by Marian Keyes
‘Don’t know. Nothing… anything. Music, films, people…’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ she said angrily. ‘The kids are the only people I see, I can’t help it. But while we’re on the subject of outside interests, I was thinking we might do some decorating.’
‘Decorate what?’ he asked tightly.
‘Here, our bedroom.’ She slapped on some body cream and speedily rubbed it in.
‘It’s only a year since we did this room.’
‘It’s at least eighteen months.’
‘But…’
Clodagh began to pull on her underwear.
‘You missed a bit.’ Dylan reached over to rub in the blob of cream at the back of her thigh.
‘Get off!’ she snapped, shoving his arm away. The touch of his hand on her skin enraged her.
‘Would you calm down!’ Dylan shouted. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Too late, her response frightened her. She shouldn’t have done that. Dylan’s expression scared her even more – anger twisted and troubled with pain.
‘Sorry, I’m just tired,’ she managed. ‘Sorry. Can you make a start on dressing Molly?’
Trying to dress Molly when she didn’t want to be dressed was like trying to put a reluctant octopus into a string bag.
‘No!’ she screamed, wriggling and writhing.
‘Clodagh, give us a hand,’ Dylan called, trying to catch a flailing arm and shove it in a sleeve.
‘Mummy, nooooooo!’
While Clodagh held Molly still, Dylan crooned in a patient, sing-song voice. Ameliorative nonsense about how Molly was going to look lovely when her shorts and T-shirt were on and how pretty the colours were.
When the final shoe was wedged on to Molly’s kicking foot, Dylan smiled in triumph at Clodagh.
‘Mission accomplished,’ she grinned. ‘Thank you.’
When Dylan had said that all they talked about was the kids, it had panicked her. But if she was honest she’d admit it was partly true. They soldiered together, side by side, childcare workers – almost colleagues. And what was so wrong with that, she thought, seeking justification. They had two children, what else were they meant to do?
There was a good turnout at the new playgroup. As Clodagh walked through – and winced slightly at – the day-glo-painted jack-in-the-box doors, the first person she met was Deirdre Bullock, who had a black belt in Mothering. Her daughter, Solas Bullock, was the world’s most talented child.
‘You’ll never believe it!’ Deirdre exclaimed. ‘Solas is speaking in complete sentences now.’ She left a grisly little pause before enquiring, ‘Is Molly?’ Solas was three months younger than Molly.
‘No.’ Then Clodagh added airly, ‘Molly prefers to communicate with us in writing.’
She’d probably be drummed out of the coffee-morning circuit, but it was worth it to see the horrified look on Deirdre’s face.
On Monday, Clodagh came up with a great idea to lift her out of her gloom. She’d go out tonight with Ashling. They’d go on the piss like the old days, maybe even go to a club, and she’d get a chance to wear some of her lovely new clothes. Maybe the palazzo pants and tunic – but what shoes did you wear with them, she wondered. She suspected chunky platforms might be expected of her, but could she go through with it without feeling like a complete dick? Hard to know, it was so long since she’d worn fashionable clothes.
All excited, she rang Ashling at work.
‘Ashling Kennedy speaking.’
‘It’s Clodagh. Oh –’ She’d just remembered something. ‘That Ted called round on Friday to collect his jacket.’
‘So he said.’
‘He’s nice, isn’t he? I always thought he was a bit of a fool, but he’s actually not so bad once you get to know him, is he?’
‘Um.’
‘He was telling me about being a stand-up comedian. He showed me his posters.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’d love to go and see him. He said he’d let me know the next time he’s on, but will you keep me posted?’
‘Ah, right.’
‘Now, why don’t we go out for a few drinks tonight? Get plastered, maybe even go for a dance. Dylan can babysit.’
‘I can’t,’ Ashling apologized. ‘I’m going out with Marcus. My new boyfriend,’ she explained.
‘Your what?’
‘Boyfriend.’ The pride in Ashling’s voice was startling. ‘We’ve only seen each other a couple of times, but we spent all day yesterday in bed, and he wants to see me tonight.’
A gap in time opened, hurtling a whoosh of nostalgia at Clodagh. The first buzzy flush of love was right with her, surprising her with its crazy clarity. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it receded, leaving inexplicable yearning in its wash.
