Locked Out of Heaven

by Shirley Benton

  “Do you never get sick of trying to control everything?”

  “Holly, what’s the problem? I was just trying to make sure you had the perfect night.”

  “The perfect night would be a night of my choosing. I’m sick of you trying to make my decisions for me. And can you not even leave me alone for one night and let me enjoy myself without ringing to check up on me? You’re suffocating me, Terry!”

  There was silence for a few seconds, not just on the line but all around me, too. The music had been turned down when the lights had flashed for last orders and suddenly, everyone in the pub seemed to be looking at me.

  “I was just ringing to tell you I love you, Holly, and I can’t wait to see you at the altar tomorrow.”

  I hung up. I know it was a horrible thing to do, but it was all too much, Diary. To be honest, I was absolutely sickened by how controlled I felt. I really didn’t think that was how I should have been feeling at that moment in time – controlled and owned. It’s not right to feel like that, is it?

  Susie was by my side within seconds.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “Didn’t sound fine.”

  “We sorted it. Do you want a drink for last orders before it’s too late?”

  “No.”

  “See you later, then.”

  Susie stared at me for a long time before returning to Hawaii and Terry’s family. Sammy pushed a drink down the bar towards me.

  “I got you last orders.”

  “Thanks. I don’t think a drink will ever taste better than this one.” I downed it in one. “Sammy, could you take my coat home with you?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to the ladies’ toilet now, then I’m slipping out of the side door. If I take my coat, Susie will know I’m planning on hopping it. She doesn’t miss a thing. If you see her following me to the toilet, waylay her somehow. Don’t tell a soul I’ve left, okay?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Kennedy’s.”

  Sammy smiled, but it was a dubious one. “Are you sure?”

  “I have to know if I’m making a big mistake. I’ll know when I see him.”

  “Don’t hurt him, Holly. Don’t turn this into a drunken hen night shag and then regret it in the morning and go off and marry Terry. He’ll be devastated.”

  “I won’t do anything unless I know for certain that he’s the one. I promise you, I won’t hurt him. I just have to know.”

  Sammy looked at the clock. “Well, you’d better hurry, then. He mightn’t even still be there any more.”

  I ran down the street, Diary, discarding L-plates and rubber knob necklaces as I went, promising myself I’d pick up litter on the street sometime soon as reparation to the world. I burst through the doors of Kennedy’s, panting and gasping for breath from running so fast. There were five customers at the bar – four of them turned round. Damo didn’t. He was staring into his almost finished pint.

  I walked up and stood beside him. Slowly, he turned round. He stared at me as if he were seeing an apparition. Then he smiled.

  I pulled him off his bar stool and kissed him, Diary. All of the old men at the bar started muttering. Then I pushed Damo up against the bar and kissed him again.

  “Ah, Jaysus, love, get a room,” someone said.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” I said to Damo.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  We ran even faster back to Damo’s place than I’d run down to Kennedy’s.

  Chapter 40

  “Holly, it’s Luke. I have a business opportunity for you to consider.”

  “Oh?” My heart soared. I really thought there was no hope of anything after the show ended. “I’m all ears.”

  I was also full of gratitude that he hadn’t called it a pimp-my-life gig. Although I’d coined it myself for the purposes of getting attention, the term was starting to grate on me.

  “You might remember we announced a new show on launch night called Meal Massacre. It’s a new format reality TV cooking show where we get five contestants to cook a starter, a main course and a dessert in thirty minutes. Each contestant will get their own night to cook while the other contestants watch them, actively looking for things they’re doing wrong to mark them down on – hence the massacre aspect.

  “At the end of each night the contestants will have to rate each other’s efforts and the person with the top score at the end of the run of nights wins 1,000 euros. Think Come Dine with Me meets 30 Minute Meals – you know those shows?”

  “Of course. My mother’s addicted to Come Dine with Me, even though she isn’t a big foodie.”

  Understatement of the century.

  “One of our contestants for next week’s filming is seriously ill and will be in hospital for the foreseeable future, unfortunately. We’re looking for a replacement. I know there’s no guarantee you’ll win the money, but a grand would be a nice chunk of money if you did. Would you be interested? Or do you have too much on your plate right now?”

  “Boom boom – I like what you did there, Luke.”

  “Thanks. I’m well worth that bigwig salary they pay me.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Well, I have plenty on my plate, but I also have plenty of bills to pay. A one-in-five chance of winning a grand isn’t something I can afford to say no to. But there’s one big problem – I don’t have a home of my own. And my mother . . . well, let’s just say she’s not the world’s biggest people person.

  “Plus, I promised her I’d keep my parents’ home out of the filming of Diary of a Boomeranger, so I don’t anticipate that she’ll be particularly happy about having not only a camera crew in our home, but also four strangers.”

  “Shall I leave it with you for a few hours? But do let me know as soon as possible if it’s not a goer.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Luke.”

  When I rejoined Susie in the kitchen with Oran on my hip – Debbie was napping upstairs – she was rummaging in her handbag. There was a pile of notes on the kitchen table beside it.

  “Found you, you bastard,” she said, adding a fiver to the pile of notes. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”

  “Buying something?”

