by Marian Keyes
Betsy and Jeffrey started squealing and jumping around the room.
‘It’s just for a day,’ Phyllis said. ‘You come back home tomorrow.’
‘And Mannix?’ I asked. ‘Is he invited?’
Again, Phyllis looked contemptuous. ‘Of course Mannix. He made this happen. And he’s your partner, right?’
Mannix and I looked at each other. ‘Right!’
Jeffrey abruptly stopped his squealing and jumping.
A long shiny car picked us up and Mrs Next-Door-Who-Has-Never-Liked-Me nearly imploded under the weight of her own bile.
We were driven to an unfamiliar backwater of Dublin airport, where a fragrant charming lady led us down a glossy, glassy corridor into a room with art and couches and a full bar. Our luggage was ferried away and the fragrant lady took our passports and returned them a short time later, with luggage tags and boarding passes. ‘Your bags are checked through to JFK,’ she said.
Jeffrey was squinting at his boarding pass. ‘Are we checked in? We don’t have to queue and that?’
‘All done.’
‘Wow. Are we in business class?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re in first class.’
Ten minutes before the flight was due to leave, we were put into a black Mercedes – the most expensive Merc on the planet, if Jeffrey was to be believed – and driven about five metres to the plane. At the top of the steps, two female stewards greeted us by name: ‘Dr Taylor, Mrs Sweeney, Betsy, Jeffrey, welcome on board. Dr Taylor, Mrs Sweeney, can I offer you a glass of champagne?’
Mannix and I looked at each other, then started laughing a little wildly. ‘Sorry,’ Mannix said. ‘We’re just a bit … We’d love some champagne.’
‘Come through to the first-class cabin and I’ll bring the champagne in.’
We stepped behind the magic curtain and Jeffrey said, ‘Wow! These seats are huge.’
I wasn’t a total stranger to luxury travel – at the height of the Celtic Tiger, Ryan and I had flown business class to Dubai. (The whole experience had been brash and blingy, but everyone was doing it at the time; we knew no better.) This, however, was in a different league. The seats were so enormous that there was only room for four abreast, two on each side of the aisle.
‘Okay, Mom.’ Jeffrey suddenly took charge. ‘You go by the window. And I’ll sit next to you. Then Betsy can go over here. And Mannix by the other window.’
‘But –’ I wanted to sit next to Mannix. I wanted to drink champagne with him and experience every second of this together and …
Mannix watched me. Was I going to let Jeffrey do this?
‘I want to sit next to Mannix,’ I said, weakly.
‘And I want to sit next to you,’ Jeffrey said.
All of us froze in a tableau of tension. Even the steward, pushing through the curtain with her tray of champagne, paused halfway in and halfway out. Betsy had her eyes lowered, assuming her default setting that life was perfect, and Mannix and Jeffrey were both watching me. I was suddenly the centre of attention and my guilt, always so easy to trigger, began flowing.
‘I’ll sit with Jeffrey.’
Mannix flashed me an angry look and turned his back.
Jeffrey, smug and victorious, settled in beside me and spent the next seven hours making his seat whirr up and down, up and down, up and down. Far away, on the other side of the plane, Mannix made tight, polite conversation with my daughter.
At some stage I fell asleep and awoke just before we landed in JFK.
‘Hi, Mom,’ Jeffrey said, chirpily.
‘Hi.’ I felt muzzy-headed and I could hear Betsy laughing very, very loudly.
‘You missed afternoon tea,’ Jeffrey said. ‘We got scones and stuff.’
‘Did you?’ My tongue felt enormous.
The plane touched down, and as we stood up to leave, Betsy grasped me around the neck and gave me a hug that turned into a wrestling move. ‘Hey, Mom,’ she said. ‘Welcome to NEW YORK CITY!’
‘Betsy?’ This was far worse than her usual exuberance. ‘Are you … Oh my God, you’re drunk?’
‘Blame your boyfriend,’ she giggled.
Mannix shrugged. ‘Free champagne. What’s a guy to do?’
