by Marian Keyes
‘You’d want to get a good solicitor, then.’ Pauline’s voice brought her back to the present. ‘Make sure you get what you’re entitled to.’
‘’Course,’ Lisa said irritably.
Actually, she had no idea what getting divorced entailed. For one so pragmatic and dynamic, she’d uncharacteristically dragged her feet on the ending of her marriage. Perhaps her mum was right and she should get a solicitor.
But after she hung up Lisa couldn’t stop thinking about Oliver. Pesky feelings popped to the surface like blisters and out of nowhere, in some sort of a mad lapse, she was on the verge of lifting the phone and ringing him. The thought of hearing his voice, of making up with him, filled her with surging hope.
She’d had compulsions to call him before, but this was the worst so far, and she was only able to talk herself down with the reminder that he was the one who had left her. Even if he had said that she’d left him with no choice.
She moved away from the phone, suffering actual physical symptoms from the effort. Her heart pounded from thwarted chances. Only moments before, reconciliation had seemed possible, and the low that followed the high made her giddy. Lighting a cigarette with a trembling hand, she urged herself to forget him. Out with the old and in with the new. Think of Jack. But Jack was probably having non-stop sex with minxy Mai.
Jesus, she yearned, she’d love some sex… With Jack. Or Oliver. Either of them. Both of them… Her head filled with an image of Oliver’s hard body, looking as though it had been carved out of ebony, and the memory made her actually groan out loud.
She looked at her watch. Again. Half past seven. Why couldn’t the day just hurry up and end?.
Then her doorbell rang, and her heart leapt into her throat. It might be Jack doing one of his unscheduled house-calls! Thrusting her face into the mirror to check that she was presentable, she quickly smoothed mascara away from under her eyes. Stroking down her hair, she hurried to the door.
Standing on her step looking up at her was a small boy in a Manchester United T-shirt and with an elaborate, shaven-headed, long-fringed haircut. All the little boys on the road had similar ‘dos.
‘How’s it GOING, Lisa?’ he said, in a remarkably loud voice. Confidently he leant against the doorpost. ‘What are you UP to? Will you come out to PLAY?’
‘Play?’
‘We need a REF.’
Other children appeared behind him. ‘Yeah, Lisa,’ they urged. ‘Come on out.’
She knew it was absurd, but she couldn’t help being flattered. It was nice to be wanted. Blocking out memories of other bank-holiday weekends when she’d variously helicoptered to Champneys, flown first-class to Nice and holed up in a five-star hotel in Cornwall, she fetched a jacket and spent the rest of Sunday sitting on her doorstep, keeping score while the children on her street played a very aggressive form of tennis.
Jack Devine had rung his mother on Sunday morning. ‘I’ll be out later,’ he said. ‘And can I bring a friend?’
His mother had nearly choked with excitement. ‘A lady friend?’
‘A lady friend.’
Lulu Devine tried very hard to keep her mouth shut and failed utterly. ‘Is it Dee?’
‘No, Ma,’ Jack sighed, ‘not Dee.’
‘Ah well. Any sightings of her?’ Lulu was torn between missing the woman who’d ditched her beloved only son and partisan hatred of her.
‘Actually, yes,’ Jack admitted. ‘I saw her in Drury Street carpark. She sends you her regards.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s getting married.’
Hope sprang eternal. ‘To you?’ Lulu gasped.
‘No.’
‘The bitch!’
‘Ah no,’ Jack soothed. At the time it hadn’t been the most welcome news he’d ever received, but not the worst either. ‘She was right not to marry me. We’d grown apart. She just saw it sooner than I did.’
‘And this girl you’re bringing today?’
‘Her name is Mai. She’s great, but a bit nervous.’
‘We’ll be nice to her.’
Wearing a demure fifties-style shirtwaister that she’d bought in an Oxfam shop almost as a joke, and sandals that were only a shameful three inches high, Mai sat beside Jack for the drive to Raheny.
‘Will they mind me being half-Vietnamese? Are they racist?’
Jack shook his head in alarm. ‘Not at all’ He touched her hand in support. ‘Mai, don’t worry, they’re decent people.’
