by Marian Keyes
‘Somebody stop him,’ Damien said.
‘Shut up,’ Ma said to Dad. ‘You stupid old man. No one wants to hear.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked Marnie.
‘Kidney infection.’
God Almighty, it was always something. She was the sickest person I’d ever met.
‘It’s your fault, you know.’ She grinned. ‘Hogging all the nutrition in the womb. Leaving me with nothing.’
A familiar refrain, and to look at us, you’d agree. She was tiny, fine-boned and barely five foot. With her thin little face, big blue eyes and long chestnut hair, she was a beauty. I felt like a lumbering carthorse beside her.
The galloping began again, the ponies bashing into chairs (particularly Dad’s), shrieking, laughing and thundering.
‘You two!’ Dad suddenly screeched, when they’d knocked his book from his hand for the fifth time. ‘Stop it, stop it! In the name of all that’s holy, stop it! Go and watch telly in the other room.’
‘There’s nothing to watch,’ Daisy said. ‘You don’t have cable.’
‘Read a book,’ Ma suggested. Everyone ignored her.
‘Tell us to watch a DVD,’ Daisy ordered me.
‘Watch a DVD,’ I said.
‘We can’t.’ Daisy gripped my wrist and said, her limpid eyes alight with genuine astonishment, ‘Because there’s no DVD player!’
We stared at each other in mock amazement.
Dad got to his feet. ‘I’m going to walk Bingo.’
‘You’ve walked him already,’ Ma said. ‘Sit back down. Marnie! How did you get those bruises?’
‘What bruises?’ Marnie’s cardigan sleeves had slipped up to her elbows, revealing livid, purple blooms on both forearms. She took a look at them. ‘Oh those. Acupuncture.’
‘What do you have that for?’
‘Cravings.’
I cast an involuntary glance at Nick. His eyes slid away from mine.
‘What cravings?’ Ma asked.
‘Oh you know. To be five foot six. To be a naturaloptimist. To win the lottery.’
‘Is acupuncture supposed to give you bruises like that?’
‘Probably not, but you know me.’
‘A slight problem.’ Nick came down the stairs into the kitchen. ‘Verity won’t go to bed. She says the house is haunted.’
Ma seemed dumbfounded. ‘… But it’s not. It’s about the one thing that isn’t wrong with it.’
‘If it was, we could start charging,’ Dad said.
‘She wants to go home to London.’
Verity was standing on the landing, her little pink rucksack packed, sullenly refusing eye contact.
‘There are no ghosts in this house,’ I told her.
‘They all moved next door when they got cable.’ Damien came up the stairs behind me.
‘Not a man!’ Verity screamed, suddenly animated. ‘I want Mum!’
‘Fine, grand, sorry.’ Damien retreated.
Marnie took control. She crouched beside Verity, talking quietly with her, trying to quell her fears without once sounding patronizing. She was endlessly patient. So patient that I was afraid we’d be there all night but Verity abruptly capitulated. ‘Sorry, Mum. I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too, sweetheart.’
She got into bed and Marnie lay next to her. ‘Just for a little while, until she’s asleep. I won’t be long.’
As I came back downstairs, Damien collared me. ‘She asleep? Can we go? Please, Bomber Command.’
‘I want to have a proper chat with Marnie.’
‘Can I go? I’ve an early meeting. And I’m losing the will to live. I’ve been talking to Nick for the past nine lifetimes. Seasons have changed. The trees have blossomed, withered, then bloomed again. Maybe if I was smoking, but my tolerance isn’t what it was…’
No point in forcing him. ‘Oh all right.’ I laughed. ‘I’m going to stay, though.’
Dad noticed Damien gathering up his stuff and became instantly alert. ‘Are you going for a pint?’
‘No, ah… just going home.’
‘Oh are you?’ Cries of disappointment all round. ‘Why? Why are you going? Why?’
‘Early start.’ He grinned uncomfortably.
‘Bye, Damien.’ Ma patted his face. ‘ “I love the majesty of human suffering.” Vigny. La Maison du Berger.’
‘Bye,’ he said, and skedaddled.