The moment we stepped off the plane, we were hustled into a limo. ‘We need to get our bags,’ I said.
‘They’re being taken care of. They get their own limo.’
I swallowed. ‘Right.’
I’d been to New York a couple of times before, once with Ryan, long, long ago, before the kids, when we’d wandered the meat-packing district, looking for inspiration for his art. And again about five years back, on a shopping weekend with Karen. Both of those trips had been budget affairs and this was the complete opposite.
The limo took us to the Mandarin Oriental, to a suite on the fifty-second floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view over the entirety of Central Park. There seemed to be endless rooms – dressing rooms, bathrooms, even a fully kitted-out kitchen. I wandered into a bedroom the size of a football pitch and Jeffrey appeared at my side. He scoped out the situation fast. ‘This is the master bedroom,’ he said. ‘You and Betsy can sleep here.’
‘No.’ My voice wavered.
‘What?’ He looked young and surprised and very angry.
I cleared my throat and forced myself to speak. ‘This is my room. Mine and Mannix’s.’
He glared at me with eyes of fire. He looked like he was considering saying something but eventually he set his mouth in a tight line and stalked away across the vast expanse of carpet, almost bumping into Mannix, who came reeling into the room, laughing in delight. ‘Stella, you should see the size of the flower arrangement they’ve sent! And … What’s up?’
‘Would you mind if Betsy and I slept in here?’
‘And what? I’d stay in another bedroom? I would mind.’
I looked at him, silently asking for mercy.
‘Line in the sand,’ he said. ‘Got to happen sometime.’
I lowered my head and I thought: I hate this. I hate it. It’s so difficult. All I want is him. And for everyone to be happy. And for everyone to love everyone and for life to be simple.
‘We won’t have sex,’ he said, a little unpleasantly. ‘Would that make it easier?’
Before I could answer, the phone rang. It was Phyllis.
She had been on the same flight as us, but she’d been in coach. She’d told us that she always flew economy but charged the publisher for business class.
‘Phyllis,’ I said. ‘You should see our suite!’
‘Fancy? Yeah? Don’t get too used to it; you’re only staying one night.’
‘It must be costing a fortune.’
‘Nah. Blisset Renown put a lot of business their way; they’ll have done some deal. And they sent flowers? They sent flowers. Bryce Bonesman’s assistant will be over there tomorrow, soon as you’ve checked out, to take them home to her sad little apartment. So saddle up, he’s looking for a meet.’
‘Who?’
‘Bryce Bonesman.’
‘Now?’ But we’d just got here.
‘What? You thought you were here to have fun? You’re not here to have fun. You and Mannix, a car will pick you up in thirty minutes. Look thin.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Look promotable. Wear Spanx. Smile a lot. And those kids of yours? A car is coming for them too. To do the sights, all that shit.’
Bryce Bonesman was lanky, in his late sixties, and oozing sophisticated charm. He held my right hand and clasped my forearm and said, with great sincerity, ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘… But thank you.’ I was flustered because he’d paid for the plane tickets and the magnificent hotel.
‘And thank you, sir.’ Bryce moved his attention to Mannix.
‘So they’re here,’ Phyllis said to him. ‘It’s great.’ She began moving down a corridor. ‘The usual place? Everyone in there?’
We followed her i
nto a boardroom, where a small army of people was seated around a long table. Bryce introduced them all – there was Somebody Somebody who was Vice-President of Marketing and Somebody Else who was Vice-President of Sales. There was a Vice-President of Publicity, a Vice-President of Paperbacks, a Vice-President of Digital …
‘Sit by my side.’ Bryce helped me into a chair. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight!’
The vice-presidents laughed politely.
‘So we love your book,’ Bryce Bonesman said. A cacophony of assent followed. ‘And we can make a great success of it.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmured.
‘You know that publishing is dying on its feet?’
I hadn’t known. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Ease up a little,’ Phyllis said to him. ‘It’s not your mom you’re talking about.’
‘You’ve got a great back-story,’ Bryce said. ‘The Guillain-Barré thing. Mannix being your doctor. The stuff about you leaving your husband, that’s going to be a little trickier to finesse. Is he a sex addict? A drunk?’