‘Can’t you cancel him?’ she attempted.
‘No,’ Ashling said awkwardly. ‘I said I’d help him with his act. He’s a stand-up comedian, you see –’
‘Another one!’
‘And he needs me so he can try out some new stuff.’
‘How about tomorrow night then?’
‘I’ve got salsa.’
‘Wednesday night?’
‘I’ve to attend the opening of a new restaurant.’
‘Lucky you.’ The contrast between Clodagh attending the opening of a new playgroup and Ashling attending the opening of a new restaurant wasn’t lost on her.
‘How’s Dylan?’
Clodagh clicked her tongue scornfully. ‘Working day and night. He’s going to be away on Thursday night. Again! Going to another bloody conference. Will you come over? We could have wine and something to eat?’
‘Sure. A girls’ night in.’
‘That’s the only kind of night I ever seem to have. But you’ll let me know about Ted?’
39
A week passed. Then another, and another. The pace of work remained frantic. Even though everyone was working rabidly on the September issue, Lisa had already begun work on the flat-plan for the October, November, even the December issues.
‘But it’s only June now,’ Trix complained.
‘Actually, it’s the third of July and in the real world magazines have a lead time of six months,’ Lisa said loftily.
Obstacles abounded. Although they’d made literally hundreds of phone calls to dozens of agents, Lisa hadn’t been able to bag one celebrity for her celebrity letter. It was maddeningly frustrating and she was bitterly aware that that wouldn’t be the case if she was still working for Femme. Then a hotel in Galway got wind that they were being included in the sexy-bedroom piece and threatened to sue.
Morale soared briefly when freelancer Carina secured an in-depth interview with Conal Devlin, a beautiful Irish actor who was all cheekbones and stubble. Then morale plummeted when he cropped up in the July issue of Irish Tatler, telling their interviewer all about his childhood abuse – which he was supposed to have given Carina an exclusive on.
‘We’ve been scooped!’ Lisa was raging. ‘That bastard! No one treats my magazine like second best!’ Not only did the piece have to be killed, but it had the knock-on effect of the film page having to be rewritten. They’d given his new movie a glowing recommendation. ‘Slate it,’ Lisa now ordered. ‘Tell everyone it’s pants. You, Ashling, you do it.’
’But I didn’t even see the film!’
‘So?’
Any achievements were hard won. The one thing – probably the only thing, in fact – that everyone agreed on was that Lisa was a total nightmare to work for. She was very definite about what she wanted. Then three hours later, when a piece was half written, she was just as definite that she didn’t want it. Until a day later when she was adamant that she wanted it again. Pieces got slaved over, binned and cried over, reinstated, killed once more, then cut in half and stuck back in. Ashling’s lovely no-matter-what-you-want-from-your-hair article had been dropped, cropped, rewritten and reinstated so many times that she actually wept when Lisa reprieved it one more time. ‘Will you rewrite it?�
� Ashling hiccuped at Mercedes. ‘If I have to look at it ever again I’ll set myself on fire.’
‘Sure. If you’ll ring that maniac Frieda Kiely about Saturday’s shoot.’
Lisa had gone ahead with her threat to reshoot most of the Frieda Kiely fashion piece.
‘Ashling, Trix and Mercedes, cancel Friday night, we’ll all be working on Saturday,’ Lisa announced. ‘We need bodies to carry the clothes, fetch coffees, that kind of thing.’
There was a shocked clamour of complaint but it didn’t do anyone any good.
‘She’s a slave-driving bitch,’ Ashling wailed that night over dinner in Mao with Marcus. ‘The biggest bully I’ve ever met in my whole life.’
‘Don’t hold back,’ Marcus urged, pouring her a glass of wine. ‘Go on, have a good old rant.’
‘Ah no.’ Ashling ran a stressed hand through psychiatric-looking hair. ‘It’s just that she’s such a pushy bitch, she doesn’t seem to care that any one of us has a life outside her precious bloody magazine. And when are we supposed to sleep? Or eat? Or wash our clothes?…’
By the time Ashling finally stopped she’d drunk most of the bottle of wine and was in much better form. ‘Just listen to me, I sound like a nutter!’ she exclaimed, her face rosy. ‘Oh don’t! I’ve had enough.’ She tried to stop Marcus pouring the last of the wine into her glass.
