by Marian Keyes
To her surprise, Lisa also shook her head.
‘Prick!’ Ashling said energetically, cruising on relief.
‘Prick!’ Lisa agreed, with an unexpected giggle.
All at once it seemed very funny that he’d rung neither of them.
‘Men!’ The burdensome anticipation Ashling had carried since Saturday dissolved into giddy laughter.
‘Men!’ Lisa agreed, frothy with merriment.
At that moment, both of them were drawn to look at Kelvin, who was standing mid-floor, idly scratching his balls and staring into space. He looked so like a man that when their eyes swivelled back to each other, they jack-knifed into convulsions.
Spasms of mirth issued from Lisa’s core. Which so uplifted and liberated her that she realized it was a long time since she’d really laughed. A proper belly-laugh where nothing else mattered.
‘What?’ Kelvin demanded edgily. ‘What’s so funny?’
That was enough to start them again. Their mutual suspicion was washed clean by the high tide of hilarity, and they were – for the moment, at least – warm with unity.
Her mouth still dolphin-wide with the remnants of glee, Lisa on impulse said to Ashling, ‘I’ve got an invite to a make-up demo this afternoon. D’you want to come?’
‘Why not?’ Ashling said lightly. Grateful, but no longer pitifully so.
The make-up presentation was by Source, who were the current big thing, favoured by supermodels and It girls. Reassuringly expensive, all their products were organic, the packaging was bio-degradable, recyclable or reusable, and they made a big song and dance because they ploughed some of their profits back into replanting trees, patching up the ozone layer et cetera. (The actual amount was 0.003 per cent of the post-tax profit, after the shareholders had received their dividend. In practice the sum amounted to a couple of hundred quid, but even if people knew, they wouldn’t care. They’d bought wholesale into the notion of ‘Source – responsible beauty’.)
The Morrison hotel was the site of the demonstration, just far enough away from the office for Lisa to insist on getting a taxi. It would have been quicker if they’d walked because the traffic was so bad, but she didn’t care. In London she’d never walked anywhere and she considered it a slur on her status to be expected to here.
One of the function rooms of the hotel had been converted into an old-fashioned pharmacy for the day. The Source girls wore white doctors’ coats and were positioned behind miniature apothecary desks (made of MDF, tampered with to look like aged teak). All around were glass-stoppered bottles, medicine droppers and prescription jars.
‘Pretentious nonsense,’ Lisa laughed scornfully into Ashling’s ear. ‘And when they speak about the new season’s products, they behave as if they’ve just discovered a cure for cancer. But first a drink!… Wheatgrass juice!’ Lisa exclaimed, when the waiter deconstructed the contents of his tray for her. ‘Pants! What else have you?’
She beckoned another waiter, whose tray was covered with silver canisters, each with a tube like a bendy opaque straw. ‘Oxygen?’ Lisa said, in disgust. ‘Don’t be daft. Bring me a glass of champagne.’
‘Make it two,’ Ashling said nervously. The mere sight of the green, lumpy wheatgrass juice was making her feel sick, and to the best of her knowledge, she could get oxygen any time she liked. They had three glasses of champagne each, much to the envy of the other liggers, who were timidly sipping their free wheatgrass juice and trying not to barf. Only Dan ‘I’ll try anything once’ Heigel from the Sunday Independent had sampled the oxygen and became so lightheaded that he had to lie down in the lobby, where tourists were stepping over him and smiling indulgently, thinking he was the quintessential example of a mouldy drunk Irishman.
‘Come on,’ Lisa eventually said to Ashling. ‘We ought to go for our lecture, then we can claim our free gift.’
Lisa was right, Ashling noted. Caro, who demonstrated the cosmetics for them, was remarkably earnest and humour-free about the products.
‘This season’s look is shimmery,’ she said, lovingly stroking some eye-shadow on to the back of her hand.
‘That was last season’s look too,’ Lisa challenged.
‘Oh no. Last season’s was shimmering.’ This was said without a trace of irony.
Lisa poked a sharp elbow into Ashling and they shared a shudder of silent mirth. It was nice to have someone to have a laugh with at these things, Lisa realized.
