by Marian Keyes
59
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Week from hell
God, Anna. Disastrous week. Mum went to the shrine at Knock last Saturday and brought back holy water in Evian bottle and left it in kitchen. Sunday morning when I’d bit of a thirst on me ’cos of amount drank night before, guzzled it down before realizing it tasted disgusting and there were funny things floating in it.
Two hours later, thrun down, roaring for a bucket. Puking rings around myself. Dying. Dry heaves, bile, the whole lot. Worse than any hangover. Lying on bathroom floor, holding stomach, begging to be put out of misery.
Monday morning, still puking at full throttle. No way could sit in Detta’s hedge for ten hours. Doc came, said I was badly poisoned and I’d be out of action for four/five days. Rang Colin, told him sorry story. He laughed and said, I’ll tell Harry, but he’s not going to like it.
Two seconds later, Harry rang, shouting his head off, going on about “more than generous retainer” (it is) he has me on, and what if today is the day that Detta checks into hotel room with Racey O’Grady and I’m not there to record it and that would really annoy him and I know what happens to people who annoy him. (Get nailed to pool table, just in case you forgot.) So I said, Hold on minute. Went and puked, then came back and said, I’ll sort something out.
What could I do? Had to send Mum. She’d been dying to see Detta’s clothes and house anyway. Off she goes with binoculars and sandwiches and cardboard cup in case she was caught short and as luck would shagging well have it, on Thursday Detta publicly met Racey O’Grady. (Maybe was wrong to think that Harry Big is delusional paranoid.) They met in restaurant in Ballsbridge—can’t get more high-profile than that. Even had decency to sit in window.
Mum shot off load of photos on phone and came home and we got them on computer, which was when discovered that Mum doesn’t know how to work phone camera. She’d taken the pictures using wrong side of phone and we had load of lovely close-ups of her skirt, up her sleeve, and half of her face.
Low moment. Really thought it was crucifixion time. Thought about skipping country, then thought, Ah, what the hell, how bad can crucifixion be? So rang Colin, who took me to Harry, who took it surprisingly well. Just sort of sighed and looked into his glass of milk for a long time, then said, These things happen even in the best run of organizations. Carry on with the surveillance.
But, to be honest, Anna, I’ve had enough. Job too boring, apart from times when afraid am going to be nailed to pool table. Only thing that’s interesting about it is Colin.
So said to Harry: From Mum’s description, Detta was definitely with Racey. Can’t you just confront Detta?
Him: Are ya mad? Have you a clue? No one goes into any situation making half-baked allegations. Nothing happens until I’ve proof.
Later Colin told me that Harry is in denial. No amount of proof will ever be enough. In other words, will be doing this fucking job until end of time.
Mum demanded cash for the week’s work. Also had to promise to lie in wait for woman with dog and take photos.
An e-mail from Mum arrived, too.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Crucifixion
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well. I had a terrible week. Helen drank my Knock holy water, and I had it promised to Nuala Freeman, who seemed quite annoyed when I told her what happened. Can you blame her, she has been very good to me, bringing me back a “bootleg” DVD of The Passion of the Christ that time she went to Medjagory (or however it’s spelled). (Just out of curiosity, do you know why are there so many thes in THE Passion of THE Christ?)
Anyway, Helen was as “sick” as a “dog.” I offered to ring in sick for her, but she went mad and said that when you work for a crime lord, you can’t ring in sick. She said I’d have to “cover” for her. Oh, when she’s stuck, she comes to me all right. I had her “over” a “barrel,” and I said I’d surveil Detta Big if she promised to take photos of the old woman and her dog when she was better. Mind you, she is not above going back on her word, that one.
I had thought Detta Big would be a brassy “moll” and her house would be a “kip.” But her home was very tasteful and her clothes cost a fortune, you could tell just by looking at them. I don’t like admitting it, but the “green-eyed monster” was at me. Then I took the photographs of Racey O’Grady with the wrong side of the phone camera and Helen went mad again, saying that Mr. Big would crucify her and that she’d have to “skip” the country. Then she calmed down and said that eff it (and she didn’t say “eff,” she said the full word), she’d take her medicine. Her father said she was very brave and he was proud of her. I said I thought she should be locked up in the mental hospital, that crucifixion is no joke, our Lord himself dreaded it, and I rang Claire to see if she could provide a “safe house” in London. But Claire said no, that Helen would keep trying to “get off” with Adam.
Anyway, Helen went to see Mr. Big and he didn’t crucify her and I suppose all is well that ends well. But between that fiasco and the old woman and the Knock holy water, I am not myself. Even though I made a hames of the photos, Helen gave me some “blood money” and I am trying some “retail therapy” to see if I could get a bit of a lift.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. Any more on Joey and Jacqui? I would not have thought they’d make a likely couple, but the strangest people “hook up” together.
60
Mitch and I stood patiently in line while I eyed the girl on the gate taking the money. She was wearing a ballerina outfit, motorcycle boots, and pointy fifties-style glasses with diamante on the wings. I shuddered at her getup; it made me think of work.
