by Marian Keyes
I’d spent most of my life worrying about her future – hers and Jeffrey’s. Even while I’d been paralysed in hospital I’d devoted a huge amount of time to praying that Ryan was supervising their homework properly. But Betsy herself didn’t seem bothered. It wasn’t that she was lazy, just abnormally laid-back.
I flip-flopped between being worried sick about her and wondering if there was anything wrong with actually being content with one’s life.
‘She’s knocked the nanny thing on the head,’ I told Ryan. ‘She says now she wants to be an art therapist.’
‘Art?’ he barked.
Ryan had the weirdest attitude to either of the kids showing any aptitude for art. I couldn’t decide if he wanted to be the only artist in the family. Or if he despised art because he’d failed at it.
‘Art therapy,’ I said. ‘It’s a different thing.’ I spoke soothingly, because I had another piece of unpleasant news to deliver. ‘She interviewed well at a couple of liberal-arts universities. But first she’s taking a year off.’
‘To do fecking what?’
‘Well …’
‘Oh no. She’s not coming here, is she?’
‘Ryan, you’re her dad. She misses you, she misses home. Anyway, it’ll be just a short visit. Then she’s going to Asia for three months. Five others from her class are going. It’ll be fine.’
‘Sweet suffering Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘And that other eejit is just as bad.’
That other eejit being poor Jeffrey.
It was true that Jeffrey hadn’t really found his groove, academically speaking. It had been established that he wasn’t ‘mathematically minded’. But he wasn’t exactly excelling in the more artsy subjects either. At Ryan’s insistence, we’d steered him towards what Ryan called the ‘more manly’ subjects, like economics and business; but that hadn’t taken off either. There was a short spell when he had shown an almost uncanny aptitude for Mandarin, but that had proved to be a disappointing blip.
‘I gave them everything,’ Ryan said. ‘Ungrateful little fuckers. This is your fault,’ he said. ‘Just say it for me.’
‘This is my fault. There’s one thing you’ll like,’ I said. ‘Jeffrey’s made a rich friend. He’s been invited to their place in Nantucket for a month.’
‘How rich?’
‘Someone said his dad owns half of Illinois.’
There really wasn’t anything negative Ryan could say about that, no matter what angle he came at it from, so, after a curt farewell, he hung up.
Mannix swished his glass of wine. ‘I’m getting shades of impertinence.’
‘Insolence, I’d call it,’ Roland said, smacking his lips.
I stuck my nose in my glass and said, ‘Could I be getting the tiniest hint of … actual rudeness?’
Mannix and I were on holiday with Roland in the wine country in northern California.
In early June, Betsy had departed on her trip to Asia via Ireland, and Jeffrey had gone to Nantucket with his rich new friend. All of a sudden, Mannix and I were alone in New York.
‘It’s weird here without them,’ Mannix said.
‘I know. But it’s a good chance to start the second book.’
‘Why don’t we go on holiday?’ Mannix said. ‘Just for a week?’
‘No way.’ I was adamant. I kept a beady eye on our money. A quarter of a million dollars had sounded huge – it was huge – but our rent and taxes and the day-to-day costs of living in New York were crippling. All kinds of unexpected expenses had popped up – like hiring a nanny to take care of the kids while I was on tour – and the advance was eroding much more quickly than I’d anticipated.
‘You’ve had a tough year,’ Mannix said. ‘You’ve worked so hard; you need a rest.’
‘I know, but …’
‘How would you feel about going someplace with Roland?’
‘Roland?’ I practically shrieked. ‘Where’s Roland going to get money for a holiday from?’
‘He’s just brokered the sale of an office block and he’s paid off a big lump of his debts. He says there are a couple of other things in the pipeline. And he’s been behaving so well, going to his Debtors Anonymous meetings …’
I chewed my lip.
‘Just for a week,’ Mannix repeated.
‘I’m agreeing to nothing, but where would we go?’
‘Wherever you like.’ He shrugged. ‘The wine country in California?’