‘We’ve broken new ground this season by producing a lip-gloss for the browbone, we’re very excited about it… any inconsistency in texture is because, unlike other cosmetic houses, we refuse to corrupt our products with animal fats. A small price to pay…’
Finally, the worthy demonstration came to an end, and Caro clinked together a selection of the new season’s cosmetics. All the products were in thick brown glass containers, like old-fashioned medicine bottles, and were packaged into a replica of a doctor’s case.
She handed it to Lisa, who was obviously in charge. But when Ashling and Lisa didn’t move off, Caro said anxiously, ‘Only one gift per publication. Our philosophy at Source is to discourage excess.’
Lisa and Ashling exchanged a moment’s aghast rivalry.
‘I knew that,’ Lisa said lightly, gliding carelessly from the room, her grip claw-tight around the goody bag. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, leastways it was last time she’d checked. Out into the hall she went, and across the lobby, not breaking stride as she stepped over the still prone Dan Heigel.
‘Nice knickers,’ he murmured.
‘Why d’ya have to wear trousers?’ he asked as, a second later, Ashling hopped over him.
When Lisa judged that they were far enough away from the hotel, she slowed down. Ashling caught up and gave the freebie an anxious look.
‘It depends on what’s in it,’ Lisa said, tight-lipped. She’d just remembered why she liked to work alone. When you don’t, you might have to share – make-up, praise, stuff. Opening the doctor’s case, she said, ‘You can have the eye-shadow. Hey, it’s shimmery!’
But it was also a funny sludge colour that neither of them would wear.
‘And you can have the lip-gloss for the browbone too. I’ll keep the neck-cream and the eye-liner.’
‘And the lipstick?’ Ashling asked, a knot of longing in her stomach. The lipstick was the real prize, a wonderful muted brown, with a perfect matt finish.
‘I get the lipstick,’ Lisa said. ‘After all, I’m the boss.’
Don’t we know it? Ashling thought, resentfully.
26
On Tuesday night Ashling went to her salsa class. As before, the women outnumbered the men by about ten to one. Ashling had to dance with another woman, who asked her if she came here often.
‘It’s the first class,’ Ashling pointed out.
‘Oh right, I forgot. Anyway, isn’t it nice to have a hobby?’
After the class, pink-cheeked and glowing, Ashling belted home to check her answering machine, but the moment she opened the door, she saw the long, unblinking baleful stare of the red light. Ah well, there was still Wednesday night. All wasn’t lost.
As she rooted in the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to eat, she fretted, wondering if perhaps Marcus had lost her phone number. But no. He’d shoved it deep in his pocket and said he’d keep it close to his heart. Besides, it was the second time she’d given it to him, which lessened the chances of him mislaying it.
She surveyed the spoils: half a bag of tortilla chips, slightly soft; a carton of black olives; four Hobnobs, also slightly soft; a dented can of pineapple; eight slices of stale bread. A poor turnout, she’d have to go to the supermarket tomorrow.
She was dying for something hot, so she shoved two slices of stale bread into the toaster. As she waited she experienced a burst of impotent frustration with Marcus. For knocking a hole in her life and opening the way to let anticipation come creeping in. She’d been fine before he’d started pestering her.
Why was he
pestering her, anyway? Now that she’d seen him on stage her entire opinion had changed. Instead of being a man that she wouldn’t go near, Marcus Valentine was a desirable commodity and she wasn’t sure if she was worthy of him.
Halfway through a slice of toast, the phone rang, rocketing her adrenalin levels. Brushing buttery crumbs from her face, she crossed the room and snatched it up. ‘Hello?’ All breathless expectation. Which instantly died away. ‘Oh Clodagh, hi.’
‘Are you at home?’ Clodagh asked.
‘Um, what do you think?’
‘Sorry. What I mean is, can I come over?’
Oh no. Ashling’s mood bottomed out. Bad stuff ahead. Immediately she wrote off her plans to ring her parents – she had only so much endurance. ‘Come on round,’ she assured Clodagh. ‘I’m in for the evening.’