Dad looked at the door that Damien had disappeared through and remarked thoughtfully, ‘The interesting thing is that, underneath all of it, all of it, he’s a decent man. He’d give you the shirt off his back.’
‘Even though he’d complain that it was his favourite shirt and that he was going to miss it terribly,’ Ma said, then she and Dad dissolved into sudden hard laughter.
‘Leave him alone!’ I protested.
Marnie reappeared. ‘Where’s Damien gone?’
‘He needs his space.’
Marnie shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I’m far too insecure to be with someone like Damien. Whenever he was in a bad mood, I’d think it was my fault.’
‘But he’s always in a bad mood!’ Dad cried, as if he’d just said something tremendously witty, then he and Ma laughed again for a very long time.
I tried to sneak in without waking him but Damien sat up and turned on the light.
Blearily he asked, ‘What’s up with Verity?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Those glasses? They make her look like an economist.’
‘Or an accountant. I know.’
‘She’s freaky.’
‘She’s only a little girl.’
‘She’s like Carrie. I bet she could start fires.’
I said nothing. I knew what he meant.
‘Come in, Grace, come in.’
Dee Rossini. Early forties. Olive skin. Red lipstick. Snapping brown eyes. Black corkscrew curls caught up in a twisty bun. Wide-cut Katharine Hepburn trousers. A hip-length cardigan, tied tight around a slender waist.
She led me down the short hall. ‘Tea? Coffee? Macaroon? They’re just out of the oven.’
‘What? You made macaroons? Yourself?’
‘One of my army of aides bought them in M&S and stuck them in the oven ten minutes before you were due.’ She smiled for the first time. ‘Yes, home-made.’
She had one of those kitchens, you know the type – basil plants lined the window sill, and shelves overflowed with jars and retro tins full of arborio rice and peculiar-looking misshapen pasta (like off-ends that you’d think they’d give away at the end of the day to the local peasants but, strangely, was more expensive than the normalunpeculiar stuff). It was cosy, welcoming and fragrant with warm chocolate air and you could tell that if Dee was challenged to make anything in the whole world, she’d have the ingredients to hand. (Mongolian yak stew? ‘I’ll just thaw out a couple of yak steaks.’ Fresh truffle soup? ‘I’ve a small truffle patch in the garden, I’ll just go and snuffle them.’) It was some comfort to notice that the ceiling above the cupboards could do with a good dust.
Big Daddy had decreed that we were profiling Dee, but Jacinta refused to do it. Something to do with an Hermès scarf – she claimed Dee Rossini had whipped the last one in Ireland from right under her nose – so I’d asked if I could go.
Ma was pleased; she loved Dee Rossini – who was one of seven children from an Irish mother and an Italian father, a survivor of domestic violence, a single mother and the first woman in Irish politics to have set up a mainstream political party. Starting your own political party usually ended in tears, especially in Ireland where politics were run by a tight club of men. But against all expectations, New Ireland had survived, not as a joke fringe party, but as a partner in a successfulcoalition government with the Nappies (Nationalist Party of Ireland). Despite having to sing from the same hymn sheet as the Nappies, Dee Rossini was nevertheless vocal about anything to do with women – Ireland’s comedy child-care provisions, the dearth of funds for women’s refuges, the a
bsence of regulation for plastic surgery.
‘Sit down, sit down.’ She pulled out a kitchen chair for me.
It was rare to get an interview at a politician’s home. Even rarer for the politician to make coffee and to produce a mountain of warm macaroons on her granny’s willow-pattern plate.
‘Did you get parking okay?’ she asked.
‘Grand. I came from the office, but would you believe I live only five minutes away from you? In Ledbury Road.’
‘Small world.’
‘Is this okay…?’ I indicated my tape recorder.
Impatiently she waved away any concerns. ‘Fine. I’d rather you quoted me correctly. Do you mind me painting my nails while we’re talking?’
‘The many roles of women.’
‘That’s not the half of it. I’m doing my pelvic-floor exercises as well. And thinking about what I’ll make for tonight’s dinner. And worrying about third-world debt.’
