by Marian Keyes
‘I’ll just switch off lights and lock doors,’ he said.
‘Hurry,’ she said coquettishly, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t.
They’d long passed the stage of luxuriously undressing each other. Clodagh was already naked under the duvet when Dylan came to bed and a swift, thirty-second swish of lycra and cotton had him stepping out of his clothes. Clodagh lay back, closed her eyes and submitted to being kissed for a few minutes; then, as always, Dylan moved to her nipples. When he finished at that, there was a silent, unacknowledged struggle. Because this was the point at which Dylan usually liked to shimmy down her body to administer cunnilingus, but Clodagh couldn’t bear it. It was so boring and simply added several wasted minutes to the whole procedure. Tonight she won, managing to head him off at the pass. She proceeded directly to fellatio, treating him to between four and five minutes of it, and its cessation was his cue to climb aboard. For a special treat – birthdays and anniversaries – Clodagh would go on top. But tonight wasn’t the deluxe version, just the standard missionary one. She clasped Dylan to her in a smooth ballet of comfortable familiarity. Once she was into it, it wasn’t so bad, she decided. It was the anticipation that distressed her so. As always, Dylan waited for her to pretend to come before gathering pace, pumping away as though a stopwatch was being held over him. It’s about time we did this room up again, Clodagh thought, as he machined back and forth in a panting, whimpering blur. The carpet could probably stay, but Yd really like to paint the walls.
‘Oh God,’ Dylan begged, shoving his hands under her buttocks and banging himself into her at ever-faster speed. ‘Oh God, oh God.’
Automatically, Clodagh obliged with an absent-minded moan. That should hurry things along. Purple and cream walls, perhaps. Then Dylan was spasming in ecstasy and collapsing with a groan. The only break from the norm was that they weren’t interrupted by either of their children, clamouring to join in.
Fifteen minutes from start to finish and all over for another month. Clodagh sighed with contentment. Thank God he wasn’t one of those men who insisted on pleasuring you all night long. She’d have had to kill herself long ago if that had been the case.
Ted and Ashling whizzed through the darkened streets, en route to the Cigar Room, for ‘just the ten’. When they dismounted the bike, Ted slapped his palm on his forehead in a gesture that looked vaguely rehearsed.
‘Well, feck it,’ he exclaimed, with ire that, oddly, lacked conviction. ‘I’m after leaving my jacket at Clodagh’s. I’ll have to call around during the week to collect it.’
In a house in a bleak, sea-facing corner of Ringsend, Jack and Mai were just about wrapping up their reunion ride. Earlier, Mai had been stunned by Jack arriving at her flat and apologizing for not having greeted her at the office yesterday with enough warmth for her liking. Then he’d whisked her to his house, where he fed her, poured good wine into her, and took her to bed.
He was so unexpectedly sweet that while they were making love, she didn’t – as she often did – pretend to look at her watch. A couple of times recently she’d even used the remote control to switch on the telly while they were on the job. It had driven him wild. ‘It’s a bit more interesting than what you’re doing to me,’ had been her explanation, although it wasn’t true. But it kept him insecure and kept her in control.
Hard work, mind.
They lay in a post-coital glow. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he said out of nowhere.
‘Am I?’ She sat up on her elbow and shot him a provocative, malicious smile. ‘Except I’ve crap taste in men, right?’ She braced herself for a spiky come-back from Jack, but he just busied himself winding his fingers in her long hair. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, high with surprise.
‘Couldn’t be better. Why?’
‘Nothing.’
Mai was badly confused. Why wasn’t Jack giving as good as he got? He usually managed to give better than he got.
‘Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to visit my parents,’ he said.
Mai rolled her eyes. ‘Nice one! And what am I? Chopped liver?’
This was one of their favourite rows – the lack of time Jack had for Mai. But Jack interrupted Mai’s fledgling rant by saying, ‘Would you like to come?’
‘Where?’ She was astonished. ‘To meet them?’
When Jack nodded she wailed, ‘But what will I wear? I’ll have to go home and change first.’
‘No bother.’
