by Marian Keyes
Friday, 29 August
The worst week of my life continues with no respite.
At a photo-shoot for author Petra McGillis, I’d staggered along to the studio with three massive suitcases of clothes I’d called in according to Petra’s specifications, but when I opened them up she said, outraged, ‘I said no colours! I said neutrals, camels, toffees, that sort of thing!’ She turned on a woman whom I later discovered was her editor and said, ‘Gwendoline, what are you trying to turn me into? Pistachio green? I am NOT a pistachio-green author!’
The poor editor insisted she was not trying to turn the author into anything, certainly not a pistachio-green person. She said that Petra had talked to the stylist (me) and told her her requirements and that no one had interfered.
Petra insisted, ‘But I said, “No colours!” I was quite specific. I never wear colours! I am a serious writer.’
Suddenly everyone was looking at me – the photographer, the make-up artist, the art director, the caterer, a postman delivering a parcel. It’s her fault, they all accused me with their eyes. That stylist. She thinks Petra McGillis is a pistachio-green person.
And they were right to accuse me. No way could I blame Nkechi. It was me who had taken the call, and when Petra had said, ‘No colours!’ my scrambled brain must have heard, ‘I love colours!’
It had never happened to me before. I was usually so good at channelling the clients’ requirements that they tried to steal the garments from the shoot and got me into trouble with press office.
‘I’ll wear my own bloody clothes,’ Petra said, tightly and tetchily.
Resourceful Nkechi made many calls, seeking an emergency care package of neutral-coloured garments, but none was available.
At least she tried, all the accusing faces said silently. That Nkechi is mere assistant but she showed more gumption than the stylist herself.
I should have left there and then, as I was no use to anyone. But for the rest of shoot (three hours), I stood by, smiling gamely, trying to bring the twitch in my lip under control. Now and then, I’d nip forward to adjust Petra’s collar, to pretend I had a reason for existing, but it was a disaster, a horrible, horrible disaster.
I’d spent a long time building up my career. Was it all to be destroyed in a matter of days, because of Paddy de Courcy?
Hard to care, though. All I was interested in was how to get him back. Or failing that, how to endure the rest of my life without him. Yes, I sounded like overblown Gothic-type person, but really, if you’d met him… In person he was so much more good-looking and charismatic than on telly. He made you feel like you were the only person in the world, and he smelt so nice that after I first met him I bought his aftershave (Baldessini) and although he brought an extra-special additional de Courcy ingredient to the mix, one whiff was enough to make me feel tunnel-visiony, like I was about to faint.
15.15
Another call from this Grace Gildee journalist. Pushy. How did she get my number in the first place? And how did she know Marcia Fitzgibbons was going to sack me? In fact, I thought about asking her who else was going to sack me, but desisted.
After a certain amount of pussy-footing (on my part) she offered five grand for my story. A lot of money. Styling was an uncertain business. You could have twelve jobs one week and none at all for the rest of month. But I was not tempted.
However – I was not complete fool, despite feeling like one – I rang Paddy and left a message. ‘A journalist called Grace Gildee offered me lots of money to talk about our relationship. What should I do?’
He rang back so fast I had barely hung up.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said. ‘I’m a public figure. I’ve a career.’
Always about him and his career.
‘I’ve a career too, you know,’ I reminded him. ‘And it’s going down the Swanee due to my broken heart.’
‘Don’t let it,’ he said, in a kindly manner. ‘I’m not worth it.’
‘She offered me five grand.’
‘Lola.’ His voice was persuasive. ‘Don’t sell your soul for money, you’re not that kind of girl. You and I, we had good times together. Let’s preserve the memory. And you know that if you’re ever stuck for a few quid, I’ll help out.’
I didn’t know what to say. Although he was behaving like a supportive friend, was he, in fact, offering to pay me to keep shtum?
‘There’s plenty I could tell Grace Gildee,’ I said bravely.