‘No …’ Suddenly I didn’t like how this was going.
‘Okay. You’re still good friends with him? You all celebrate Thanksgiving together?’
‘Well, we don’t have Thanksgiving in Ireland. But we’re good friends.’ Sort of.
‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you, Stella. We’re offering a sizeable advance, but, if this works out, you could make a lot more money.’
I could? ‘Thank you.’ My voice was barely audible because I was embarrassed to be considered so worthy.
Almost as a throwaway, he added, ‘Of course, we’re going to need you to do a second book.’
‘Oh? Thank you!’ I was profoundly flattered, then seized with terror: how the hell would I do that?
‘Naturally, the offer is subject to conditions.’
… Which are?
‘This book is not a slam dunk. You need to tour it and go on every talk show in the country. Grass-roots promotion, a lot of travel. We’ll tour you possibly four times, starting early next year. Each tour lasting two to three weeks. We’ll get you right out there in the boondocks. We want to make you a brand name.’
I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but I murmured, ‘Thank you.’
‘If you work hard, you could make it.’
‘I’m good at working hard.’ At least I was on solid ground with that.
‘So you give up your job and base yourself here for at least a year. You go hard or go home.’
I was surprised, almost shocked, then stricken with foreboding. I had already abandoned my children when I got sick and I couldn’t do it again.
‘But I have two kids,’ I said. ‘They’re seventeen and sixteen, and they’re still in school.’
‘We’ve got schools here. Excellent schools.’
‘You mean they could come with me?’
‘Sure.’
My head was whirling because I was almost obsessed with Betsy and Jeffrey’s academic life. Betsy only had one more year of school to go, Jeffrey had two. What would moving to New York do to their studies? But surely the schools here in New York would be better than the ones at home? And wouldn’t the life experience of living in a different city stand to them? And, even if it was a disaster, it wasn’t for ever …?
‘The new semester is just about to start,’ Bryce said. ‘How about that for timing? And we can organize an apartment in a good neighbourhood for you.’
One of the vice-presidents quietly said something to Bryce, and he replied, ‘Why, of course!’
To me, he said, ‘How does a ten-room duplex on the Upper West Side sound? With a housekeeper and driver and staff quarters. Our dear friends the Skogells are taking a year out in Asia, so their home is available.’
‘Yes, but –’ Instinctively I knew that Betsy and Jeffrey would kill to live in New York – the bragging they’d do would be second to none. And that Ryan would – reluctantly, perhaps – agree to it, but where did Mannix fit in?
Phyllis stood up and announced, ‘We need the room.’
Bryce Bonesman and his people got to their feet. I raised my eyebrows at Mannix – what the hell was going on? He messaged something with his eyes but, for once, I couldn’t read him.
‘A sidebar with my client,’ Phyllis said. ‘And you.’ She nodded at Mannix.
Everyone else filed out super-fast; clearly they were used to this sort of thing.
To Mannix, Phyllis said, ‘Over there. Don’t look. I want a moment with Stella.’
In a low voice, she said to me, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about him.’ She flicked her eyes at Mannix, who had obediently turned away from us. ‘You’re crazy in love; you don’t want to be in a different country to him. But how about this? You need a person. An assistant, a manager, call him what you want. Someone running interference and taking care of business. There’s going to be a lot of interfacing between Blisset Renown and you – travel stuff, promo logistics. He’s good, your guy. He gets it. And before you even ask, I don’t do that shit. I do great deals but I don’t hold your hand.’
‘… But Mannix has a job. Mannix is a doctor.’
With contemptuous good humour, she said, ‘“My boyfriend, the doctor.” So why don’t we ask “the doctor” what the doctor wants?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ he said.
‘You weren’t supposed to be listening.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘Phyllis,’ I said, anxiously. ‘Bryce mentioned a second book.’
‘Yeah.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Another collection of those wise, pithy bon mots, just the same as One Blink. You can do it in your sleep. First rule of publishing: if something works, just do it again, with a different title.’