  “No, the ESB Energy bill came in the post this morning. I’m going down to the post office to pay it off this afternoon.”

  “Oh, here, let me get you my share.”

  I got my purse and added some notes to the pile.

  “How are you doing for money right now? I can manage it this month if the kids need anything and you need to keep that.”

  Wow. I think the kids were growing on her.

  “Thanks, Susie. That’s really good of you, but I’m okay at the moment.”

  “Have you any more work offers in the pipeline?”

  “I got a call from Luke just now offering me something, but I don’t think it’s an option.”

  I told her the details.

  “So, why isn’t it an option?”

  “Because this is your home – yours and Willie’s. I couldn’t just take it over like that for a night.”

  “Why not? You’ve been taking it over every other night for the last few weeks.”

  “I know and that’s why I’m doing all this work to try to make money.”

  “I was joking, Holly. You should lighten up or you’ll die before me of stress. This meal cooking thing, you should do it.”

  “And you wouldn’t mind having people filming in the house? And four strangers coming round?”

  “Oh, why not? At this stage, what have I got to lose from something like that?”

  I was astonished. Willie walked in.

  “What have you got to lose from something like what?”

  Susie filled him in.

  “Are you mad? We haven’t had anyone we don’t know in this place for decades!”

  “A change is as good as a rest.”

  “No, Susie. This is a bad idea.”

 
“Chill out, Willie. This is where you get it from, Holly.”

  And they were off again. Midway through, Susie asked me to leave and let her deal with it. I scarpered into the sitting room, sorry I’d said anything.

  Susie came in to me ten minutes later.

  “It’s sorted,” she said. “Tell Luke you’ll do it, just as long as I’m the front of house.”

  The contestants in Meal Massacre always had to have a sidekick who’d serve drinks to the other contestants and organise the after-dinner entertainment – a skivvy, really, but front of house sounded much nicer. I didn’t think it would be Susie’s thing.

  “It’s sorted already? But you were only arguing for ten minutes!”

  “I’m just getting better at arguing,” she said and glided out with a big smile on her face.

  She usually won in the end anyway, but Willie always made sure to give her a hard time first. He must be getting soft.

  I rang Luke and told him to count me in. I was relieved and freaked out in equal measure. What if these people looked down their noses on Blackbeg and made it really obvious? Susie would kill them and they’d end up as the meat in whatever dish I made.

  “I’ve no idea what to cook, though,” I said to Luke.

  “I have one of those thirty-minute meal cookbooks – I’ll lend it to you.”

  “Oh, thanks, Luke. I was planning on scouring the Internet for recipes, but a book would be much better. You’re very good.”

  “No problem. If this goes well, you can cook for me sometime as thanks. I might wait until the show has been filmed to see what sort of a cook you are first, though.”

  “I don’t know whether to call you cheeky or clever,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll lend you some horror DVDs – they might have to do instead of a meal.”

  Whatever I ended up cooking, it had to earn me 1,000 euros. It just had to.

  Chapter 41

  The whole business of trying to win a cooking show was all well and good until the night came when I actually had to cook my meal. Although I was a vegetarian, I was making duck salad for the other four contestants and just giving myself a plain salad. Most vegetarians on this show did vegetarian dishes for everyone to show how veggie food could also be tasty, but they rarely won. I admired their principles, but I was in this for the money – although I was much better at cooking chicken than duck. Duck could go any way.

  All week a vague knowledge had been gnawing at me that the other contestants’ cooking was of a far higher standard than mine. It wasn’t until I bought the ingredients for my night’s cooking and started to plan how I’d put it together that I really realised how hard this was going to be. Not only was I lacking in skill when it came to cooking meat, but the overall package of the other contestants’ nights also contained far more impressive elements than mine would.

  The first night had been hosted by Peter in his palatial home in the foothills of the Dublin Mountains. Everyone seemed so impressed by the house that the red prawn curry seemed tastier purely because of our opulent surroundings and Peter’s luxury dinnerware. We went to Dawn’s cottage on an island in Dublin Bay the following night, where we were served a Moroccan lamb. On Wednesday, we visited drag queen Delia’s terraced house in a funky south-side suburb. Delia claimed to live on takeaways but cooked an Acapulco chicken dish that Peter compared to a Michelin-starred meal he’d had the previous week - because Peter had Michelin-starred meals every week, you understand.

  The previous evening we’d dined at Jason’s house in North County Dublin. Jason lived on a spacious farm and served us the fruits of his own land in the form of a beef stir-fry. And then they had me. I had a feeling everyone already hated me because my vegetarian status was causing more work for them all in serving veggie versions of their dishes, so suddenly my original plans to cook a simple auld chicken salad didn’t cut it any more. Serving duck was the only logical conclusion – it hadn’t been dished up already and it was easy enough to cook. But all things considered, I didn’t think my chances were very good.

  Now that my night was here, things weren’t shaping up well. Susie was like a cat on a hot tin roof and I was more nervous than I’d been since I first got involved with Eire TV. Susie and Willie had had a huge row upstairs earlier – about what, I don’t know, because I’d turned the telly up in case Sarah heard anything too specific. There was no point in asking what it was about – I knew Susie wouldn’t say.

