This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  She blotted her lipstick and glanced at her watch. What time was it?

  Five past eleven. Six past, actually. Grace was six minutes late.

  Alicia went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and checked that the wine was still there. Yes. She looked out of the kitchen window; yes, the ground was still down there, one storey below. But no sign of Grace.

  Another glance at her watch. Eight minutes late now.

  What should she do? She’d asked that Sidney Brolly, New Ireland’s press officer, absent himself; she wanted privacy for this interview. But if he’d been here, he’d have been ringing Grace’s mobile, running her to ground, finding out what the delay was.

  Could there be a chance that Grace wasn’t coming? After all, you never could tell with Grace –

  Christ Almighty! The doorbell! Alicia’s nerve endings flared. The bell had never before sounded so harsh. What in the name of God had Grace done to it?

  Alicia buzzed open the downstairs entrance and, a few moments later, she heard someone outside in the communal hallway.

  Another check in the mirror – still there, bastard flakes – then she opened the front door.

  Oh my God. Grace looked exactly the same. Short hair, defiant eyes; wearing jeans and a khaki anorak, one of the ugliest things she’d ever seen.

  ‘Grace! Lovely to see you.’ She leant forward for a welcome kiss but Grace turned her head and managed to elude her. ‘Come in, please! Let me take your coat.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Thornton.’

  Mrs Thornton? ‘Mrs Thornton? Grace! It’s me! Call me Alicia!’

  ‘Alicia.’

  A sliver of doubt cut in. ‘Grace, you do know who I am, don’t you?’

  ‘Alicia Thornton.’

  ‘But you remember me, right?’

  Grace simply said, ‘Let’s get started. Where do you want to do this?’

  ‘In here…’ Considerably deflated, Alicia led the way into the living room. It was obvious that Grace remembered her: she’d be a lot bloody nicer if she didn’t.

  ‘Nice flat,’ Grace remarked.

  ‘Well, I can’t really take any of the credit –’

  ‘– because it’s Paddy’s, right? When did you move in?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said quickly. ‘I still have my own place.’ In actual fact, it had been months since she’d spent a single night in her own house, but Paddy said they had to pretend. The Irish electorate was an unpredictable beast, he said: one minute as liberal as you please, the next breathing ire and indignation about people ‘living in sin.’ In fact, Paddy had tried to insist that they genuinely live in their separate homes until after the wedding, but this was one issue that Alicia stood her ground on. She’d waited too long for him, she loved him so much, she couldn’t not be with him.

  ‘So why aren’t we doing the interview at your place?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Because… ah…’The truth was that she was showing off to Grace: look, see me, engaged to Paddy de Courcy, actually living with him. But who in their right mind would admit to that? For a short crazed moment, the words Burst pipes flashed into her head. Yes. Burst pipes, flooded flat, carpets ruined, two feet of water, wellingtons, ceiling being re-plastered… No. She choked back the lies; no good would come from going down that path – Grace would find out.

  All she could do was to ignore the question. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Grace? Coffee? A glass of wine?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks.’

  ‘Not even a glass of wine?’ Boldly she added, ‘After all, this is sort of a reunion.’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘An ashtray? Do you still smoke?’

  ‘I’m a non-smoker. Let’s get started.’ Grace switched on her recorder. ‘Where did you grow up?’

  ‘… Dun Laoghaire.’

  ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘… But Grace, you know all of this.’

  ‘I need to get all the details square. I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer the questions.’

  ‘I’m not up on a murder charge.’ Alicia tried to sound light-hearted. ‘I mean, this is all so formal.’

  ‘This is how I work. You requested me specifically. If it doesn’t suit you, the Spokesman has lots of other journalists.’

  ‘But I thought… because we knew each other, it would cut out a lot of the formality.’ Of course that wasn’t the reason she’d insisted on Grace, but what the hell.

  ‘We don’t know each other.’ Grace was blunt.

