by Marian Keyes
‘Clothes!’ Frieda spat. ‘They’re not clothes!’
Weren’t they? But if they weren’t clothes, then what were they? Lisa wondered.
‘Works of art, you moron!’
Lisa did not respond well to being called a moron. She was finding this very, very hard. But she had to think of the good of Colleen.
‘Perhaps – ‘ She swallowed away rage. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you’re so successful.’
‘Why? Why?’ Frieda’s eyes popped with disgust. ‘Because I’m a bloody genius, that’s why. I hear voices in my head.’
‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’ Lisa couldn’t stop herself.
‘I’m talking about my spirit guides, you idiot! They tell me what to create.’
A ratty Yorkshire terrier wearing a miniature stovepipe hat scampered into the room, yapping with horribly shrill barks.
‘Ooooh, come to Mommy.’ Frieda gathered the dog to her enormous bosom, dragging him across squares of tweed and an egg McMuffin. ‘This is Schiaperelli. My muse. Without him, my genius would simply disappear.’
Lisa began to hope that a horrible accident would befall the dog. This sentiment increased when Schiaperelli effected introductions by clamping his sharp teeth around Lisa’s hand.
Frieda Kiely was appalled. ‘Ooooh, did the nasty journalist put her dirty hand in your mouth?’ She glared at Lisa. ‘If Schiaperelli becomes ill, I shall sue you. You and that rag of a newspaper you represent.’
‘It’s not a newspaper. It’s Colleen magazine. We did a shoot in Donegal of your – ’
But Frieda wasn’t listening. Instead she heaved herself up on to her elbow and roared through the door at her assistant. ‘Girl! Someone in this building smells of turnip! Find out who it is and get rid of them. I’ve told you before I won’t stand for it.’
The assistant appeared from the outer office and said calmly, ‘You’re imagining things, no one smells of turnip.’
‘I can smell it. You’re fired!’ Frieda shrieked.
Lisa stared at her hand. The little bastard had left his teethmarks on her skin. She’d had enough. There was no way they could run a piece on this madwoman.
In the outer office, the assistant – who was actually called Flora – rubbed Lisa’s wound with arnica ointment that was obviously there for that very purpose.
‘How many times a day does she sack you?’ Lisa asked.
‘Countless. She can be difficult,’ Flora soothed. ‘But that’s because she’s a genius.’
‘She’s an insane bitch.’
Flora cocked her head to one side and considered. ‘Yes,’ she mused, ‘that too.’
Lisa caught a taxi to the office. Under no circumstances would she give Mercedes the satisfaction of knowing she was right, that Frieda Kiely was a maniac.
‘Frieda was a charming woman,’ Lisa told the staff of Colleen. ‘We really bonded.’
She watched Mercedes for her reaction, but her dark eyes gave nothing away.
Half an hour later, Jack came out of his office, marched straight over to Lisa and said, ‘London rang.’
She turned her expertly made-up grey eyes on him, her throat too full of anxiety to permit speech. Jesus Christ, what a morning!
Jack stalled for impact, before slowly saying, with dramatic effect, ‘L’Oréal… have placed… a four-page ad… every issue… for the first… six… months!’
He took a moment to let the news hit home. And then he smiled, happiness flooding across his generally troubled face. His curly mouth kinked upwards, displaying his cheeky chipped tooth, and his eyes were bright and delighted.
‘What kind of discount?’ Lisa’s numb lips mumbled.
‘No discount. They’re paying full ratecard. Because we’re worth it, ha ha.’
Lisa remained still, watching his face with a kind of wonder. It was only now that they were back on track that she let herself feel the full extent of the terror that had been present for the past week. Jack didn’t need to tell her that L’Oréal’s vote of confidence would probably be enough to convince other cosmetic houses to buy space.
‘Good,’ she managed.
Why did he have to tell her in front of everyone? If they’d been closeted in his office she could have flung herself into his arms and given him a hug.
‘Good?’ He widened his eyes playfully.
‘We should celebrate.’ Lisa began to gather herself and let the relief in. ‘Have lunch.’
Her happiness levels continued to rise when Jack agreed, ‘We should.’
They locked eyes and exchanged a moment of dizzy euphoria.
