by Marian Keyes
‘So you sleep around,’ Ashling said. ‘Typical man.’
‘It meant nothing,’ Boo said earnestly. ‘It was just a physical thing.’
‘Last night I had books for you.’ Ashling was annoyed at being caught, once more, on the hop.
Until she remembered that she had a review copy of a Patricia Cornwell in her bag. No one at the office had wanted it so Ashling had taken it for Joy.
‘Would you be into this?’ Awkwardly she tugged it from her bag. Boo’s eyes blazed with so much interest that she felt slightly sick. She had so much, he had nothing except an orange blanket.
‘Deadly,’ he breathed. ‘I’ll mind it, make sure nothing happens to it.’
‘You can keep it.’
‘How come?’
‘I got it, er, free. At work.’
‘Cool job,’ he congratulated. ‘Thanks, Ashling, I appreciate this.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, stiffly. Upset by the unfairness of the world, angry with herself for having so much power, guilty because she did so little.
As she stuck her key in the door, he called, ‘What did you think of Marcus Valentine?’
‘I don’t know.’ For a moment she was about to launch into a long explanation of how she hadn’t fancied him, then she’d seen him on the stage and couldn’t help changing her mind, how she was dying for him to ring her and hoped that there might be a message waiting for her and… hold on a minute.
‘Funny,’ she smiled weakly at Boo. ‘He was really funny.’
Funny is fecking well right. Saying he’d ring, then not bothering his arse. She ran up the stairs in her haste to see if there was a message.
At the sight of the red light flashing, her head went giddy. She hit ‘play’, and as the tape rewound to the start, she did a quick lap where she rubbed the lucky Buddha, touched her lucky pebble, stroked her lucky crystal and pulled on her lucky red bobble hat. ‘Please, Benign Force in the Universe that I choose to call God,’ she prayed, ‘let him have rung.’
There was obviously some confusion in the space-time continuum, because her prayers were answered. But they were the wrong prayers. Out-of-date prayers – the message was from Phelim. So many times in the past Ashling had prayed for Phelim to ring her, and now that he had, it was too late.
‘G’day, Ashling,’ he crackled from Sydney. ‘How’re you going?’ He sounded sunny and Australian, then he lapsed back into a Dublin accent. ‘Listen, I’m after forgetting to buy my ma a birthday present and it’s more than my life’s worth. Would you get her an ornament or something, you know better than me what she likes, and I’ll see you right. Thanks, you’re a gem.’
‘Bloody eejit,’ she muttered, pulling off her lucky red bobble hat. If she hadn’t sorted him out with tickets, visas, passports and Australian dollars, Phelim would still be trying to figure out how to leave the country. She’d almost had to physically put him on the plane with a note around his neck. Then she noted her reactions – a complete absence of nausea, nostalgia or yearning. Contact with Phelim usually upset her, but it looked like she’d started to believe her own publicity. She really was over him.
She picked up the phone and rang Ted. ‘If only Civil Servant-Boy could be here,’ she said, by way of greeting.
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Get Joy as well.’
Moments later Ashling greeted Ted and Joy by saying, ‘I’m having man trouble.’
‘Me too,’ Joy said, almost boastfully.
‘Half-man-half-badger?’
‘Half-prick-half-badger,’ Joy corrected. ‘Giving me the run-around. But what man, Ashling, is giving you trouble? Mr Sexy Delicious at work? I think I predicted this, didn’t I?’
‘Who? Oh, Jack Devine?’ The memory of the two hundred cigarettes made her uncomfortable, so she moved swiftly along to the ‘act your age, not the speed limit’ accusation, and once again knew where she stood. ‘That bastard?’
Joy gave Ted a smug, I-told-you-so smile. ‘Feelings are running high,’ she observed indulgently.
‘It’s not Jack Devine,’ Ashling insisted. ‘It’s that stand-up comedian, Marcus Valentine.’
‘What,’ Joy asked testily, ‘are you on about?’
So Ashling told the whole story, about meeting Marcus at the party on the quays, the Bellez-moi note –
‘But he said that in his act!’ Ted said excitedly. ‘The girl he was talking about was you. This is outstanding!’
