by Marian Keyes
‘Is Dylan gone?’ he asked.
‘Yes –’
‘OK, I’m on my way.’
‘No, wait!’
‘What?’ His voice was suddenly unfriendly.
‘I’d love to see you,’ she explained, ‘but not tonight. It’s too soon. I don’t want to confuse the kids. You see, Dylan’s talking about all kinds of terrible things like making sure I don’t get custody of them.’
All was still, then in a low voice Marcus asked, ‘Don’t you want to see me?’
‘Marcus, I would give anything! You know I would, but I think it’s better if we leave it until tomorrow. Hey, I bet you’re sorry you ever got involved in this,’ she sniffled, with a little laugh.
‘Don’t be mad,’ he insisted, as she’d known he would.
‘Call over tomorrow afternoon,’ she invited shyly. ‘There’s a couple of people I’d like you to meet.’
The following afternoon Marcus arrived with a Barbie for Molly and a big red truck for Craig. Despite the presents, the children greeted him with suspicion. They both sensed that their world was horribly askew and were further unsettled by this newcomer. Battling their resistance, Marcus patiently played with them both, solemnly brushing Barbie’s hair and shoving the truck back and forth, back and forth along the carpet to Craig. It took an hour of full-on dedication and the production of a bag of Percy Pigs before Molly and Craig began to slip into unselfconsciousness.
Sick with hope, Clodagh watched, hardly daring to breathe. Maybe things would get better. Maybe everything would work out. Her head reeled off into the future. Perhaps Marcus could move in here, he could pay the mortgage, she’d get custody of the children, Dylan would be unmasked as a paedophile or a drug-dealer so that everyone would hate him and forgive her…
While Craig and Molly were briefly distracted, Marcus took advantage of the gap to gently touch her. ‘How are you?’ he asked softly. ‘Bearing up?’
‘Everyone hates us,’ she laughed tearfully. ‘But at least we have each other.’
‘That’s right. How soon can I get you into bed?’ he murmured, sneaking a hand under her T-shirt and cupping the breast furthest from the children. He pinched her nipple and her mouth went slack with desire.
‘Muuuummmeee,’ Craig set up a wailing, clambered to his feet and tried to push Marcus off his mother. He flailed wildly with his new red truck and managed to catch Marcus on the outer reaches of his left testicle. Not near enough to cause any real damage but enough to send eddies of nausea through his abdomen.
‘Darling, you’re going to have to learn to share,’ Clodagh said softly.
‘Don’t want to!’
After an awkward pause, Clodagh said, ‘Marcus, I was actually talking to Craig.’
56
Lisa crouched on the floor, clutching her divorce petition. The wave of depression that had lapped and receded, lapped and receded since she’d first arrived in Dublin had finally broken over her head.
I’m a failure, she acknowledged. I’m a big, fat failure. My marriage is over,
Crazily, she’d never really thought it was going to happen. She saw that now with painful clarity. It was why she’d never got herself a solicitor. Throughout the entire break-up with Oliver she’d behaved uncharacteristically: she’d always been proactive and dynamic. She got things done, and quickly. But, for whatever reason, not this.
Well, she’d better get herself a solicitor now.
But if she’d been in denial, then so had Oliver, she insisted, keen to stop feeling so… so…foolish. He’d left her in January and was paying rent elsewhere but continued to pay his half of their mortgage. That wasn’t the behaviour of a man keen to sever links.
She caught a glimpse of herself crouched on the floor in all her pathos. Feeling silly, she clambered to her feet – then immediately ran out of steam. She made it as far as her bedroom, fell into bed and dragged her duvet over her.
Something about the way the duvet wafted and softly wrapped itself about her burst open her swollen emotions, and she cried tears of loss, of failure and – yes! – of self-pity. She was entitled to feel sorry for herself, dammit. Look at all the shitty things that had happened. Being rejected by Jack – though it wasn’t up there with the pain of losing Oliver – contributed to the mix. And Mercedes, if she’s got a job at Manhattan, I’ll, I’ll… Well, what could she do? Precisely nothing. She’d never been so keenly aware of her own powerlessness. And though she’d got Trix to make a thousand phone calls to the shop, her wooden blind still wasn’t ready. Would probably never be ready, at this rate.
This was the emetic she needed. The ladylike weeping escalated until she was bawling like a baby.
