by Marian Keyes
‘You always were a charmer,’ I managed, then ran out of words.
After a few moments had elapsed he said, ‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?’
What did he want from me? ‘You don’t look so hot yourself?’ I chanced.
‘Yes! You had me worried there for a minute. So have you been sick?’
‘No, just… destroyed. You know yourself?’
‘Yeah.’ His look spoke volumes. ‘I do.’
In fairness, he didn’t look so hot himself, like someone who hadn’t slept for a couple of years.
‘I rang you,’ he said.
‘Ma said. I thought I’d wait until after the election. I knew you’d be busy.’
‘Grace, don’t cry.’
Was I crying? I put my hand to my face, it was wet. How was that happening?
‘Will we go outside for a cigarette?’ he offered.
‘I’m still off them.’
‘Serious?’ Damien furrowed his forehead. ‘I’ve been on eighty a day since you left. How come you’re coping so well and I’m a fucking wreck?’
‘But I’m not.’ I choked. My tears were flowing faster, people were looking and I didn’t care. ‘I’m a shambles. I’m so bad that sometimes even Bid’s nice to me.’ I dropped my head and swept my hand across my drenched face. I had to get it together. ‘Damien, I’d better go.’ It was too painful to be in his presence.
‘Come back to me, Grace.’
An eternity of seconds passed. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘When have I ever said anything that I didn’t mean?’
‘The time you said my arse didn’t look big in those jeans.’
‘A man tells one white lie…’ Softly he said, ‘I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘Why are you sorry? I’m the one who fucked everything up.’
‘I shouldn’t have let you leave.’
‘I couldn’t stay. I didn’t deserve to.’
‘You’re scaring me now. Please, Grace, come back, let’s try to work it out. We could go to therapy or something.’
‘Therapy?’ I managed a smile.
‘Well, maybe not.’
‘You’d never be able to forgive me,’ I said. ‘Even if we tried again, it would always be there. I ruined something beautiful.’
‘I have forgiven you.’
‘How?’ How did forgiveness happen?
‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
But forgiveness did happen. I knew it did. I’d forgiven poor Marnie. I’d seen how anger could exist, hot and dangerous, and then dissolve away into nothing. Could that have happened to Damien?
‘And I love you a lot,’ Damien said. ‘That helped.’
I searched his face for the truth. Were these just words that couldn’t be backed up by actions? It would be too painful to try again, only to fail. Better not to try at all.
‘And I’m not saying I’d like to ride him or anything like that,’ Damien said. ‘But in a way I can understand you falling for de Courcy. He has charisma, whatever the word is, that’s almost inhuman.’ He sighed. ‘Of course they said the same thing about Hitler.’
I laughed out loud. It was such a surprise. I’d spent thirty-eight days thinking I’d never laugh again.
‘So, Dazzler… will you come back to me?’
I hesitated.
‘Best offer you’ll ever get,’ he said, and that was such a Damien thing to say that suddenly I knew it was all going to be all right.
‘I suppose I’d better,’ I said. ‘I mean, who else would put up with you?’
Marnie
The whinging was in full spate as Marnie, shepherded by Jules, came into the room.
‘… so grateful for the clean, decent life I have today…’
‘… thought I was a free spirit, a rebel, drinking, kicking off, no job, no ties, but I was a prisoner to drink, might as well have had the house in the suburbs and the two-point-four kids…’
Skinhead Steve pointed out two empty chairs and people whispered their hellos to Marnie as she passed by.
Ulla quietly brought her tea. ‘Three sugars, right?’
Marnie nodded her thanks. She took a sip and looked around. There was Australian Des, smiling at her. And Respectable Maureen. Sexy Charlotte pointed at Marnie’s feet. ‘Nice shoes,’ she mouthed, with such pained anguish it made Marnie laugh.
Marnie settled back in her chair and listened and held her tea, comforted by the heat in her hands.
‘… I still have the extreme feelings I always had, maybe not as bad, but instead of drinking on them, I get to a meeting…’
‘… when I started coming here, you people told me I need never drink again, and I haven’t…’
As usual, after a respectable interval, they alighted on her. ‘Marnie, would you like to say anything?’
Everyone shifted in their chairs towards her. Already they were smiling. She was always treated to the full force of their warmth even though she resolutely maintained her distance.
‘Look, Sweets, look. Sit up,’ Nick said urgently.