Mai snuck another confused look at him. This was very weird. Maybe… perhaps… could it be that all her game-playing and manipulation had actually worked? That she’d finally got Jack where she wanted him… ?
31
Lisa woke up on Sunday morning, and instantly wished she hadn’t. Something about the quality of the stillness beyond her bedroom window was telling her that it was very, very early. And she didn’t want it to be very, very early. She’d like it to be very late. Preferably mid-afternoon. Ideally, already tomorrow.
She lay still, her ears straining for the sounds of mothers shouting, children fighting, the heads being pulled off Barbies, anything that might indicate that the world outside was in motion. But apart from a gaggle of birds camped in her garden, chirping and cheeping like they’d won the lottery, she heard nothing.
When she could no longer bear not knowing, she turned over in her rumpled bed and warily confronted the alarm clock. Seven-naffing-thirty. In the morning.
The bank-holiday weekend was taking for ever to pass. Exacerbated, no doubt, by the fact that she was entirely on her own.
For some reason she hadn’t expected that she’d have to endure it solo. During the week, she’d had at the back of her mind that Ashling would ask her along for a drink, or to a party, or to meet that mad Joy or Ted or something. Let’s face it, it seemed that Ashling was perpetually inviting her to things. But on Friday evening, giddy and giggly after the champagne orgy, it wasn’t until she reached home and had sobered up considerably that she realized that no invitation had been issued by Ashling. Cheeky cow. Bombarding her with invites which she didn’t want, then neglecting to issue them when she could have done with them!
Moodily she lit a cigarette, breaking her rule about not smoking in bed.
What was it about living in Dublin? In London she’d never had spare time. There had been an endless pile-up of appointments awaiting her rejection. And, in the rare cases when there had been any unexpected leisure time, she could always fill it with work.
But not here. It had been impossible to organize any appointments for the weekend. All the lazy-bastard journos and hairdressers and DJs and designers were going away, and even if they weren’t, they were in kick-back mode and disinclined to meet her.
Worse still, she couldn’t go into work on Monday because the building wouldn’t be open. As soon as she’d heard on Friday morning, she’d marched straight into Jack’s office and kicked up a right stink. ‘Can’t the porter, what’s his name – Bill? – come to let me in and then go straight home again?’
‘On a bank holiday?’ Jack had seemed genuinely amused. ‘Bill? Not a hope of it.’
Lazy, shiftless pillock, Lisa had thought, in impotent fury. In London, they’d always come to let her in.
‘Why don’t you take it easy?’ Jack had advised. ‘You’ve achieved so much in such a short time, you deserve a rest.’
But she didn’t want a rest, she was too hyper. Three entire days, how was she going to fill them? And why didn’t he suggest that they did something together, she’d wondered in frustration. She knew he was interested in her, she’d seen it more than once in his face.
‘Go out on the town. Have a few drinks,’ he’d urged.
With whom?
She’d contemplated going to London for the weekend, but was too ashamed. Where would she stay? Her flat had tenants in and she’d let her friendships lapse – most of them bit the dust during the frenzied empire-building she’d done in the past two years and the only person she’d ever given any of her precio
us time to was Fifi. But she’d been too mortified to contact Fifi since she’d been banished to Ireland. If she went to London she’d have to stay in a hotel like a – she shuddered – like a… tourist
But on Friday night, when she realized that she’d be killing so much time over the weekend it would be a veritable bloodbath, she decided she could handle being a tourist in London. Which was when she discovered that all the flights out of Dublin were booked. Everyone was desperate to escape this foul little country. Who could blame them?
As it happened, Saturday wasn’t too bad. She got her hair cut, her eyelashes tinted, her pores steamed and her nails done, all twenty of them. Everything for free. Then she got in her weekly shopping. For the next seven days she was only going to eat food starting with the letter ‘A’ – apples, avocados, artichokes, anchovies and absinthe.
Because she was feeling so fragile, she bent the rules to let an apricot Danish into her basket. Which was greatly appreciated because the unpleasantness of spending Saturday night in, alone, was quite shocking, really.
