by Marian Keyes
‘Sorry,’ Ashling said humbly. ‘I didn’t realize.’
Into the party room where a see-through-skinny woman dressed head-to-toe in Morocco’s Summer collection established who they were and made them sign a visitors’ book.
Lisa scribbled a perfunctory few words, then handed the pen to Ashling who beamed with delight.
‘Me too?’ she squeaked.
Lisa pursed her lips and shook her head in warning. Calm down!
‘Sorry,’ Ashling whispered, but couldn’t help taking great care as she wrote neatly, ‘Ashling Kennedy, Assistant Editor, Colleen magazine.’
Lisa ran a French-manicured nail down the list of names. ‘Rule number four, as you know,’ she advised, ‘look at the book. See who’s here.’
‘So we know who to meet.’ Ashling understood.
Lisa looked at her as if she was mad. ‘No! So we know who to avoid!’
‘And who should we avoid?’
With contempt, Lisa surveyed the room, full of liggers from rival magazines. ‘Just about everyone.’
But Ashling should know all this – and it had just become clear to Lisa that she hadn’t even a grasp of the basics. In high alarm, she whispered, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a publicity bash before? What about when you were with Woman’s Place?’
‘We didn’t get many invites,’ Ashling apologized. ‘Certainly nothing as glamorous as this. I suppose our readership was too old. And when we did get invited to the launch of a new colostomy bag or sheltered-housing project or whatever, Sally Healy was nearly always the one who got to go.’
What Ashling didn’t add was that Sally Healy was a round, mumsy type, who was friendly to everyone. She had none of Lisa’s hard, lacquered rivalry or strange, aggressive rules.
‘See him over there –’ Awestruck, Ashling indicated a tall, Ken-doll-type man. ‘He’s Marty Hunter, a television presenter.’
‘Déjà vu,’ Lisa snorted. ‘He was at the Bailey’s bash yesterday and the MaxMara one on Monday.’
This plunged Ashling into a distressed silence. She’d had high hopes for this do. She’d wanted to shepherd and mind Lisa and prove to her that she needed her. And she’d anticipated that she’d win some much-coveted respect from Lisa by her indispensable insider knowledge on famous Irish people – knowledge that Lisa, as an English woman, couldn’t possibly hope to possess. But Lisa was miles ahead of her, already had a handle on the celebrity situation and seemed irritated by Ashling’s amateurish attempts to help.
A roaming waitress stopped and thrust a tray at them. The food was Moroccan-themed: couscous, Merguez sausages, lamb canapés. The drink, surprisingly, was vodka. Not very Moroccan, but Lisa didn’t care. She ate what she could, but couldn’t go berserk, because she was constantly talking to people, Ashling trailing in her wake. Energetically, charmingly, Lisa worked the room like a pro – although it delivered few surprises.
‘Same old, same old,’ she sighed to Ashling. ‘The Irish Liggerati – most of these sad losers would show up at the opening of a can of beans. Which brings me smoothly to rule five: use the fact that you still have your jacket as an excuse to escape. When someone becomes that soupçon too boring, you can say you have to go to the cloakroom.’
Wandering around the room were a few doe-eyed models, their unformed, unripe bodies dressed by Morocco. Now and again a PR girl shunted one of them in front of Ashling and Lisa, who were expected to ooh and aah about the clothes. Ashling, hot with embarrassment, did her best, but Lisa barely looked.
‘It could be worse,’ she confided, after another adolescent jerked and twisted in front of them, then departed. ‘At least it’s not swimwear. That happened at a sit-down dinner in London – trying to eat my meal while six girls stuck their bums and boobs into my plate. Ugh.’
Then she told Ashling what Ashling was beginning to realize anyway. ‘Rule number – what are we up to now? six? – there’s no such thing as a free anything. Come to something like this and you have to endure the hard sell. Oh no, there’s that creepy bloke from the Sunday Times, let’s move over here.’
Ashling became more and more diminished by Lisa’s encyclopaedic knowledge of almost everyone in the room. She’d been living in Ireland less than two weeks and already it seemed she’d bonded with – and dismissed – most of Who’s Who.