Ashling held up her hand for silence. ‘Then I met him again the weekend before last at the party in Rathmines and I still didn’t fancy him. But I saw him on Saturday night and I think I started to like him. And he said he’d ring me and he hasn’t.’
‘But of course he hasn’t!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘It’s only Monday.’
With her words, sanity returned to Ashling. ‘You’re absolutely right! I’m tying myself up in knots as usual and I’m not even sure I fancy him. And to think I spent all day yesterday on edge. Will I ever learn…?’
‘If he’s going to call you, it’ll be on Tuesday or Wednesday,’ Joy said, with confidence.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s in the boys’ rulebook. Ted, take note. You meet a girl on Saturday night and you never ring before Tuesday because you might seem too keen. If the call doesn’t happen on Tuesday or Wednesday it doesn’t happen at all.’
‘What about Thursday?’ Ashling asked, in alarm.
‘Too close to the weekend,’ Joy shook her head knowingly. ‘They reckon your plans are already made and they don’t want to risk rejection.’
‘Actually, Saturday night’s already booked.’ Ashling was briefly distracted. ‘I said I’d babysit for Dylan and Clodagh.’
Ted gasped, ‘Can I come?’
Joy said in contempt, ‘Don’t tell me he fancies the princess.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ Ted said.
‘She’s totally spoilt and –’
‘Can I come?’ Ted ignored Joy and implored Ashling.
‘Ted, if someone is babysitting for Clodagh, the idea is that Clodagh isn’t there.’ Ashling was annoyed at Ted as good as asking her to broker a flirtation between himself and her very married friend.
‘All the same… Look, will you ask her if I can come? You’ll never be able to manage two kids by yourself.’
Ashling was caught between irritation and the realization that Ted was right. On her own she was no match for the combined might of Molly and Craig. ‘OK, I’ll ask.’ But if Clodagh was as neurotic about the care of her children as Dylan had said, there was no way she’d let Ted into the house.
‘I’d say Marcus Valentine will call tomorrow night or Wednesday.’ Joy was tired of talking about Clodagh.
‘I won’t be here tomorrow night.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Salsa lesson.’
‘What!?’
‘I liked it,’ Ashling defended herself. ‘It’s only for ten weeks. And I’m disgustingly unfit.’
‘You’re going to get really skinny,’ Joy wailed.
‘I am not,’ Ashling blustered. ‘I’ve been a member of the gym for years and I’m not one centimetre smaller.’
‘It might make a difference if you were to go once in a while,’ Joy said, drily. ‘Paying the monthly membership isn’t enough.’
‘I used to go,’ Ashling said, in sulky defence. And indeed she did, doing hundreds of variations of sit-ups and waist-exercises. Crunchies and obliques and waist-twists. Repeatedly touching her knee with her opposite elbow until her face filled with blood and little veins burst in her eyes. But when it became clear that even if she crunchied herself into a coma, her waist was stubbornly going to refuse to get any smaller, she gave up. The rest of her wasn’t so bad, she decided, so there was nothing to be gained by exercising.
Salsa was different. She wasn’t going for her waist. She wanted to have fun.
‘You’ve got a hobby,’ Joy accused, in a fresh bout of worry. ‘You’re going to be one of t
hose funny people who have hobbies.’
‘It’s not a hobby,’ Ashling said in alarm. ‘It’s just something I want to do.’
‘And what do you think a hobby is?’
‘Speaking of salsa,’ Ted said, ‘I’ve looked over your article and it’s outstanding. I’ve made a couple of suggestions, but it’s fine as it is.’
‘Really?’ Ashling said, hardly daring to believe it. She’d sweated hard over it for three whole nights last week and reckoned she’d even managed to make it slightly funny, but she wasn’t sure if she’d been imagining it.
‘I enjoyed it. It made a nice change to work on something like that, instead of doing a report on the eradication of brucellosis amongst dairy herds. How sexy is that?’ Ted said, not without bitterness. ‘No wonder Clodagh isn’t interested in me. The sooner I get my transfer to the Department of Defence the better.’
He lapsed into a reverie of machine guns, armoured cars, dirty faces, complicated penknives and other macho paraphernalia.
