This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  She had better listen to the messages, she’d been out of it for nearly four days, something might have happened. When she heard Ma’s voice, she bit her thumb to tamp down her dread. But it was good news: Bid was better.

  She was too numb, still too stunned from her hangover, to feel glad. But she knew she was relieved, she was simply too anaesthetized to feel it.

  There was a second message. Again from Ma. Damien and Grace had split up. Grace had moved out of their house and was back living in her old bedroom.

  ‘Something to do with Paddy de Courcy,’ Ma said. ‘She’s not so good.’

  This was such astonishing news that Marnie sank to the cold parquet floor and listened to the message again just to make sure that she’d got it right.

  It was hard to believe. Grace and Damien had seemed so… together. So unbreakable.

  Clearly Paddy de Courcy was even more powerful, more destructive, than she’d realized.

  She should be glad. Glad that Grace had paid the price for messing with someone she shouldn’t have. And glad that she herself wasn’t the only one Paddy de Courcy had ruined – after all, if it could happen to strong, scary Grace, then it could happen to anyone.

  But she was surprised to feel something winkle its way through the numb, buzzing force field that surrounded her feelings. Poor Grace, she thought, a shard of compassion warming her deadened heart. Poor, poor Grace.

  Grace

  I opened my bedroom door and met Bid on the landing.

  ‘You look like shit,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning to you too,’ I said wearily.

  ‘Would you not wear a bit of make-up?’ she asked. ‘You’ll scare the public, going out like that. It’s not fair on people.’

  I didn’t look like myself, she was right about that. Three nights ago, the night Damien and I had split up, I’d undergone some sort of transformation while I’d been asleep. I’d looked thirty-five when I went to bed but when I woke up the following morning the hollows around my eyes had sunk down into my skull and suddenly I looked like I’d been roaming the earth for four thousand years.

  ‘Even some concealer for those black circles?’ Bid suggested.

  ‘I haven’t got any with me.’ Most of my stuff was still in the house. ‘You could go back and get some.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘You could ask Damien to pack up some of your stuff.’

  ‘Not today.’

  I couldn’t cope with any of that organizey-type stuff. All I could manage was the bare minimum required to get through the day.

  I’d left our house – my home – on Tuesday night and when I woke up on Wednesday morning, shivering in Ma’s spare room, I thought, I have to survive today. The same thing happened on Thursday. Now it was Friday and, like a mantra, going through my head, were the words, Just get through today.

  There was an awful tightness in my chest and I still couldn’t feel my feet, and my face and head felt like they were going to burst apart and splinters of my skull were going to go flying everywhere, like in a video nasty.

  Down in the kitchen, Ma and Dad leapt up, all concern, when they saw me. ‘Are you going to work, Grace?’

  What else would I do?

  ‘You know you’re free to smoke again?’ Ma said.

  Indeed, thanks to Bid’s cancer-free status, everyone was free to smoke again. However Ma, Dad and Bid had decided to stay nicotine-free – they didn’t want a recurrence of Bid’s cancer. Also I think they liked the extra cash. But they kept encouraging me to start back on the cigs.

  I couldn’t. When I’d first given them up last September, a peculiar part of me had been glad I was denying myselfsomething I loved. The order to stop smoking had been handed down about a week after Paddy had hit me; bizarrely it had felt appropriate to do some sort of penance. Now it felt even more so.

  ‘I don’t want to smoke. Well, I do, but I’m not going to. I have to atone for what I did to Damien.’

  Ma flinched. ‘You weren’t even brought up as a Catholic.’

  ‘Ach!’ Dad said. ‘Ifyou live in Ireland there’s no escaping the guilt. I think they pump it into the water system, like fluoride.’

  ‘I’m going to work,’ I said wearily.

  ‘Will you be here tonight?’ Ma asked.

  ‘I’ll be here for the rest of my life.’

  I got through Friday, then I got through the weekend by sleeping for large patches of it. Marnie rang to offer stiff condolences and ifI hadn’t felt so dismal, the fact that she was talking to me would have cheered me. But I was uncheerable.