‘I’m just popping over to Ashling’s for an hour,’ Clodagh called to Dylan, who was watching telly in the half-papered front-room.
‘Are you?’ he asked, in surprise. This was a break from the norm, Clodagh rarely went out in the evenings. And never without him. But before he could question her further, she was already slamming the door and reversing the Nissan Micra out into the road.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Clodagh announced, as Ashling let her into the flat.
‘So I gather,’ Ashling said, dismally.
‘And I need you to do me a favour.’
‘I’ll do my best’
‘Hey, do you know there’s a homeless man sitting in your doorway?’ Clodagh abruptly changed tack. ‘He said hello to me.’
‘That’s probably Boo,’ Ashling said, idly. ‘Young, brown hair, smiley?’
‘Yes, but…’ Clodagh faltered. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Not intimately, but… well, we have the odd chat in passing.’
‘But he’s probably a drug addict! He might mug you with a syringe – that’s what they do, you know. Or break into your flat.’
‘He’s not a drug addict.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘You can tell.’ Ashling was suddenly irritable. ‘If someone is drunk or stoned you can tell just by talking to them.’
‘So how come he’s homeless then?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ashling admitted. It had seemed rude to ask. ‘But he’s very nice. Normal, actually. And I wouldn’t blame him if he did drink or take drugs – being homeless looks horrible.’
Clodagh pushed her lower lip out mutinously. ‘I don’t know where you get these people from. But just be careful, will you? Anyway, I need to talk to you. I’ve made a decision.’
‘What is it?’ Going on anti-depressants? Leaving Dylan?
‘The time has come,’ Clodagh lowered herself down on to the couch. Getting herself comfortable she repeated, ‘The time has come…’
‘For what?’ Nerves made Ashling snap.
‘… for me to go back to work,’ Clodagh finished.
This wasn’t what Ashling had been expecting. She’d been braced for something a lot uglier. ‘What? You? Go back to work?’
‘Why not?’ Clodagh was defensive.
‘Er, exactly. Why not? But what triggered this?’
‘Ah, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It probably isn’t healthy to pour all my energies into my children.’ Privately Clodagh reckoned that that was where the terrible, itchy-uncomfortable feelings of dissatisfaction were coming from. ‘I need to get out of the house more. Have adult conversations.’
‘And that’s all you wanted to talk to me about?’ Ashling needed to check.
‘What else would there be?’ Clodagh sounded surprised.
‘Nothing.’ Ashling could have smacked Dylan, getting her worked up into a state of high anxiety, when it was clear that all that was wrong with Clodagh was boredom. ‘So what kind of job were you thinking of?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ Clodagh admitted. ‘Don’t really mind. Anything… Although,’ she added ruefully, ‘whatever it is, it’ll be hard to go back to taking orders from other people. People who aren’t my children, that is.’
As Ashling rearranged her mood to fit in with this unexpected turn of events, Clodagh fell into a reverie. She was always reading books where housewives started their own business. Where they turned their great baking skills into a cake industry. Or set up a health club for women. Or channelled their pottery hobby into a thriving enterprise, employing, oh, at least seven or eight people. They made it sound so easy. Banks lent them money, sisters-in-law minded children, neighbours converted the garage into an HQ, everyone rallied round. When the café flooded, the world and its granny mucked in to clear up: customers, postmen, innocent passers-by and someone the heroine had had a bad argument with. (This usually signalled the end of the disagreement.)
And these fictional enterprising women invariably bagged a man into the bargain.
But you have a man, Clodagh reminded herself.
Yes, but….
So could she set up her own business? What could she do?
Nothing, if she was honest. She sincerely doubted that anyone would pay to eat something she’d cooked. In fact, with Craig and Molly she almost had to pay them to eat their meals. She couldn’t see people shelling out good money to come to her restaurant and eat Petit Filous and microwaved Pot Noodles – even if she did offer a free food-cooling service by blowing on everything before she served it. And allowed the customers to rub their leftovers into their hair.
As for handicrafts – she’d rather give birth than do pottery. Nor had she any idea how to go about setting up a health club.
No, it seemed as if a more conventional route to earning a living was on the cards for Clodagh. Which is where Ashling came in.