‘And look what I’ve done for you.’ Joy whipped out a sheet of paper. It contained several drawings of shoe soles, illustrating the sequence of steps for a salsa routine. Joy had sketched them in funny, cartoonish fashion, with arrows and dotted lines to indicate what happened.
‘What a smart idea!’ Ashling exclaimed. ‘You’re both fantastic,’ The dreaded article was shaping up to being something decent. Apart from the photos of herself and Joy, she’d had Gerry the Art Director do a search for a picture of two dancers. He’d found a great one, the woman bent backwards from the waist, her black hair brushing the floor, the man leaning meaningfully over her. Very sexy. Ashling experienced a brief respite from the nagging suspicion that she wasn’t really able for her job.
The phone rang, and as the answering machine was still on, they listened intently to see who it was. Could it be Marcus Valentine?
‘It won’t be. I keep telling you,’ Joy sighed with annoyance, ‘it’s only Monday.’
It was Clodagh.
‘Be still your beating heart,’ Joy said sarcastically to Ted.
Brief though the message was, in the context of Dylan’s anxiety it made Ashling edgy.
‘Ashling,’ Clodagh spoke to the room, ‘can you call me? I want to talk to you about… something.’
25
On Tuesday morning when a glittery-faced Trix clattered into the office in her plastic platforms, she was accompanied by a faint but unmistakable smell of fish. Ashling noticed it the moment she arrived, then every subsequent arrival began sniffing in alarm as soon as they came through the door. Pointing it out to Trix was, however, a little awkward, and the matter remained unaddressed until the arrival of Kelvin. After all, he was a twenty-something lad and vulgarity was his currency.
‘Trix, you smell of what I can only hope is fish.’
‘It is fish.’
‘Might we ask why?’
‘I wanted a man with wheels,’ Trix said sulkily.
Kelvin slapped himself around the face a couple of times. ‘No!’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m awake now and it still doesn’t make sense.’
‘I wanted a man with wheels,’ Trix said angrily. ‘So I met Paul and he delivers fish, and he’s let use the van after work.’
Not surprisingly, the thought of Trix sitting in all her shiny, happy finery alongside a shoal of fish reduced the office to convulsions.
‘I sit up front with the driver,’ she protested, to no avail. ‘Not in the back with all the fish.’
‘What about your other boyfriends?’ Kelvin asked.
‘Kicked them to the kerb.’
Oh, to be as tough as her, Ashling thought, keying furiously. She was inputting her salsa article. As soon as it was all typed, she gave it to Gerry, who scanned in Joy’s sketches and the photos.
‘I’m going to play around with different typefaces and colour,’ he said. ‘Give me some time, then we’ll show it to Lisa. Have faith, I’ll make it purty.’
‘I trust you,’ Ashling promised. Gerry was an oasis of calm, quiet reassurance, who never seemed to panic, no matter how seemingly obscure or difficult the request.
While she waited, she rang Clodagh. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me about something,’ she said anxiously.
‘I do.’ There was the usual background cacophany. ‘Craig’s off sick, and Molly’s banned again from playgroup.’
‘What’s she done now?’
‘Apparently, she tried to set fire to the place. But she’s only a little girl, exploring the world, finding out what matches do. What do they expect?’ Another wave of bawling issued forth. ‘At least she has a spark of curiosity. But I’m losing my fucking reason here, Ashling.’
That’s what I’m afraid of
‘Which is what I want to talk to you about… MOLLY, PUT THAT KNIFE DOWN. DOWN!!! NOW!!! Craig, if Molly hits you, will you for God’s sake HIT HER BACK!!!… You big Jessie,’ Clodagh breathed, in quiet contempt. ‘Got to go, Ashling, I’ll ring later.’
And Clodagh was gone. So Dylan was right, something was up. Ashling swallowed. Feck it, anyway.
Trying to distract herself, she pressed a few buttons on the computer, her fingers eager when she saw she’d been e-mailed. It was a joke sent by Joy. What’s the difference between a hedgehog and a BMW?
‘I’ve a joke for you,’ Ashling called out to the office in general. Instantly all work was abandoned. It didn’t take much. ‘What’s the difference between –’
‘Heard it,’ Jack Devine barked, striding towards his office.
