by Will Carver
If you don’t see all of this, you don’t want all of this. You don’t question why you don’t have all of this.
The problem is that these people don’t have it, either. They are making you feel like shit because your husband hasn’t bought you flowers and you’re not best friends with your mother and your kid hasn’t just got the lead in the school musical. But they are only showing you that because they have seen somebody else who just turned fifty and has a six-pack. And another person who has been giving daily updates on the progress of their home extension where they plan to host large family gatherings and parties for all their thousands of friends.
What you don’t see is that the extension is causing great tension in the household. The kids hate the mess and upheaval, and there’s a strain on the marriage as the budget blows out of control. You just see that the dado rail has gone in and the oak floor has been waxed.
And you don’t witness Mrs New Conservatory starving herself or shouting at the kids because she’s tired and can’t cope.
Because then Mr Buy-Flowers-For-No-Reason-Other-Than-Infidelity wouldn’t want the new conservatory life. And Ms Katsu Curry wouldn’t want to be bought flowers. And Mr New Porsche wouldn’t feel the need to let you know how smart his kid was.
The result of all that is maybe somebody would then want their own life. Or at least appreciate what they have rather than what they do not.
But that is not the case.
Everything is so transparent. It’s not honest but you can see through it.
That means Gail doesn’t want to be a good mother, she wants to be the best mother. She wants to breastfeed because all the real mums do that. She has no idea whether it will happen, whether the baby will latch on, but she knows that she has to do it, because she has been told that it is the healthiest thing for a new child and that it is natural. And that people can’t be offended if she pulls out her breast in a coffee shop, for that very reason.
And she will never hit her child or raise her voice. Instead, she will get down to their level and explain things, just like it says in the books. She will make snacks from scratch so that her child doesn’t have a reliance on sugar. She will do all the things that she sees other women, who are not in anywhere near the same predicament as her, do.
And when she can’t, she will feel like a failure.
She won’t share that, though. Nobody wants to see that.
Irving can’t make documentaries, there’s no money in that. He can’t make a small arthouse movie, either. His friends would still tease him about not having a proper job. And his mother had already posted pictures of his graduation online. He needed a blockbuster with big names. He needed an award. He needed to be the guy who took his mother down the red carpet.
Producing great art was not enough, because everybody could see the box-office figures and that is how they measured success.
He could be content with independent cinema distribution if he couldn’t see the life of multiplex movie directors, who in turn could see the life of the producers.
Esse quam videri.
It is better to be than to seem to be.
Mrs May was hoping for a civilised dinner party. Good food and better discussion. She wanted to know who her guests really were, not who they seemed to be. More importantly, she was interested in what they wanted from their lives and how much they truly wanted it.
ELEVEN
Dinner had started well. Irving had pulled himself out of the funk of being temporarily unemployed, and Mrs May had guzzled down half a bottle of Chatêauneuf-du-Pape before her guests had arrived. She had even found a 0.5% red wine that Gail could have that would not affect the baby.
‘I don’t feel like such a leper now.’ Gail raised the glass and took a giant gulp.
Mrs May had prepared her customary three courses with accompanying alcohol. They had passed through the awkwardness of Irving’s description of his current work situation and the obvious lie that he was telling himself in order to keep his spirits up.
Gail was feeling looser after three glasses of almost alcohol-free wine, but that had more to do with whatever it had been spiked with rather than good vibes or the placebo effect.
And then it came.
‘Tell me what you want, Irving. And don’t bullshit me. I want to hear an ideal-world scenario. If you could have it, exactly, what would it be?’ Mrs May was serious, severe.
Irving was about to speak when she interrupted him.
‘Exactly!’
‘Ideal world, I would like to create movies that are critically acclaimed while also being successful enough at the box office to afford me a lifestyle that is comfortable beyond my means and allows me to take care of the ones I love so they do not have to struggle.’ He sounded like he’d given it some thought.
‘And why can you not have that?’
‘Ha.’ He laughed. But Mrs May was deadly serious. ‘Mrs May, that is not how art works. The great writers live in hovels while the hacks are in mansions. It’s the same with music. I like hearing the stuff you play, but I don’t know the names of any of the acts. I hate what I hear on the radio but I know who they are. Every last overproduced, auto-tuned one of them.’
‘Cheers to that.’ Gail seemingly wanted to be heard.
The other two looked at her, said nothing, then looked away.
‘I had a young Irish kid in here one time, Aidan Gallagher was his name. Sweet kid. Dreamt of becoming a painter. I asked him that same question that I just asked you. He told me he wanted to lose the Irish farm-boy thing, just ditch it. All that rich history, he wanted to trade it in and become someone else. A painter. A real artist. The toast of the town. Wanted his work to be worth money. Always. You know what I said to him?’
‘No.’ Irving was captivated by the old lady’s story.
‘I said, “How much do you want it?”’
Irving was waiting for the next part of the conversation, but Mrs May turned her attention to Gail.
‘And you, young lady.’
‘Me?’ Gail put her hand against her chest coquettishly.