  ‘But we do –’

  Grace said, ‘We might have known each other once but it was a long, long time ago and it has no relevance now.’

  Alicia was shocked by the short speech. There it was, all of the hostility Grace had, thus far, hinted at, out in the open. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for from today.

  She’d had faith that Grace would be friendly, conciliatory, perhaps even humble, bound by circumstances to treat her as an equal. She’d actually entertained a tentative fantasy that she and Grace might share a laugh at how things had turned out.

  But she’d misjudged the situation entirely.

  The giddy anxiety that had buoyed Alicia all morning, drained away. She was dejected, disappointed and – to her great alarm – touched by a flicker of fear.

  ‘So let’s just get on with it,’ Grace said. She checked her notes. ‘So you’re a… a widow?’ she asked, almost as if she doubted it.

  ‘… Yes.’

  ‘How did your husband die?’ The question was asked baldly, with none of the sympathy that the other journalists had employed.

  ‘A heart attack.’

  ‘Was he old?’

  ‘No. Fifty-eight.’

  ‘Fifty-eight. That’s old. Compared to you. What did he do for a living?’

  ‘It wasn’t old.’

  ‘What did he do for a living?’

  ‘Barrister.’

  ‘Just like Paddy. He must have been worth a couple of bob. Left you nicely off –’

  ‘Look, he wasn’t old and I always had my own job, I never depended on him for money.’ She wasn’t going to stand for Grace Gildee implying that she was Anna Nicole Smith. It genuinely wasn’t the case. Mind you, the real situation probably wasn’t any more savoury…

  ‘You’d been married for how long?’

  ‘Eight years.’

  ‘Eight years? Long time. When he died, it must have been rough.’

  ‘Yes, it was… rough.’ Alicia stared off into the middle distance, assuming the wistful look that Sidney had told her to wear any time her dead husband came up in interviews.

  ‘And ten months later you’re engaged to Paddy de Courcy. Christ, Alicia, you must have been devastated.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that! I’ve known Paddy for years and years – you know that, Grace – and he comforted me after the death of my husband. That friendship flowered into love.’

  ‘Flowered into love,’ Grace repeated, a smirk – an actual smirk – on her lips. ‘Right. So you’re the woman who’s finally got the elusive Paddy by the short and curlies? What is it about you that’s so special?’

  Alicia wondered if she should object to ‘short and curlies’, but instead settled for, ‘I suppose you’d have to ask Paddy that.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘I can’t speak on behalf of him.’

  ‘Come on, Alicia Thornton, you’re a grown woman. Answer the question: What makes you different?’

  ‘I’m very… loyal.’

  ‘Are you now?’ Grace asked with a grim cheerfulness. ‘And his other girlfriends weren’t?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, not at all!’ Christ, Paddy would go mad. He’d told her to never slag off anyone else in interviews. It looked very bad in print, much worse than it sounded in conversation. ‘But I’m extremely steadfast.’

  ‘How do you think steadfastness plays out in the modern marriage?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s no secret that Paddy is very popula
r with the ladies. If there was an adultery scandal, would you stand by him? Would you show up for the family shot at the garden gate? Or would you leave him?’

  The questions were coming too fast. She didn’t know the right answer. She was bitterly sorry she had banished Sidney; he would have stepped in and put a firm stop to this line of questioning.

  ‘Stay or go?’ Grace pushed.

  Alicia was rigid with indecision. She didn’t know the right answer. She thought of Paddy; what would he want her to say?

  ‘I’d stand by him.’

  Grace Gildee’s eyes narrowed scornfully. ‘You can’t think very much of yourself if you’ve decided in advance that you’ll excuse any adultery. Doesn’t that give your future husband carte blanche to misbehave?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No need to shout.’

  ‘I wasn’t. And I’m not excusing anything. I’m saying that marriage is a sacred vow.’

  ‘A sacred vow?’ Grace repeated. ‘Just because one person breaks the vow, it’s no reason for the other to do so?’