‘I’ll book a table. Trix,’ Lisa called, joyously, ‘cancel my lunch-time hair appointment!’
It was nearly like the old days.
‘While you’re here, Jack, take a look at this.’ Lisa waved something at him.
From three desks away, Ashling – who’d been following everything with interest anyway – saw that Lisa was showing Jack her salsa article.
‘Told you I’d knock this magazine into something fabulous,’ Lisa laughed up at him.
‘You certainly did,’ he agreed, skimming over the piece, nodding with approval. ‘This is excellent stuff.’
Impotently, Ashling watched. Somehow Lisa had appropriated all the credit for her work. It wasn’t fair. But what was she going to do about it? Nothing. Too scared of confrontation. All at once she heard herself call, ‘Glad you like it!’ Her voice was shaking. She was trying to come across as casual, but she knew she sounded stilted and strange.
Surprised, Jack jerked his head towards Ashling.
‘I wrote the piece,’ she said, apologetically. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she added, without conviction.
‘And Gerry typeset it,’ Lisa scolded. ‘And I came up with the concept. You’re going to have to learn about team-work, Ashling.’ Lisa directed her rebuke to Ashling directly at Jack.
But Jack was studying the sexy photo, then he began flicking from the woman to Ashling, his dark eyes bold and suggestive. Ashling was hot and uncomfortable from his scrutiny.
‘Well, well.’ His lips curled up at the corners, as though he was stuffing back a huge grin. ‘So, Ashling, this is what you get up to in your spare time? Dirty dancing?’
‘It’s not…’ She wanted to hit him.
‘Seriously, it’s a superb piece. You’ve done very well,’ Jack said, dropping all innuendo. ‘Hasn’t she, Lisa?’
Lisa’s mouth attempted many different shapes, but there was no escape. ‘Yes,’ she was forced to say. ‘She has.’
Lisa booked a table at Halo for herself and Jack. Best to assume control because she had a feeling if she left it to him they’d end up at Pizza Hut.
Half an hour before the off she took herself to the ladies’ to ensure she looked her very, very best. What a stroke of luck she’d worn her lavender Press and Bastyan suit today. Although if it hadn’t been that suit it would have been something equally glam. As a magazine editor, you never knew when you might be called upon to be fabulous. Always Prepared, that was her motto.
There was no way her flimsy grosgrain-ribbon sandals would survive the short walk along the quays – they barely held it together as she strolled around the office. Not that Lisa resented their being so impractical – some shoes exist just to display a fierce, short-lived burst of beauty. Why else did God invent taxis?
Assessing herself in the mirror, she was grudgingly pleased. Her eyes were bright and wide (thanks to white eye-liner on her inner rim), her complexion dewy (courtesy of Aveda Masque) and her forehead smooth and wrinkle-free (all down to the Botox injection she’d had just before she’d left London). She brushed her hair until it gleamed – this took no time at all. It always gleamed, thanks to leave-in conditioner, anti-frizz hairspray and being blow-dried by a professional.
At ten to one their taxi arrived and she and Jack left together, watched beadily by the entire office. Lisa was thrilled to get him all to herself, in such close proximity, and plann
ed to use the confined space in the car to ‘accidently’ jostle her slim, bare legs against his. But as soon as they got in, Jack’s mobile rang and he spent the journey arguing with the radio station’s legal advisor about an injunction that had been slapped on them, regarding a controversial interview with a bishop who’d had an affair. The opportunity to jostle simply didn’t arise.
‘I can’t see what the problem is,’ Jack complained into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s a novelty these days to find a bishop who hasn’t had an affair. In fact, why do we even want to interview the guy?’
‘How are you, Lisa?’ the taxi-driver asked. ‘Have you found a flat yet?’
Lisa leant forward. Who was this strange man who had such intimate knowledge of her life? Then she saw that he was the same taxi-driver who’d taken her around to view flats during her first week in Dublin.
‘Oh yes, I’ve got a little house off the South Circular,’ she said politely.
‘The South Circular?’ He nodded approvingly. ‘One of the few remaining parts of Dublin that hasn’t been yuppified out of all existence.’
‘Oh, but it’s still very nice,’ Lisa defended it.