With her stapled-on smile securely in place, Lisa swivelled discreetly on her Jimmy Choo heel. Had she missed anyone? Then she spotted a pretty young man, squirming uncomfortably in a too-new-looking suit.
‘Who’s he?’ she asked, but Ashling had no idea. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
‘How?’
‘By asking him.’ Lisa seemed amused at Ashling’s shock.
Assuming a wide smile and twinkling eyes, Lisa descended on the boy, Ashling tagging behind. Up close he had spots on his youthful chin.
‘Lisa Edwards, Colleen magazine.’ She extended her smooth, tanned hand.
‘Shane Dockery.’ He ran a miserable finger under his tight shirt collar.
‘From Laddz,’ Lisa finished for him.
‘Have you heard of us?’ he exclaimed. No one else at this bash had a clue who he was.
‘’Course.’ Lisa had seen a tiny mention of them in one of the Sunday papers and had jotted down their names, along with any other names that she thought she should know. ‘You’re the new boy-band. Going to be bigger than Take That ever were.’
‘Thanks,’ he gulped, with the enthusiasm of the as-yet-unestablished. Perhaps it had been worth getting togged out in these terrible clothes after all.
As they moved away, Lisa murmured, ‘See? Just remember, they’re more frightened of you than you are of them.’
Ashling nodded thoughtfully and Lisa commended herself on her kind patronage. Helped, probably, by the copious quantities of vodka she was sipping. Speaking of which… ? Instantly a waitress appeared at her side.
‘Vodka is the new water.’ Lisa raised her glass to Ashling.
When Lisa had eaten and drunk her fill, it was time to leave.
‘Bye.’ Lisa wafted past the stick-insect on the door.
‘Thank you,’ Ashling smiled. ‘The clothes were lovely and I’m sure Colleen readers will love them –!’ Ashling’s sentence ended in a gasp as someone pinched her arm very, very hard. Lisa.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Stick-insect pressed a plastic-wrapped parcel into Lisa’s hands. ‘And please accept this little goodwill gesture.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Lisa said vaguely, trailing away.
Then one was pressed into Ashling’s eager hands. Her face aglow, she dug her nail into the plastic to tear it open. Then gasped anew as someone pinched her arm again.
‘Oh, er, yeah, like, thanks.’ She tried and failed to sound casual.
‘Don’t touch it,’ Lisa muttered, as they strolled across the lobby to collect Ashling’s jacket. ‘Don’t even look at it. And never, ever tell a PR girl that you’ll give them coverage. Play hard to get!’
‘Rule number seven, I suppose,’ Ashling said sulkily.
‘That’s right.’
After they’d left the hotel, Ashling flicked Lisa an enquiring look, then glanced at her present.
‘Not yet!’ Lisa insisted.
‘When, then?’
‘When we get around the corner. But no hurrying!’ Lisa upbraided, as Ashling almost started to run.
The minute they were round the corner, Lisa said, ‘Now!’ And they both tore the plastic off their parcels. It was a T-shirt, with Morocco emblazoned across the front.
‘A T-shirt!’ Lisa spat in disgust.
‘I think it’s beautiful,’ Ashling said. ‘What will you do with yours?’
‘Bring it back to the shop. Change it for something decent.’
The following day both the Irish Times and the Evening Herald ran a front-page picture of the Tara and Lisa clinch.
17
At quarter to seven on Saturday morning, Clodagh was woken by Molly. Head-butting her.
‘Wake up, wake up, wake up,’ Molly invited, fractiously. ‘Craig is making a cake.’
There were some benefits to having children, Clodagh thought wearily, dragging herself from the bed – for instance, she hadn’t had to set an alarm clock for five years.
She was meeting Ashling in town. They were going shopping.
‘And I think we should start early,’ Ashling had said. ‘To miss the crowds.’
‘How early?’
‘About ten.’
‘Ten!’
‘Or eleven, if that’s too early.’
‘Too early? I’ll have been awake for several hours by then.’