And here she was on Sunday morning, still with two full days to go.
Go back to sleep, she begged herself. Go back to sleep and massacre a couple of hours.
But she couldn’t. Although it was no wonder, she thought bitterly, seeing as she’d been tucked up in bye-byes at ten o’clock the night before.
She got out of bed, had a shower, and even though she took an inordinate amount of time over it and almost scrubbed herself raw, she found she was dressed and ready by quarter past nine. Ready for what? Buzzing with energy that had nowhere to go, she wondered, what do people do?. They went to the gym, she supposed, throwing her eyes to heaven (and wishing there was someone there to see her do it). Lisa prided herself on never going to the gym, especially not in Dublin. It was wildly passé, all that stair-mastering and cross-country rowing. The Irish fitness industry was so behind the times they still thought spinning was a novel idea! No, Lisa was more interested in the less violent and more fashionable forms of body sculpting. Pilates, power-yoga, isometrics. Preferably one-on-one with a body doctor who included Elizabeth Hurley and Jemina Khan among his clients.
The only problem with something like Pilates was that, as it didn’t actually raise your metabolism, best results were achieved when combined with a starvation diet. Which was where devices like the letter–’A’ diet came in. Surprisingly few foods started with the letter ‘A’. If it had been ‘B’, things would have been very different. Bacon, Bounties, Bacardi, brie, bread, biscuits… And if she ever really needed to streamline down to the bone, she’d spend a week doing ‘Y’. Yams, that was about it. And yellow peppers, at a stretch. Oh, and Yorkies, she’d forgotten about them. Perhaps ‘Z’ would be safer.
After breakfasting on an apple, an apricot and a glass of Aqua Libra, she managed to make it to ten o’clock. But when she feared she might attempt to strike up a conversation with the walls, she made a decision. She was going to go shopping. And it wasn’t just free-form retail therapy, either – she had a purpose. Sort of, in any case… She planned to organize floor-to-ceiling wooden blinds for an entire wall in her bedroom, to counteract the country-cottage feel and endow it with a more cubey, urban air. Then she’d run a piece on it in the magazine and let them pick up some of the bill.
But when she reached Grafton Street she was shocked to find that none of the shops were open yet and the only other people around were bewildered-looking tourists.
This fucking country, she thought, for the hundredth time. Where was everyone? Probably at church, she decided contemptuously.
One o’clock, the man in the newsagent’s told her. The shops opened at one o’clock. So she sat in a café, her legs crossed, drinking almond lattes and reading a newspaper. Only the frenzied bouncing of her foot as she tried to chivvy along time gave any indication of her inner hysteria.
And what was with the freak meteorological conditions, she wondered. There was a total absence of torrential rain or gale-force winds – surely a first for a bank holiday? Instead there was brave, jaunty sunlight against the hopeful blue of the sky and for some reason this reminded her of other times, which in turn made her sad, and she couldn’t be doing with that. Oh no!
Quickly she reminded herself of her theory – she wasn’t sad, her life had just dipped below the required Fabulous level. There was no negative emotion that couldn’t be cured by the application of a little fabulousness and it was very important that she remembered it during these turbulent times. She’d admit that she’d forgotten it recently – last Sunday, for example, when she’d spent the day isolated and in despair.
Eventually the blinds emporia flung wide their doors, and then Lisa felt that they needn’t have bothered. None of the pathetic interiors shops could handle a request for such a large blind. They recommended that she try a department store. And even though Lisa wasn’t a department-store kind of girl, she decided that beggars couldn’t be choosers.
On the fourth floor, in the curtain department, she bagged a busy little man hurrying past with a tape-measure around his neck.
‘I need custom-made blinds.’
‘I’m your man,’ he confidently assured her.
But when she gave him the dimensions, then pointed out the wooden slats she wanted, he changed colour. Becoming a much paler one.
‘Nine foot long?’ he hooted. ‘And fourteen foot wide?’
That’s right,’ Lisa agreed.
‘But missus,’ he protested, ‘that’ll cost a fortune!’
‘That’s all right,’ Lisa said.
