Essays and Stories by Marian Keyes

by Marian Keyes

  Bib held on to Ros's hand as she awkwardly skidded back and forth. It had been a huge struggle to convince her to get out here. And she was hopeless. If he hadn't been holding on to her hand, she 'd be flat on her bum. Yet her ungainly vulnerability made her even more endearing to him.

  Bib had followed the evening's events with avid interest. He 'd been appalled by Michael's macho attitude, the cheek of the bloke! He 'd longed to snatch the phone from Ros and tell Michael in no uncertain terms how fabulous Ros was, how she 'd terrified a roomful of powerful orange men.

  Then when Michael hung up on Ros, Bib used every ounce of will he could muster to stop Ros from ringing him back. He worked desperately hard at reminding Ros how wonderfully she 'd coped since she 'd arrived in this strange threatening city, even though it was so obvious, she should know it herself—

  "Careful, careful!" he silently urged, squeezing his eyes shut in alarm, as Ros nearly went flying into a woman who was holding onto a small boy on a bike.

  "Sorry," Ros gasped. "I'm just learning."

  " 'S okay," the little boy said. "Me too. My name 's Tod and that 's my Mom, Bethany. She 's teaching me to ride my bike."

  Bethany was in the unfortunate position of having to hold tightly on to the back of Tod 's bike and run as fast as Tod cycled. Bib eyed Bethany with sympathetic understanding because he was in the unfortunate position of having to run as fast as Ros was Rollerblading. Which got faster and faster as her confidence grew.

  "Wheeeeeh!" Ros shrieked, as she sped a good four yards, before losing Bib and coming a cropper.

  When she returned the skates to the hire office, her knees were bruised but her eyes were asparkle. "I had a lovely time," she laughingly announced. Then she sprinted joyously across the sand to the hotel, Bib puffing anxiously behind her, tangling himself in his six legs as he tried to keep up.

  She woke in the middle of the night, the exhilaration and joy of the night before dissipated and gone. She felt cold, old, afraid, lonely. She wouldn't be able to cope without Michael, she didn't want a life without him.

  But then she remembered the Rollerblading. She wasn't normally adventurous, usually needing Michael with her before trying new things. Yet she 'd done that all on her own and it was a comfort of sorts.

  "I am a woman who Rollerblades alone," she repeated to herself until she managed to get back to sleep.

  Then she woke up, got dressed and went to work, vaguely aware that there was a new steadiness about her, a growing strength.

  When she returned from her day's work, exhausted but proud from holding her own as they inched their way tortuously towards a deal, she bumped into Brad Pitt in the hotel lobby. From the look of things he was just knocking off work.

  "Did you have a good day?" he inquired.

  Ros nodded politely.

  "So, what kind of business are you in?" Brad asked.

  Ros considered. She always found this awkward. How exactly did you explain that you worked for a company that made portaloos? A very successful company that made portaloos, mind.

  "We, um, take care of people," she said. Well, why shouldn't she be coy? Americans were the ones who called loos rest rooms, for goodness' sakes!

  "D'ya take care of people on a movie set?" Brad never missed an opportunity. The door to his career could open absolutely anywhere— there was the time he 'd seen the director of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in his chiropodist 's waiting room, or the occasion he 'd crashed into the back of Aaron Spelling's Beemer—so he was always prepared.

  "Actually, we have," Ros said with confidence.

  Quick as a flash, Brad 's lightbulb smile burst onto his face and he swooped closer. "Hey, I'm Bryce," he murmured. "Would you do me the honor of having a drink with me this evening?"

  A good-looking man had invited her for a drink! What a shame that nothing would cheer her up ever again. Because if anything would do the trick, this would. But even as a refusal was forming in her mouth, Ros found herself pausing. Wouldn't it be better than sitting alone in her room waiting for the phone to ring?

  "Okay," she said wanly.

  Bryce looked surprised, women were usually delighted to spend time with him. Then he clicked his fingers. "Oh, I get it. You're English, right? You kinda got that Merchant-Ivory repressed thing going on. Love it! Meet me in the lobby at six-thirty." And smoothing his hair, he was gone.

  In her room, Ros checked the phone, picked it up, trembled with the effort of not dialing Michael's number and frogmarched herself into the shower. America, the land of opportunity. She should at least try, after all Bryce really was gorgeous.

  From the jumble of clothes thrown on the bed, she managed to make herself presentable. A short—but not too short—black dress, a pair of high—but not too high—black sandals. But as she watched herself in the mirror, it was like seeing a stranger. Who was this single girl who was going out on a date with a man who wasn't Michael?

  When the lift doors parted, Bryce was loitering in the lobby, sunbleached hair gleaming onto his golden forehead, white teeth exploding into a flashgun smile. Ros's spirits inched upwards. Maybe things weren't so bad. On the way to his car, she noticed Bryce patting his hair in the window as he passed by, then pretended she hadn't.

  The bar was low-lit and quiet. "So as we can really, like, talk," Bryce said with a smile that promised good things, and the mercury level of Ros's mood began its upward climb again. As soon as they'd ordered their drinks, Bryce started the promised talk.