Then she remembered something she’d wanted the answer to. ‘So what happened after you confronted the gang of girls who were bullying your fourteen-year-old daughter? You didn’t have time to finish telling me the last time.’
‘They haven’t touched her since,’ he smiled. ‘She’s a changed girl’
When Lisa got out of the car he said, ‘The name’s Liam. You can ask for me in future if you want.’
Jack was still on the phone when they were shown to their centre-floor table in the beautiful, bustling restaurant. This pleased Lisa. Jack might look like he’d found his suit in a skip, but he was speaking authoritatively on a mobile. It went a long way to redress the balance. Some nearby diners anxiously reached for their phones when they saw Jack on his, and made a couple of entirely unnecessary calls.
After promising that he’d come up with a solution by five o’clock. Jack snapped his phone away. ‘Sorry about that, Lisa.’
‘No problem,’ she smiled prettily, demonstrating her new Source lipstick to its best advantage.
But the phone call had put paid to Jack’s earlier rush of levity. He was once again turbulent and serious and couldn’t be persuaded to flirt. Though there was nothing to say that she couldn’t.
‘To us,’ Lisa smiled meaningfully, touching her wine glass against Jack’s. Then she added, just to confuse him and keep him on his toes, ‘Long may Colleen prosper.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ He raised his glass and managed a smile, but was clearly preoccupied. All he wanted to talk about was work. Readership profiles, printing costs, the value of having a book page. Nor did he seem very at home in the cutting-edge chic of Halo. Laboriously he wrestled with his starter of unwieldy frisée lettuce, trying to persuade the curls of it on to a fork and then to stay in his mouth. ‘Christ,’ he suddenly exclaimed, when another mouthful made a springy bid for freedom, ‘I feel like a giraffe!’
Lisa went with the mood. She saw no point in trying to re-create the relaxed banter of the night in her kitchen, he just wasn’t interested. He was too busy, too stressed, and she was flattered that he’d agreed to come for lunch at all. And if he wanted to talk work, she could talk work. With her admirable ability to turn most things to her advantage, she decided that now was as good a time as any to ask Jack about the possibility of syndicating a possible column from Marcus Valentine to some of their other publications.
‘Has he actually said he’ll do a column for us?’ Jack asked, almost enthusiastically.
‘Not exactly… not yet.’ She smiled confidently across the table. ‘But he will’
‘I’ll make enquiries about syndication. You’re full of bright ideas,’ he acknowledged.
It wasn’t until they were leaving the restaurant that Jack became human again. ‘So how’s the boiler timer working out for you?’ he asked, with an agreeable sparkle in his eyes.
‘Top,’ Lisa twinkled. ‘I can have long, hot showers any time I like.’ She said ‘long’ and ‘hot’ in a long, hot way. Slow, languid, sensuous.
‘Good,’ he said, his pupils dilating in a gratifying flicker of interest. ‘Good.’
Lisa was almost home from work when she bumped into a wrecked-looking, mustardy-blonde woman wearing a bobbly track-suit and – very incongruously – carrying a DKNY tote. Lisa’s DKNY tote. At least it had been until she’d given it to Francine, one of the little girls on the road. She had a feeling the fried-looking woman – Kathy? – was Francine’s mother.
‘Hello Lisa,’ she beamed. ‘Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Lisa said coolly. How did everyone round here know her name?
‘I’m just off to work. Silver-service gig at the Harbison. Thirty quid into your hand and your taxi home.’ Kathy appeared to be talking about waitressing. She waved two hundred pounds’ worth of handbag at Lisa. ‘I’ll be late. See ya.’
Lisa was suddenly visited with inspiration. ‘Um, Kathy – it is Kathy, isn’t it? Would you be interested in a cleaning job?’
‘I thought you’d never ask!’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Er, you’re a busy woman, when would you get time for cleaning?’ What Kathy really meant was that Francine had inveigled an invitation into Lisa’s house and had reported back that it was a right pigsty. ‘Miles worse than ours!’
Ashling, meanwhile, had spent Wednesday evening ferrying a gift-wrapped Portmeirion bowl to Phelim’s mother, thus completing her set.
‘My work here is done,’ she teased.