‘You don’t even know what I’m going to say,’ Ashling protested.
‘With a hedgehog the pricks are on the outside.’ Jack slammed his door.
Ashling was astonished. ‘How did he know?’
‘This is the BMW/hedgehog joke?’ Kelvin asked.
When Ashling nodded, Kelvin explained kindly, ‘It’s been doing the rounds the past couple of days. And as Jack drives a Beemer, he’s been told it quite a lot.’
‘Aahhh. I just thought he’d had another scrap with his girl-friend.’
‘Have you any idea the kind of pressure poor Mr Devine is under?’ Behind her desk, Mrs Morley had risen to her feet (although she looked no taller). Her voice was high with protective anger. ‘He was in negotiations with the technicians’ union until ten o’clock on Saturday night. And this morning he has three executives coming from London, including the group accountant, to discuss very serious matters with him, and none of you care. Although you should,’ she finished ominously.
Even though she was generally viewed as a doom-mongering old boot, her words had a sobering effect on everyone. Especially on Lisa. Still no word on the advertising revenue. Her nerves were cast-iron, but even she was finding this wearing.
Jack came out of his office.
‘They’ve just rung,’ Mrs Morley said. ‘They’ll be here in ten minutes.’
‘Thanks,’ Jack sighed, running his hands distractedly through his tumbled hair. He looked tired and worried and Ashling suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee before your meeting?’ she offered, sympathetically.
He turned his dark eyes on to her. ‘No,’ he said, narkily. ‘It might keep me awake.’
Well get lost in that case, Ashling thought, all sympathy gone.
‘Ashling, take a look,’ Gerry invited. Ashling rushed to his screen and was full of admiration for how he’d laid out the article. A four-page spread, which looked colourful, funny, engaging and interesting. The text was broken up into strips and sidebars, and the entire piece was dominated by the erotic photo of the dancing couple, the woman’s long hair sweeping the floor.
He printed it all off and Ashling took it to Lisa, as though it was a sacred offering. Without speaking, Lisa surveyed the pages. Even the expression on her face gave nothing away. The silence endured for so long that Ashling’s excitement started to dampen and turn into worry. Had she got it all wrong? Perhaps this wasn’t what Lisa had wanted
at all.
‘Spelling mistake here.’ Lisa’s voice was toneless. ‘Typo here. And another one. And another one.’ When she got to the end she shoved the sheets away and said, ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’ Ashling asked, still waiting for an acknowledgement of how much work and worry had gone into it.
‘Yes, fine,’ Lisa said, impatiently. ‘Tidy it up, then run it.’
Ashling glared. She was so disappointed she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t to know that this constituted very high praise from Lisa. When employees of Femme were subjected to her screaming ‘Get this piece of shit off my desk and completely rewrite it,’ they used to take it as a tribute.
Then Lisa changed the subject totally when she remembered something. Over-casually, she asked, ‘Hey, who was that man you were with last night?’
‘What man?’ Ashling knew exactly who she was talking about, but was exacting a tiny, petty revenge.
‘Blond bloke, you left with him.’
‘Oh, Dylan.’ Then Ashling said nothing more. She was enjoying this.
‘And who is he?’ Lisa eventually had to ask.
‘An old friend.’
‘Single?’
‘He’s married to my best friend. So you like my article?’ Ashling said stubbornly.
‘I said it’s fine.’ Lisa was irritable. Then her next words rubbed salt into the wound. ‘I think we’ll make it a regular feature. Knock together another piece about meeting men for the October issue. What did you suggest at the first meeting we had? Going to a dating agency? Horse-riding? Surfing the net?’
She remembered everything, Ashling thought, impossibly burdened by the thought of having to make this monumental effort next month and every month. And never getting fecking well praised for it!
‘Or you could do something on the chances of meeting men at a comedy gig,’ Lisa said, with an artful smile.
Ashling shrugged uncomfortably.
‘Has he called you yet?’ Lisa asked suddenly.
Ashling shook her head, embarrassed at what a loser she was. Had he rung Lisa? Probably, the gloaty cow. After some seconds without speech the curiosity got too much. ‘Has he called you?’