  ‘Yes.’ That sounded good.

  After less than fifteen minutes, Grace clicked off her recorder and said, ‘Okay, I have all I need.’ Somehow it sounded like a threat.

  Grace stood up and Alicia remained seated, unable to understand that the interview was over. It was too soon. She’d expected so much but nothing had happened the way she’d planned it.

  ‘My jacket,’ Grace prompted, as Alicia remained glued to the couch.

  ‘Oh yes…’ Alicia finally emerged from her stunned state and retrieved the hideous khaki anorak from the hall cupboard.

  ‘I love your coat,’ she said, handing it over to Grace. ‘Gorgeous colour.’ Fuck it, a woman had to take her pleasures where she could.

  Grace gave her a hard stare. Clearly she recognized sarcasm when she heard it. She could never get one over on Grace. Not even now.

  Making a last-ditch attempt to rescue things, Alicia said warmly, ‘Tell me, how’s Marnie?’

  ‘Fantastic. Living in London, married to a fantastic man, two gorgeous kids.’

  ‘Great. Send her my love.’

  Grace stared at her. Stared until she quailed.

  Alicia listened to Grace pounding down the communal stairs and bursting out into the world. A few moments later a car engine started and tyres screeched away. Grace was gone. Obviously hurrying back to her office to bash out a hatchet job. For a moment Alicia felt faint with fear.

  She had to ring Paddy. He’d told her to call the moment it was over. But she felt too bruised and humiliated to summon the wherewithal.

  In the days and weeks before this interview, she’d been confident she was the firm favourite. Instead she’d been soundly trounced. And it was her own fault: she’d specifically requested Grace. Paddy had counselled against it, but she’d wanted it so badly, she told Paddy it could be his wedding present to her.

  ‘And what will your wedding present to me be?’ he’d asked.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact details yet,’ he’d said obliquely. ‘But a time may come when I might ask you to do a little job and I’d like you to remember this and do what I ask.’

  She hadn’t had a clue what he was getting at but she’d agreed anyway.

  Reluctantly she dialled Paddy’s office number.

  ‘How d’it go with Grace Gildee?’ he asked.

  ‘Well… okay.’

  ‘Okay?’ All his antennae were up.

  ‘Oh Paddy, she’s such a bitch.’

  ‘Why? What? I fucking warned you about this! I’m getting Sidney on to her.’

  ‘No, Paddy, no, no. She said nothing bad, she just wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect?’

  When she married Jeremy, even as she was gliding up the aisle on her father’s arm, she’d known that she didn’t love him the way she loved Paddy.

  But she had loved him. Jeremy was a wonderful man.

  They’d met through her job – he asked her to agent the sale of his flat – and their connection was instant.

  He was a confident, intelligent, kind man who treated life as a great adventure. He had a wide circle of friends and they moved in a pack, hoovering up truffle-tasting menus and jazz festivals and helicopter trips over the North Pole.

  Compared to Jeremy, Alicia had seen nothing and done nothing and knew nothing, but her gaucheness was what appealed to him. He took her to opera festivals. He took her shopping in Milan. He took her to a restaurant in Barcelona that had a six-year waiting list. ‘You keep everything fresh for me,’ he told her.

  Life was fast and busy. So busy in fact that she sort of forgot to notice that the sex wasn’t up to much.

  She fancied him, yes, she definitely fancied him, even if he was twenty-three years older than her – two years younger than her dad. But Jeremy was nothing like her dad; for an older man, he was very handsome. Dark hair (dyed, but then again so was hers), dark eyes always twinkling, truffle-gut kept at bay with regular games of tennis.

  With his rampaging appetites, she’d expected him to be demanding in bed, probably a bit kinky (she was quite worried, if she was to be honest), but to her surprise he didn’t seem that bothered. Even before they got married it didn’t happen often, and when it did, it was a quick, lacklustre event. It alarmed and disappointed her. If it was this tame at the start of the relationship, when they were meant to be at their wildest about each other, it could only get worse.

