by Marian Keyes
Lisa couldn’t stop smiling: proper, ear-splitting beams. Who would have thought, four months ago, that she’d have pulled it off? And that she’d feel so good about it?
Even the advertising situation was sorted – swung by the Frieda Kiely homeless pictures. Press officers in all the major fashion houses had realized that Colleen was no provincial free-sheet, but a force to be reckoned with. Not only had they placed big, expensive ads, but they’d actually asked for their collections to be included in forthcoming issues.
‘Hiya, Lisa.’ Lisa turned to see Kathy, her neighbour, holding a tray of sushi.
‘Oh, hi, Kathy.’
‘Thanks for getting me this gig.’
‘No problem.’
‘Thing is, a few people have been asking where the sausage rolls are?’
Lisa actually laughed. ‘Then they shouldn’t be here.’
‘I tried that sushi stuff myself,’ Kathy confided. ‘And, d’you know, it’s not bad.’
Marcus Valentine, looking the worse for wear, lurched past. Automatically, Lisa gave him a blinding smile. And Jasper Ffrench, looking even more the worse for wear, tottered after him. And here came Calvin Carter, who’d flown in from New York specially.
Calvin was all meaty handshakes and first-name usage.
‘Terrific, Lisa.’ He surveyed the good-looking crowd. ‘Terrrific. All righty, Lisa, let’s make speeches!’
He bounded up to the little stage and kicked off with an Irish phrase he’d made Ashling write out for him phonetically.
‘Kade Meela Fall-che,’ he bellowed, which seemed to go down very well, judging by the storm of laughter that rose. Although, of course, Calvin had always found it hard to distinguish between people laughing with him and people laughing at him.
Then he gave a speech about Dublin, about magazines and about how fab Colleen was.
‘And the woman who’s made it all possible…’ he extended his arm to encompass Lisa. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the editor’s editor, Lisa Edwards!’
As the room erupted into drunken applause, Lisa took the podium.
‘Clap,’ Ashling hissed at Mercedes, ‘or you’ll be sacked.’
Mercedes laughed darkly and kept her arms folded. Ashling gave her an anxious look, but couldn’t tarry. She was on bouquet duty. She was also trolleyed drunk – a combination of exhaustion, painkillers and alcohol, of course – and hoped she could stay on her feet long enough to carry the flowers up the little flight of steps.
As Lisa made her pretty speech, her glance alighted on Jack – or to use her own secret name for him, The Icing on Tonight’s Cake. He was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his slight smile wrapping her in great warmth and appreciation.
The high she was on lifted even further. Tonight was the night. Since he’d come back from New Orleans they’d all been too busy for enjoyment, she’d barely had time to flirt with him. But they could rest on their laurels after tonight and she fully intended to have him resting alongside her. She scanned her audience with a transcendental smile. Where the fuck was Ashling? Ah, there she was. Lisa gave the nod – time for the bouquet.
After the speeches, the partying moved up several gears. Calvin looked quite alarmed – they didn’t drink like this in New York. And where had Jack disappeared to?
Jack, worn out from glad-handing, had found a quiet seat in a corner and fallen gratefully into it. On the table there were some abandoned pieces of sushi – which someone had clearly been too perplexed by to eat.
Then, shattering his calm, the nearby swing doors burst violently open and, completely in time to the music, in danced Ashling, holding a glass and a fag. She was a surprisingly good dancer, every part of her body moving like a rhythmic sackful of puppies. Possibly because she was very, very drunk, he realized.
She made her way over to Jack, flung down her bag with drunken force, then noticed something on her knee. ‘Ladder alert!’ she announced. ‘Pass me my bag.’ Her fag thrust in her mouth, her eyes narrowed against the smoke, she fished out a can of hair-spray and briskly and efficiently ran it from mid-shin to thigh.
Jack watched, mesmerized. ‘What’s with the hairspray?’
‘Should stop the ladder.’ Her mouth did a kind of peristalsis, holding her fag steady in a corner, while she spoke and exhaled further along it. He was strangely in awe.