After she’d cleaned up the cake mess, Clodagh gave Craig a bowl of Rice Krispies, but he wouldn’t eat them because she’d poured too much milk into the bowl. So she made him another bowl, this time getting the milk-cereal ratio just right. Then she gave Molly a bowl of Sugar-Puffs. As soon as Craig saw Molly’s breakfast, he took violently against his Rice Krispies, declaring that they were poisonous. With much spoon-banging and milk-splashing, he loudly demanded Sugar-Puffs instead. Clodagh wiped a splatter of milk from her cheek, opened her mouth to begin a speech about how he’d made his choice and that he had to learn to live with it, then couldn’t be bothered. Instead she picked up his bowl, tipped the contents into the bin and grimly banged the box of Sugar-Puffs down in front of him.
Craig’s delight dimmed. He didn’t really want them now. Getting them had been too easy, yet not quite right.
As Clodagh tried to get ready for her trip into town, the children obviously sensed she was trying to make good her escape. They were more clingy and demanding than usual and when she got into the shower, they both insisted on accompanying her.
‘Remember the days when I was the one who used to get into the shower with you,’ Dylan observed wryly when she emerged, trying to dry herself, children hanging on to her.
‘Yeees,’ she said, nervously. She didn’t want him remembering how raunchy their sex-life once used to be. In case he asked for his money back. Or worse still, tried to reactivate things.
‘Here, dry her.’ She pushed Molly towards him. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
As Clodagh reversed her Nissan Micra out of the drive, Molly stood at the front door and bawled, ‘I want to go!’ with such agony that several of the neighbours rushed to their windows to see who was being murdered.
‘So do I!’ Craig screeched in harmony. ‘Come back, oh Mummy, come back.’
Contrary little bastards, Clodagh thought, as she sped down the road. They spent most of the week telling her that they hated her, that they wanted their daddy, then the minute she tried to have a couple of hours for herself, she suddenly became flavour of the month and immersed in guilt.
At quarter past ten both Ashling and Clodagh turned up outside the Stephen’s Green centre. Neither of them apologized for being late. Because they weren’t. Not by Irish standards.
‘What’s wrong with your eye?’ Ashling asked. ‘You’re like your man out of Clockwork Orange.’
In alarm, Clodagh scrambled to get a mirror from her bag. One of Molly’s Petit Filous fell out.
‘Here.’ Ashling had beaten her to it with the mirror.
‘It’s my make-up,’ Clodagh realized, surveying herself. ‘I’ve only done one eye. When Craig saw me putting on my slap, he made me do his and I must have just forgotten to finish mine… You’d think Dylan would have told me! Does he ever look at me any more?’
At the mention of Dylan, Ashling felt awkward. She was due to meet him on Monday night for the quick drink he’d requested, and for some reason she felt funny about mentioning it to Clodagh. And funny about keeping it from her too. But until she knew what it was about she sensed it was better to keep her mouth shut. Maybe Dylan was planning a surprise holiday for Clodagh – it wouldn’t be the first time.
‘I have some stuff.’ Ashling fished a mascara and eyeliner from her bag.
‘Your tardis,’ Clodagh laughed. ‘Hey! Chanel mascara? I mean, Chanel?’
Ashling beamed with embarrassed pride. ‘It’s my new job, you see. I got it free.’
Just for a moment Clodagh couldn’t move. She swallowed and it sounded very loud to her. ‘Free? How?’
As Ashling launched into a garbled story of how someone called Mercedes was off in Donegal and how someone else called Lisa had gone to a charity lunch to bond with posh Dublin people and how someone else called Trix looked too like a Spice Girl to be allowed out, so Ashling had to represent Colleen at the Chanel Face of Autumn. ‘And they gave me a goody bag when I left.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ Clodagh said hollowly. And she looked at Ashling’s happy delighted smile and of course it was brilliant. But where had all the promise of her own life leaked away to?
‘Come on, let’s burn plastic,’ Ashling urged.
‘Where’ll we start?’
‘Jigsaw. My magic lose-half-a-stone-in-an-instant trousers have gone a bit bobbly on me and I’m hoping to replace them… Although I don’t give much for my chances,’ she admitted gloomily.
‘Why? Horoscope not good today?’ Clodagh teased.
‘Actually, smarty-pants, it wasn’t bad, but that makes no difference. The minute I find something I like, they rush around and take them off all the hangers. Next thing you know the line is discontinued!’
In shop after shop, as Ashling tried on pair after pair of very disappointing trousers, Clodagh wandered through a parallel universe of clothes. She couldn’t imagine wearing any of them.