‘And they’re both teachers, you say?’
‘Retired now, but they were.’
Lulu and Geoffrey pulled out all the stops – welcoming Mai with two-handed handshakes, dashing the newspapers off the couch so she could sit on it, showing Mai photos of Jack when he was little.
‘He was gorgeous,’ Lulu sighed meltingly, flashing Mai a picture of Jack as a pretty four-year-old on his first day at school. ‘And look at this one.’ A colour shot of a gawky teenage Jack standing next to a little table.
‘I made that table,’ Jack said proudly.
‘He’s great with his hands,’ Lulu confided.
I know, Mai agreed, and for a horror-stricken second wondered if she’d said it aloud.
Mai’s nervousness continued to be lovebombed away, and things were going well until she noticed a photo on the mantelpiece. A younger, thinner, less careworn Jack with his arm around a tall, brown-haired girl who smiled with upright confidence. Lulu clocked it at the exact same moment, and she collided with Mai in a horrified eye-meet. Why hadn’t she hidden it?
‘Who’s your friend?’ Mai asked Jack, almost enjoying tormenting herself. She knew all about Dee, how she and Jack had lived together since their college days and how, when after nine years together they’d decided to get married, Dee had done a runner. She was dying to get a look at her.
The potential awkwardness was sidestepped by the arrival of Karen, Jack’s older sister, with her husband and her three children. No sooner were their rowdy greetings out of the way than Jenny, Jack’s younger sister, rolled in, also with her husband and children in tow.
‘Come on, we’ll head off,’ Jack said presently, when Mai started to look overwhelmed.
Lulu and Geoffrey watched the car pull away.
‘A lovely girl,’ Lulu said.
‘With a most unusual job,’ Geoffrey remarked.
‘Selling mobile phones?’
Geoffrey twisted to look at her in surprise. ‘Selling mobile phones? That’s not what she told me!’
32
Hair. On legs. Too much of it. Ashling was in a depilatory dilemma. She’d got her legs waxed a couple of weeks before during the Phantom Summer, so the hairs were too short to be done again. But they were too long, oh yes, way too long, to go to bed with someone.
So was she planning to sleep with Marcus Valentine? Well, who knows, she thought. But she didn’t want her hairy legs to be an impediment.
She could shave them, she supposed. Except she couldn’t. Once you start getting your legs waxed, it is strictly verboten to undo all the good work by shaving them and turning them bristly and spiky again. Julie, the girl who waxed her legs, would kill her.
It had to be Immac and due to some terrible lapse, Ashling was out of it. Ted was dispatched to the nearest chemist with a handwritten note.
‘Why can’t you go?’ he grumbled, embarrassed.
Ashling indicated the tin-foil wrapped around her head. Tve hot oil in my hair. If I went out like this everyone would think the aliens had landed.’
‘As if! They’d know the aliens wouldn’t be able to find a parking space in this city. Ah, Ashling,’ he complained. ‘do I have to give the note to the girl? Can’t I just pick it off the shelf?’
‘No. There are too many variations and you’re a man. I want plain-flavoured mousse and you’d come back with lemon-flavoured gel. Or worse, you might even get me the spatula one. Now, please go!’
Astonishingly, the mission was successful and Ashling repaired to the bat
hroom to stand in the bath, her legs fizzing with noxious white stuff as she waited for the hairs to burn off. She sighed. Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.
The beautifying frenzy had kicked off when Marcus phoned on Monday afternoon and suggested, ‘How about it?’
‘How about what?’
‘Whatever. A drink? A bag of chips? Rampant sex?’
‘A drink sounds great. So does a bag of chips.’
He took a moment. ‘And the rampant sex?’ he enquired, like a cute little boy.
Ashling swallowed and tried to sound jokey. ‘We’ll have to see about that.’
‘If I’m good?’
‘If you’re good.’
Then Ashling raced into action, a blur of rubbing stuff on her or rubbing stuff off. Over the course of the afternoon she washed and heavily conditioned her hair, exfoliated her entire body, removed the chipped polish from her toenails and applied fresh stuff, melted away the hairs on her legs, slathered herself in Gucci Envy moisturizer which was only wheeled out on special occasions, combed quarter of a tube of smoothing creme through her hair, plastered herself in make-up – this was no time for subtlety – and drenched herself in Envy eau de parfum.
