by Marian Keyes
Georgia and Joel spent money fast. "Hey, we 're skint," they often laughed—then immediately went to the River Cafe. On receiving a particularly onerous credit card bill they tightened their belts by buying champagne. Attached to them, debt seemed desirable, stylish, alive. "Money is there to be spent," they claimed and their friends cautiously followed suit, then tried to stop themselves waking in the night in overdrawn terror.
After four years together Georgia and Joel surprised everyone by getting married. Not just any old marriage—but you could have guessed that. Instead they went to Las Vegas; hopped on a plane on Friday night after work, were married on Saturday by an Elvis look-alike, were back for work on Monday. The following weekend they rented a baroque room in Charterhouse Square, draped it in white muslin and had the mother of all parties. Proving they were ahead of their time by serving old-fashioned martinis which made a comeback among the Liggerati a couple of years later.
Close friends Melissa and Tom, who were having a beachfront wedding ceremony in Bali a month later, went into a trough of depression and wanted to call the whole thing off.
Two years later Georgia once more reinvented the right lifestyle choices by announcing her pregnancy. Stretch marks and sleepless nights acquired an immediate cachet. They called their little girl Queenie—a dusty, musty old ladies' name, but on their child it was quirky and charming. In the following months, various acquaintances named their newborn girls Flossie, Vera and Beryl. Georgia regained her figure within weeks of having the baby. Even worse she claimed not to have worked out.
Then one day, pension brochures appeared on their circular walnut coffee table.
"Pensions?" asked Neil, hardly believing his luck. Joel had finally cocked-up and done something deserving of scorn.
"Got to look to the future," Joel agreed. "You know it makes sense."
"Pensions," Neil repeated, throwing his head back in an elaborate gesture of amusement. "You sad bastard."
"You want to be old and skint?" Joel said with a smile that was very obviously not a cruel one. "Up to you, mate."
And Neil wanted to hang himself. They were always moving the bloody goalposts.
But most of all, it was Georgia and Joel's relationship that no one could ever top. They'd been born on the same day, in the same year, within four miles of each other, they were so obviously meant to be together that everyone else 's felt like a making-do, a shoddy compromise. Georgia and Joel fitted together, like two halves of a heart, symbiosis was the name of the game and their devotion was lavish and public. Every year one or other of them had a "surprise" birthday party, "for my twin."
Their friends were tightly bound to them by a snarl of admira tion, hidden envy and the hope of some of their good fortune rubbing off.
But as they moved forward into the late nineties, perhaps Georgia and Joel's mutual regard wasn't as frantically fervent as once it had been. Perhaps tempers were slightly shorter than previously. Maybe Joel got on Georgia's nerves once in a while. Perhaps Joel wondered if Georgia wasn't quite as golden as she 'd once been. Not that they'd ever consider splitting up. Oh, no. Splitting up was for other people, those unfortunate types who hadn't found their soulmate.
And other people did split up. Tom left Melissa for Melissa's brother in a scandal that had everyone on the phone to each other in gleeful horror for some weeks, vying to be the biggest bearer of bad news, outdoing each other in the horrific details. "I hear they were shagging each other on Tom and Melissa's honeymoon. On the honeymoon. Can you believe it!"
Vicky's husband left her. She 'd had a baby, couldn't shift the weight, became dowdy and different. Unrecognizable. She 'd once been a contender. Of course, never exactly as lambent or lustrous as Georgia, but now she 'd slipped and slipped behind, well out of the race, limping and abandoned.
Georgia was a loyal and ever-present friend in their times of woe. Tirelessly she visited, urged trips to hairdressers, took care of children, consoled, cajoled. She even let Vicky and Melissa say things like, "You think that your relationship is the one that won't hit the wall, but it can happen to anyone." Georgia always let them get away with it, bestowing a kindly smile and resisting the urge to say, "Joel and I are different."