  ". . . and then I got the part as the shop clerk in Clueless. They toadally cut it, right, but the director said I was great, really great. It was a truly great performance, I gave and gave until it hurt, but the goddamn editor was, like, toadally on my case . . ."

  Ros nodded sympathetically.

  ". . . of course, I should have got the Joseph Fiennes part in Shakespeare in Love. It was mine, they even toadally told my agent, but on-set politics, it 's a toadal bitch, right?"

  Ros nodded again. Despite Bryce 's many tales of woe, his smile glittered and flashed. But as his litany of bad luck continued, Ros began to notice that he didn't ever make eye contact with her. Yet the intimate smiles continued anyway. Eventually, wondering if he was coming on to some girl behind her, Ros looked over her shoulder. And saw a mirror. Ah, that explained everything. Bryce was flirting with his favorite person. Himself.

  On and on he droned. Great performances he nearly gave. Evil directors, cruel editors, leading men who had it in for him because they were threatened by his talent and looks.

  "Hey, I've done enough talking about me." He finally paused for breath. "What do you think of me?"

  Ros could hardly speak for depression. With Bryce she felt more alone than she had on her own. "Would you mind terribly if I left? Only I'm ever so sleepy. Must be jet lag."

  "We 've hardly been here thirty minutes," Bryce objected. "I'm just warming up."

  To her dismay, Bryce offered to see her back to the hotel. And up to her room. At her bedroom door she realized he was about to try and kiss her. She braced herself—she didn't have the the energy to resist him. He looked deep into her eyes and trailed a gentle finger along her cheek. Despite him being the world's most boring man, Ros couldn't help a leap of interest. After all, he was so handsome. Slowly Bryce lowered his perfect lips to hers, then paused.

  "What are you doing?" Ros whispered.

  "Close-up," Bryce whispered back. "A three-second close-up of my face before the camera cuts to the clinch."

  "Oh for goodness' sake!" Ros shoved the key in the lock, twirled into her room and slammed the door.

  "Hey," Bryce was muffled but unbowed. "You ballsy English girls, toadally like a Judi Dench thing! Y'ever met her? I just thought with you both being English . . ."

  "Go away," she said, her voice trembling from unshed tears. This was the worst that Ros had felt. Wretched. Absolutely wretched. Was this all she had to look forward to? Boring, selfobsessed narcissists?

  Bib had been against the idea of a
drink with Bryce from the word go. He just hated those men that thought they could fell women with one devastating smile. He 'd tried to warn Ros that Bryce was nothing but a big, pink girl's blouse, but she wouldn't listen and— now what was going on? Someone was outside their room, pounding and demanding to be let in. It was a man's voice—perhaps it was Bryce back to try his luck again?

  "Open the bloody door!" a voice ordered, and as Bib watched in astonishment, Ros moved like a sleepwalker and flung the door wide. A man stood there. A man that Bib recognized. But he wasn't any of the would-be film stars, he was . . .

  "Michael!"

  Though it killed him to do it, Bib had to admit that Michael was looking good. With his messy curly hair, rumpled denim shirt and intense male presence he made all the wannabe Toms and Brads look prissy and preened.

  "Can I come in?" Michael's voice was clipped.

  "Yes." Ros looked like she was going to faint.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked as Michael marched into the room.

  "I wanted to kiss you," he announced and with that he pulled Ros to his broad hard chest and kissed her with such lingering intimacy that Bib felt ill.

  Finally he let Ros go and announced into her upturned face, "I've come to get this sorted, babes. You and me and this job lark."

  "You flew here?" Ros asked, dazedly.

  "Yeah. 'Course."

  Hmmm, Bib thought. Hasn't got much of a sense of humor, has he? Most normal people would have said something like, "No, I hopped on one leg, all six thousand miles of it."

  "I can't believe it." Ros was a picture of wonder. "We 're skint but you've traveled halfway around the world to save our relationship. This is the most romantic thing that 's ever happened to me." And Bib had to admit that Michael did cut a very Heathcliffish figure as he strode about the room, looking moody and passionate.

  Bad-tempered, actually, Bib concluded.

  "You come home with me now," Michael urged. "You knock the job on the head, we get married and we live happy ever after! You and me are meant to be together. We were terriff until you got that promotion, it was only then that things went pear-shaped."

  With his words, the joyous expression on Ros's face inched away and was replaced by agony of confusion.

  "Come on." Michael sounded impatient. "Get packing. I've got you a seat on my flight back."

  But Ros looked paralyzed with indecision. She leaned against a wall and made no move and the atmosphere built and built until the room was thick with it. Bib was bathed in sweat. And he didn't even have perspiration glands.

  Don't do it, he begged, desperately. You don't have to. If he loved you he wouldn't ask you to make this choice.

  To his horror he watched Ros fetch her pajamas from under her pillow and slowly fold them.

  "Where 's your suitcase?" Michael asked. "I'll help you."

  Ros pointed and then began scooping her toiletries off the dressing table and into a bag. Next she opened the wardrobe and took out the couple of things that she 'd hung up. It seemed to Bib that her movements were becoming faster and more sure, so in frantic panic, he summoned every ounce of energy and will that he possessed and zapped her with them.