Mitch and I seemed to be taking turns to suggest some kind of an outing every Sunday. This week was my go and I’d come up with something a little special: a quiz in Washington Square, my local park. It was for charity, to raise money for a ventilator or a wheelchair or something (I found it so hard to focus on specifics) for some poor guy whose insurance wouldn’t pay for any more.
Today’s session had been particularly low-key. Mitch hadn’t heard from Trish, I hadn’t heard from anyone, not even Granny Maguire, and Mackenzie hadn’t shown up at all. Maybe she’d decided to call it a day and gone out to the Hamptons where she belonged, to find that rich husband whom her great-uncle Frazer had recommended she get herself.
“Next!” Diamante Glasses Girl said.
Mitch and I stepped forward.
“Okay.” She slapped stickers on our fronts and handed me a form. “You’re team eighteen. Where are your partners?”
Our partners? Mitch and I turned to each other. What should we say?
“The other two?” she pressed. “The two who should be with you?”
“I…um—” I tilted my head at Mitch and he looked openmouthed at me.
The girl, confused by our reaction, said impatiently, “Four in a team. I’m only seeing two of you.”
“Oh. Oh! Christ! Right, of course! It’s just us two.”
“It’s still twenty dollars. It’s for charity.”
“Sure.” I gave her the note.
“You have a better chance of winning if there’s four of you.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mitch said.
We picked our way through the happy, chatting groups of people sitting on the grass in the sunshine until we found a place to sit. Then I looked at Mitch. “I nearly said they were dead.”
“Me, too.”
“Could you imagine? ‘Where are your partners?’ ‘They’re dead!’”
“They’re dead!” I repeated, and a great ball of mirth rolled up from my stomach. “‘Where are your partners?’ ‘They’re dead!’”
I laughed so much I had to lie down. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until I heard some concerned stranger say, “Is she, like, okay?”
Then I tried very hard to get ahold of myself. “Mitch, I’m so sorry,” I said, finally righting myself and mopping tears of laughter off my temples. “I’m really sorry. I know it’s not a bit funny, it’s just…”
“It’s okay.” He patted my back and my face settled into its usual expression, but periodically I’d think, They’re dead, and my shoulders would start shaking again.
Mitch looked at his watch. “Should be starting soon.” Just like me, I noticed: he couldn’t handle any stretch of time that wasn’t structured and filled with stuff.
Right on cue, a man appeared, wearing a sparkly lounge suit and carrying a microphone and a sheet of what looked like questions; everyone perked up.
“Looks like we’re ready to get going,” Mitch said.
I was just about to say “good” when a yell was carried to me on the warm air. “Hey, it’s Anna!”
Jesus H. Christ! I looked around. It was Ornesto, with two other Jolly Boys whom I recognized from going up and down the stairs to his apartment, and nice Eugene who had moved my air conditioner.
Eugene, in a massive, unironed shirt, looked meaningfully at Mitch, and gave me a thumbs-up and several encouraging nods. Oh no! He thought Mitch and I…
Ornesto had clambered to his feet. He was on his way over. Aghast, I watched him. How stupid was I? I should have considered that I might know some of the people here. Not that there was anything to hide. There was nothing between Mitch and me, but people might not understand…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sparkly Suit’s voice boomed through a microphone. “Are you ready to raaaaah-ck?” He twirled his microphone stand.
“Ornesto, come back,” the Jolly Boys called. “We’re starting. You can talk to her later.”
Go back, I thought. Go back.
Momentarily, he froze, suspended by invisible strings of indecision, then to my enormous relief, he returned to his pals.
“Who’s he?” Mitch asked.
“Upstairs neighbor.”
“First question!” Sparkly Suit said. “Who said, ‘Whenever I hear the word culture, I reach for my revolver’?”
“Do you know?” I asked Mitch.
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
We sat, looking helplessly at each other, while all around us, groups of four consulted energetically.
“Göring,” I muttered to Mitch. “Hermann Göring.”
“How…how do you know?”
“Heard them say it.” I flicked my eyes at the group next to us.
“Awesome. Write it down.”
“Next question! Who directed Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”
“Do you know?” I asked Mitch.
“No. Do you?”
“No.” Annoyed, I said, “These questions are very hard.”
“The girl on the gate was right,” Mitch said sadly. “You do have a better chance if there’s four of you.”
We sat in silence, the only people in the park not talking. But there was nothing to say. If I didn’t know it and Mitch didn’t know it, what could we discuss? Shamelessly we eavesdropped on the groups around us. “Blake Edwards,” Mitch said quietly. “Who knew?”
A girl from the next team turned around and gave us a sharp look. She’d heard Mitch. She said something to her teammates and they all checked us out, then drew into a tighter huddle, audibly dropping their voices. Mitch and I looked abashed.
“That’s a little unsporting of them,” he said.
“I know. I mean, it’s for charity.”
Being unable to hear the other teams’ answers was a serious handicap, but occasionally we knew the answer.
“What is a patella?”
“A kitchen thing?” Mitch asked. “For scraping out cake mix?”