People gave up watching and waiting for Georgia and Joel to unravel. The times people said, "Don't you think Georgia and Joel are just too devoted. Methinks they do protest too much" became fewer and fewer. People ran out of energy and patience, waiting for the roof to fall in on the soulmates and their "special relationship."
But the thing about a soulmate is that it can be a burden as well as a blessing, Joel found himself thinking one day. You're stuck with them. Other people can ditch their partner and forage with impunity in the outside world, looking for a fresh partner, where everyone is a possibility. Having a spiritual twin fairly narrows your choice.
And Georgia found herself emotionally itchy. What would have happened if she hadn't met Joel? Who would she be with now? And she experienced an odd yearning, she missed the men she hadn't loved, the boyfriends she 'd never met.
So acute was this unexpected sadness that she tried to speak to Katie about it.
"Sounds like you're bored with Joel," Katie offered. "Do you still love him?"
"Love him?" Georgia exclaimed, with knee-jerk alacrity. "He 's my soulmate!"
Then one night Joel got very, very drunk and admitted to Chris, "I fancy other women. I want to sleep with every girl I see. The curiosity is too much."
"That 's normal," Chris said in surprise. "Have an affair."
"It 's not normal. This is me and Georgia."
"Sounds like you're in trouble, mate."
"Not me and Georgia."
They believed their own publicity and in time-honored tradition, attempted to paper over the cracks by having another baby. A boy this time. They called him Clement.
"That 's an old man's name!"
"We 're being ironic!" But their laughs lacked conviction; and when they painted Clement 's room silver no one copied them.
On they labored, shoulder to shoulder. While all around them people danced the dance of love: merging and splitting, blending anew with fresh partners, sundering, twirling and cleaving joyously to the next one. And shackled to their soulmate, Georgia and Joel watched with naked envy.
It was only when Georgia began questioning her mother on the circumstances of her birth that she realized how ridiculous the situation had become. "What time of the day was I born, Mum?" she asked, as Clement bellowed on her lap.
"Eleven."
"Could it have been a little bit later?" Georgia heard herself ask. "Like gone midnight?" So that it was actually the following day, she thought but didn't articulate.
"It was eleven in the morning, nowhere near midnight."
Three weeks later when Joel and Georgia split up it caused a furor. Everyone declared themselves horrified, that if the golden couple couldn't hack it, what hope was there for the rest of them? But there wasn't one among them who couldn't help a frisson of longawaited glee. Now Mr. and Mrs. Perfect would see what it 's like for the rest of them.
The "press release" insisted that they were still friends, that it was all very adult and civilized, that they were in complete agree ment over finances and custody of the children. Sure, everyone scorned. Sure.
But disconcertingly Georgia wouldn't join in an "all men are bastards" conversation with Vicky, Katie and Melissa. Not even when Joel began going out with a short, plump dental nurse called Helen.
"Tim has met her," Alice consoled. "He says she 's not a patch on you."
"Oh don't," Georgia objected. "I think she 's really sweet."
"You've met her?!"
And when Georgia began seeing a graphic designer called Conor, Tim assured Joel that Alice said he was a prat.
"Nah," Joel protested. "He 's a good bloke. We 're all going on holidays with the kids at Easter."
"Who are?" Tim wanted to pass out.
"Me and Helen, Georgia and Conor."
>
Everyone declared that it was wonderful they were being so mature about the split and only the certain knowledge that the holiday would be a bloodbath consoled them. Itching to find out just how bad it was, Tim rang Joel the day he got back. Then Tim, Alice, Katie, Vicky, Melissa, Chris, Neil and Peter gathered in the pub, ostensibly for a casual drink. Conversation glanced off the usual subjects—house prices, hair straighteners, Pamela Anderson's breasts—until no one could bear any more. Peter was the first to crack, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"So was it a disaster?" he begged Tim. "Did they try to kill each other?"