  Then it was Monday morning and as I was promising myselfthat all I had to do was get through today, my bedroom door opened and Bid tossed a small beige tube across the room at me.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Foundation. We bought it for you. We clubbed together. Put some on.’

  I rubbed a handful of gunk over my face and it warmed up my death pallor. But within moments my greyness had risen once more to the surface, cancelling out the Tawny Beige.

  I got through Monday and I got through Tuesday and on Tuesday night, when Ma came to wish me sweet dreams, I said, ‘It’s a week now. It’s a whole week.’

  ‘You’ve heard nothing from him?’ She knew I hadn’t. I suppose she was just making conversation. ‘No word?’

  ‘No. And I won’t. There will be no reunion. This is over.’

  I knew he wouldn’t forgive me – but I accepted it.

  That was the one good thing. I didn’t daydream about him arriving to claim me. I didn’t ring him and call round to the house, pleading with him to forgive me.

  I knew Damien. The qualities I’d fallen in love with – his independence, his conviction in his own rightness, his essential unwillingness to trust another human being – had become the stumbling blocks. He’d trusted me, I’d broken the trust. It couldn’t be fixed.

  I lay on the bed and thought back to those days last summer and wished fiercely – scrunching up my face and clenching my hands with the force of my longing – that I could go back and change things.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ma asked. ‘With your face?’

  ‘Wishing I could go back and change things. I really miss him,’ I said. ‘I miss talking to him. Right from the start I was pathetically in love with him. Even at parties – on the few occasions I could drag him along to one – he was the only person I really wanted to talk to.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Ah no. We’re not like that. But he knows. Knew.’

  ‘So why the hell did you get involved with de Courcy?’ Ma asked, almost in exasperation.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I really couldn’t understand it.

  Boredom? Curiosity? A sense of entitlement? All shameful reasons.

  ‘People, human beings,’ I said helplessly, ‘we’re fucked-up. Why do we do the things we do?’ I sounded like Marnie. For the first time I really understood the despair that ran through her like a black seam.

  ‘“To err is human,”’ Ma quoted.

  ‘“To forgive divine,” ’ I said. ‘And I couldn’t care less if the divine forgives me or not. I want Damien to forgive me, but he won’t.’

  Ma acknowledged that by keeping her mouth shut.

  ‘I know you all think he’s grumpy –’

  She maintained a diplomatic silence.

  ‘ – but he’s my favourite person.’

  Eventually she asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘With what? The rest of my life?’

  ‘… Yes, I suppose. Or until you get over this?’

  ‘I don’t know. What does anyone do? Live through it.’

  Easier said than done, though.

  Lola

  Monday, 23 February 19.11

  Bridie’s flat

  ‘Dance, lil’ sister, dance!’ Bridie urged me.

  VIP had done a special ‘de Courcy pre-wedding pull-out.’ Bridie had removed all the pictures of Paddy and spread them across the floo
r like carpet tiles.

  ‘C’mon, lil’ sister, dance!’

  ‘Lil’ sister?’ Treese and I exchanged a glance. Perhaps words from a song? No knowing where Bridie gets her phrases from.

  She played Billy Idol – no knowing where Bridie gets her CDs from either – and we all danced, and must admit, I gleaned pleasure from stamping foot on Paddy’s smiling fizzog.

  ‘Cripes, look at this!’ Had kicked up legs so energetically that had overturned one of the pages and on the back was picture of Claudia, at launch of new Athlete’s Foot powder. Her 3-D knockers almost jumped out of the page and hit me in the eye. She was posing cheek by jowl with TV3 weatherman. Her new boyfriend apparently. Quote said, ‘Claudia and Felix. Very much in love.’

  ‘We can stop worrying about her now,’ Treese said. Treese very dry.

  Back to dancing on Paddy de Courcy’s face.

  ‘What is danger of you having relapse on the wedding day itself?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Time will tell, I suppose,’ I said.

  Bridie displeased. ‘Course you won’t have relapse!’

  ‘Well, why you ask –’

  ‘– Rhetorical, rhetorical. You are over him. In fact, let’s gatecrash K Club and you can throw confetti.’