‘Would it be nice?’ I asked, suspiciously.
‘I’d say it would be wonderful.’
And, oh God, I was so tempted.
‘Okay.’ I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘Okay. Do it. Let’s do it!’
It all came together very quickly. We met Roland in San Francisco and hired a car and drove north, stopping off at vineyards and artisanal food-makers during the days and every evening staying at ‘inns’ which were in actuality five-star hotels but with chintz. They had stables and Michelin-starred restaurants and private wineries.
It was blissful – the sunshine, the daily drives through beautiful countryside and the pleasure at seeing Mannix so happy.
Roland was part of some secretive foodie online collective – each morning he input his GPS coordinates and we were given magical-mystery-tour directions to the location of some remote baker who ground his own flour by hand, or a duo of brothers who used some extraordinary technique for smoking bacon.
I wasn’t a foodie, I didn’t care if bread came from a massive factory or from an ancient water-mill, but each adventure was great fun. Roland was a delight, always positive, always good company, but not one of those abrasive entertainers who needed constant attention.
Every night, at the chintzy inns, we had elaborate tasting menus, where Mannix and Roland tried to push me out of my comfort zone.
‘I can’t believe you’ve never had oysters!’ they exclaimed on the first night.
‘Or pigeon,’ I said. ‘Or quail’s eggs. And I’m not starting now.’
They tried to tempt me with tiny amounts on their forks but I wouldn’t budge, especially on the pigeon, so instead they decided to educate me in wine.
‘Swirl it.’ Mannix gave me a massive round glass. ‘Take a few moments and see what comes to you.’
‘It smells like wine,’ I said. ‘Red wine, if you want me to be really specific.’
‘Close your eyes,’ Roland said. ‘Swish it around and say what it makes you think of.’
‘Okay.’ I swirled for a few seconds, then inhaled. ‘Missing teeth.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. A ruined smile. It could have been beautiful but … it failed …’
I opened my eyes. Both men were still and startled, frozen in a stare. Their postures and expressions were identical – even though Roland was five stone overweight and Mannix as lean as a wolf, you’d know they were brothers.
Mannix reached for his glass and swirled and coughed back the wine. ‘She’s right. There’s a terrible sadness in it.’
‘That’s just you,’ Roland said.
‘It’s not. I’ve never been happier. Try some yourself.’
‘Jesus.’ Roland rinsed a swig around his mouth. ‘You’re completely right, Stella. I’m getting top notes of loneliness and an aftertaste of dread.’
‘Dashed dreams,’ I said.
‘Faded beauty.’
‘Punctured tyres,’ Mannix said. ‘All four of them. Slashed deliberately.’
Suddenly we were in convulsions, and it seemed like we spent the entire week laughing that way.
Every glass of wine we drank became a competition for the most elaborate and unlikely descriptions.
‘I’m getting shades of shoe leather.’
‘And wobbly table legs.’
‘Graffiti.’
‘Ambition.’
‘A bus driver’s jacket.’
‘Appendicitis.’
‘A soupçon of sulphur.’
‘Flotsam.’
‘And jetsam?’
; ‘Noooo … Yes! The jetsam is coming through now.’
‘Gilda will kill me,’ I said, after yet another five-course dinner.
‘The diet resumes next week,’ Roland said. ‘Eat up.’
‘Are you still doing the Nordic walking?’ I asked, a little tentatively.
‘No.’ He was solemn. ‘I had to knock it on the head when I broke the machine and they barred me from the gym.’
I snorted with involuntary laughter.
In fairness, he looked like he’d abandoned all exercise. The svelte-ish figure he’d showcased last Christmas was no more. And at the Meadowstone Ranch and Inn, when the stableboys saw Roland waddling towards them, they seemed distinctly anxious.
‘Did you see their expressions?’ Roland asked. ‘Even the horses looked worried.’
Tears of laughter were streaming down my face.
‘I’m starting with a new personal trainer when I get back to Ireland.’ He raised his glass. ‘But for now, we’re here, in this beautiful place, having this wonderful food and wine, and we are going to enjoy it.’