‘… And do you think they’ll pay me the same amount?’ I hardly dared to ask.
‘Are you kidding me?’ she said. ‘I could do the deal for your second book right now, this afternoon, and get you another quarter of a million dollars. But my gut – which is never wrong – says if we wait for the right moment, they’ll pay you a shitload more.’
It was her certainty, more than anything, that convinced me that a new life could be fashioned from the bizarre opportunity Annabeth Browning had given me. This was real.
To Mannix, I said, ‘Would you be willing to give up your job for a year?’
‘… For a year?’ He went into some place in his head and I held my breath, hoping against hope. ‘Yeah,’ he said, slowly. ‘For a year, yes, I think I would.’
I exhaled and felt almost euphoric.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Are you okay giving up your job for a year?’
It was nice of him to ask but, to me, mine wasn’t a ‘real’ job, not like his.
‘Perfectly okay,’ I said. ‘I’m in. A million per cent.’ Life had suddenly revealed a solution to all my problems. Jeffrey would love to live in New York and if the price for that was me being with Mannix, he’d suck it up. I’d get to live with Mannix, to share his bed, night after night …
‘Thank you, Mannix,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
This was the perfect moment to tell him I loved him. It had been worth waiting for.
‘Mannix, I –’
‘So this is done?’ Phyllis interrupted. ‘We’re good?’
Deflated, I nodded. I’d get another chance to tell Mannix I loved him.
Phyllis went to the door and called, ‘All of you, back in here.’
When the various vice-presidents had resumed their seats and the chair-scraping and rearranging had finished, Phyllis stood at the head of the table and said, ‘You’ve got a deal.’
‘Terrific!’ Bryce Bonesman said. ‘Terrific news.’
Everyone was moving around and shaking hands and smiling and saying they were looking forward to working with me.
‘You’ll join my wife and me for dinner at eight p.m.’ Bryce Bonesman looked at his watch. ‘Which giv
es you time to view the Skogells’ place and check out the neighbourhood. I’ll give Bunda Skogell a call, tell her to expect you.’
‘… Thanks.’ I’d been hoping to go to Bloomingdales while I was still able to stand.
‘And your kids tonight – Fatima will take them out on the town. Right, Fatima?’ Fatima was one of the vice-presidents and she looked a bit surprised at this news. ‘Take them to the Hard Rock, then to a show, but not Book of Mormon. Give them a good time but keep it clean.’
He refocused on me. ‘Then go home tomorrow, shut your life down and get back here asap. We’ve got a lot of work to do!’
HER
‘Have a Manhattan.’ Amity gave me a shallow glass from a silver salver held by a silent woman dressed all in black. ‘What better way to welcome you to Manhattan than with Manhattans, right?’
‘Thank you.’ I was awed by Amity Bonesman’s very high heels, her incongruously maternal air and her massive apartment, tastefully furnished with rugs and antiques.
‘Oh, Manhattans.’ Bryce Bonesman had come into the room. ‘Amity always makes Manhattans when people are new in town. Hi there, Stella. Looking lovely. You too, young man.’ Bryce kissed me, then shook hands with Mannix. ‘Manhattans are a little bitter for my taste. I have a sweet tooth, but don’t tell my dentist.’
Mannix and I laughed dutifully.
‘So!’ Bryce raised his glass. ‘To Stella Sweeney and One Blink at a Time. Here’s hoping it goes to the top of the New York Times best-seller list and stays there for a year!’
‘Lovely, yes. Thank you.’ We drank from our bitter drinks.
‘We’ve got a special guest for you tonight,’ Bryce said.
Oh really? I’d thought this was just a low-key dinner with my new publisher and his wife. I was half-crazed with jet lag and adrenaline backwash and I didn’t know how I’d handle any more hits to my system. But, obediently, I fixed a look of anticipation to my face.
‘We’re going to be joined by Laszlo Jellico.’
Laszlo Jellico. I knew the name.
‘Pulitzer-prize winner,’ Bryce prompted. ‘Great man of American letters.’