  ‘Let’s not.’

  ‘You not feel better enough to throw confetti at his wedding?’ Bridie’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Not exactly, but don’t feel like throwing rotten tomatoes either.’

  ‘So what was bloody point of that lovely showdown with him?’

  ‘Facing fears and all that. And am much better than was. Work going well.’

  Modest understatement! Was riddled with work. Had been wobbly when first returned but now was in the zone and at top of my game. Everything I did was a triumph – not boasting, no, not boasting, simply saying how it was. Could ‘cherry pick’ jobs, keeping best-paid, most interesting ones for me and passing on overflow to – yes – Nkechi. Why not? She was excellent stylist.

  Also she had suffered a loss. In stunning, shocking move, Rosalind Croft had left her husband, the horrible Maxwell Croft. Unprecedented. Society wives never leave society husbands, always other way round. Rosalind Croft no requirement for stylist because no jingle to pay for one. Nkechi down one very lucrative client.

  ‘Remember the night of the soup?’ Bridie chortled. ‘When you camped outside Paddy’s front door and asked me to bring you soup. God, you were certifiable!’

  ‘Haha, yes, indeed.’

  ‘Was a few months there,’ Bridie said, ‘when I thought you would never be normal again!’

  ‘I thought would never be normal again either,’ I said, remembering just how wretched had felt.

  ‘But,’ said Treese firmly, ‘your life definitely back on track.’

  ‘Never thought it would happen, never thought it could happen, but damage done by de Courcy seems to have healed,’ I said. ‘Look at me now.’ Swished hand around self to indicate sleek hair, calm demeanour, phone which never stopped ringing.

  No need to go into it with Bridie but I knew would never again be the person I was before I met Paddy. Was less naive now, less trusting – but maybe that not a bad thing? Less scared, also. Not afraid of being back in Dublin. In fact, nice to be reinstated in own flat, with fully connected telly, right in the thick of things with grunty men wrestling outside my window at four in morning.

  Transition, naturally enough, not entirely smooth. Missed things about Knockavoy: the peace, the cleanness, the sea air – despite ruinous effect on hair – and of course my many, many friends.

  Thought of them often, with great fondness. Frequent memories of Boss, Moss and the Master, accompanied with slight dread in case they made good on their promise to visit me in Dublin.

  Thought of Mrs Butterly every day, especially when heard Coronation Street music.

  Also thought of some of others every day. Sometimes twice a day. Or even more if, for example, heard ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ on radio (mercifully rare occurrence) or saw programme about badgers or passed by eco-swot Prius in street.

  Or noticed man with unkempt hair or heard the word ‘pothole’ or used shower cap or ate tortilla chips and brushed crumbs onto floor.

  Or drank Fanta or saw someone tossing a coin or noticed Law and Order in TV listings.

  Or bought new bulb for bedside lamp or wondered if should do home cholesterol-test or tried new flavour smoothie. (Not Knockavoy memories so cannot account for this phenomenon.)

  Considine texted often, with caring questions about my progress.

  Always replied:

  Am riddled with work, Considine.

  Initially slightly exaggerated quantity of work I was receiving. Important for him to think I was doing well. Had been instrumental in my rehabilitation and he deserved to feel warm glow of satisfaction.

  However, he did not mention visiting Dublin and – unlike Boss, Moss and the Master – would have actually liked him to come. But that is men for you. All liars.

  Not bitterness, no. Simply the way things are.

  Grace

  ‘Make sure you put on that foundation.’ Bid walked into my bedroom, like she did every morning. There was no privacy in this house. No privacy and no heat and no biscuits. ‘We didn’t spend our hard-earned pensions… What in the name of God is wrong with your chin?’ The entire lower part of my face was weeping, blistered and crusty.

  ‘It’s a cold sore,’ I said wearily.

  ‘That’s no cold sore.’ Bid was appalled. ‘That’s some sort of disease. Trenchfoot. You look like you’re rotting.’

