Making It Up as I Go Along

by Marian Keyes

  I got a BEAUTIFUL lip gloss in Rose (which Ema subsequently tried to steal from me in Prague, but we tussled for ages and eventually I won – not seemly to win a wrestling match with a six-year-old, I know, but I’m very fond of that lip gloss), also a magnificent blusher.

  Then, the following night, at a reading in Waterstones, Bobbi Brown did makeovers and there was a raffle where the prize was one of their glorious train cases crammed – yes, CRAMMED, mes amies – with Bobbi Brown goodies.

  It was my job to graciously hand it over to the lucky winner, and I almost didn’t. In fact, I nearly gave her a shove, then broke into a run, heading for the hills. However, at the last moment, I managed to behave like an adult.

  Then we all went to Prague, even Caitríona and Seán Ferguson came from New York, and Mags and Eileen came as well as the rest of the Keyes family and stayed at the (non-fancy but nice) Savoy Hotel: helpful staff, comfortable rooms and delicious breakfasts – at least the reports from those who were able to get up for them say so. (I didn’t get up. I find hotel breakfast rooms a bit much, what with it being early in the morning. Just too many men roaming about with plates of scrambled eggs – or worse still, fried. I can’t say why, but they turn my stomach. The smell, the yellowness. I’d rather curl up in bed and gnaw on a dry crust which I’d stolen from dinner the previous night and secreted under my pillow.)

  Niall had his birthday party on the Saturday night in Lávka. (Famed nightclub, which was much patronized during Niall and Ljiljana’s wedding some years ago, the legendary time that Suzanne ‘broke’ Tadhg. Basically she drank him under the table and at 7 a.m. he had to admit defeat and stagger back to the hotel, while she stayed dancing with the cleaning staff as they put the chairs upside down on the tables and mopped the floors. Even now, many years on, no matter what time of day it is, if we are passing Lávka, we say, ‘Oh, there’s Suzanne. Who’s she dancing with?’ Then we squint hard and say, ‘Looks like the man who restocks the barrels.’ And that sort of thing.)

  Although we had much fun this time, we were shadows of our former, younger selves. No one broke their nose, no one needed assistance from the Irish Embassy, no one visited the Gastronomical Clock and saw the twenty-four Apostles, not like at Niall’s wedding. (When all those things actually happened.)

  Anyway, shifting gears quite dramatically, myself and Himself had a great idea for a chat show. It would be hosted by me (I know that sounds incredibly arrogant, but it’s only a bit of a laugh) and would sort of be like other chat shows in that we’d have famous people on, flogging their new book or song or line of underwear.

  But instead of just letting them sit on the bed and drone on (yes, it would be hosted from a bed, maybe not my actual bed, but a reasonable facsimile), I would endeavour to help them in all kinds of ways.

  For example, I’d like to bring on Vilma, my lovely, lovely Lithuanian naturopath, to examine their tongue and diagnose stagnant liver chi (to name one condition). She could give them all sorts of advice on diet, supplements, lifestyle, etc. (She says I have a very nice tongue, not too thick.)

  Or we could have one of those Colour Me Beautiful people, where they would hold purple squares of fabric up to George Clooney’s face (yes, I wish) and tell him he is a ‘winter’ person.

  Or with baldies like Ross Kemp (Grant in EastEnders) we could bring on a wig expert and try him with Louis XVI long, mad, waist-length, Elton John curly yokes or suchlike. The list of helpful experts could be endless. We could get the guests acupunctured, test them for food allergies or do a little reflexology.

  Then we could have the Ordinary Plain-Spoken Woman – a non-expert but one with strong opinions – who would tell them about all their mistakes, because most celebrities only get told that they’re fantastic; it would be a great wake-up call. It would be a great way to get to really know celebrities. I mean, you can’t hide a poor lifestyle from Vilma. If it’s there, she’ll see it on their tongue. Or we could bring on a Freudian psycho-person to analyse the celebrities’ dreams, or someone to read their palms, and we’d find out ALL KINDS OF THINGS that they’d prefer we didn’t know.