A different voice from him this time. Low, cold. ‘Like fucking what?’
Less confidently I said, ‘… The… things you bought me. The games we played…’
‘Let’s make one thing clear, Lola.’ Arctic tones. ‘You talk to no one, especially not her.’ Then he said, ‘Must go. I’m in the middle of something. Take care of yourself.’
Gone!
20.30
A night in with Bridie and Treese in Treese’s big house in Howth. Treese’s new husband Vincent was away. I was secretly glad. I never feel welcome when he’s there. Always feel he’s thinking, What are these strangers doing in my house?
He never joins in. He’ll come into the room and nod hello, but only because he wants to ask Treese where his dry-cleaning is; then he goes off to do something more important than spend time with his wife’s friends.
He calls Treese by her proper name, Teresa, like it wasn’t our friend he married but a different woman altogether.
He is quite elderly. Thirteen years older than Treese. On his second marriage. His first wife and three young children are stashed somewhere. He is a big cheese in the Irish rugby organization. In fact, used to play for Ireland and he knows everything about everything. No room for discussion with Vincent. He says one sentence and the entire conversation shuts down.
He has a rugby-player physique – muscles, wideness, thighs so enormous he has to walk in a strange side-to-side, just-got-off-a-horse motion. Many women – indeed Treese obviously does; she married him, after all – might find this comely. But not me. He is too butty and… wide. He eats phenomenal quantities and weighs about forty stone, but – I want to be fair – he isn’t fat. Just… compacted. Very dense, like he’s spent time living in a black hole. His neck is the circumference of a rain barrel and he has a stunningly enormous head. Also big hair. Gak.
21.15
Food was delicious. Treese had done a course in classical French cuisine so she could cook the type of food Vincent’s rugby cronies expected. I ate two mouthfuls, then my stomach contracted into a tiny walnut and I had the taste of sick in my mouth.
Bridie was wearing her peculiar green jumper again. Even though I was obsessed with myself and my pain, I couldn’t stop looking at it. As before, it was lopsided, shrunken and embroidered with jockeys. What was that all about?
I wondered if I should say something? But she liked it. She must. Otherwise why would she wear it? So why burst her bubble?
23.59
Many bottles of wine later, although not ones from the bottom shelf, as they are Vincent’s special ones and he would be annoyed if we drank them.
‘Stay the night,’ Treese said to me.
Treese had four spare rooms.
‘You have a dream life,’ Bridie said. ‘Rich husband, fabulous house, lovely clothes…’
‘And the first wife always asking for money! And bratty stepchildren giving me the evils. And terrible worry…’
‘About what?’
‘That my eating disorder will kick in again and I’ll balloon to eighteen stone and have to be cut out of the house and taken away on a flatbed truck and Vincent won’t love me any more.’
‘Of course he will love you! No matter what!’
But, in a secret little chamber in my heart, where I thought my darkest thoughts, I wasn’t so sure. Vincent did not jettison his first wife and children in order to shack up with Jabba the Hutt.
0.27
Tucked up in Number One Spare Room. Softest pillow I’d ever laid my head on; magnificent
, carved, antique French bed; brocade chairs with bandy legs; mirrors of Murano glass; weighty, lined curtains in luxurious fabric; and the sort of wallpaper you only get in hotels.
‘Look, Treese,’ I said. ‘The carpet is the exact same colour as your hair! It’s beautiful, beautiful, everything’s beautiful…’
I was quite drunk, in retrospect.
‘Sleep tight,’ Treese said. ‘Don’t let bugs bite and don’t wake at four thirty-six a.m. and decide to sneak out and drive over to Paddy’s flat to throw stones at his windows and shout abuse about Alicia Thornton.’