As he watched her put the canister back in her bag, he fixed upon the certain notion that he could trust her with his life.
She gave a sharp exclamation, as if she’d just thought of something great, then dived back into her bag and, seized by a spasm of laughter, emerged with a little glass bottle. In the grip of great mirth, she sprayed it on her wrist, which she then extended to Jack. ‘Guess what? I smell of wee.’
The way she gave at the middle indicated that she thought this was hysterical and he found himself laughing also, though he didn’t get the joke.
She demonstrated the bottle of Oui. ‘Oui, wee, geddit? Tonight’s free gift. Pity it’s not being given out until the end, else we could go round saying to everyone “You smell of wee”… Hey look,’ she’d noticed something. ‘You bite your nails.’ She picked up his hand and examined it.
‘Um, yeah,’ he admitted.
‘Why?’
‘Dunno.’ He wanted to come up with a reason but couldn’t seem to.
‘You worry too much.’ With fuzzy compassion, she patted the tender quick of his ragged fingers. ‘Here,’ she looked at him with sudden urgency. ‘Have you any cigarettes? Jasper Ffrench stole mine.’
‘I thought you’d have a spare pack.’ He was striving for a jokey tone, but his mouth felt mumbly-numb, as though he’d been at the dentist.
‘I had, but he stole them too.’
Across the room Jack noticed Lisa raising her glass to him. Everything about her body-language was an invitation. As he fumbled for his cigarettes, his head felt full of cotton-wool and he couldn’t think straight. Lisa was beautiful. She was smart and sassy and he was full of admiration for her vision and energy. More than that, he genuinely liked her. He must do – hadn’t he kissed her? Even if he still wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened.
Lisa had plans for him tonight, but with a sudden cold certainty he knew he didn’t want to fall in with them. Why not? Was it because Lisa was married? Because they worked together? Because he wasn’t over Mai? Or could it be because he wasn’t over Dee? But it wasn’t for any of those reasons. It was because of Ashling. The woman formerly known as Little Miss Fix-it.
What on earth was happening to him? Could it be jet-lag? he wondered swimmily. But he’d been back twelve days, it couldn’t be jet-lag.
Well, there was only one other conclusion he could draw. One sole, unavoidable conclusion.
He was having a nervous breakdown.
53
Ashling woke up and felt as if she’d been run over by a juggernaut in the night. Her ear throbbed, her bones hurt, weariness gripped her, but who cared? Last night had been great. The party had not only been a huge success, but lots of fun too.
For a moment she didn’t know whether or not she was alone in the bed. Then she remembered that she’d mislaid Marcus at some point in the evening and that she’d come home by herself. No problem. Now that the magazine was up and running, life could return to normal.
Aching all over, she dragged herself to the couch, where she smoked and watched morning telly. Her brain felt bruised. She was heinously late for work, but she didn’t care. The unspoken consensus was that everyone could roll in at whatever time they liked today. Eventually she reluctantly washed and dressed herself and it was eleven o’clock by the time she hit the street. It was raining. Dirty low September clouds hung over the city and the light was greeny-grey. A few yards from Ashling’s door Boo was sitting on the wet pavement. He was huddled into himself, his hair flattened against his skull, rivulets of rain running down his face. But as Ashling got nearer she noticed, with a hard bang to her heart, that it wasn’t the rain
that was making his face wet. He was crying.
‘Boo, what’s wrong? Has something happened?’
He looked up at her, then his mouth gaped wide as a silent bawl overtook him. ‘Look at me.’ Covering his eyes with one hand, he used the other to indicate himself, his soaked dirty clothes, the absence of shelter over his head. ‘It’s so fucking degrading,’ he shuddered.
Ashling froze. Boo was usually so cheerful.
‘I’m hungry, I’m cold, I’m soaked, I’m dirty, I’m bored, I’m lonely and I’m scared!’ His face was contorted as he wept. ‘I’m tired of being hassled by the police, I’m tired of being pissed on by drunk stag parties, I’m tired of being treated like a piece of shit. They won’t even let me into the café across the road to buy a cup of tea. A takeaway.’