She shifted on her towel and groaned. ‘I was nearly asleep there.’
‘It’s good, you’ll like it. Look at Verity.’
Marnie sat up on the river bank and shaded her eyes against the sun, and there was Verity, in her mermaid bikini, pushing earnestly through the water.
‘Mum, Dad!’ Verity called. ‘Look! I’m swimming!’
‘Go, girl!’ Nick called, his voice swollen with pride.
‘Look at you!’ Marnie waved at Verity, who stopping swimming just long enough to wave back, and almost went under.
‘Ow.’ She laughed and spluttered. ‘I swallowed some river.’
She was different back then, so much more robust than the nervy little creature she was now.
‘Quick, Mum, dry me!’ Daisy came racing towards her, water dripping from her long, skinny body. ‘Did you see Verity? She’s not scared any more.’
‘I saw. Come here.’ She unfurled a huge Minnie Mouse bath towel, got Daisy to hold one end, then wrapped it round and round her, so she was like an upright roll of carpet.
‘Dry me!’ Daisy stamped her feet and shivered dramatically. ‘I’m freezing!’
‘Drama queen,’ Marnie said.
‘Wonder where she gets that from.’ Nick threw her a cheeky look.
She widened her eyes. ‘Certainly not from me, mister!’
Briskly she rubbed Daisy dry, along the wings of her shoulder blades, her narrow little back and the legs so long and skinny they were cute almost to the point of comedy.
‘God, Daisy, you’re beautiful.’
‘So are you, Mum.’
‘Yeah, so are you, Mum.’ Nick snapped her bikini strap and they held a look for so long that Daisy exclaimed, ‘That’s gross!’
Suddenly Marnie was back in the AA meeting but the soft pink glow of the memory remained.
She turned and smiled at Jules beside her. Jules, who had been so kind, who had come as soon as Marnie had phoned her this morning from outside the off-licence. ‘Wait there,’ Jules had ordered. ‘And don’t move a muscle. I’ll be with you in ten.’
Marnie closed her eyes. The remnants of the mood of the day by the river had wrapped themselves around her. It had been wonderful. Full of love, in every single word and action and thought. All she had ever wanted had been right there.
But where was it? As the memory receded, Marnie realized she didn’t recognize that river bank. In fact, she was sure she’d never been to that place. And the girls looked older then than they did now: Daisy had been missing two of her milk teeth; Verity’s squint was gone. Even she and Nick were different. She’d put on some weight, her hair was longer; Nick’s hair was greyer. How could that be?
But it had happened, she was certain of it. It wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy, it was a memory.
Then she understood it all. It was a memory, of course it was a memory. It had really happened. It just hadn’t happened yet.
&nb
sp; She opened her eyes. Every person in the room was still smiling at her.
‘My name is Marnie.’
Their smiles widened. ‘Hi, Marnie.’
‘And I’m an alcoholic.’
Lola
Saturday, 21 March 701
Buzzer ringing. Excessively early. Local skanger kids always at that lark. Youthful high jinks, Let’s wake up silly purple-haired girl! I usually manage wry twist of lips at their skangy high spirits, but not this morning. In no mood. Very tired. Have not slept well for entire week – since last weekend’s jaunt to Knockavoy. The entire Considine/Chloe business confusing, upsetting, distressing. Had done much brooding.
Buzzer rang again. Pulled duvet over head.
Rang again. God’s sake! Flung duvet aside with narky flourish, stomped to entry-phone in my pyjamas and said firmly, ‘Fuck off, local skanger kids, and let me have my sleep.’ (They respect use of ‘language.’)
‘Sorry to wake you,’ voice said. Not voice of local skanger kids! Instead sexy bogger voice, the voice of Considine!
‘… What on earth you doing here? You think Dublin is total kip of a place.’
‘Is total kip of a place,’ he said.
‘So why you here?’
‘Don’t make me say it, Lola,’ said in low sexy mutter. ‘Not out here on street. Gang of young fellas in hoodies already laughing at my car.’
‘Make you say what?’ Mystified.
Pause. Heavy sigh. Further low sexy muttering. ‘I love you, Lola Daly.’
This short – frankly stunning – admission accompanied by explosion of raucous laughter and catcalls from – can only conclude – local skangers. Disembodied skangful voice shrieked, ‘The mulchie with the crap car thinks he’s in with a shout with Lola.’