4.36
I awake. I decide to sneak out and drive over to Paddy’s flat to throw stones at his windows and shout abuse about Alicia Thornton (‘Alicia Thornton’s mother blows the parish priest!’ ‘Alicia Thornton doesn’t wash her lady-bits!’ ‘Alicia Thornton’s father is cruel to the family Labrador!’). But when I opened Treese’s front door, alarm siren started screeching, searchlights snapped on, and there was the distant sound of dogs barking. Was half expecting a helicopter to appear overhead when Treese came floating down the stairs in a silky, shell-pink negligee (nightdress) and matching peignoir (dressing gown), searchlights glinting silver on her shiny pale coiffeur (hair).
Calmly she chastised me. ‘You promised you wouldn’t. Now you are snared. Return to bed!’
Red-faced.
Treese reset alarm, then glided back up the stairs.
Saturday, 30 August 12.10
At home
Bridie rang. After an enquiry about my well-being, a strange little silence ensued. Expectant almost.
Then she asked, ‘Did you like green jumper I was wearing Wednesday night and last night?’
I could hardly reply, No, it was the strangest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.
I said, ‘Lovely!’ Then, ‘Er… new?’
‘Yes.’ Bridie sounded almost shy. Then she blurted out, like someone with a big, thrilling secret, ‘Moschino!’
Moschino!
I had thought perhaps she had purchased it at a sale-of-work at her local lunatic asylum! Good job I didn’t say so.
Although I wouldn’t. Not my way. Mum always told me that if I couldn’t say something nice, to say nothing at all.
‘Where did you buy it, Bridie?’ I was wondering how, with my encyclopaedic knowledge of clothing, I’d never before come across this item.
‘On eBay.’
Cripes! Perhaps fake!
‘It cost me a fortune, Lola. But worth it. Worth it, yes?’
‘Oh yes, yes, worth it! Jockeys very… um… fashion-forward.’
‘I noticed you looking at it, Lola.’
Oh yes, I was looking all right.
Sunday, 31 August
Articles about Paddy in all the newspapers. I bought several. (Was surprised by how cheap newspapers are compared to magazines. Good value. Funny the things you notice even when your life has fallen apart.) But the articles said nothing really. Just that he was a hunky ride, the poster boy for Irish politics.
There was no mention of me in any article. I should have felt relieved – at least Paddy wouldn’t be annoyed – but instead I felt bereft, like I didn’t exist.
Monday, 1 September 10.07
A call from Irish Tatler cancelling a job next week. The message was clear: no one likes a stylist who destroys the collections. Word gets round.
10.22
Mobile rang. Thought I recognized number, wasn’t sure, then realized it was that Grace Gildee journalist woman again. Hounding me! I didn’t pick up, but listened to the message. She was pushing for a face-to-face meeting and offering more money. Seven grand. She laughed and accused me of playing hardball. But I wasn’t playing any kind of ball! Just wanted to be left in peace!
Tuesday, 2 September
Worst blow to date. Alicia Thornton was on the front cover of VIP, with the headline, ‘How I won Quicksilver’s heart’.
The nice man in the newsagent’s gave me a glass of water and let me sit on his stool for a little while, until the dizziness passed.
Twelve pages of photos. Paddy was wearing make-up in them. Silicon-based foundation, with silicon-based primer, so that he looked plastic, like a Ken-doll.
I didn’t know who had styled the shoot, but they’d had a very definite brief. Alicia (tall, thin, blonde bob, quite horsey-looking, but not in nice way, not like Sarah Jessica Parker, more like Celine Dion. Neigh!) in a cream tweed Chanel dress and jacket. Paddy in a statesman-like suit (Zegna? Ford? Couldn’t be sure) sitting at a mahogany desk, holding a silver pen like he was about to sign an important treaty, Alicia standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder, in a supportive-wife pose. Then, Paddy and Alicia in evening wear. Paddy in black tie and Alicia in a long, red, off-the-shoulder Max Mara. Red not her colour. Also a small glimpse of stubble under her right arm.
Worst of all, Paddy and Alicia in matching chambray jeans, polo-shirts with collars turned up, cable-knit jumpers slung around their necks and HOLDING TENNIS RACKETS! Like a cheap mail-order catalogue.