‘But have you any idea how much it’ll cost?’
‘Tell me.’
He did a series of speedy calculations on some brown wrapping paper, then shook his head in anxiety.
‘How much?’
But he wouldn’t tell her. Whatever it was, it was too much, he’d decided.
‘Hold on, hold on, I’m thinking. How about getting it in a cheaper material?’ he said, flicking his trained eye along the shelves. ‘Forget about the wood altogether. We could do it in plastic, how about that? Or canvas?’
‘No, thank you. I definitely want it in wood.’
‘Or you can get ready-made blinds.’ He changed tack. ‘I know they wouldn’t be quite the right size and the material wouldn’t be as nice, but it’d be miles cheaper. Come over here and look.’ And grabbing her by the hand, he tugged her over to inspect some hideous vertical office-window blinds.
She dashed her hand away. ‘But I don’t want these! I want the wooden ones and I promise I can afford them!’
‘I beg your pardon,’ the man said humbly. ‘I just didn’t want you having to shell out all that money, but if you’re sure…’
Lisa sighed raggedly. This fucking country. ‘I’ve been saving up,’ she decided to reassure him. ‘It’s OK.’
‘You’ve been saving up?’ All at once he rallied. ‘Well, that’s different, then.’
As she gave him her details, her irritation faded. When he leant over and confided to her that he thought the prices in the shop were shocking, that he and his wife waited for the sale, she became almost touched by his concern. I’m losing it, she suddenly thought. It’s official, I’m going round the bend. Touched by a curtain salesman who won’t sell me what I want.
It was barely six when she reached home. Scraping the bottom of the barrel in the search for activities, Lisa rang her mum and gave her her new phone number. Though she wondered why she bothered because her mum never rang her. Too worried about her phone bill. Even if there was some disaster, Lisa thought sourly, like if her dad died, her mum would probably still wait until Lisa rang to tell her.
After the usual enquiries into each other’s health, Pauline had some good news for Lisa. ‘Your dad says that that funny wedding of yours probably isn’t valid here anyway and that you probably don’t need to get divorced.’
The word ‘divorced’ slammed into Lisa with abrupt force. It was such a heavy, final word. Quickly she re
covered to snippily tell her mum, ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’
Pauline swallowed at the expected censure. Of course she was wrong. She was always wrong around Lisa.
‘Oliver registered it when we got back.’
‘Well, that’s that, then.’
‘That is that, then.’
In the silence that followed, Lisa found herself remembering the Friday morning in bed when she and Oliver had decided on a We’re-young-and-fabulous-Londonites’ whim to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend and get married.
‘We’ll never get flights,’ Oliver had laughed, wildly taken with the whole idea.
“Course we will.’ Lisa had the confidence of one who always gets what she wants. And of course they did – those were the days when the world still worked for her. That very evening, giddy with excitement and alarm at what they were doing, they flew to Vegas. Where, weirded out by jet-lag and the spooky-blue desert sky, they found that getting married was frighteningly easy.
‘Should we?’ Lisa giggled, about to lose her nerve.
‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘I know, but… it’s rather extreme, isn’t it?’
Oliver’s exasperated eyes collided with hers. Lisa knew that look. With Oliver you didn’t start things that you didn’t mean to finish.
‘Come on, then!’ Exhilaration and terror gave her laughter a shrill edge.
They plighted their troth in the twenty-four-hour Chapel of Love, their vows witnessed by an Elvis Presley lookalike and a Starbucks server. The bride wore black.
‘Yew may kiss the braaaaade.’
‘We’re married.’ Lisa was in fits, as they were shunted out to make way for the next couple. ‘This is unreal.’
‘I love you, babes,’ Oliver said.
‘I love you too.’
And she did. But most of all she was dying to get back, to madden everyone with envy of the kitsch glamour of their marriage. Beach-side ceremonies in Saint Lucia didn’t hold a candle – this was a scoop! She couldn’t wait to go to work on Monday, for someone to ask, ‘Do anything nice at the weekend?’ – so that she could reply casually, ‘Actually, I flew to Las Vegas and got married.’