‘Okay, Dee.’ I opened my notebook. ‘The “scandals”.’ No point pussyfooting. The purpose of this piece was to let Dee defend herself. ‘Who’d want to stitch you up?’
‘All kinds of people. The opposition, obviously. Plenty of mileage for them if the Nappies’ coalition partners are damaged. Even within the Nationalists there are plenty of people who think I’m a pain in the arse.’
Good point. She was always highlighting unpalatable treatment of women, even when the Nappies were to blame. Only last week she’d objected to the appointment (by the Nappies) of a male judge, who’d stood against a female candidate, pointing out that rapists and wife-batterers rarely got anything but joke sentences from a sympathetic, almost entirely male judiciary.
‘But do you have any specific theories? Specific individuals?’
She laughed. ‘And have a writ for slander slapped on me before you can say knife?’
‘Let’s go through what happened. You got your house painted. How did you choose the firm? Did they approach you?’
‘God, no. Like I’d be that stupid – “Hello, Minister for Education, can we paint your house for free?” Someone recommended them.’
‘Okay. So they arrived, painted your house, made your life a misery for a couple of weeks, then sent an invoice?’
‘No invoice. I rang four times, eventually got a verbal total and sent a cheque.’
‘So, no invoice. And no proof that you paid. How much was the job?’
‘Two grand.’
‘Most of us would notice if a cheque for two grand hadn’t cleared our account.’
‘Tell me about it. Show me the handbags. But it was from an account that I pay something into every month, for big jobs, like replacing the boiler and getting the roof retiled. There isn’t much activity in it, so I don’t check it often. I work eighteen-hour days. Seven days a week. Not everything gets done.’
While she was speaking, she was painting her fingernails with the skill of an expert. Three perfect strokes – middle, left side, right side – on each nail, then she’d move on to the next. It was very soothing to watch. And the colour – a pale, pale brown, like very milky coffee, that most women (i.e. me) wouldn’t even notice on the display yoke – looked so off-beat and beautiful on, that I bet people were always asking her where she got it. She was astonishingly stylish. (That would be her Italian side.)
‘Okay. Your daughter’s wedding? Why didn’t you pay for it?’ (Despite Big Daddy’s attempts to downplay the story, every other paper had gone huge on it.)
‘Most of it had been paid for before the actualwedding. I paid an 80 per cent deposit way back in May and yes, the cheque cleared. Admittedly the balance hasn’t been paid because, God – ’ she sagged – ‘they got so much wrong on the day. No vegetarian meals, they ran out of the main meal, seven people didn’t get fed. They lost the wedding cake, we still don’t know what they did with it. The Ladies was out of order and the dancefloor was like an ice rink. Everyone was slipping and sliding and Toria’s new father-in-law had to go to casualty with a dislocated knee. I know I’m a government minister and I have standards to uphold, but this was my only daughter’s wedding.’
I nodded with sympathy.
‘It was only a couple of months ago – in August – and we’re still in dispute, but of course I’ll pay them when we’ve agreed on a figure.’ She looked forlorn.
‘Doesn’t it scare you that someone would set you up? To follow your life in such detail that they’d know you hadn’t paid the balance on the wedding? Then use it to discredit you?’
‘It’s part and parcel of being a politician.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I’ve faced worse.’
I was reminded of her past. She’d been hospitalized eight times by her ex-husband, before she eventually left him – and was ostracized by her devout Catholic family for doing so.
With sudden, genuine curiosity, I asked, ‘Do you ever make risotto just for yourself?’
Risotto is such a pain, all those lovingly added spoonfuls of stock, who’d be bothered?
‘It’s not a trick question,’ I added.
She thought about it. ‘Sometimes.’
I knew it. I was in awe of those types who, even when they’re starving, would prefer to take time to prepare something wonderful. When I was hungry, I’d eat anything, so long as it was immediately available: stale bread, black bananas or handfuls of cornflakes, crammed into my mouth, straight from the packet.
‘So what about men?’ I asked.
‘What about them?’ A gleaming smile.
‘Anyone special?’
