Rachel's Holiday

by Marian Keyes

  She finished by saying ‘Come in, you wanker,’ and pressed the button.

  Then she seemed to notice Daryl properly. ‘MAMA Mia,’ she said darkly and gave a strange little laugh. ‘MAMA Mia. MAMA MAMA Mia. Har Har.’

  I should never have told her about my time with Daryl, I realized fearfully. Now that she had gone bonkers, such knowledge could be very incendiary.

  She stuck her thumb in her mouth and put her face very close – too close – to Daryl’s, before saying again, very meaningfully, ‘Mama’. She gave another odd, evil laugh and moved towards the door. All the better to beat the shit out of Carlos when he arrived.

  So when Luke ambled in, two huge cartons of Ben & Jerry ice cream in his arms, Brigit looked as if she had died.

  ‘Howya, Brigit,’ he deadpanned. ‘The heat getting to you?’

  She stared at him with hollow, shell-shocked eyes. ‘Luke,’ she mumbled. ‘Was that you who rang…?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he said. ‘What’s up? The Cuban gone AWOL again?’

  She assented mutely.

  ‘Would you not give it up as a bad job and walk out with a nice Irish lad instead?’ he suggested.

  She stared at him, her eyes two disused tunnels.

  ‘Would some ice cream make you feel any better?’ he asked kindly.

  This is a man who knows women, I found myself thinking, even though I too had gone into shock at his unexpected arrival. Particularly his unexpected arrival with Daryl on the premises.

  Brigit nodded jerkily and stretched out her hand. When Luke held out a tub of ice cream towards her, she hesitated, then quickly snatched it from him, like a child who was afraid it would be taken away. ‘All… for… mmme?’ she just about managed to ask. I’d seen her catatonic from disappointment before, but never so bad.

  Luke nodded.

  ‘All for Brigit,’ she said thickly, her arm cradled around it.

  Everyone watched her anxiously.

  ‘Good,’ she slurred. All for poor Brigit.’

  In silence, we watched her attempt to walk.

  ‘Spoon,’ she mumbled, stumbling towards the kitchen. ‘Eat. Feel better.’

  Then she lurched to a halt, ‘No, no need. Eat anyway. No spoon.’

  All eyes were on her until she managed to reach her bedroom. When she slammed the door, Luke turned to me. ‘Rachel,’ he said, in a different voice from the one he’d been coaxing Brigit with.

  It was a meaningful voice that made my stomach feel as if I’d already eaten some of the ice cream he’d brought for me. But I couldn’t savour the sensation because I was too aware of Daryl hovering and sniffing.

  ‘Ah, hello, Luke,’ I said, uncomfortably. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said them because they sounded unwelcoming. So I quickly said ‘But I’m delighted to see you.’ Then I wished I hadn’t said that because it sounded patronizing and false.

  My skin was twitching. Oh, why had Luke come when Daryl was here? And why did Daryl have to be there when Luke arrived?

  It never rains but it fecking well pours and I was afraid I’d be washed away in the deluge.

  I was afraid that Daryl would think badly of me for knowing someone who wore a Lord of the Rings T-shirt.

  But, and this surprised me, I was also planking it because Luke obviously thought that Daryl was some kind of shallow disco-bunny.

  I like Luke, I realized, not one bit happy with the discovery.

  Then Luke focused on Daryl and his face changed.

  ‘Darren,’ he nodded grimly.

  ‘Daryl,’ Daryl corrected.

  ‘I know,’ said Luke.

  ‘Would anyone like a drink?’ I asked shrilly, before a fight broke out.

  Luke followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘Rachel,’ he crooned softly, his big sexy body nearly touching mine, ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

  ‘What?’ I got a faint hint of his smell, and it made me want to bite him.

  ‘You asked me to come round tonight.’

  ‘Did I? When?’

  ‘This morning as I was leaving.’

  My heart was seized by the cold hand of fear because I had no recollection of doing so. And it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I giggled nervously, ‘I mustn’t have been awake.’ Although I’d been awake enough to get him to ring in sick for me.

