by Marian Keyes
Then he was coming, his fingers tangled in my hair, his eyes closed, his face a picture of anguish, saying my name. “Anna, Anna, Anna.”
For a long time afterward, neither of us spoke. Slick with sweat and knocked out by pleasure, we were flattened against the sheets. I was having little conversations with myself in my head: That was amazing. That was incredible. But I said nothing; anything would sound like a cliché.
“Anna?”
“Mmm?”
He rolled over on top of me and said, “That was one of the best things that has ever happened to me.”
But it wasn’t just good sex. I felt like I knew him. I felt like he loved me. We went to sleep spooned together, his arm tight around my stomach, my hand resting on his hip.
I awoke to the sound of a cup clattering beside my ear. “Coffee,” he said. “Time to get up.”
I pulled myself out of my blissful slumber and tried to sit up.
“You’re already dressed,” I said, surprised.
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t meet my eye. He sat on the foot of the bed, pulling on his socks, his face bent downward, his back to me, and suddenly I was wide-awake.
I’d been here before and I knew the rules: keep it light, don’t push him, let him do his elastic-band thing.
Well, fuck that. I deserved better.
I sipped my coffee and said, “You haven’t forgotten tomorrow night? Shake’s air-guitar stuff? You still coming?”
Without turning to look at me, he mumbled into his knees, “I won’t be around this weekend.”
I forgot to breathe. I felt like I’d been slapped. Looked like I should have done the toe-touching, bum-waggling thing after all.
“Gotta go to Boston,” he went on. “Stuff to sort out.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever?” He turned around. He looked surprised.
“Yes, Aidan, whatever. You sleep with me, you go weird on me, and now, all of a sudden, you’re not around this weekend. Whatever.”
His face drained of color. “Anna, yeah, look. I guess there’s no right time for this.” Something bad was coming. The end of me and Aidan. Just when I’d really started to like him. Bums.
“What?” I asked sharply.
“But how would you feel about, you know, you and me, being exclusive?”
“Being exclusive?”
Being exclusive was nearly like getting engaged.
“Yeah, just you and me. I don’t know if you’re still seeing other guys…”
I shrugged. Neither did I. And there was a much more important question: “You still seeing other girls?”
A pause. “That’s why I need to go to Boston.”
16
On the flight from Dublin to New York, my injuries caused a few nudges, but nothing like the stir they’d caused on the outward journey. Especially as Rachel, my fierce protector, challenged and psychoanalyzed any other passenger who stared too hard at me.
“Why are you so fascinated with mutilation?” she asked angrily of one person who kept turning around in his seat to look at me. “What are you afraid of?”
“Stop it,” I said to her. “He’s only seven.”
Once we’d landed and got our luggage and gone outside, I had a bit of a freaker about getting into a taxi. I was literally trembling with fear, but Rachel said, “This is New York City, you’ll need to use cabs all the time. You’re going to have to get back on the horse at some stage. Why not do it now while I’m here to take care of you?”
I had no choice: I either got in the cab or got the plane back to Ireland. With knees that felt watery with dread, I got in.
On the drive Rachel talked about things—stuff that had nothing to do with anything, but was diverting all the same. Celebrities who’d lost weight. Gained weight. Hit their hairdresser. It kept me calm.
Then we crossed the bridge into Manhattan. I was almost surprised to find that it was still there, still going on with its business, still being Manhattan, regardless of what had happened to me.
Then we were in my neighborhood, the so-called Mid-Village. (Between the charm of the West Village and the edginess of the East Village, Mid-Village was a realtor’s term to try to give character to a place that didn’t really have much. But with Manhattan rents being what they were, me and Aidan were unimaginably grateful to live there.)
And then we were outside our apartment building and the shock of seeing it still standing there made my stomach lurch so much I was afraid I’d puke.
Even with Rachel carrying my luggage, climbing up the three flights of stairs on my bad knee was a bit of a challenge, but as soon as I put my key in the lock—and Rachel insisted that it was I who opened the door and not her—I sensed someone else in the apartment and I almost jackknifed with relief: he was still here. Oh, thank God. Only to discover that the person was Jacqui. Thoughtfully, she’d come along so I wouldn’t be upset by arriving at an empty place, but my disappointment was so acute that I had to check every room, just in case.
Not that there were many rooms to check. There was the living room with a cramped kitchen annex carved out of it, a half bath (i.e., a shower and no bath), and at the back our gloomy bedroom with its sliver of glass looking into the stairwell (funds hadn’t stretched to a proper window). But we’d made it cozy: a lovely big bed with a carved headboard, a couch wide enough for us to lie on side by side, and vital accessories like scented candles and a wide-screen TV.
I hobbled from room to room, I even looked behind the shower curtain, but he wasn’t there. At least the photos of him were still on the walls; some “thoughtful” soul hadn’t taken it upon themselves to get rid of them.
Rachel and Jacqui pretended nothing strange was happening, then Jacqui smiled and I stared at her in shock. “What happened to your…teeth?”