Watched by seven avid pairs of eyes, Tim shook his head sor rowfully. "They got on like a house on fire. They're going to do it again in July."
A murmur of Isn't that marvelous? started up.
But Vicky couldn't take any more. In despair, she put her face in her hands. "How do they do it?" she whispered, echoing everyone 's sentiments. "How do they bloody well do it!"
First published in You magazine, May 21, 2000
The Truth Is Out There
L os Angeles International Airport: teeming with passengers, arrivals, film stars, illegal immigrants, a dazed English girl called Ros and of course, the odd alien or two freshly landed from another planet. Well, only one alien, actually. A small, yellow, transparent creature who liked to be called Bib. His name was actually Ozymandmandyprandialsink, but Bib was just much more him, he felt. Bib was in Los Angeles by accident—he 'd stolen a craft and gone on a little joyride, only planning to go as far as planet Zephir. Or planet Kyton, at the most. But they'd been repairing the super galaxy freeway and diverting everyone and somehow he 'd lost his way and ended up in this place.
Ros Little hadn't landed from another planet, she just felt like she had. The twelve-hour flight from Heathrow, the eight-hour time difference and the terrible row she 'd had the night before she 'd left all conspired to make her feel like she was having a psychotic episode. Her body was telling her it should be the middle of the night, her heart was telling her her life was over, but the brazen mid-afternoon Californian sun dazzled and scorched regardless.
As Ros dragged her suitcase through the crowds and the drench ing humidity towards the taxi rank, she was stopped in her tracks by a woman's shriek.
"It 's an alien!" the helmet-haired, leisure-suited matron yelled, jabbing a finger at something only she could see. "Oh my Lord, look, just right there, it 's a little yellow alien."
How very Californian, Ros thought wearily. Her first mad person and she wasn't even out of the airport yet. In other circumstances she 'd have been thrilled.
Hastily Bib assumed invisibility. That was close! But he had to get out of here because he knew bits and pieces about planet Earth—he 'd been forced to study it in Primitive Cultures class. On the rare occasions he 'd bothered to go to school. Apparently Los Angeles was alien-spotting-central and the place would be overrun with X-Filers in a matter of minutes.
Looking around anxiously, he saw a small girl-type creature clambering into a taxi. Excellent. His getaway car. Just before Ros slammed the door he managed to slip in beside her unnoticed, and the taxi pulled away from the crowd of people gathered around the hysterical matron.
"But Myrna, aliens ain't yellow, they're green, everyone knows that," was the last thing that Ros heard as they skidded away from the curb.
With heartfelt relief, Ros collapsed onto the air-conditioned seat—then froze. She 'd just got a proper look at her cabbie. She 'd been too distracted by Myrna and her antics to notice that he was a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound, shaved-headed man with an eight-inch scar down the back of his scalp.
It got worse. He spoke.
"I'm Tyrone," he volunteered.
You're scary, Ros thought, then nervously told him her name.
"This your first visit to LA?" Tyrone asked.
"Yes," Ros and Bib answered simultaneously, and Tyrone looked nervously over his shoulder. He could have sworn he 'd heard a second voice, an unearthly cracked rasp. Clenching his hands on the wheel, he hoped to hell that he wasn't having an acid flashback. It had been so long since he 'd had one, he 'd thought he 'd finally grown out of them.
When the cab finally negotiated its way out of LAX, Los Angeles looked so like, well, itself that Ros could hardly believe it was real—blue skies, palm trees, buildings undulating in the ninetydegree haze, blond women with unfeasibly large breasts. But as they passed by gun shops, twenty-four-hour hardware stores, adobestyle motels offering water beds and adult movies, and enough orthodontists to service the whole of England, Ros just couldn't get excited. "It 's raining in London," she tried to cheer herself up, but nothing doing.
To show willingness she pressed her nose against the glass. Bib didn't, but only because he didn't have a nose. He was enjoying himself immensely and thoroughly liked the look of this place. Especially those girl-type creatures with the yellow hair and the excess of frontage. Hubba hubba.