‘Go on,’ he insisted. ‘Get that inside you, you need to keep your strength up.’
‘Thanks. God, I feel better,’ she groaned, slumping in relief against the banquette. ‘Psychotic episode over, I’ll act normal now.’
Lingering over coffee, they speculated about the other customers. It was a game they usually played, attributing stories, indeed entire lives, to the people around them.
‘How about him?’ Marcus indicated a weather-beaten older man, wearing sandals over socks, who had just walked in.
Ashling considered thoughtfully, ‘A priest home on holidays from the missions,’ she finally concluded.
Marcus was greatly tickled. ‘Hmmm, funny girl, arncha?’ Admiration softened his voice, then he nodded across the restaurant at two young men drinking hot chocolate and eating cheesecake. ‘And what about that pair?’
Ashling wrestled with her opinion. Perhaps she shouldn’t voice it, but the wine got the upper hand and eventually she said, ‘OK, it’s probably not politically correct to say so, but I reckon they’regay’
‘Why?’
‘Because… well, lots of reasons. Straight men don’t eat together, they have pints together. And they don’t sit opposite each other, they sit side by side and refuse to make eye-contact. And the eating-cake thing – macho men are too afraid that it looks sissy. Gay men are much less hung-up.’
Then Marcus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘But look Ashling, they’re wearing leathers and they’ve got helmets beside them on the floor. What if I was to say to you, “Dutch or German bikers touring Ireland”?’
‘Of course!’ Instantly it was all clear to Ashling. ‘They’re foreign. Foreign men can eat cake without anyone thinking they’re gay.’ A few years back she’d had a one-weekend stand with a visiting Swiss boy who had publicly eaten a raspberry meringue with charming unselfconsciousness.
‘It’s kind of sad for Irish men,’ Marcus remarked.
‘Sure is.’ And they both laughed, the heat in her solar plexus matched by the warmth in his eyes.
At this precise moment, life isn’t so bad, Ashling acknowledged.
At eight-thirty on Saturday morning Ashling turned up at the studio, dragging two huge suitcases of clothes that she’d collected from the Frieda Kiely press office the night before. She’d never been on a proper fashion shoot before so, despite her resentment, she couldn’t help being excited and curious.
Niall the photographer and his assistant had already arrived. So had the make-up girl. Even Dani, the model, was there. Which twisted Lisa’s face into a look of scorn – real models were always at least half a day late.
‘Who’s styling this?’ Niall asked.
‘Me,’ Lisa said.
Mercedes looked like she wanted to kill her. She was the fashion editor, she should be styling it.
Lisa, Niall and the make-up girl went into a huddle around Dani while Lisa outlined her ideas. Though Niall declared they were ‘genius’, Ashling and Trix exchanged nonplussed glances when Dani was finally ready. She was dressed in one of Frieda’s mad floaty creations, made up with streaks of mud on her face and straw in her long black hair, then positioned on a chrome and white-leather couch. A half-eaten pizza lay beside her and a chrome remote control was placed in her hands. Apparently she was supposed to be watching telly. There was much talk of ‘irony’ and ‘contrast’.
‘It looks fucking stupid,’ Trix whispered to Ashling.
‘Yeh, I don’t get it at all.’
The setting up took for ever – the equipment, the lighting, the angle at which Dani was slumped on the couch, the way the folds of the dress fell.
‘Dani, love, the remote control’s blocking the detailing on the bodice. Hold it lower. No, lower. No, a little bit higher…’
Finally, finally, they were ready.
‘Look bored,’ Niall urged Dani.
‘I am.’
So were Ashling and Trix. They had simply had no idea how tedious this was going to be.
After checking something called ‘the level’ several more times, finally Niall pronounced the scene satisfactory. But just as he was about to start, Mercedes darted forward and tweaked Dani’s skirt.
‘It was a bit bunched,’ she lied. Mercedes so resented Lisa hijacking the shoot that she kept manufacturing work for herself to pretend that she mattered.
It took another fifteen minutes before Niall was ready again, and just at the point when they thought he was going to depress the button on his camera and actually take a picture, he paused and came out from behind his tripod to remove an invisible strand of hair from Dani’s face. Ashling bit back a scream. Would he ever, ever take the effing photo?