  Arguments were as natural to them as breathing, but the tone of this one sounded more serious than usual. It wasn’t just a squabble about how long Willie had spent in the local playing darts and wasting money on pints the previous Saturday night. She’d calmed down somewhat since Willie had left the house with the kids to take them to Cliff’s place for a sleepover – we were getting better about doing those kinds of things – but still, I had a precarious situation on my hands. Anything could happen when Susie was in this mood. The night could be a complete disaster and it would all be on film.

  Susie came downstairs and looked at the printout of my menu in disdain.

  “You call this food? Now I know why they call it Meal Massacre and it’s got nothing to do with the pressure of cooking it all in thirty minutes. A celeriac, carrot, chicory and kiwi salad with honey-lemon dressing, served with duck . . . Jaysus. Who even knows what celeriac is? That’s the Sorrento Hill influence coming out in you now. I won’t be able to eat the leftovers if you’re cooking crap like that.”

  “It’s not cooked, it’s raw. The salad, not the duck.”

  “Oh, Christ above.”

  “You don’t eat anyway, remember?”

  “I won’t be tonight. Tell those bastards that if they touch my Viscounts I’ll kill them. It’s very likely they’ll be going through the cupboards when they see this menu. I thought you were in it to win it?”

  “Susie, please stop. This isn’t helping.”

  “I have potato waffles and Findus crispy pancakes in the freezer if you need them,” she said with a sniff. “Should you not be prepping by now?”

  “I’m actually not feeling great,” I said. “I feel like I’m about to be sick, to be honest. The thought of even looking at meat . . .” I put my hand over my mouth as nausea overtook me at the mere mention of meat.

  “It’s probably nerves, although surely you’re used to all this camera stuff by now?”

  “I suppose I am. I don’t know what it is. You’re right – I should start the prep.”

  I started sorting all the non-meat ingredients, lining them up on the worktop in the order they’d be used. I scrubbed the frying pan, saucepans and all other kitchen utensils I’d need to use, but after that I hit a wall – mentally and physically. I must have been mad to think I had any hope of winning this. Terry used to buy me expensive glossy recipe books every Christmas and they’d invariably ended up being used as coasters or place mats, but never for what they were intended. Not only that, but I was also feeling worse and worse by the second.

  My starter was going to be skewered chicken satay. I put ten wooden skewers into a saucepan of cold water to soak, weighing them down with Susie’s gigantic tea cup bearing the emblem “Shut Up and Let Me Drink My Tea in Peace and Quiet”. It was an offshoot of the “Keep Calm” line of merchandise, which she hated.

  I poured a packet of satay sauce into a bowl, covered the bowl with clingfilm and threw the packet into the bin, making a note to myself to empty that bin before the guests arrived. I had a few limes and I was going to pour the juice from them over the completed chicken satay – limes always made you look like you were doing far more than you actually were, I always found.

  “Don’t wash the chicken for that satay in my sink – it splashes bacteria around the kitchen. I’ve seen you doing it before when cooking for the kids, you know. That whole thing about needing to wash raw chicken before you cook it is a total myth perpetrated by cissies who carry around antibacterial wipes with them.”

  I didn’t hear the rest of her thoughts on bac
teria cissies. I was too busy running to the bathroom with my hand clasped over my mouth.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Susie asked when I came back downstairs.

  “You said the word ‘raw’ and it made me want to throw up.”

  “But what’s fundamentally wrong? If you tell me you’re up the duff, I’ll—”

  “Of course I’m not! I must have food poisoning. Or maybe it’s a bug, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll be able to go ahead with tonight.”

  “You have to! There’s a grand riding on this!”

  “How can I cook for people if I’m throwing up?”

  “Swallow it down and get on with it.”

  “Ugh! Seriously, Susie. Ring Luke for me and explain—”

  “No. You need that money. You have two hours before the camera crew and the other contestants arrive. Go upstairs, have a nap and you’ll feel fine after that. I’ll wake you half an hour before.”

  “But there’s the prep . . .”

  Susie closed her eyes and sighed the deep sigh of a long-suffering martyr. “Oh, I suppose I’ll have to do it, so.”

  “But if it’s a bug, it’s not fair if I pass it on to everyone else.”

  “They’ve been hanging out with you all week. If they’re going to get it it’s already in their systems by now. Go on, quickly, before I change my mind.”

  An hour and a half and five vomiting incidents later, I came back downstairs. Susie was pottering around the kitchen in a strapless red dress. She looked like she was going to the Oscars.

  “Where did you get that dress?”

  “I borrowed it from Hawaii.”

  “But it’s long! That can’t be Hawaii’s.”

  “She bought it on holiday and realised when she brought it home that she’d made a dreadful mistake. How are you feeling?”

  “I haven’t been sick in twenty minutes, so maybe the worst of it has passed.”

  “Good. Take a quick shower and get yourself dressed. If there’s anyone who has the cheek to arrive early, I’ll occupy them.”

  Through my misery, I managed a smile. Punctuality was one of Susie’s bugbears. She considered anyone who either arrived on time or came early to be the embodiment of rudeness.