“Present from Lionel 9.” Some rap star. “He decided at four in the morning to get his teeth gold-plated. I found a dentist willing to do it. Lionel was so grateful he gave me the gift of two gold incisors. I hate them,” she said. “I look like a bling Dracula. But I can’t get them removed until he’s left town.”
Rachel clapped her hands together in a parody of good humor and declared, “Food! It’s important to eat. What’ll we have?”
“Pizza?” Jacqui asked me.
“I don’t mind. I’m not the one with gold-plated teeth.” I gave her the Andretti’s leaflet. “Will you order?”
“Better if you do,” Rachel said.
I looked at her bleakly.
“Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “But it is.”
“When I order they never bring the salad.”
“If that’s how it has to be…”
So I rang Andretti’s, and as I predicted, they forgot the salad.
“I told you,” I said with weary triumph.
But neither of them rose to the challenge, and as soon as we’d finished eating, Jacqui produced a twelve-inch-high heap of envelopes. “Your mail.”
I took the bundle, put it in the closet, and closed the door tight. I’d look at it sometime.
“Er…don’t you want to open it?”
“Not right now.”
A tricky silence.
“I’ve just got here,” I said defensively. “Give me a chance.”
It was strange to see the two of them united against me. It’s not that they didn’t like each other—not exactly—but Rachel’s motto was “The unexamined life isn’t worth living,” while Jacqui’s was “We’re not here for a long time, we’re here for a good time.”
They had never bitched to me about each other, but if they were to, Rachel would say that Jacqui was too shallow and Jacqui would say that Rachel needed to lighten up.
The crux of their differences was Luke: if pressed, Jacqui would admit that she thought Luke was wasted on Rachel, with her fondness for early nights.
However, Rachel once let slip that the only vice she had left was sex, which instantly made me imagine her and Luke up to all sorts of kinky stuff. But that�
�s not something you want to think too much about, not about anyone.
After further silence, I said, “So! Jacqui, what’s happening with you? Are you over Buzz yet?”
Buzz was Jacqui’s ex-boyfriend. He had a year-round tan and tons of confidence and money. He was also incredibly cruel—he used to leave Jacqui sitting by herself for hours in bars and restaurants, then he’d tell her she’d got the time or the venue wrong.
He would argue that pink was green just for the hell of it, tried to make Jacqui have a threesome with a prostitute, and drove a red Porsche—so pitifully naff—and made the guy at the garage clean the tires with a toothbrush.
Jacqui used to keep saying what a bastard he was and that she’d had it with him; no, she’d really had it with him this time; but she always gave him one more chance. Then he’d broken up with her on New Year’s Eve and she’d been devastated.
Jacqui never got a chance to answer me. As if I hadn’t spoken, Rachel said, “There are lots of messages on your machine. We thought you might like someone here when you’re listening to them.”
“Why not?” I said. “Hit it.”
There were thirty-seven messages. All kinds of people had come out of the woodwork.
“Anna, Anna, Anna…”
“Who is that?”
“…It’s Amber. I just heard…”
“Amber Penrose? It’s forever since I’ve heard from her. Delete!”
“But won’t you listen to her message?” asked Jacqui, who was manning the machine.
“No need. I could write the script. Look, I’ll remember everyone who rang,” I said. “I’ll get back to them. Delete! Next!”
“Anna,” someone whispered. “I’ve just heard and I can’t bel—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Delete!”
Rachel muttered something. I caught the word denial. “At least write down their names.”
“I don’t have a pen.”
“Here.” She passed me a pen and a notebook that had magically materialized on her person, and obediently I wrote down the names of everyone who had called, and the trade-off was that I didn’t have to listen to their full commiserations.
Then Jacqui and Rachel made me switch on my computer and retrieve all my e-mails: there were eighty-three. I scanned the senders’ addresses; I was only interested in getting an e-mail from one person and it wasn’t there.
“Read them.”
“No need. I’ll get round to them. Now look: I’m sorry, girls, I need my sleep, I’ve got work in the morning.”
“What!” Rachel yelped. “Don’t be so insane. There’s no way you’re well enough either physically or emotionally to return to work. You’re in total denial about what’s happened to you. You need serious help. I mean serious!”
She went on and on and I just nodded and said calmly, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Like I’d seen her do to people who were pissed off with her. After a while, she abruptly stopped ranting, looked at me through eyes narrowed with suspicion, and said, “What’s your game?”
“Rachel,” I said, “thank you for all your kindness, but the only way this will be okay is if I carry on like normal.”
“Don’t go to work.”
“I have to.”
“Don’t go to work.”
“I’ve already told them to expect me.”
A face-off ensued. Rachel was very strong-willed, but at that moment, so was I. I sensed her start to buckle, so I seized my advantage. “Luke will be wondering where you are.”
I began edging them toward the exit, but I swear to God, I thought they’d never leave. At the door, Rachel insisted on delivering a speech. She even cleared her throat. “Anna, I can’t know exactly the hell you’re going through, but when I admitted I was an addict, I felt like my life was over. How I got through it was, I decided, I won’t think about forever, I won’t even think about next week, I’ll just think about getting through today. Break it down into small pieces and you might find that you can do for one day something that, if you thought about having to do it for the rest of your life, would kill you.”