“You’re thinking of a spatula. A patella is a kneecap,” I said with glee. “When you’ve dislocated one, it’s easy to remember what it’s called.”
“What’s the capital of Bhutan?”
Everyone else was muttering disgruntledly; they didn’t even know where Bhutan was, let alone its capital, but Mitch was thrilled. “Thimphu.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trish and I went there on our honeymoon.”
Neither of us knew the answer to the following six questions, then Sparkly Suit asked, “Babe Ruth was sold by the owner of the Boston Red Sox to finance a Broadway musical. What was the name of that musical?”
Mitch lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly. “I’m a Yankees fan.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered, in excitement. “I know. It’s No, No, Nanette.”
“How?”
“Aidan’s a Red Sox fan.”
No. I’d said something wrong there. Aidan was a Red Sox fan. The shock lifted me out of my body. I felt almost as if I was looking down on myself, sitting in the park, like I’d parachuted into the wrong life. What was I doing there? Who was the man I was with?
While the scores were added up, the raffle was held. All the prizes had been donated by local businesses. I won a bag of nails (assorted sizes) and a twenty-foot length of rope donated by Hector’s Hardware. Mitch won a free piercing (body part of his choice) from Tattoos and Screws, the body-art salon on Eleventh and Third.
Then the quiz scores were read out. Team Eighteen (Mitch and me) did quite badly; we were about fifth from bottom, but we didn’t care. It had disposed of most of Sunday afternoon, that was all that really mattered.
“Okay.” Mitch got to his feet, slinging his ever-present kit bag over his shoulder. “Thanks for that. I’ll hit the gym. See you next week.”
“Yes, see you then.” I was glad to say good-bye. I wanted him out of the park before Ornesto appeared.
And not a second too soon. Ornesto came springing over, full of the joys and with good reason: his team had come in fourth and in the raffle he had won free dry cleaning for a year.
“Aw, he’s gone! Hey, Anna, who was that maaaaan you were with? Who was that hunka burnin’ lurve?”
“He’s nobody.”
“Oh, he ain’t nobody, he’s definitely somebody.”
“He’s not. He’s a widower. He’s like Eugene.”
“Oh, baby cakes, he is nothing like Eugene. I saw those shoulders. He works out?”
Reluctantly I shrugged, yes. “Please, Ornesto.” I really didn’t want Rachel or Jacqui or anyone hearing about Mitch; they might think it was some sort of romance, which was so far from the truth. “He lost his wife. We’re just—”
“—comforting each other. I know.” The way he said it sounded so sleazy.
The only comfort I got from Mitch was that he understood how I felt. Fury surged up my throat, almost burning my tongue. I shrieked at Ornesto, but in a kind of whisper because we were in public, “How dare you!”
My face was on fire and my eyes were bulging. He took a big, alarmed step back.
“I love Aidan,” I whisper-shrieked. “I’m devastated without him. I couldn’t even think of being with another man. Ever.”
61
Candy Grrrl’s new range of cleansers was called Clean and Serene and I had an inspired idea for a press release—I’d do it in the form of the 12 steps. But I only knew the first one:
1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol; that our lives had become unmanageable.
I changed it to:
1. We admitted we were powerless over our oily T-zone; that our skin had become unmanageable.
I was pretty pleased, but to get any further, I needed all 12 steps. I tried Rachel and couldn’t get her, so reluctantly I asked Koo/Aroon at EarthSource. She opened her desk drawer and handed over a little booklet. “They’re right here on the front page!”
“I only need them for a press release,” I said hastily.
“Sure,” she said. But the minute I’d gone, she went over to one of her colleagues and their excited whispers and hopeful glances alarmed me. Shite. That had been a stupid thing to do. Re
ally stupid. I’d opened up that whole can of worms again where they thought I was going to admit I was an alcoholic.
Then Rachel rang back, and when I told her why I’d called, she said, “You’re way out of line to use the 12 steps to publicize makeup.”
“Makeup remover,” I said.
“Whatever.”
She hung up. Back to the drawing board.
Impulsively I rang Jacqui. “How’s the Narky Joey situation?” I asked.
“Oh, fine, fine. I can look at him, acknowledge that he does bear a resemblance to Jon Bon Jovi, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t fancy him in the slightest.”
“Thank God!” Suddenly I got a mad rush of fondness and really wanted to see her. “Would you like to do something later?” I asked. “Watch a video or something?”
“Oh, I can’t tonight.”
I waited for her to tell me why she couldn’t. When she didn’t I said, “What are you doing?”
“Playing poker.”
“Poker?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Gaz’s apartment.”
“Gaz’s apartment? You mean Gaz and Joey’s apartment?”
Grudgingly she conceded that yes, she supposed Joey did share an apartment with Gaz.
“Well, can I come?” I asked.
I mean, I thought she’d be delighted. She’d been badgering me for months to get out more.
The thing was, though, that Gaz wasn’t there. Only Joey was in and he didn’t look one bit happy to see me. I mean, he never did. But this was a different sort of displeasure.