‘I’m slowly losing the will to live,’ Trix said between clenched teeth.
Eventually Niall took a shot. Then he changed lenses and took some more. Then he changed to a black and white film. Then he changed camera. Then the entire production upped sticks and went to a supermarket for more shots. Where people wheeling their trolleyful of groceries went into convulsions at the sight of the rail-thin, muddy-faced model being photographed bending over the frozen chickens. Ashling was acutely embarrassed – and worried. ‘These pictures are going to look ridiculous, we’ll never be able to use them.’
It was four o’clock by the time Lisa and Niall decided they were happy with the supermarket pictures.
‘We got some good shots,’ Niall admitted. ‘Great juxtaposing, great irony.’
‘Please can we go home now?’ Trix said in a low, desperate mutter. Ashling agreed. Her arms ached from holding Frieda Kiely’s godawful frocks, she was tired of answering Dani’s mobile phone which rang incessantly, and she was sick of being treated like a skivvy. Run and get batteries for Niall’s flash, go and get coffees for everyone, find the suitcase that had the straw in it.
‘The street scene,’ Lisa reminded Niall.
‘I don’t think we’re going home just yet,’ Ashling hissed angrily.
Miserably, everyone trooped to South William Street, where, on the pavement outside an Indian restaurant, Niall set up his equipment for what felt like the millionth time that day.
‘How about we have Dani rooting through a litter bin, like a homeless person?’ Lisa suggested.
Niall loved the idea.
‘No!’ Dani was close to tears. ‘No fucking way.’
‘But it’s urban,’ Lisa insisted. ‘We need strong urban images to balance these clothes.’
‘I don’t care, I’m not doing it. Sack me if you want.’
Lisa looked sternly at her. Tension thickened the air. If Boo hadn’t chosen that moment to pass by with Hairy Dave, Ashli
ng dreaded to think what the outcome would have been.
‘Hi, Ashling,’ Boo called cheerfully.
‘Um, hello.’ She was slightly mortified. Boo, with his dirty blanket around his shoulders and Hairy Dave by his side, was very obviously homeless.
‘I finished The Blacksmith’s Woman,’ Boo told Ashling. ‘Unputdownable, but the end was a right cop-out, I’d never really believed that fella was her half-brother.’
‘Great!’ Ashling said tightly, hoping that the boys would disappear on their way. When, to her great surprise, she saw that Lisa was studying Boo with hard interest.
‘Lisa Edwards.’ With a wide smile she stuck out her hand and – fair play to her – barely shuddered when Boo, then Hairy Dave, grasped it. Lisa swept her gaze along the horseshoe of waiting people. ‘OK,’ she said with a reptilian smile. ‘Forget the rubbish bin, I’ve a better idea.’
She turned to Boo and Hairy Dave. ‘How would you two boys like to be photoed with this beautiful woman?’ She shunted the sullen Dani forward.
Ashling was rocked by shock. This wasn’t right, it felt like… like some form of exploitation. She opened her mouth to object, but Boo seemed charmed beyond belief. ‘This is a fashion shoot? And you want us in it? Deadly!’
‘But…’ Dani attempted.
‘It’s this or the litter bin,’ Lisa said, steel in her voice.
Dani paused for an angry second, then positioned herself between Boo and Hairy Dave.
‘Genius!’ Niall declared. ‘Love it! No need to smile, er, Dave, just be yourself. And, you, um, Boo, could you give your, eh, blanket to Dani. Terrific! Dani, darlin’, could you drape it across your shoulders. Pretend it’s a pashmina, love, if that makes it easier. We need a styrofoam cup! Trix, run to McDonald’s and get some cups…’
Ashling turned to Mercedes and asked, in astonishment, ‘Surely these pictures will be unusable?’
‘No,’ Mercedes admitted, her dark eyes miserable. ‘They’re inspired. They’ll probably win a fucking award!’
It was eight o’clock before they finished. Ashling raced home to get ready and as she bolted in the door, the phone was ringing – Clodagh, who had spent the day having her hair cut and coloured into such a radical restyle that Dylan wasn’t talking to her. Then she’d bought a pair of white, skin-tight cut-offs in a slender size ten – which she hadn’t been since before she’d got pregnant with Craig. The shoe situation was finally under control (kitten-heeled mules) and she was desperate to go out.