Later on, as we got ready for bed, Mannix said, ‘You’re in love with my brother.’
‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘How could anyone not be? He’s fabulous.’
It was the best holiday of my life and when we said goodbye to Roland at San Francisco airport, it was hard work to not cry: the holiday was over; I should have started writing my second book and I’d done nothing; and in two weeks I was starting another book tour.
‘It’s okay.’ Mannix squeezed my hand. ‘Think of Shep. You, me and Shep walking the beach. In the meantime, this tour won’t be as bad as the last time.’
And it wasn’t. The starts weren’t so early, the schedules weren’t so packed and I got every sixth day off.
Mannix and I gathered at the boardroom table with Bryce Bonesman and some of the vice-presidents. The turnout was considerably down on the last debrief we’d had and, once again, there was no sign of Phyllis.
‘Welcome, everyone,’ Bryce said. ‘A couple of folk couldn’t be with us today because it’s vacation season. So One Blink at a Time didn’t chart this time round.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s too bad,’ Bryce said. ‘But we’re guessing it’s due to the time of year; a whole bunch more books are published in July than in March.’
‘Sorry,’ I repeated.
‘Our Vice-President of Sales, Thoreson Gribble, couldn’t be with us at this moment but his report will be emailed to everyone,’ Bryce said. ‘Bottom line, we remain tentatively hopeful. Enough to suggest you re-lease the Skogells’ apartment. They’re staying on in Asia for another year. You tour again in November and that’s when all our hard work will come together. Who knows, we could be looking at a New York Times best-seller for the holidays? Right?’
‘… Right! And I’m on schedule to deliver my second book in February.’ Well, I’d made a start on it. ‘I’ve got a great title.’ I forced myself to speak with confidence. ‘I’m calling it “Right Here, Right Now”. I think it will chime with mindfulness and the Power of Now and all that fashionable stuff.’
With monumental effort I injected positivity into my voice: ‘It’s going to be even better than One Blink at a Time!’
‘Terrific,’ Bryce said. ‘I look forward to reading it.’
Down in the street, the August heat and humidity hit us like a blow. Immediately Mannix and I launched into talk.
‘I’ll take another year off work,’ Mannix said.
‘But –’
‘It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about everything and we can’t just abandon ship now.’
‘Are you sure?’ I felt guilty and miserable.
‘But if we’re going to lease the Skogells’ apartment for another year, we need to know where we are, money-wise. We need to talk to Phyllis –’
‘How long since one of us has actually spoken to her?’
Ages. Neither of us could remember the last time.
‘But,’ Mannix said, ‘it’s different now. We need to make decisions and you need a new contract.’
As soon as we got home we rang Phyllis and put her on speaker.
She picked up directly. ‘Yep?’ She sounded slurpy, like she was eating noodles.
‘Hi, Phyllis, it’s Stella. Stella Sweeney.’
‘I know.’ It was definitely noodles. ‘You think I’d answer my phone without knowing who you were. What’s up?’
‘We just had a meeting with Bryce,’ I said. ‘He’s really gung-ho.’ Well, he wasn’t exactly but I’d learned that round here it was normal to put a wildly positive spin on everything. ‘So we were wondering, Mannix and I, if you’d talk to Bryce about doing a new contract for the second book?’
‘No.’
‘Phyllis, I’m sorry, but Mannix and I, we need to get our financial stuff in place.’
She laughed. ‘You’re cute! You think this is about you! This isn’t about you. This is about me and my reputation. Mexican stand-off, baby. This is not the time to blink.’
‘But –’
‘Hey, I’m not saying I don’t feel for you. You don’t know if you should sign a lease for another year, you don’t know if you should keep your kid here in school. But now is not the moment to go to Blisset Renown to make a new deal. Maybe if you’d charted this time round …’ A meaningful and unpleasant pause followed.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Bryce is touring you again in the fall. He’s still spending money and committing resources to you. That’s a good sign. He hasn’t given up on you. But nothing happens until after the tour.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘You do what you have to do – go home to Ireland or stay here – but regarding a new deal, we wait this thing out. I’ll know when the time is right. And that time is not now.’