‘Look at how short these dresses are!’ she exclaimed, then clutched herself. Did I just say that?
‘That’s good, coming from the woman who once wore a pillowcase as a skirt.’
‘Did I?’
‘Oh, they’re not dresses anyway.’ Ashling had just noticed what Clodagh had been looking at. ‘They’re tunics. To wear over trousers.’
‘I’m completely out of touch,’ Clodagh said forlornly. ‘But it happens without you noticing and suddenly what you look for in a garment is how well it hides puke stains… Look at the cut of me,’ she sighed, indicating her black flares and denim jacket.
Ashling twisted her mouth wryly. Clodagh mightn’t be a fashion queen but she’d still give anything to look like her – her legs short and shapely, her small waist emphasized by her fitted jacket, her long thick hair wound casually on top of her head.
‘See that colour green?’ Clodagh pounced on a pale-mint top. ‘Well, can you imagine that in a blue?’
‘Um, yeh,’ Ashling lied. She suspected this had something to do with decorating.
‘That’s the exact colour we’re getting the front-room papered in,’ Clodagh glowed. ‘They’re coming on Monday and I can’t wait.’
‘Already? That was quick. It’s only a couple of weeks since you first started talking about it.’
‘I decided to just go for it, that awful terracotta’s been bugging the life out of me, so I told the decorators it was an emergency.’
‘I thought the terracotta was beautiful,’ Ashling opined. So had Clodagh not so long ago.
‘Well, it’s not,’ Clodagh said firmly, and turned her attention back to clothes, determined to get a handle on them. Eventually she bought a tiny slip-dress from Oasis, so short and see-through that Ashling thought even Trix might baulk at it – and you don’t get too many of them to the pound!
‘When will you wear it?’ Ashling enquired curiously.
‘Dunno. Bringing Molly to playgroup, collecting Craig from painting. Look, I just want it, OK?’
Defiantly she paid with a credit card that declared her to be Mrs Clodagh Kelly. Ashling experienced a pang – and she could only presume she was jealous. Clodagh earned no money of her own, yet she always had plenty. Wouldn’t it be lovely to live her life?
Off they set again.
‘Oh look at those little dungarees!’ Clodagh declared, diving in off the street to a chi-chi children’s shop. ‘They’d be dotie on Molly. And
wouldn’t this baseball cap be gorgeous on Craig?’
Only when Clodagh had spent more on each of her children than she had on herself did her guilt abate.
‘Will we go for coffee?’ Ashling suggested, when the spending frenzy ended.
Clodagh hesitated. ‘I’d rather go for a drink.’
‘It’s only half twelve.’
‘I’m sure some places open at ten.’
That hadn’t actually been what Ashling had meant, but however.
So while Dubliners basked in unexpected weekend sunshine, drinking double skinny mocha lattés and pretending to be in Los Angeles, Ashling and Clodagh sat in a gloomy, old men’s pub, where the rest of the clientele looked like a government health warning against the dangers of the demon drink. Not an unbroken vein between them.
Ashling chattered excitedly about her new job, about the famous people she’d nearly met, about the free T-shirt she got from Morocco, and Clodagh’s spirits slid into the bottom of her gin-and-tonic.
‘Maybe I should get a job,’ she suddenly interrupted. ‘I always meant to go back to work after Craig.’
‘That’s right, you did.’ Ashling knew Clodagh was vaguely defensive that she wasn’t one of those super-women who did a full-time job as well as rearing children.
‘But the exhaustion was beyond belief,’ Clodagh insisted. ‘Whatever you hear about the agony of labour, nothing prepares you for the hell of sleepless nights. I was forever shattered and waking up was like coming round from an anaesthetic. I couldn’t have held down a job.’
And luckily Dylan’s computer business was doing well enough that she didn’t have to.
‘Do you have time now for a job?’ Ashling asked.
‘I am very busy,’ Clodagh acknowledged. ‘Apart from a couple of hours when I go to the gym, I never have a moment to myself. Mind you, it’s all inconsequential stuff; changing clothes that’ve been puked on or having to watch Barney video after Barney video… Although,’ she said, with a glint in her eye, ‘I’ve put an end to Barney.’