‘Yes, you. What do you want? Above all else. Anything. The thing you truly want with everything that you are.’
‘I am afraid my dreams are not so grandiose as our friend Mr Irving’s here.’ She put her hand on his for a moment. ‘I worry every day about my baby. I’m scared it could be born with a hole in his heart, or horns on his head or not breathing at all. I wish I could guarantee a safe arrival and a long and healthy life, free from complicated illnesses and heartbreak.’
‘I understand that, dear. Though I think heartbreak is essential for everyone. It is the one pain that can make us stronger. Now tell me, why can you not have that guarantee?’
‘Because it’s out of my control. I can eat the right foods, and I make sure that I exercise enough – but not too much. I only drink wine that can’t make me drunk, although this one feels like a very strong 0.5%, if you don’t mind me saying. Maybe a 0.52%.’ She did that thing where she laughed at her own joke. ‘I can follow the advice and take my female pills or whatever, but there are no guarantees.’
‘I had a young man who lived here for quite some time. Kind and thoughtful, very well read, he had a great thirst for knowledge. But he was a little shy, perhaps. He was skinny. Timid around women. The kind of guy that always ends up becoming a friend.’
‘The friend zone.’ Irving rolled his eyes.
‘He wanted to guarantee that the next woman who moved into The Beresford would fall for him. If he was sure that would happen, he could be at ease around her from the off. He could be cool or charming. He wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t a virgin. It wasn’t about sex. The guy wanted love. And he deserved it. He was lovely, a good guy.’
‘Sounds like Abe.’ Gail was slurring.
Mrs May ignored her for a moment.
‘He wanted love and he got it. For a short time, but he had it. The one thing he wanted more than anything.’
‘And you t
hink he somehow made that happen? The artist?’ Irving knocked back his wine, and Mrs May refilled.
‘Do you both believe in God?’ Mrs May asked, ignoring the question. ‘I’m not asking whether you are religious, just whether you believe.’
‘I do,’ said Irving.
‘I like the idea of it but I’m not sure, with everything that is going on in the world,’ Gail answered. She sounded naive.
The old lady continued. She was going to say the same thing whatever their answers had been.
‘Have you noticed how many people are absolute about His existence? And they live their lives by Him. They are devoted, fearful they give everything to Him. And what does it get them? What does giving yourself up to God mean? It does not guarantee you health or success.’
‘So you don’t believe?’ He wasn’t offended, he just wanted to understand the point.
‘There are two things I am certain of: God exists. I am sure. But He has checked out. He was asleep at the wheel but He is not here anymore. He has given up. So there are millions of people around the world giving up their soul to Him for nothing. For no reward. For no eternal life in Heaven. Their souls are worthless.’
Irving thought it was a bleak way of looking at things. Gail was listening but felt the edges of her vision begin to ripple. Mrs May continued with her rant, saying that your soul was the most valuable thing you have, and that you should never give it up so easily to a God who is no longer present and will do nothing with it.
It was as passionate as one of her prayers.
She told them that giving up your soul for anything other than the one thing you truly wanted above all else is foolish. Because the price is high and is only worth it if you receive your dream.
Irving chimed in. ‘Outside in the garden that time, you were joking with me. You said that you knew a guy that could help me if I wanted to sell my soul for a successful film career. You were joking, right?’
‘You’re scaring me a bit, Mrs May. I don’t think I like this.’
‘Aiden. That Irish farm boy. He dropped his accent, he changed his name to Sythe.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Irving added, continuing the pretence to stay a part of the conversation.
‘Yeah, I have one of his paintings.’
‘He gave it up for his success.’
‘Oh, now you’re being ridiculous.’ Gail stood up at the table. ‘Just stop. It’s not funny anymore.’
‘And Abe found love straight away with Blair. It didn’t work out in the end but he wasn’t done. There was more love out there for him. He was going to find it.’
What happened next was chaos. Gail took particular umbrage to the mention of Abe. And it was worse that the old lady was suggesting something so disgusting as him selling his soul for love. Mrs May insinuated that Blair came to the same fate as Abe. That Abe helped Sythe to that end.
And Irving was confused by this.
And Gail was frightened that the loose ends she had tied up were about to become untied.
And the old lady pushed and pushed. And her passion riled Gail more – her drink was not helping matters, giving her some courage and bite.
Jordan Irving tried to calm them down. Eventually they were all standing up around the table.
‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare bring all that up. You’re mad.’
‘Why don’t you stop trying to protect your baby and be a mother? Guarantee its safety and happiness.’ The old lady had some spite in that tongue of hers.
‘You don’t talk about my baby. You’re mad. You’re mad.’
Mrs May grabbed Gail’s wrist to steady her. To calm her. Perhaps to goad her. Because the mother-to-be felt instantly threatened. And when she felt that way, she lashed out.
Gail grabbed the carafe from the table by the neck. There was only a little wine left in the bottom. She picked it up and struck Mrs May across the side of the head with the heavier glass at the base. It hit her square on the left temple, and she released her grip and dropped straight to the floor.