  ‘Pretend you’re my brother,’ I remembered saying to him.

  ‘In that case,’ Luke said, his face stony, putting the remaining carton down on the counter, ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Bleakly, aware of how badly I had handled everything, aware that it was all my fault, I watched him leave.

  I wanted to stop him, but every part of me except my brain was paralysed, as if I’d just woken up while under general anaesthetic.

  Come back, my head shouted, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate.

  Go after him and grab him, my head ordered, but my arms and legs were having a power-failure.

  As the door slammed behind him, I heard Daryl sniff and say ‘Hey, you know, that guy is rilly hostill.’

  Wearily, I turned my attention to Daryl, as I decided to salvage what I could from the situation.

  36

  ‘Jesus, it’s nearly nine o’clock!’ Chris declared. A great stampede out of the dining-room began for Monday morning group. Sour Kraut’s group on their way to the Library, Chris at its head. Barry Grant’s group off to the Sanctuary and Josephine’s group to the Abbot’s Quarter.

  Pushing and shoving, we raced down the corridor. In we crowded, good-naturedly clamouring about getting the best seats. Chaquie and I wrestled as we tried to get on the same one. With a hefty shove she heaved me onto the floor and bounced triumphantly onto the chair. We were both in hysterics. Mike got the other good chair. Then Misty sat on top of him, wriggled around and said ‘I want it. Give it to me,’ she smirked, double-entendring like there was no tomorrow. Mike went grey and limped away to the worst chair, where the spring could draw blood from a buttock if it was a long session.

  Josephine kicked off by saying ‘Rachel, we’ve been neglecting you a bit this past week, haven’t we?’

  My bowels turned to water.

  Questionnaire time. How could I ever have thought I’d escape it? That’d teach me for having a laugh with Chaquie. My high spirits had tempted fate.

  ‘Haven’t we?’ Josephine asked again.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I know you don’t mind,’ Josephine said jovially. ‘Which is precisely why we’re going to make you the centre of attention.’

  My heart pounded and helpless rage battled round inside me. I wanted to overturn chairs, punch smug-arse Josephine, run out the gates and all the way back to New York and kill Luke.

  It struck me forcibly how mad it was that I was there and had to endure such humiliation and pain.

  Josephine rustled some sheets of paper in her hand and I stared in mute anguish. Don’t do it, please don’t do it.

  ‘I’d like you to write your life story,’ she said, holding out a piece of paper towards me. ‘Here are the questions I want addressed when you’re doing it.’

  It took me a short while to realize that I’d been saved, that she wasn’t going to read out Luke’s betrayal. All she wanted me to do was write a stupid life story. No problem!

  ‘No need to look so frightened,’ she said with a knowing leer.

  I smiled weakly.

  Shakily, I sneaked a quick glance at the sheet of paper she had given me. All it was, was a list of questions that were to serve as guidelines for writing my life story. ‘What is your earliest memory?’ ‘Who was your favourite person when you were three years old?’ ‘What do you remember about being five years old?’ ‘Ten?’ ‘Fifteen?’ ‘Twenty?’

  I’d thought doing this would be a difficult, creative exercise, as I tried to dredge up random memories of
my earlier life. Instead it would be as simple as filling out an insurance claim form. Good.

  That morning’s session was devoted to Clarence who, at over six weeks, would be getting out fairly shortly.

  ‘You realize that if you want to stay away from drink,’ Josephine said to him, ‘you’ll need to change your life when you get back outside.’

  ‘I’ve changed already, though,’ Clarence said eagerly. ‘I know things about myself that I’d never seen before in all my fifty-one years. I’ve had the courage to listen to my family telling their stories about my drinking. And I can see that I was selfish and irresponsible.’

  It was strange to hear someone as odd as Clarence speaking so knowledgeably and authoritatively.

  ‘I grant you that, Clarence,’ Josephine said, with a smile that for once wasn’t ironic. ‘You’ve come a long way. But I’m talking about the practical changes you have to make.’

  ‘But I’ve hardly thought of drink while I’ve been in here,’ Clarence insisted. ‘Only when the bad stuff happened.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Josephine. ‘And bad stuff will happen out there as well, because that’s the nature of life. But you’ll be in a position to get your hands on alcohol then.