‘No, no time. And the only men I meet are politicians and, really, you’d have to be in a bad way…’
But she was sexy. And, of course, hot-blooded. Well, half of her anyway. I could imagine her having lengthy sex and eating poached peaches with all kinds of men – laughably handsome actors, arrogant racehorse-owning millionaires…
‘Okay, Dee, I think I’ve got all I need. Thanks for the macaroons. I’m sorry I didn’t eat any.’
‘It’s all right. Paddy’s coming over later for a working supper, I’ll make him eat them.’
‘What’s it like working with Paddy?’ I shouldn’t ask.
‘Paddy?’ She tipped her head and stared up at a corner of the ceiling, a little smile on her lips. ‘Would you look at the size of that cobweb. Normally I don’t wear my contact lenses at home. When the place looks dirty I just take my glasses off. Instant soft-focus.’ She turned back to look at me. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Paddy’s great.’
‘Well, we all know that. Can I use your loo before I go?’
For a split second she looked anxious. ‘It’s upstairs. Come up, I’ll show you.’
I closed the bathroom door behind me. Dee was hovering on the landing, looking edgy. I understood her anxiety. Journalists were always writing terrible things about the personal stuff they found in subjects’ bathrooms. Not that I was planning a stitch-up. Just as well, the bathroom was clean and there wasn’t even a mildewed shower curtain, or a home Botox kit. A poor haul.
When I re-emerged, Dee was gone. Three shut doors faced me. Bedrooms, and it was like they were whispering, Open me, go on, Grace, open me. And I just couldn’t resist. I pretended it was my journalist’s dogged instinct in the quest of a little extra colour; but to be honest, I was just being nosy.
I turned the knob of a door and pushed it open and, although the room was dark, I was surprised to feelthe heat of another human being within. A thrill of fear zipped through me. I’d gone too far. What if it was some muscly brickie that Dee had picked up for rampant, anonymous sex?
I was already backing out when I saw that it was a woman – a girl, really – who was lying on the bed. She sat up when the door opened and as the light from the landing window travelled across the room, I was stunned with shock. Her nose was spread halfway across her face and her eyes were so swollen and purple she couldn’t possibly be able to see. She opened her mouth. Two of her front teeth were missing.
‘Sorry!’ I retreated.
‘No, shush, please, it’s okay, shush.’ Dee would kill me.
Dee was out of the kitchen and up the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s my fault! I was having a sneaky look. I shouldn’t have.’
Dee sighed. ‘If you wanted to see my underwear drawer, all you had to do was ask.’
She moved past me and took the girlin her arms, and I wished that I’d resisted the siren call of the shut door and had just gone back downstairs like a normal person.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ I called at the girl from across the threshold. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Elena, pulako, pulako,’ Dee crooned, making soothing noises in some foreign language. Eventually, giving me an anxious look, the injured girl was persuaded to lie down again.
Dee shut the bedroom door firmly and said to me, ‘You didn’t see this.’
‘I’ll say nothing. I swear.’ I was tripping over my words in my desire to reassure her. I understood now why Dee had been so uncomfortable about letting me upstairs. Nothing to do with me reporting nasty things about her bathroom.
‘I mean it, Grace, you can’t tell anyone. For her safety. She’s only fifteen.’ For a moment Dee looked like she was going to break down into tears.
‘Dee, I promise on all I hold dear.’ (I wasn’t entirely certain what that was, but I wanted to convey my sincerity.) ‘But what happened to her? Elena, is that her name?’
‘Her boyfriend, pimp, whatever you want to call him, happened to her. He doesn’t know where she is. If he does, he’ll come after her. She was brought here just a couple of hours ago. It was too late to change our interview to another location and if you hadn’t needed to use the loo – ’
‘ – and poked my nose in where I shouldn’t have. I swear to God, Dee, I won’t say a word.’
‘Not even to your partner. He’s a journalist, isn’t he? Can you keep a secret from him?’
‘Yes.’
‘She makes her own macaroons. She can paint nails with her left hand.’ She harbours women on the run. She speaks some sort of Slavic-sounding language.
I’d developed a bit of a crush on Dee Rossini…
‘And she’s sexy,’ Damien said. ‘Very good-looking party, New Ireland. Aren’t they?’