Irving grabbed the carafe out of her hand as Gail pulled it back towards her. Maybe to take another swipe.
‘What are you doing?’
‘She grabbed me. You saw. It burned me.’ She showed him the marks on her wrist. But he wasn’t interested. He had already run around to make sure the old lady was alright.
She wasn’t moving, and there was blood trickling from the side of her head, down her cheek. Everyone was small in comparison to Jordan Irving, but he thought she looked even tinier than usual.
He put his cheek above her mouth but couldn’t feel any breath. Gazing down her body, there was no movement. He checked her pulse.
Nothing.
Gail just stood there watching.
‘I think you fucking killed her.’ He looked horrified.
‘Oh, shit. That means we have sixty seconds.’
TWELVE
Gail had some explaining to do.
And fast.
‘Sixty seconds? What the fuck are you talking about? You just killed this sweet old lady because she disagreed with you.’ Irving was stood over Mrs May’s body. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could detain Gail, pin her down so she couldn’t get away while he called the police.
But nobody ever called the police at The Beresford.
‘Old, yes. But sweet? She was talking about making our wildest dreams come true if we sold our souls. You get that, right? She wanted our souls.’
‘Come on, Gail, that’s just an old wives’ tale. She couldn’t really do that. It was drunken dinner chat.’
‘You don’t get it. There’s something about this place, and there’s something about Mrs May. Things happen here. People have died.’
‘Yeah. You probably killed them.’
‘I did. She made me.’ Gail pointed at the corpse. ‘And every time she made me kill someone, a new tenant would show up exactly sixty seconds later.’
‘Horse shit.’
‘It’s true. Sixty seconds before you got here, I slit the throat of some ditzy jewellery designer. I dragged her to the library and you walked straight past us.’
‘What are you saying to me? You’re confessing to a murder?’
‘We don’t have time for this, Irving. I didn’t mean to kill Mrs May. She was frustrating me. I think she put something in my drink.’
‘You know what you sound like?’
‘Paranoid. I know. But in about twenty seconds, the doorbell is going to ring and a new tenant is going to want to see Mrs May. I guarantee it.’
‘You sound as crazy as she did. Selling souls. Cursed houses. You’re out of your damned minds.’
A minute had almost passed. Irving wondered how Gail could believe in this one-minute-later superstition but not buy the whole selling-of-souls idea. Gail started walking towards the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He sounded threatening.
‘Someone is going to have to let the new tenant in.’
Irving was about to roll his eyes. He was going to tell Gail that she had to stay in that apartment otherwise he would make her stay. He was going to run to the door and block her exit. He was going to call the police. He was going to try CPR on the old lady.
But the doorbell rang.
THIRTEEN
Irving was at the mercy of Gail, who now seemed confident and sober.
She was the one in control.
She’d done this before.
She had seen this all before.
Gail strode ahead of Irving. She wanted to get to the door to see who the new tenant was, so she could say, ‘I told you so.’ It seemed that they had both forgotten about the old, dead lady bleeding in her apartment. The poor woman who had run that building for more years than she could remember. The one who had prayed for compassion for Abe and a million other Abes throughout the years. That spritely pensioner who drank all day and tried to help every single person who was lucky enough to pass through The Beresford to reach their dreams. S
he was lying motionless on her dining-room floor, dead for a minute, and already forgotten.
Neither Irving nor Gail performed the customary look out of the window to catch a glimpse of their new housemate. It was always Mrs May that answered the call of the fresh tenant.
Gail took a deep breath and opened the door.
The smiley greeting soon fell away from her face as she inhaled through her mouth again, this time in fear, taking three slow steps backward. Irving could see how wide Gail’s eyes were, but the door was blocking his view of the person she was looking at. Then they stepped inside.
The old lady.
Mrs May.
Alone as ever. No blood on her face. No sign of any head trauma.
‘Right, dear, let’s not go through that again, okay?’
FOURTEEN
It should have been much worse.
Gail was expecting some kind of attack, either verbal or physical. Some sort of onslaught. A tirade of abuse. It was the least that she deserved after cracking the formerly dead Mrs May around the head with a heavy-bottomed carafe.
Irving was mumbling to himself, pointing at Mrs May then at the apartment, then back at the old, alive woman.
‘Yes. There is a body in there, but I am here.’ She pointed down at her feet. ‘It’s not the first time it has happened. Some idiots get it into their heads that they can’t leave if I am still alive.’ Her eyes roll. ‘They think that, if they kill me, it will somehow break the curse. I don’t even know where they get that idea from. And they realise sixty seconds later that it doesn’t work.’
The young tenants were gobsmacked. Irving a little more so because this was the first time he had witnessed the phenomenon she and Gail had spoken of.
‘It’s cold out there. I could do with a drink to warm up. Shall we go back inside? And perhaps you could stop smashing things over my head, Gail.’ Mrs May shut the front door behind her and urged Irving to lead them back into her apartment.