Tyrone whistled when he drew up outside Ros's hotel. "Class act," he said in admiration. "You loaded, right?"
"Wrong," Ros corrected, hastily. She 'd been warned that Americans expected lots of tips. If Tyrone thought she was flush she 'd have to tip accordingly. "My job's paying for this. If it was me, I'd probably be staying in one of those dreadful motels with the water beds."
"So, you cheap, huh?"
"Not cheap," Ros said huffily. "But I'm saving up. Or at least I was, until last night . . ."
For a moment terrible sadness hung in the air and both Bib and Tyrone looked at Ros with compassionate interest laced with a hungry curiosity. But she wasn't telling. She just bit her lip and hid her small pale face behind her curly brown hair.
Cute, Bib and Tyrone both realized in a flash of synchronicity. She 's cute. Not enough happy vibes from her though, Tyrone felt. And she 's not quite yellow-looking enough for my liking, Bib added. But she 's cute, they nodded in unconscious but undeniable male bonding.
So cute, in fact, that Tyrone hefted her suitcase as far as the front desk and—unheard of, this—waved away a tip.
Maaan, Tyrone thought, as he lumbered back to the car. What is wrong with you?
After the glaring mid-afternoon heat, it took a moment in the cool shade of the lobby for Bib's vision to adjust enough to see that the hotel clerk who was checking Ros in was that Brad Pitt actor person.
What had gone wrong? Surely Brad Pitt had a very successful career in the Earth movies. Why had he downgraded himself to working in a hotel, nice as it seemed? And why wasn't Ros collapsed in a heap on the floor? Bib knew for a fact that Brad Pitt had that effect on girl-types. But just then Brad Pitt shoved his hair back off his face and Bib realized that the man wasn't quite Brad Pitt. He was almost Brad Pitt, but something was slightly wrong. Maybe his eyes were too close together or his cheekbones weren't quite high enough, but other than his skin having the correct degree of orangeness, something was off.
Before Bib had time to adjust to this, he saw another Earth movie star march up and disappear with Ros's suitcase. Tom Cruise, that was his name. And he really was Tom Cruise, Bib was certain of it. Short enough to be, Bib chortled to himself smugly. (Bib prided himself on his height, he went down very well with the females on his own planet, all two foot eight of him.)
The would-be Brad Pitt handed over keys to Ros and said, "We 've toadally given you an ocean-front room, it 's rilly, like, awesome." Invisible, but earnest, Bib smiled and nodded at Ros hopefully. This was bound to cheer her up. I mean, an ocean-front room that was rilly, like awesome? What could be nicer?
But Ros could only nod miserably. And just as she turned away from the desk Bib watched her dig her nails into her palms and add casually, "Um, were there any messages for me?" While Brad Pitt scanned the computer screen, Bib realized that if he had breath he would have been holding it. Brad eventually looked up and with a blinding smile said, "No, ma'am!"
Bib wasn't too hot on reading people 's minds—he 'd been
"borrowing" spacecraft and taking them out for a bit of exercise during Psychic lessons—but the emotion coming off Ros was so acute that even he was able to tune in to it. The lack of phone call was bad, he realized. It was very bad.
Deeply subdued, Bib trotted after Ros to the lift, where someone who looked like Ben Affleck's older, uglier brother pressed the lift button for them.
Bib was very keen to get a look at their room and he was half impressed, half disappointed. It was very tasteful, he supposed the word was. He 'd have quite liked a water bed and adult movies himself, but he had to say he was impressed with the enormous blond and white room. And the bathroom was good—blue and white and chrome. With interest he watched Ros do a furtive over-hershoulder glance and quickly gather up the free shower cap, body lotion, shampoo, sewing kit, emery board, cotton buds and soap and shove them in her handbag. Somehow he got the impression that she wasn't what you might call a seasoned traveler.