  I would also love to have a slot called Ailment of the Day, where I would have a massive medical encyclopaedia and I would simply open a page at random and read out the symptoms of, say, jargon aphasia, or trimethylaminuria, or Paris syndrome (a psychiatric breakdown that tends to happen in Japanese tourists when the city of Paris doesn’t live up to its romanticized image). (These are all real!) And then we could all suspect we have contracted it.

  I think I would also ask my guests to bring along their favourite purchase from a chemist and discuss it. Himself would be an important part of the show; he would bring the guest in, offer them a drink (nettle tea, perhaps, or maybe a glass of milk, whatever we have in the house basically), then he would sit on a nearby sofa, doing hard sudokus and interrupting if he feels the guest is talking nonsense.

  Another item, in an homage to Top Gear’s Star in the Reasonably Priced Car, could be Star in the Reasonably Priced Boots, where our celebrity would wear nice boots (or shoes) from a reasonably priced shop (Topshop or Clarks, for example) and give their verdict on walkability, nice leather smell, zip smoothness, etc.

  Then we would have an agony aunt (Anne Marie Scanlon in a mammy wig and cat’s-arse mouth), where a viewer would write in with a (hopefully) interesting problem (if they’re not interesting and salacious enough, we’ll make them up) and A-M would dispense brutal, unsympathetic advice, in the manner of Mammy Walsh.

  Then we would end every show with me, Himself and the guests playing air guitars to a heavy-metal rendition of a song that the audience could ring in and request. Preferably they wouldn’t be heavy-metaller songs at all, but something like ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ or ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport’ or ‘Pie Jesu’. The more unlikely, the better. In fact, we could offer a prize for the most ridiculous suggestion, and the prize could be the chance to lick that day’s celebrity.

  Now, our wish list of guests. George Clooney (obviously); Alexander McCall Smith (no looker but vay, vay, vay charming; at least his books are, as I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him in person; I’m mildly obsessed with him); Kurt Cobain (such a shame he’s been dead these past twelve years, as I have developed a sudden passion for Nirvana; I was always a late starter); Davina McCall; Dermot O’Leary (OBVIOUSLY); Bruce Springsteen (another sudden passion, at a loss to explain it); and my mammy (vay funny).

  I still haven’t decided if the unattractive black wedges which turned on me so fiendishly in Melbourne and gave me no end of blisters will be making the cut for the Canada/US leg (pun) of me book tour.

  Obviously I don’t want sandals which nurture black blistery treachery in their heart, but I do need a comfortable pair. Fact – interesting piece of info: these allegedly comfortable sandals, which were specifically purchased for comfort and not beauty, were not cheap. In fact they were dearer – yes, DEARER – than the Chie Miharas. They are made by an Italian company, famed for doing high but comfortable footwear. (I cannot name and shame them: maybe it’s not their fault, maybe it’s my feet that are to blame.) (Oh, all right then, it’s Ruco Line.)

  Perhaps I should have stuck to Clarks, but I was bedazzled by Ruco Line’s Italian-ness. Hubris. Nasty, humbling, blistery hubris.

  Himself went to London for the weekend mid-month and I stayed in Dublin with Mam and Dad, where I reverted to surly teenagerhood for three days. We went to visit my poor Auntie Maureen, who’s in a home near Roscrea, and we were three crocks heading off in the car – my dad nearly blind, my mother half-deaf, and me with my barg
ain-basement bladder. (I had to stop every ten minutes to make my wees. I’m convinced many women suffer from the same problem, and if we talk more about it, maybe the government will build more jaxes. Hah! As if! You can always tell that men have designed and built hotels/conference centres/whatever, as there are 417 males’ jaxes, while there are only two female ones, each with three cubicles, two of them out of order and 9,328 women queuing to use them.)

  On the road trip to Roscrea (me in the back seat, whining that I needed to go to the wees), I kept trying to get them to do the three-monkeys thing, Dad with his hands over his eyes, Mam with her hands over ears, and me with my hands on my bladder – See no evil, hear no evil, wee no evil – but although Mam was game, Dad wasn’t. (Himself only makes his wees once a week. On a Saturday evening, after the football results are on the telly. There are times when I even have to remind him. I have to say, ‘Isn’t it time, dear, for your little …?’)