  You don't need this man, he told Ros. You don't need any man who treats you like a possession with no mind or life of your own. You're beautiful, you're clever, you're sweet. You'll meet someone else, who accepts you for all that you are. In fact, if you're prepared to be openminded and don't mind mixed-species relationships, I myself am happy to volunteer for the position . . . He stopped himself. Now was not the time to be sidetracked.

  "I'll fetch your stuff from the bathroom," Michael announced, already briskly en route.

  Then Ros opened her mouth to speak and Bib prayed for her words to be the right ones.

  "No," she said and Bib reeled with relief.

  "No," Ros repeated. "Leave it. I can't come tonight. I've got a meeting tomorrow."

  "I know that, babes," Michael said tightly, as if he was struggling to keep his temper. "That 's what I mean, I want you to come with me now."

  "Don't make me do this." Misery was stamped all over Ros's face.

  "It 's make-your-mind-up time." Michael's expression was hard. "Me or the job."

  A long nerve-shredding pause followed, until Ros once again said, "No, Michael, I'm not leaving."

  Michael's face twisted with bitter disbelief. "I didn't know you loved the job that much."

  "I don't," Ros insisted. "This isn't about the job."

  Michael looked scornful and Ros continued, "If you love someone, you allow them to change. If marriage is for life, I'm going to be a very different person in ten, twenty, thirty years' time. How're you going to cope with that, Mikey?"

  "But I love you," he insisted.

  "Not enough, you don't," she said sadly.

  For a moment he looked stunned, then flipped to anger. "You don't love me."

  "Yes, I do. You've no idea how much." Her voice was quiet and firm. "But I am who I am."

  "Since when?" Michael couldn't hide his surprise.

  "I don't know." She also sounded surprised. "Since I came here, perhaps."

  "Is this something to do with Lenny? Are you having it off with him?"

  Ros's incredulous laugh said it all.

  "So have I got this right?" Michael was sulky and resentful. "You're not coming home with me."

  "I've a job to do," Ros said in a low voice. "I fly home tomorrow night."

  "Don't expect me to be waiting for you, then."

  And with the same macho swagger that, despite everything, Bib admired, Michael swung from the room. The door slammed behind him, silence hummed, and then—who could blame her, Bib thought sympathetically—Ros burst into tears.

  No more Michael. The thought was almost unbearable. She lay on the bed and remembered how his hair felt, so rough, yet so surprisingly silky. She 'd never feel it again. Imagine that, never, ever again. She could smell him now, as if he was actually in the room, the curious combination of sweetness and muskiness that was uniquely Michael's. She 'd miss it so much. As she 'd miss the verbal shorthand they had with each other, where they didn't have to finish sentences or even words because they knew each other so well. She 'd have to find someone else to grow old with.

  It was all over, she was certain of it. There would be no more rows, no further attempts to change the other's mind.

  They'd had so many angry, bitter fights, but what was in the air was the stillness of grief. The calmness when everything is lost. She 'd moved beyond the turbulence of rage and fury into the still static waters of no return.

  What would she do with the rest of her life? she asked herself. How was she going to fill in all the time between now and the time she died?

  Rollerblade planted itself in her head. Immediately she told herself not to be so ridiculous. How could she go Rollerblading?

  But why not? What else was she going to do until bedtime, and despite all the events of the evening it was still only eight-thirty. She pulled on her leggings even though they had a tear on one knee and ran across the sand. She was surprised to find how uplifted she was by whizzing back and forth at high speed on her skates. It had something to do with pride in what a good Rollerblader she was—she really was excellent, considering this was only her second time doing it. Her sense of balance was especially wonderful.

  The little boy Tod who had been there the previous night was there again, with his long-suffering mother, Bethany. Bethany was red-faced and breathless from having to run and hold on to Tod while he cycled up and down the same six yards of boardwalk, and Ros gave her a sympathetic smile.

  Then Ros went back to her room and against all expectations managed to sleep. When morning came she woke up and went to work, where, with a deftness that left the Los Angeles company reeling in shock, negotiated a 30 percent discount when she 'd only ever planned to ask for 20. Blowing smoke from her imaginary gun, she gave them such firm handshakes that they all winced, then she swanned
back to the hotel to pack. Successful mission or what?

  * * *

  Bib was in agony. What was he going to do? Was he going back to England with Ros, or home to his own planet? Though he 'd grown very fond—too fond—of Ros, he had a feeling that somehow he just wasn't her type and that revealing himself, in all his glorious, custard-yellowness would be a very, very bad idea. It killed him not to be able to. In just over two days he 'd fallen in love with her.

  But would she be okay? She thought she was okay, but what would happen when he left her and there was no one to shore up her confidence? Would she go back to Michael? Because that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all.

  He worried and fretted uncharacteristically. And the answer came to him on the evening of the last day. Ros had a couple of hours to kill before her night flight, so instead of moping in her room, she ran to the boardwalk for one last Rollerblading session. Bib didn't have anything to do with it—she decided all on her own. He 'd have preferred a few quiet moments with her, actually, instead of trundling alongside her trying to keep up as she whizzed up and down, laughing with pleasure.