Ted arrived back to oversee the final preparations. He was keen that Marcus and Ashling hit it off so that he could advance his stand-up career through close contact with Marcus. ‘Look sexy,’ he urged, slouched on Ashling’s bed, watching her apply her third and final layer of mascara.
‘I’m TRYING!’ she heard herself shout. Clearly she was more nervous than she’d realized. Look at what hope did to her! Sending all her longing for love and stability on the rampage, and turning her into a nervous wreck. Sometimes, like now, she thought perhaps she felt too much. Was this normal? she wondered. Probably. And if it wasn’t? Well, she’d had a deprived childhood, she thought wryly.
OK, maybe not deprived deprived. But deprived of routine, deprived of ordinariness. After her mother’s first bout of depression, normal service had never really resumed. Instead, life as they’d all known it had slipped away. For ever: though they didn’t know this at the time.
The irony of it was that initially Ashling had actually been excited when regular mealtimes began to be neglected. When she got a grass-mark on her cardigan, she was glad not to be shouted at. But as the days passed, eventually even she could see that the clothes she was putting on were filthy. Relief had given way to anxiety. This isn’t right
‘Will I wear this today?’ She presented herself to her mum in a filthy summer dress. Notice me, notice me.
Her mum’s dead eyes looked out from a face dragged down in formless grief. ‘If you want.’
Janet and Owen were kitted out no better. And neither was her mum – she’d always been so pretty and nicely dressed and now didn’t even notice that she was out in public wearing a shirt stained with egg.
That summer they went to the local park a lot. Monica used to exclaim, ‘I can’t stay in this house,’ and hustle all of them out. But even in the park she rarely stopped crying, and she never had a hanky. So Ashling, thinking it inappropriate that her mother wiped her tears with her sleeve, began to fold a tissue into her cardigan pocket every time they went out.
Once at the park Ashling would try to stage-manage things so that at least Janet and Owen had fun. When they agitated for ice-cream, Ashling was very anxious that they should get it: should they become upset, she feared it would blow the lid off everything. But her mother never remembered to bring any money, so Ashling had a pink and brown plastic purse in the shape of a dog’s face which she began to bring instead.
As the summer advanced, Monica developed a new and alarming habit. Sitting listlessly on a bench, she would pluck and tear at a cut on her arm, only satisfied when it started to bleed. It was around then that Ashling began to carry a small bundle of Band-Aids around with her.
Something had to give. Surely someone had to notice?
She began to pray that her mother would get better and that her father wouldn’t go away every Monday morning and not come back until Friday. Then, when prayers didn’t produce the desired results, she incubated a bizarre conviction that if she flushed the toilet three times whenever she used it, everything would be all right. Next she developed the notion that when she came down the stairs she had to do a twirl at the bottom. Simply had to, and if she forgot to do it she had to go back to the top of the stairs and do the whole ritual again.
Superstitions started to take on great importance. If she saw one magpie – sorrow – she anxiously scanned the sky for a second one – joy. One day she spilt salt and to avoid any more tears threw some over her left shoulder. Where it landed in the trifle. Her mother gazed gormlessly at the grains of salt dissolving into the layer of cream, then put her head on the kitchen table and wept. No change there.
Ted’s bellowing tuned her back in to the present. ‘Ashling, speak to me! What do the tarot cards say about tonight?’
She recovered quickly, very, very glad that it was now and not then. ‘Not bad. Four of Cups.’ No need to mention that she’d plucked and discarded the more ominous Ten of Swords first. ‘And my horoscope in two of the Sunday papers is good,’ she continued. And not so good in two others, but what harm? ‘And the Angel Oracle card I picked was the Miracle of Love one.’ Eventually it had been anyway, after Maturity, Health, Creativity and Wisdom.
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Ted nodded at her black three-quarter-length pants and waist-tied shirt.
‘Why?’ Ashling asked defensively. She’d dressed very carefully, and was especially pleased with the shirt because, due to some trick of the light, it created a false-waist syndrome.