  ‘What can you suggest?’ She threw the question open to the floor.

  ‘What about psychotherapy?’ Vincent demanded. ‘Surely we don’t learn enough about ourselves in the two months we’re here to last us the rest of our lives?’

  ‘Good point, Vincent.’ Josephine beamed. ‘Well observed. Each one of you will have to change a lifetime’s behaviour when you go back out into the real world. On going psychotherapy, either group or one-to-one, is vital.’

  ‘Stay away from pubs,’ Misty interjected passionately. ‘And stay away from the people you used to drink with, because you’ll have nothing in common with them. That was my downfall.’

  ‘Take it from Misty,’ Josephine said. ‘Unless you want to end up back in here in six months’ time.’

  ‘Go to lots of AA meetings,’ Mike suggested.

  ‘Thank you, Mike.’ Josephine tilted her head. ‘You’ll all find AA or GA a great support when you get out.’

  ‘You could take up lots of new hobbies,’ suggested Chaquie,’to fill the time.’

  I was enjoying this session. It was exciting helping a person plan their new life.

  ‘Thank you, Chaquie,’ Josephine said. ‘Have a think about what you’d like to do, Clarence.’

  ‘Well…’ he said shyly. ‘I’ve always…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted… to learn to drive. I kept saying I’d start soon, but I never got anything done because when it came down to it, I always preferred to drink than to do anything else.’ Clarence looked surprised at what he’d just said.

  ‘That!’ Josephine hissed, her face aglow, ‘Is the most perceptive thing you’ve said in all your time here. You’ve recognized a fundamental feature of an addict’s life. Maintaining your habit is so important you’ve no real interest in anything else.’

  Just as I felt smug about having loads of interests – parties, going out, clothes, enjoying myself – Josephine said ‘And I’d like you all to remember that celebrations and going to pubs, nightclubs and parties are not interests in their own right. They’re merely peripheral to feeding your addiction.’

  She looked directly at me when she said that, her intelligent, blue eyes merry and shrewd. And I hated her as I had never hated anyone. And, believe me, I had hated plenty.

  ‘Is something wrong, Rachel?’ She asked.

  ‘I see,’ I spluttered, gripped with fury. ‘So going to a party makes you an addict?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Yes, you did, you said…’

  ‘Rachel,’ she was suddenly very firm, ‘for a normal person, a trip to a party is just that. A trip to a party. But for an addict, it’s a situation where their drug of choice, whether it be alcohol or cocaine, is available. It’s interesting that you heard it the way you did…’

  ‘And I hate that word,’ I ejaculated.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Normal So if you’re an addict you’re abnormal?’

  ‘Yes, your responses to commonplace life situations are abnormal. An addict uses their drug instead of dealing with life, whether it’s good or bad.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be abnormal,’ I burst out. What the…? I thought in surprise. I hadn’t meant to say that.

  ‘No one wants to be abnormal,’ Josephine said, looking at me with cherishing eyes. ‘That’s why an addict’s denial is usually so powerful. But here in the Cloisters you’ll learn new responses, normal ones.’

  Shocked and confused, I opened my mouth to set the record straight, but she’d moved on.

  Logically I knew she was a stupid bitch and that there was nothing at all wrong with having a healthy social life, but emotionally I felt beleaguered. I was worn-out. I constantly seemed to be explaining or apologizing simply for being me and living my life my way.

  Usually I just shrugged off any of the Cloisters’ codology that allegedly pertained to me, but that day I couldn’t locate the strength. Careful, I warned myself, with a premonition of fear. Don’t leave yourself open, they’ll break you down if you let them.

  *

  As I sat in the dining-room that evening to write my life story I felt strange. At home, as if I belonged. How I had the temerity to feel almost OK, I’ll never know. Between being ditched and stitched by Luke, with the dreaded questionnaire yet to come, things were grim. But like people who managed to live fulfilled and happy lives on the side of a volcano, I sometimes managed to switch off from my unviable situation. I had to. I’d go mad if I didn’t.