Ashling had never actually thought Boo enjoyed being homeless, but she hadn’t realized he hated it so much.
‘I get so much abuse. People tell me I’m a lazy bastard, that I should get a job. I’d fucking love a job. I hate begging, it’s so humiliating.’
‘Has something happened?’ Ashling asked. ‘That triggered all of this?’
‘No,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m just having a bad day.’
As Ashling wondered what to do, rain dripped off the spokes of her umbrella and dotted the back of her jacket with cold, wet blobs. She experienced a burst of frustration. Boo shouldn’t be her responsibility. She paid her taxes, the government should take care of people like him. How about letting him shelter in the lobby of her apartment block? But she couldn’t: she’d done that during a heavy thunderstorm earlier in the summer and some of the other residents had kicked up a fuss. So should she let him into her flat? She really ought to, yet fond of him though she was, she was nevertheless resistant. But he was so miserable…
She gave in. ‘Come on up to my place. Have a shower and a bite to eat. And you can stick your clothes in the washing machine.’
She was hoping he’d refuse and she could go on her way with a clear conscience, but he looked at her with forlorn gratitude. ‘Thanks,’ he gulped, then burst into tears again.
‘I won’t make a habit of this,’ he promised, as she led him up the stairs.
As soon as she saw him contrasted against her cleanish flat she realized just how filthy he was. His grimy jeans were flappy-loose against his pathetic, skinny frame, his pale impish face was smeared with filth and his knuckles were cracked with dirt.
‘I smell,’ he admitted, shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry.’
Something burst in her heart. A grief, a rage.
‘Towels.’ Her back teeth were clamped against each other as she plumped a soft bundle into his arms. ‘Shampoo, spare toothbrush. In here, the washing machine, washing powder. Over here, the kettle, tea, coffee. If you find anything edible in the fridge, you’re welcome to it.’ She palmed him a fiver. ‘I’ve got to go to work, Boo. I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll never forget this.’
She closed the door on the sight of him standing in her hall, the knees of his sodden jeans Charlie-Chaplin-bandy, the bouffant bundle of towels dazzlingly white and marshmallow soft.
When Ashling arrived at the office, Jack Devine said, ‘Someone’s waiting for you.’ He indicated the man sitting punch-drunk at her desk.
The moment Ashling saw Dylan she knew something appalling had happened. Something truly dreadful. His features were so altered by shock that she almost didn’t recognize him, this man she’d known for eleven years. He looked faded, his skin and hair and eyes bleached of all life. He fastened his stunned, wounded gaze on to hers and announced for all to hear, ‘Clodagh’s having an affair.’
Realization slammed into Ashling with force. She believed him. A thought reeled through her consciousness: What terrible things people do to those they love.
She was honour-bound to go through the motions. There was no earthly way she could say to Dylan, ‘Actually I thought she might be playing away.’ Instead she had to pretend there was a possibility that he might be wrong. So she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I caught them.’
‘When? Where?’
‘I came home from work at ten o’clock this morning. I’ve been worried about her,’ he said defensively.
Suspicious of her, more like. But Ashling understood.
‘And I caught them in bed.’ Dylan’s voice charted into sudden soprano and for the second time in a morning Ashling watched a grown man weep like a child. ‘And I know who he is,’ Dylan admitted. ‘You know him too.’
Dread and knowledge built in tandem. Ashling knew who Dylan was going to say.
‘It’s that comedian fucker.’
I know.
‘That friend of yours.’
Ted!
‘Marcus wankhead,’ Dylan gulped. ‘Whatever his fucking name is. Valentine or something – Marcus Valentine.’
‘No, you mean Ted, little dark Ted.’
‘No, I don’t, I mean that lanky friend of yours, Marcus Valentine.’
Ashling’s nightmare suddenly swerved off in a different direction.
‘He’s not my friend,’ her voice said from a distant room. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’
The few people who were in – Jack, Mrs Morley, Bernard – were immobile with amazement. The only sound was of Dylan’s sobs.