‘Haven’t you got a short skirt?’
‘I never wear short skirts,’ she muttered, wondering anxiously if she might have overdone her blusher. ‘I hate my legs. Have I too much blusher on?’
‘Which one’s blusher? The red stuff on your cheeks? No, put on some more.’
Immediately Ashling wiped some off. Ted’s motives were suspect.
‘Where are you meeting him? Kehoe’s? I’ll walk you there.’
‘No you bloody well won’t,’ Ashling said, firmly.
‘But I only…’
‘No!’
The last thing Ashling wanted was Ted hanging around, pestering Marcus adoringly, asking if he could be his new best friend.
‘Well, good luck then,’ Ted said plaintively, as Ashling flung her lucky pebble into her new embroidered handbag, thrust her feet into wedge sandals and prepared to leave. ‘I hope this is a romance made in heaven.’
‘So do I,’ Ashling admitted, then paid hasty lip-service to God or whoever was Celestial Minister for Romance, ‘if it’s meant to be.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Ted scorned.
A brief orgy of Buddha rubbing, and Ashling was gone.
I will like Marcus Valentine and he will like me, I will like Marcus Valentine and he will like me… As she affirmationed her way along Grafton Street in her mince-inducing sandals, her Louise L. Hay-type chant was interrupted by a wolf-whistle. Marcus Valentine already?. God, that Louise L. Hay was good gear!
But it wasn’t Marcus Valentine. On the other side of the road, minus his orange blanket, was Boo. He was with two other men whose unshaven faces and funny clothes – the type that you couldn’t purchase were you to try – identified them as men without homes also. They were eating sandwiches.
Some impulse of politeness forced her to cross over.
‘So Ashling,’ Boo flashed his gappy grin, ‘you didn’t go away for the bank holiday?’
Ashling shook her head.
‘No, neither did I,’ Boo said with dignity. Then he smote his forehead at his rudeness and swung his arm to encompass the two men who were with him. One was young, straggly haired and skeletal, the waistband of his sweatpants barely clinging to his starved hips. The other was older and had his face buried in a huge beard and insane hair, as if wild cats had been Sellotaped all around the bord
er of his face. He wore once-white plimsolls and a dinner suit that had manifestly been tailored for a much shorter man.
Boo, by comparison, looked almost normal.
‘Sorry! Ashling, this is Johnjohn,’ he indicated the younger of the two men. ‘And this is Hairy Dave. Lads, this is Ashling, my sometimes neighbour and all-round decent human being.’
Feeling slightly embarrassed, Ashling shook hands with both of them. What if Clodagh saw her now – she’d have a fit! Chewbacca in particular looked filthy and when his crusty hand clasped Ashling’s she fought back the urge to shudder.
A passer-by nearly twisted his head off as he took a good look at the unlikely quartet, Ashling so fresh and fragrant, the other three anything but.
‘You look deadly,’ Boo remarked, with naked admiration. ‘You must be meeting a man.’
‘I am,’ she said. Then, provoked by sudden fondness for Boo, she admitted, ‘You’ll never guess who it is.’
‘Who?’ All three of them gasped and leant in closer. Ashling had to hold her breath.
‘Marcus Valentine,’ she said, tying it in with an exhalation.
Boo erupted into merry-eyed laughter.
‘Is he the comedian?’ Hairy Dave asked in a slow, thick growl. Ashling nodded.
‘The one who does the stuff about owls?’ JohnJohn got all excited.
God Almighty! Had Ted’s fame spread so far that even marginalized citizens knew about him? Wait until she told him!
‘That’s Owl Ted Mullins you’re thinking of,’ Boo explained to JohnJohn. ‘Marcus Valentine does the stuff about butter and snowflakes.’
‘Don’t know him.’ JohnJohn was disappointed.
‘He’s cool. Ashling, this is deadly news! Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.’
‘Thanks. I’ll leave you to have your dinner in peace.’ Ashling indicated the sandwiches they’d stopped eating when she showed up.
‘Marks & Spencer,’ Boo said. ‘They give us whatever they haven’t sold. I know their clothes are gone a bit boring, but the sangers are delicious!’