  She faced the uncomfortable truth: a life with Jeremy would be a life without passion. But that was the price you paid for marrying an older man, and she was meant to be with an older man, that much was clear to her. She was always more sensible than her years – her mother used to say she was ‘seven, going on thirty-seven’ – and things never worked out with men of her own age. She wasn’t pretty enough, or cool enough, or something enough. But whatever it was that she was missing, Jeremy was prepared to overlook it; it took someone with Jeremy’s life experience to see her true worth.

  She knew something wasn’t right when three of his male friends came on honeymoon with them to Lisbon. The full story was revealed in all its bitterness when, one night, they ‘just happened’ to find themselves in a gay bar. Alicia sat in horror, riveted to a bar stool, while her new husband and his friends, and the young boys they were flirting with, treated her like a tame fag-hag.

  She was appalled at Jeremy’s cruelty.

  So he was gay. But he hadn’t had the guts to tell her, so instead he was demonstrating it.

  As soon as she was able to move, she slid off the bar stool and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jeremy asked.

  ‘Back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Once in the hotel room, Alicia began flinging shoes and clothes into a suitcase.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jeremy asked.

  ‘What does it look like? I’m leaving you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? You might have mentioned you’re gay.’

  ‘Bi, actually. Alicia, I thought you knew. I didn’t think you minded.’

  ‘What kind of woman do you think I am? That I would marry a gay man and not mind?’

  The look in his eyes told the whole story. Guilty, shifty. He hadn’t truly thought that she knew. But he had thought that when she discovered it, she would put up with it.

  Everyone disappoints you in the end, she thought.

  ‘You conned me,’ she said. ‘Why did you marry me?’

  ‘About time I settled down. I’m fifty.’

  ‘Yes, you’re fifty. Why bother?’

  ‘Ouch, Mrs Thornton, you really know how to twist that knife.’

  ‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

  ‘Why? When we can have fun instead?’

  ‘Jeremy, I need to know. Why did you marry me?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Why, Jeremy?’

 
‘You know why.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You wanted it.’

  She had. And now that he’d said it, she admitted that all the impetus had come from her. She’d wanted to get married, she always had, it was what you did, it was normal behaviour. And it had been such a joyous change to meet a man who would do what she wanted; before Jeremy, she hadn’t been able to get a man to commit to even ringing her. But with Jeremy, she’d been able to come right out and say jokey things like, ‘How much are you spending on my engagement ring?’ and ‘Where are we going on our honeymoon?’

  ‘Well, thanks a bunch,’ she said. ‘Very decent of you. But seeing as you’re gay and all, you needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Alicia, why did you marry me?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, looking her dead in the eye.

  He knew, she realized. Maybe he didn’t know that the man was Paddy, but he knew there was someone. Complicity flashed between them, a moment when their respective dishonesties were highlighted and bare.

  They’d both been liars, she as much as Jeremy. They’d both gone into this marriage for the wrong reasons – she’d married Jeremy because if she couldn’t have Paddy, Jeremy would do – and the extent of her cynicism left her more ashamed and depressed than she had ever felt in her life.

  ‘Don’t go tonight,’ Jeremy said. ‘Sleep on it, wait until morning. Come on,’ and he held out his arms, offering comfort. She let him hold her because, in her way, she loved him.

  In the morning, he persuaded her to stay for the rest of the honeymoon. And when they returned to Dublin and moved into their marital home, she was too embarrassed to leave immediately. The mortification of splitting up with her husband on their honeymoon was just too much. She decided to give it a year, just to save face. And somewhere in that year, she forgave him.

  They never slept together again – in fact, their marriage was never consummated – but they’d been friends, great friends.

  ‘Why not just be openly gay?’ she sometimes asked him. ‘Ireland has changed. It’s okay now.’

  ‘I’m from a different generation to you.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘stop reminding me you’re ancient.’