‘Phyllis, I –’ But I was talking to the air; she’d hung up.
‘Oh!’ I turned to Mannix.
He looked as shocked as I felt.
‘What should we do?’ My mind was whirling.
Mannix took a deep breath. ‘Let’s look at the issues.’ He sounded like it was an effort for him to stay calm. ‘Highest on the list is Jeffrey and his education – it was a big deal for him to be yanked out of school in Ireland and parachuted into a new one in New York. He’s done his best to settle in here and he’s about to start his all-important final year at school – we can’t disrupt him at this sensitive time.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you for making Jeffrey a priority.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Other factors?’ I said. ‘I don’t have a job to go back to and there are tenants in the house in Dublin, so we’d have nowhere to live.’
‘And all my patients have been reassigned. It would take a while to build up a new practice.’
After some anxious silence, Mannix said, ‘Let’s look at things another way: we have enough money to live here for one more year.’
‘If we’re careful. And we will be careful,’ I said, fiercely. ‘No more holidays. No more Gilda. No more anything. But, oh God, Mannix, what if we find out in February that they don’t want another book from me? What if One Blink hasn’t sold enough? They’re not going to want a second one just like it. I must make this new one better than the first. Jesus.’ I buried my face in my hands. I hated financial insecurity more than anything.
‘We can’t think that way. And Bryce was hopeful at that meeting,’ Mannix reminded me.
‘Tentatively hopeful.’
‘Hopeful enough to tour you again in November. I think we have to stay. Come on, Stella, let’s decide to be positive. Let’s simply decide to not worry.’
‘Have you had a personality transplant?’
But Mannix was right. We’d burned too many bridges. We’d invested too much emotionally and too much financially in everything here in New York. The door to our old life had closed over more completely than we’d expected. We couldn’t go back.
&
nbsp; Suddenly the summer had ended and it was September and Jeffrey was back at school, doing his final year.
I broke the news to Gilda that I couldn’t afford to pay her any longer, but she was adamant that we still run together four times a week. ‘We’re friends, right?’ she said.
‘Yes, but …’
‘I like to run and I prefer to have company.’
I wavered, then gave in. ‘Okay, thank you. But if I ever get the chance to pay you back in any way, I will.’
‘Like I said, we’re friends.’
Betsy returned from Asia and couldn’t get a job doing anything. Until, like a miracle, Gilda somehow secured her an internship in an art gallery. The job was unpaid, but it was vaguely in keeping with Betsy’s plans to study art therapy, so my worry eased.
The owner of the gallery was a cadaverous, black-clad man called Joss Wootten. According to Google he was sixty-eight, and it took me a while – longer than everyone else – to realize that he was Gilda’s boyfriend.
‘Jeez, Mom,’ Betsy said. ‘How else do you think I got the internship?’
‘Cripes,’ I muttered. What was it with Gilda and the old blokes?
Carefully I broached the subject of what attracted her to Joss.
‘He’s so interesting,’ she said dreamily.
‘Like Laszlo Jellico?’ I asked, desperate to understand. ‘Was he interesting?’
Her face went blank. ‘He was the wrong sort of interesting.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’ I knew not to go there again.
I was making progress with the second book, which was exactly the same sort of thing as One Blink at a Time. Every conversation I had, I concentrated till my head hurt, desperately hoping to hear words of everyday wisdom. I rang Dad a lot and kept urging him to remember what Granny Locke used to say. I had about thirty sayings that worked and I needed to get to sixty.
Ruben still kept me very busy – every day I had to do a blog and tweet a wise and comforting platitude, but it was tricky because anything decent I came up with I wanted to save for the second book. Then Ruben made me start on Instagram. ‘Do cashmere and cosiness,’ he said. ‘Pictures of sunrises and babies’ hands.’