‘I suppose it’s not that surprising,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s not the first time she’s stolen a boyfriend from you.’
He looked at her long and hard and asserted, ‘I should have stuck with you, Ashling… I’d better get going.’ He picked up a holdall.
‘What’s that?’ Ashling mumbled.
‘Clothes, stuff.’
‘You’ve left her?’
‘Fucking right I have.’
‘But where will you go?’
‘My mother’s, for a while.’
Numbly, she watched him leave.
A weight arrived on her shoulders. An arm. Belonging to Jack Devine. ‘Come into my office.’
Lisa woke up, afflicted by the hollow anticlimax that follows a high. All the sparkling Stardust of the night before had gone. Yeah, the magazine was great, yeah, the party was a triumph, but it was only a thirty k circulation in a backwater. What was the big deal?
Her anticlimax was laced with a bigger disappointment. It was Jack. She’d been sure he’d come home with her. She felt she’d deserved it, her reward for working so hard and making everything happen.
Though they hadn’t gone out together since he’d returned from New Orleans, she’d assumed that they shared an unspoken agreement that they’d wait until the launch was underway. But last night when she’d gone to claim her prize, he’d disappeared.
At midday, her mood scraping the pavement, she arrived at work. She made straight for Jack’s office, partly to do a postmortem on the launch, partly to check the vibe from him. She opened the door…
And saw the most amazing scene. In an instant, primeval knowledge shot through her and rooted her to the spot.
It wasn’t that Ashling and Jack were alone in his office, it wasn’t that Jack was cradling Ashling like the most precious of china dolls. It was the look on Jack’s face. Lisa had never seen such an expression of tenderness.
She backed out, her disbelief turning the office into a dreamscape.
Trix approached with a scrap of paper. ‘There’s been a phone call for you –’
‘Not now.’
Some minutes later, Ashling emerged, putty-grey and avoiding eye-contact. She left the office.
Then out came Jack, looking weary. ‘Lisa!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ashling’s had a bad shock, I’ve sent her home.’
Speaking to him required effort. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s, ah, discovered that her boyfriend is having an affair with her best friend.’
‘What? Marcus Valentine and that Clodagh?’
‘Yes.’
Lisa had a hysterical urge to laugh.
‘Could you come into my
office?’ Jack asked. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Was he going to apologize? Explain that he’d only been comforting Ashling and that it was Lisa he really cared for? But all he wanted to talk about was work.
‘First, I’d like to congratulate you on last night, and on the first issue. What you have achieved is above and beyond what we’d hoped for and the entire board offer their congratulations.’
Lisa nodded, aware of an undertow of loss. All their easiness was slipping away, being tugged from under her feet. Jack was clearly uncomfortable with her.
‘I’m sorry to do this when you should be enjoying your success,’ he went on. ‘But I have bad news.’
You’re in love with Ashling?
‘Mercedes resigned this morning.’
‘Oh. Oh. Why?’
‘She’s leaving Ireland.’
Bitch, Lisa thought viciously. She hadn’t even had the decency to say it was because Lisa was a power-crazed tyrant whom she could no longer work for.
‘She’s got a job in New York,’ Jack elaborated. ‘Apparently her husband’s been seconded there.’
‘New York?’ Lisa was reminded of the trip Mercedes had taken in June. The most horrible thought in the world hit her. ‘Her new job, it’s not… not… at Manhattan?’
‘I don’t know which magazine, she didn’t say.’
‘Where is she?’ Lisa snarled, suddenly feral.
‘Gone. She was due a week’s holiday, which she took in lieu of notice.’
Lisa put her face in her hands. ‘Do you mind if I go home?’
She called a cab, and fifteen minutes later, still feeling like she was dreaming, she found herself at home. Scratching the key in her front door, she let herself in. The post had come – one big manila envelope was lying in the hall. Absently she picked it up and, as she kicked off her shoes, tore it open. She unfolded the stiff paper within while tossing her handbag on to the kitchen counter. Then, finally, she turned her attention to the pages she held in her hand.
A one-second glance was all it took. She sank to the floor, jack-knifed with disbelief.