“Thank you, yes, lovely.” Get out.
“I put that toy-dog thing in your bed,” Jacqui said. “To keep you company.”
“Dogly? Thank you.”
As soon as I was sure they were really gone and wouldn’t be leaping back in the door to check on me, I did what I’d been dying to do for hours—I rang Aidan’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail, but even so, it was such a relief to hear his voice that my stomach turned to water.
“Aidan,” I said. “Baby, I’m back in New York. Back in our apartment, so you know where to find me. I hope you’re okay. I love you.”
Then I wrote him an e-mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I’m back
Dear Aidan,
It feels funny writing to you like this. I don’t think I’ve ever written you a proper letter before. Hundreds and hundreds of little e-mails, yes, to say who was bringing dinner home and what time would we meet and that sort of thing, but never like this.
I’m back in our apartment but maybe you already know that. Rachel and Jacqui came over—Jacqui got a present of two gold teeth from a client—and we had pizzas from Andretti’s. They forgot the salad, like always, but gave us an extra Dr
Pepper.
Please be okay, please don’t be frightened, please come and see me or get in touch somehow, I love you. Anna
I read back over what I’d written. Was it light enough? I didn’t want him to know how worried I was, because whatever he was going through was bound to be difficult enough without me adding to it.
Decisively I hit send with my index finger and a red-hot shock shot from my regrowing nail up my arm. Christ, I’d have to go easy on the grand-gesture-style typing with the two fingers with banjaxed nails. The pain was enough to make me queasy and momentarily it distracted me from the sudden wave of feeling that enveloped me. Something like rage or sadness at not being able to protect Aidan, but it was so fleeting it was gone before I could grasp it.
In the bedroom, tucked into Aidan’s side of the bed, was Dogly, the toy dog he’d had since he was a baby. He had long swingy ears, syrupy eyes, and an eager, adoring expression, and his caramel-colored fur was so thick it was more like a sheep’s fleece. Not in the first flush of youth—Aidan was thirty-five, after all—but not bad for his age. “He had some work done,” Aidan said once. “Eyes lifted, collagen injection to plump out his tail, a little liposuction on his ears.”
“Well, Dogly,” I said. “This is a bit of a disaster.”
It was time for my last batch of pills of the day and for once I was grateful for the mood-altering stuff—the antidepressants, painkillers, and sleeping tablets. Coming back to New York was harder than I had expected and I needed all the help I could get.
But even filled with enough mellowing stuff to knock out an elephant, I didn’t want to get into bed. Then, like an electric shock, I noticed his gray sweatshirt on our bedroom chair, as if he’d just pulled it off and flung it there. Cautiously, I picked it up and sniffed it and enough of his smell still lingered to make me dizzy. I buried my face in it and the intensity of his presence and absence made me choke.
It didn’t have the special lovely smell of his neck, or of his groin, where everything was stronger, sweeter, and more feral, but it was enough to get me into bed. I closed my eyes and the pills pulled me into an undertow of sleep, but in that halfway state which precedes unconsciousness, one of those horrible ragged chinks opened up and I caught a glimpse of the enormity of what had happened. I was back in New York, he wasn’t here, and I was alone.
17
I slept heavily and dreamlessly, probably thanks to the pills. I rose through layers of consciousness, pausing at each one until I was ready to move on—like a scuba-diving ascent: preventing the emotional bends of a sudden shocking burst through the surface of sleep—so that I was q
uite peaceful by the time I opened my eyes. He wasn’t with me and I understood that.
The first thing I did was switch on the computer, checking my e-mail, hoping for a reply from him. The indicator said there were five messages and I stopped breathing, my heart pounding with desperate hope. The first was an offer for tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert. Then one from Leon saying he’d heard I was back and to call him, one from Claire saying she was thinking of me, one offering to enhance my penis size, and, finally, a blocked virus. But from Aidan, nada.
Disconsolate, I trooped off to shower and was shocked to find that I could barely wet my body, never mind my hair. Have you ever tried to have a shower without getting one arm wet? For the past eight or nine weeks everything had been done for me, so much so that I hadn’t noticed how incapacitated I was. I had another of those nasty chinks of clarity: I was way out of my depth here, on every level.
I reached for my shower gel and a memory hit me like a blow; it was No Rough Stuff, the new Candy Grrrl exfoliator. That last day, all those weeks ago, I’d been test-driving it. I’d given myself a good scrub with the lime- and pepper-scented grains, and when I got out of the shower, I’d asked Aidan, “Do I smell nice?” Obediently he’d sniffed me. “Great. Although you smelled even nicer ten minutes ago.”
“But ten minutes ago I only smelled like me.”
“Exactly.”
I had to hold tight on to the sink until the feeling passed, clenching with my one good hand until my knuckles went as bone white as the enamel.
Time to get dressed. My already low heart dipped a little lower and Dogly watched sympathetically. It was the fecking kookiness, hanger after hanger of it, plus rack after rack of colorful shoes and bags—and, worst of all, the hats. I was facing into my thirty-third birthday, far too old for this. What I needed was a promotion, because the farther up the feeding scale you went, the more you were allowed to wear suits.