These photos managed, despite Paddy being the most handsome man alive, to make him look like a male model down on his luck.
The interview said they had known each other since they were teenagers, but had been seeing each other romantically, ‘in a low-key’ fashion, for the past seven months. Past seven months! I had been seeing him ‘in a low-key’ fashion for the past sixteen months! And no wonder he said we should be ‘low-key’. He said life (mine) would be a living hell if I appeared at his side at official shindigs and red-carpet events. The press would torment me and I’d be obliged to wear a full face of make-up at all times, even when asleep, to avoid photos captioned with, ‘Paddy’s girl is spotty minger’. (During the summer there had been two mentions of me in gossip columns but Paddy’s press office said I was helping him with clothing, and everyone seemed to believe that.) I had honestly thought he was thinking of my best interests. Instead he was keeping Alicia, his ‘soul friend’ (that’s what he said in the interview), from finding out about me. How thick am I?
Later Tuesday
VIP photo-shoot was the final blow. I spent the day analysing the photos and brooding. What had this Alicia Thornton got that I hadn’t? I was flicking through the pages, studying the pictures of him and her, searching for clues. Again and again. Trying to believe this was real. But I ended up staring at them too much so that it didn’t look like him any more, the way if you stare at your own face in the mirror for too long, it goes weird, almost scary.
Even later Tuesday
Angry. Thinking dark, bitter thoughts. Full of bad, burny feeling. Breathless. Suddenly I dashed VIP magazine to the floor and thought, I deserve answers!
Drove to Paddy’s apartment and rang bell. Rang it and rang it and rang it and rang it and rang it. Nothing happened but I decided, To hell with it, I’ll stay! I’ll wait until he comes back. Even if I have to wait a number of days. A couple of weeks, even. He’ll have to come home eventually.
Bad, burny feeling made me strong and I felt I could wait for ever. If necessary.
I made plans. I rang Bridie and asked her to bring a sleeping bag and sandwiches. Also a flask of soup. ‘But not minestrone,’ I said. ‘Nothing with lumps.’
‘What?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘You are camped outside de Courcy’s flat?’
‘Must you dramatize everything?’ I said. ‘I’m just waiting for him to come home. But it may take a few days. So, like I said, a sleeping bag, sandwiches and soup. And remember: nothing with lumps.’
She was squawking about being worried about me and I had to hang up. Short of patience.
Time passed. Bad, burny feelings keeping me focused. I was unaware of discomfort, cold and need for loo. Like a Buddhist monk.
Intermittently I rang Paddy’s bell, as much for something to do as anything else. Then I realized bad, burny feelings must have abated slightly as I was finding this quite boring. I rang Bridie again. Asked, ‘Could you also bring the new InStyle, a
sudoku book and my biography of Diana Vreeland?’
‘No!’ she said. ‘Lola, please! Please come away from there. You have lost your reason.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been so sane in my life!’
‘Lola, you are stalking him. He’s a public figure, you could get into trouble! You could –’
Had to hang up again. I didn’t savour being rude but I had no choice.
Entertained myself by ringing Paddy’s doorbell a few more times, then my mobile rang. It was Bridie! She was at the gate! She couldn’t get in because she didn’t know the code!
‘Have you a sleeping bag?’ I asked her. ‘And soup in a flask?’
‘No.’
‘Is Barry with you?’ (Barry was her husband.)
‘Yes, Barry’s here beside me. You like Barry, don’t you?’
Yes, but I had visions of her and Barry manhandling me into their car and driving me away. Not having it.
‘Lola, please let us in.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
Then I switched my mobile off.
I continued to ring Paddy’s bell, not expecting any result, when, all of sudden, the outline of a man appeared behind the textured glass door.
It was him! It was him! He’d been there all along! I was relieved, excited – then darker thoughts occurred: Why didn’t he come down before now? Why must he further humiliate me?
