s when her hardbacks will really fly.’