Then she had to sit for way too long in Mrs Egan’s kitchen, listening to the familiar lament.
‘Phelim didn’t know what side his bread was buttered on. He should have married you, Ashling.’
She waited for Ashling to agree but, for the first time ever, she didn’t.
When Ashling got home, there was no message on her machine. Damn Joy and her boys’ rulebook.
‘It’s only nine o’clock, you pessimist,’ Joy berated, when she arrived to accompany Ashling on her vigil. ‘Still plenty of time. Open a bottle of wine and I’ll tell you all the nice things Mick said to me last night.’
Ashling could hardly keep up with the roller-coaster twists and turns of Joy and Mick’s relationship. They were almost as bad as Jack Devine and his little finger-biting friend. She located the corkscrew, poured two glasses of wine and settled in to analyse, syllable by syllable, everything Mick had ever said to Joy.
‘… So then he said that I was the kind of woman who liked late nights. What do you think he meant by that? He means I’m the kind of woman you party with but don’t marry, doesn’t he?’
‘Maybe he just means that you like late nights.’
Joy shook her head energetically. ‘No, there’s always a subtext…’
‘Ted says there isn’t. That when a man says something he means just what he says.’
‘What would he know?’
Reading meaning into everything was so involving that when the call came at seven minutes past ten, Ashling had nearly forgotten she was waiting for it.
‘Answer it.’ Joy nodded at the ringing phone. But Ashling was almost afraid to, in case it wasn’t him.
‘Hello,’ she said tentatively.
‘Hello, is that Ashling, patron saint of comedians? It’s Marcus here. Marcus Valentine.’
‘Hi,’ Ashling said. ‘It’s him,’ she mouthed silently at Joy, then dabbed her fingertip about her face to indicate freckles. ‘What did you call me?’ she giggled.
‘Patron saint of comedians. At Ted Mullins’s first gig, you helped him out, remember? And I thought to myself, that girl is a comedian’s friend.’
She considered – yes, she liked the idea of being patron saint of comedians.
‘So, how are you?’ he asked. She decided she liked his voice. You’d never know it belonged to a freckly man. ‘Been to a
ny good comedy gigs lately?’
She giggled again. ‘I was at one on Saturday night.’
‘You’ll have to tell me all about it,’ he laughed, in his freckle-free voice.
‘I will,’ she heard herself giggle in reply. From far away she wondered what was with all the giggling. She sounded like a half-wit.
‘Any chance that you’d come out to play this Saturday night?’ he invited.
‘Oh, I can’t.’ There was genuine regret in her voice. She thought about explaining about having to babysit for Clodagh and somehow managed to stop herself. It wouldn’t do any harm if he thought she had a life.
‘Going away for the bank-holiday weekend?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘No, just busy on Saturday night.’
‘And I’m busy on Sunday.’
Conversation stalled, then erupted simultaneously on both sides.
‘Doing anything on Monday?’ he asked, at the same time as she suggested, ‘How about Monday?’
She giggled. Again.
‘Sounds to me like we have a plan,’ he said. ‘How about I call you on Monday morning – not too early – and we take it from there?’
‘I’ll see you then!’
‘You will,’ he said, his pitch warm and full of promise.
Ashling put down the phone. ‘Oh my God, I’m going out with freckly Marcus Valentine on Monday.’ She was frothy with excitement and shock. ‘I haven’t been on a date for years. Not since Phelim.’
‘Happy now?’ Joy asked.
Ashling nodded cautiously. Now that he had rung, there was always the fear that she’d go off him again.
‘Right then,’ Joy ordered. ‘Let’s get you into training. Repeat after me, “Oh Marcus! Marcus!” ’
The following morning when Ashling arrived at work, Lisa called her over. ‘Hey, guess who rang me last night?’
Ashling looked at her combative, competitive expression, at the triumph that lit her grey eyes.
‘Marcus Valentine?’ Who else could it be?
‘Too right,’ Lisa agreed. ‘Marcus Valentine.’
‘Oh yeh?’ Ashling put her hand on her hip with bold attitude. ‘’Cos he rang me too.’
Lisa’s mouth half-opened at this unexpected news. She’d thought she was the winner.