  Misty wasn’t there, which helped. She always made me feel edgy and angry.

  I sucked the end of my pen and looked at Chris, especially at his thighs. God, he was delicious. While I had the pen in my mouth I willed him to look at me. I reckoned it was a fairly provocative pose. But he didn’t look. Then the end of my tongue went numb from the taste of ink. Yuk! Anxiously, I wondered if my teeth had turned blue.

  Since the previous day I’d watched Chris closely to see if Helen had supplanted me in his affections. He hadn’t been unfriendly, the usual banter and the occasional gift of physical contact. But was I imagining an infinitesimal slipping away of his interest in me? So small as not to be visible to the naked eye. Perhaps I was simply extremely paranoid, I soothed myself.

  I tried to focus on my life story but couldn’t help being drawn back to look at Chris again. He was playing Trivial Pursuit with some of the other inmates. Or at least trying to. Arguments kept erupting because Vincent suspected Stalin of learning off all the answers. He swore he’d seen him going through the cards and studying them.

  Davy the gambler was begging them to play for money. Matchsticks even.

  The bickering reminded me of my family. Except the inmates weren’t as vicious, of course.

  It had started to snow; we left the curtains open so we could see the soft flakes fluttering against the window.

  Barry the child was dancing round the room, doing Tai Chi, his slow, graceful movements soothing to watch. He was really beautiful, like a dark-haired cherub. And he always seemed upbeat and happy, in a trancey world of his own. I wondered what age he was.

  Eamonn waddled in and nearly tripped over Barry.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘That’s dangerous, you shouldn’t be doing that.’

  ‘Let the lad do his chow mein,’ Mike protested.

  Then Chaquie arrived, complaining loudly about something she’d read in the papers about unmarried mothers being given free condoms to stop them expanding their families.

  ‘It’s disgraceful,’ she fumed. ‘Why should the taxpayers’ money be spent giving them free french letters? They shouldn’t need anything at all.’

  ‘Do you know what the best contraceptive is?’ she demanded.

  Barry screwed up his for
ehead in thought. ‘Your face?’

  Chaquie ignored him. ‘The word “no”! It’s as simple as that, just two little letters, n and o. No. If they had any morals at all they wouldn’t need…’

  ‘AH, SHUT UP!’ Everyone roared as one.

  Things quietened down briefly until John Joe asked Barry to demonstrate the rudiments of Tai Chi to him, and Barry, sweet child that he was, obliged.

  ‘See, you slide your leg along the floor here. No, slide.’

  Instead of sliding gracefully, John Joe simply picked up a heavy-booted foot and planted it clumsily on another part of the floor.

  ‘Slide, see, like this.’

  ‘Show me again,’ John Joe asked, moving closer to Barry.

  All of us who were in John Joe’s group stiffened, thinking the same thing. ‘He fancies Barry. Oh God, he fancies Barry!’

  ‘And gently raise your arm.’ Barry lifted his arm as gracefully as a ballerina. John Joe thrust his out, as if he was punching someone.

  ‘Now kind of tilt your hips.’

  John Joe complied with enthusiasm.

  Another babel of voices broke out because Stalin knew the capital of Papua New Guinea.’How did you know it?’ Vincent demanded. ‘How would a gobshite like you know something like that?’

  ‘Because I’m not a thick eejit, like some I could mention,’ Stalin insisted.

  ‘Not at all.’ Vincent laughed darkly. ‘Not. At. All. It’s because you’ve been swotting up on them answers, that’s why. Capital of Papua New Guinea, me arse, sure you hardly know the capital of Ireland, even though you live in it. If you weren’t an alcoholic you’d never have been out of Clanbrassil Street, you’re hardly what you might call well-travelled…’

  ‘Shush, would you, I’m trying to write my life story,’ I said good-naturedly.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the Reading Room?’ Chris said. ‘You’ll get more peace there.’

  I was torn between wanting to be able to sit and admire him, and wanting to show gratitude for his suggestion.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged with a smile. ‘You’ll get lots done there.’

  No more needed to be said.