  ‘It’s a cold sore,’ I repeated. I used to get them when I was a teenager. ‘It’s just a very bad one.’

  Bid yelled from the landing, ‘Is that alleged cold sore any better?’ She was pretending that she couldn’t bear to enter the room because of my disfigurement.

  ‘No. It lasts for ten days, I keep telling you, and I’ve only had it for four.’

  She came in anyway. ‘Is that another cold sore on your eyebrow?’

  I got out of bed and looked in the mirror. ‘I don’t know. It might be just a spot.’

  ‘A boil, you mean. Mother of the divine! You’ve more on your legs.’

  I looked down. Christ alive. A selection of medieval-style boils had erupted around both ankle bones.

  I was almost afraid to investigate further but I had to. I whipped down my pyjama bottoms to confirm the presence of several eruptions on my thighs.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Bid moaned, raising her cardigan to cover her eyes. ‘You could have warned me you were going to flash your growler. And why haven’t you had a Brazilian? Is it any wonder he got sick of you?’

  The following morning, when I woke, I heard Bid poking about on the landing.

  ‘Bid!’ I called. ‘Bid!’

  ‘What is it today?’

  ‘Bid! I’m blind.’

  My right eye had swollen shut because of a stye.

  Ma was summoned. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she said. ‘I’m taking you to Dr Zwartkop. You might be anaemic or something.’

  ‘I’m not.’ I knew what was wrong with me. ‘Ma, I’m not going to the doctor. I’ve to go to work.’

  But she rang Jacinta and said I’d be late – I was thirty-five and I was getting a sick-note from my mum – and I went along with it because I didn’t know how to resist. I’d forgotten how to do that; it was a skill I’d had once, but didn’t have any longer.

  ‘Interesting thing,’ Ma mused, as we sat in traffic, on the way to the doctor. ‘Some people, Marnie to take one, become really quite beautiful when they’re heartbroken. Strangely luminous.’ Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Grace, sorry. I wasn’t thinking!’

  Dr Zwartkop was a woman – Ma wouldn’t countenance anything else. Ma knew her well enough to call her Priscilla. She also knew her well enough to insist on accompanying me into the consulting room, as if I was six.

  ‘Cold sore,’ Priscilla said to me. ‘Boils. Stye. Any
thing else?’

  ‘An ache in my chest,’ I said. ‘And an ache in my face and head.’

  She gave me a sharp look. ‘Have you had some sort of loss recently?’

  ‘My partner… ten years. We split up two weeks ago.’

  ‘No chance he’ll come back to you?’

  ‘No chance, Priscilla,’ Ma answered quickly.

  ‘I could send you for blood tests –’

  ‘But they’ll come back normal,’ I said.

  Priscilla nodded. ‘I suspect they will.’

  ‘Anything else you can suggest?’ Ma asked.

  ‘Anti-depressants?’

  ‘Anti-depressants?’ Ma coaxed me.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Something to help you sleep?’ Priscilla said.

  ‘Some nice sleeping pills?’ Ma suggested kindly.

  Once again I shook my head. I’d no trouble sleeping.

  ‘You could get your hair cut. Or…’ Priscilla cast around for another suggestion. ‘Or have an inappropriate fling. Or go on holiday.’ She shrugged. ‘Or, indeed, you could do all three.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. Maybe a holiday… ‘C’mon, Ma. I’ve got a job to go to.’

  I ran out of petrol on the way to work. I’d known my car had needed petrol but over the preceding few days there had been so many choices at the station – premium and super-premium, diesel and non-diesel – that I’d had to drive away, convincing myself that I had enough left for one more journey.

  When the engine spluttered and died, I didn’t even care. I just abandoned the car on the Blackrock bypass and got the bus the rest of the way to work, then I rang Dad and asked him to get a canister of petrol and go down and retrieve it.

  When I finally got to work it was midday. I walked into the office and they howled with laughter when they saw the stye on my eye.

  ‘We’ve a present for you,’ TC said.

  ‘What?’ For some reason I thought it might be cake. Between my disfigurements and my petrol-free car, I’d thought they might have got me a nice cake.