‘So I wondered if you’d type my CV for me?’ Clodagh asked. ‘And listen, I don’t want Dylan to know about this. Not yet, anyway, his pride might be hurt. If he wasn’t the sole breadwinner, do you know what I mean?’
Ashling wasn’t entirely convinced, but she decided to let it go. ‘OK. What hobbies will I put you down for? Hang-gliding? S&M?’
‘White-water rafting,’ Clodagh giggled. ‘And human sacrifices.’
‘And you’re sure you feel OK?’ Ashling still needed to have it underlined.
‘I do now. But to be honest, I’d been very down for a while, it was really starting to get to me.’
Maybe Dylan wasn’t being a total drama queen, after all, Ashling decided. Perhaps he’d had some reason to worry.
‘But now I know what to do,’ Clodagh said cheerfully, ‘everything’s going to be all right… Hey.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Dylan tells me you’re babysitting for us on Saturday night.’
So Operation Cheer-Up-Clodagh was still going ahead?
‘We’re going to L’Oeuf,’ Clodagh shivered in delight. ‘It’s ages since I’ve been out.’
‘Listen, what if Ted babysat with me?’ Hopefully Clodagh would blow that idea out of the water.
‘Ted? The small dark one?’ Clodagh considered. ‘OK, why not? He looks harmless.’
27
Ashling got in early to type up Clodagh’s CV, then got Gerry to arrange it, all fancy. As she waited for him to print it out, she was shocked to find herself doodling ‘Ashling Valentine’. Grow up! Better do some work. Instead she did something even more unpleasant. She rang her parents. Her father answered.
‘Dad, it’s Ashling.’
‘Ah, hello!’ He sounded overjoyed to hear from her. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh, good, good. And you’re all well?’
‘Never better. So when are we going to see you? Any chance of you coming down for a weekend?’
‘Not just yet.’ She shrivelled with guilt. ‘You see, I sometimes work weekends at the moment.’
‘That’s a pity, mind you don’t overdo it. But the job’s going well, is it?’
‘Very well.’
‘Hold on, your mother wants a quick w
ord.’
‘Listen, Dad, I can’t really talk, I’m at work. I’ll ring some evening. I’m glad you’re all good.’
Then she hung up, feeling a little bit better, a little bit worse. Relieved that she’d rung and wouldn’t have to do it again for a couple of weeks, guilty because she couldn’t give them what they really wanted. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Lisa was late.
‘Where were you?’ Trix asked. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you.’
‘You’re my PA,’ Lisa said, impatiently. ‘You’re supposed to know. Look in my appointment book.’
‘Oh, your appointment book,’ Trix said. ‘Of course.’ She turned to the appropriate page and read out, ‘“Interviewing mad Frieda Kiely.” That’s where she was, lads.’
‘That’s right,’ Lisa announced, loud enough for everyone – particularly Mercedes – to hear. ‘I visited Frieda Kiely at her atelier this morning. She’s a sweetie. An absolute sweetie.’
Actually, she’d been a nightmare. A grotesque nightmare. Unpleasant, crazily hyper and so far up her own bum there was a chance she might never reappear. Which would be no bad thing, Lisa thought.
When Lisa had arrived, Frieda had been stretched on a chaise longue, dressed in one of her own over-the-top frocks, her long grey hair tumbling to her waist. She was half-lying on bundles of fabric and tucking into a McDonald’s breakfast. Though Lisa had confirmed the interview with Frieda’s assistant that very morning, Frieda insisted there was no such arrangement.
‘But your assistant…’
‘My assistant,’ Frieda overrode her in bellowing tones, ‘is a useless moron. I shall sack her. Julie, Elaine, whatever your name is – YOU’RE FIRED!… But as you’re here,’ Frieda conceded. She was in the mood for a little fun.
‘Can you tell me about yourself?’ Lisa tried to grasp the reins of the interview. ‘Where were you born?’
‘Planet Zog, darling,’ Frieda drawled.
Lisa eyed her. She was inclined to believe her. ‘If you’d prefer to talk about the clothes – ’