  But I’ll tell you something gas. For many years I’ve had this frequent-wees-making trouble and have to ‘go’ many times during the night. AND in the daylight hours, and long car journeys are a problem. Also short ones. Anyway, out of nowhere I was contacted and asked if I would be the ‘face’ of Irish incontinence. How did they know????? However, I turned down this golden opportunity. (Did you see that Freudian ‘golden’ there? Isn’t the subconscious gas?) It’s not that I am ashamed of my faulty bladder, no. Not ashamed. I must love my body in all its imperfection. But at the same time I don’t want to appear on the telly in an ad break, wearing a navy suit and smiling strangely and saying, ‘Terrible trouble holding on to your wees? Me too! But help is available!’ Or ‘Hello, I’m Marian Keyes and my bladder is banjaxed!’

  Now, ‘shifting gears’, last month I mentioned that Himself’s team, Watford, are doing tremendously well this season, so well in fact that they have qualified for the play-offs – where they have to play other contenders to see if they get promoted to the Premeer Division. An occasion of great joy but my heart is quite heavy.

  If they lose, Himself will be devvo, but if they get promoted, frankly it’ll be worse. Next season will be a fecking bloodbath, with Himself coming home in a fouler every Saturday and me having to hide all the figurines.

  Although it was a very work-filled month, I haven’t too many entertaining stories for you. It’s no fun to hear that this journalist came to the house, then that journalist, then I went and signed books, then I went on the radio. It’s tedious to listen to, I’m sure.

  Right then, I must go! I am off to Canada, then the US for me tour there.

  Previously unpublished.

  May

  Canada!

  US!

  Crackers!

  Cripes, busy, busy month. I’ll attempt to do it justice for you. Spent two days in London before going to Toronto – Watford were playing in the first leg of the play-off semi-finals, where they bate the tar out of Crystal Palace. Hurray!

  Suzanne called over and we had a great laugh, but then she had to go because approx twenty people had arrived to style me and take my photo. I’m not sure for what. At this stage, I’m so used to people turning up with make-up brushes and camera equipment and suitcases of strange clothes that I meekly and unquestioningly stand still so they can ‘do’ me.

  On Sunday, I arrived in lovely Toronto and spent several days in passport checks – three different times! When did the Canadians get so suspicious? They are such a kindly people that I was surprised!

  Monday was spent doing lady-bits wear-and-tear – I got waxed to kingdom come, pedicured, had my eyebrows and eyelashes tinted, my hair blow-dried, all of me fake-tanned (yes, I know you’re not meant to do it the same day as waxing, but I’m not made of time). All set for work! Time-consuming, though. I bet Philip Roth doesn’t have these worries.

  Tuesday: a big important day – Watford are playing the second leg of the Crystal Palace match. Himself has made great friends with Manuela, the legendary concierge of Four Seasons Toronto who has tracked down the location of a bar in Toronto where we can watch the match.

  So at 2.15 we get a taxi to Scallywags Sports Bar in downtown Toronto, where the kindly barkeep Sheryl makes both of our days by a) giving the Watford match precedence over the Roy Keane testimonial, which is on at the same time, then b) recognizing me. (‘You are the image of Marian Keyes!’)

  Watford get a result! Which means they are in the final against Leeds in two weeks’ time! Himself will be abandoning me mid-tour to see it in Cardiff.

  That night, we go to see Lord of the Rings, the musical. I must admit, I agreed to go to it because I thought it would be hilarious, then I discovered it was three and a half hours long and thought, ‘Nothing’s that funny.’

  But we went and it was hugely impressive. An AMAZING set – a forest extends right out into the audience and the floor changes levels and the lighting is magnificent and there are times when the wind starts gusting and is blowing right out into the audience and then bits of black ash (except they’re only bits of non-ashy paper, it’s just the lighting that makes them look like ash) start flying at us and it’s all very involving.