‘Is that true?’ I asked. Very early in the morning, all very unexpected, lack of sleep distorting reality. This might be lovely news, but afraid to trust…
‘Yeh! The mulchie’s car IS crap!’
(Mulchie is hybrid word. Conflation of ‘culchie’ and ‘mucker.’)
Enough of this three-way conversation! Local skangers cruel. Needed to save Considine. Humble culchie man.
‘Considine,’ I said firmly, ‘you are coming in. When you hear buzzing noise, push door. Not pull, push –’
‘Is okay, Lola. Know how it works.’ Sarcastic addendum. ‘Read about it in a book.’
Aha! Our old friend Cranky-Arse not entirely dead and buried!
Pressed button, opened my front door. Considine appeared. Unkempt, stridey, sexy. Into my flat. Maleness, muscles, general delicious manliness. Pulled me to him.
Looked up into his face. His mouth very near mine.
‘That thing you just said,’ I said. ‘You say it again, please?’
‘Dublin total kip of a place?’ But he was laughing. Very, very handsome when laughs. Oh very handsome. ‘You mean part when I said I love you?’
‘Yes, that bit.’
‘I love you, Lola Daly.’
‘This news has come as surprise,’ I admitted. ‘Chloe –’
‘Yes, misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘Wanted to lure you back to Knockavoy with Chloe. Thought you loved Chloe.’
‘Do love Chloe. But – and cannot understand this, Considine – love you more.’
Both of us somewhat startled. Stared at each other in shock. Eventually he said, ‘Don’t mean to alarm you, but you used word “love” just there.’
Replayed sentence in head. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘You mean it?’
Thought about it, about how much had missed him since had left Knockavoy in January, how every tiny thing had reminded me of him. ‘Yes, Considine, would appear that I do.’
His hold on me tightened. ‘Lola, Lola.’ He sighed, as if mightily relieved. ‘Christ, you’ve no idea…’ Shook his head. ‘Couldn’t stop thinking about you after you left on Monday; nothing new there, though, think about you all the time, day and… night.’ Liked the way he said ‘night.’ Sexy-sounding word.
‘Knew had done something wrong,’ he said. ‘Had misread what you wanted. Going out of my mind. Bad week. Couldn’t sleep. Last night, decided, That’s it! Had to get in car and find you. I drove all night.’ Sexy-sounding sentence.
‘If you drove all night,’ I said, ‘you must have gone via Morocco. Only three-and-a-half-hour journey.’
He laughed. Again! Like comedy festival round here!
‘You serious about this?’ I asked.
‘More serious than… trying to think of something very serious.’
‘Bowel cancer? Anna Wintour? Rise in ocean levels?’
‘All of them.’
Impressive. Anna Wintour very serious, I believe.
‘Come on.’ I got my car keys.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see my mum.’
‘Should I wear a tie?’
Considered him. Jeans, black fleece, stampy-style boots. ‘No, you have your look, working it well.’
At the cemetery three kids noisily playing football around a grave. Disrespectful. Until realized it was their little brother who had died and they had made him goalie.
Life so very, very precious.
Picked our way through the graves, until got to Mum.
‘Mum, this is Considine.‘
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Daly,’ Considine said to her headstone.
Think Mum said, ‘Nice to meet you too,’ but hard to hear her because football children shouting, ‘Yessss!’ and ‘Nooooo!’ and other football words.
‘She says nice to meet you too,’ I said (because she probably did, she is tremendously polite). ‘Now, Considine, I need to have little private chat with her.’
‘I go away?’
‘No, is silent chat. You may stay.’
We both sat on little kerb and in my head I said, ‘Take good look at him, Mum. Now, not your fault you had to die and leave me but really need your advice. Afraid to trust own judgement after de Courcy. What you think about this cranky trannie who lives on other side of country?’
Voice in head answered, ‘He is not cranky.’
‘Yes, but–’
‘He is not trannie either.’
‘True –’
‘Admittedly he does live on other side of country, but is very small country.’
‘Please do not mention Kildare bypass.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Then you have to go for it.’
Moment of doubt. Was I only telling self what wanted to hear?
‘Mum, are you really there?’
‘Yes!’ one of the kids yelled. My anxiety dispersed – had not imagined that voice –and at same time sun shook itself free of cloud and beamed sudden yellow light down on us all.
‘Mum, tell me honestly, will it be okay?’
‘Yes!’ the kid yelled again.
‘You quite sure?’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