  Gandalf was bad, though – he had that stupid beard-and-no-tash combo that I find so baffling. Also his hood kept falling off. But worst of all, he had all the gravitas and other-worldly wisdom of a geography teacher with discipline problems. Very, very UNCONVINCING. Also, the music was not the Middle Earth experience they promised. Indeed, there were one or two Andrew Lloyd Webber moments. However, it was a great spectacle.

  Thursday, Montréal. God, what a FABULOUS city. Not like anywhere I’ve ever been before, sort of French, but not exactly, sort of Canadian, but not that either, but some amazing exotic mix. LOVED it. Also, incredibly warm welcome. Wonderful readers’ event on Friday night. Just before the reading, I popped into Lululemon (Canadian yoga wear, even though I only do yoga once a decade, but the leggings and T-shirts and mini-hoodies are lovely).

  Saturday, Boston! Meeting Caitríona, Seán and Anne Marie, who have come from New York, Eileen, who has come from Dublin, and Suzanne from London! Thrilling! All of us together. Terrible rain in Boston. We are Irish, we know about rain, but our jaws are hanging open. Dangerous rain, which could concuss you.

  We spent our time shuttling between the hotel and Au Bon Pain. In fact, we calculated that all during the weekend, at least one of us was either at Au Bon Pain, on the way to Au Bon Pain, returning from Au Bon Pain or eating something purchased at Au Bon Pain.

  Au Bon Pain took on a mythological air, like the 108-minutes computer in Lost. We needed someone on the Au Bon Pain shift at all times.

  We attempted to go out for dinner on Saturday night, but the combination of it being Mother’s Day weekend, plus graduation weekend, meant everywhere was booked out, and with Seán’s friends Danny and Kristen there were nine of us and so everyone laughed in our face when we showed up looking for a table, so we ended up in some place called Chili’s, which was very enjoyable in a cheap, dirty-floored sort of way. Shur, it’s all about the people!

  On Sunday morning we woke up to discover that the governor of Massachusetts had declared a state of emergency because of the rain! I’ve never before been in a place where there’s a ‘state of emergency’. For a moment I was quite thrilled! Then I realized that many, many poor divils have had their houses flooded and it’s not thrilling at all. Merely wet and miserable.

  Caitríona and Suzanne brave the flood waters to go shopping, and the rest of us sit in my hotel room, eating our stuff from Au Bon Pain, and the whole thing is like a very slow play. Now and again Anne Marie looks out at
the stormy sky and says, ‘Look at it.’ Then she shrieks, ‘LOOK AT IT!!!!’

  Next, Himself wanders over and stares out the window and says, ‘The flood waters are still rising,’ and Seán says, ‘Try the phone again, are the lines still down?’ Great fun!

  Monday, they all go home and I do Bostonian work. Brookline Books hosts a FABLISS reading for me on the Monday night, where I have a full house, despite the rain.

  Wednesday, New York! Where I have a mini-meltdown (I have one on every tour): when getting ready for the Bryant Square reading, I discover I’ve lost my foundation. I become hysterical, yelling, ‘I have twenty lip glosses! Three mascaras! Even two Touche Éclats! Why couldn’t I have lost one of them???’ Then I discover the missing foundation in Himself’s washbag and all is well.

  Excellent events in NYC, sponsored by Clarins – people were THRILLED with their goodie bags. In fact, even Michael Morrison, very important person in William Morrow/HarperCollins, was spotted disappearing with a bronzer.

  Friday, Washington DC. BEA – a GINORMOUS book fair. Everyone from US publishing there. On Saturday afternoon, Himself says goodbye – he’s leaving for Cardiff for the Watford play-off final against Leeds, with a promise to meet me on Monday in Seattle. Everyone is very concerned about me being left on my own, as if I’m a half-wit. ‘I am a grown woman,’ I assure them, ‘I am forty-two and a half.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ they say.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist, getting quite narky. ‘I’m fine, okay? FINE!!!’

  Then I return to the hotel, to get ready for the HarperCollins party, and when I leave, I lock my key in my room …