‘… In sickness and in health…’
‘… Ashlings had a bad shock…’
‘… Yew may kiss the braaaaade…’
‘… she’s got a job in New York…’
‘… the factory is closed for their summer holidays…’
Howling, she stretched out a hand and toppled a box of tissues into the bed with her.
As the hours passed the light outside her bedroom window faded into pink. Charcoaly blue darkened her room, then night-black tinged with city-violet. She was still treating herself to the occasional squall when the muffled pearly grey of dawn crept in. This eventually dispersed and sharpened into a hard blue September sky. Noises began outside as the day got going, but Lisa elected to remain where she was, thanks very much.
Sometime, in what might have been the afternoon, there was an intrusion into her cotton-wool reality. A noise in her hall, footsteps, then she jumped as Kathy stuck her shredded-wheat head around the bedroom door.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lisa gazed with red-rimmed eyes.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Kathy said. ‘I always clean for you on Saturday.’
The tissue balls strewn over the duvet cover, the unmistakable miasma of despondency and the fact that Lisa was in bed and seemed to be still dressed, greatly alarmed Kathy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’
Kathy clearly didn’t believe her. Then Lisa had a wearily inspired idea. ‘I’m ill, I’ve got the flu.’
Instantly Kathy was all sympathy. Would she like some flat 7-Up, a Lemsip, a hot whiskey?
Lisa shook her head and got back to staring at nothing. A full-time job.
Flu? Kathy wondered. She hadn’t heard of anyone else coming down with it. But was it any wonder Lisa had caught something, living in this filth? She started her clean-up operation in the kitchen, wiping sticky surfaces – how did Lisa do it? – then shifted a document out of the way. Naturally she cast a glance over it – what was she, a saint? – and in an instant everything made sense. Flu? Lisa didn’t have flu. God love her, flu would be far nicer.
An indeterminate amount of time later and Kathy was back in the bedroom. ‘I’ll just clean in here.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘But those sheets are manky, Lisa.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Kathy exited, then Lisa heard the slam of the front-door. Good. On her own again.
But a short few minutes later the front-door opened once more and Kathy reappeared with a plastic shopping-bag. ‘Fags, sweets, a scratch-card and the RTÉ Guide. If there’s anything you want from the shop, just give us a shout. If I’m not there Francine will go, and she says she’ll do it for free.’
Francine normally charged a pound every time she went to the shop for Lisa.
‘I’m off to work now,’ Kathy said. ‘Before I go, would you like a cup of tea?’
Lisa shook her head. Kathy made it anyway.
‘Strong, sweet tea,’ she said meaningfully, as she placed it beside Lisa.
Lisa found herself looking at Kathy’s runners. They were worn-down, grey-white plastic and on the instep bend they were cracked. Quickly she ripped out another hank of tissues and pressed it to her eyes.
After Ashling threw down the final gauntlet that she would never forgive Clodag
h, she left, still burning with righteous anger. Next stop Marcus.
Her face set, she walked speedily, almost tripping, heading for town and Marcus’s office. Zipping through the crowds of Leeson Street, a man going the other way, also moving at high speed, bumped against her, his shoulder smacking hard against hers. He was already gone, but in slow motion Ashling staggered back, feeling the bang reverberate through her again and again. Suddenly fragmented, all her anger smashed like a glass bauble, reduced and useless. The noise of the city hit her in a roar. Cars beeping; hard, snarling faces. Abruptly, nowhere was safe.
Her body quivering to the rhythm of fear, the showdown with Marcus was forgotten. She couldn’t have a showdown with a marshmallow.
What was she doing being angry anyway? Anger had never been her style. It was only twenty minutes since the confrontation with Clodagh and right now it was impossible to believe it was she who had done it.
She hastened towards home, cradling her fragility. The world had turned into a Hieronymus Bosch painting: dirty travelling children singing songs they didn’t know the words to; couples snarling at each other for not filling their own emptiness; a toothless alcoholic woman shouting the odds at invisible enemies; homeless men in doorways, their mouths maws of despair.
Homeless men!
Please let Boo have gone. And please let him not have robbed me blind.
She didn’t really think he would have, but after the day she’d had, she was braced for anything.
He hadn’t. The place was pretty much as she’d left it, except for a thank-you note on the table. She climbed into bed. She’d just have a little rest to get over the shock.
But she was still there when, sometime on Friday evening, Joy let herself in with Ashling’s spare key. She burst into the room, her face bruised with concern. ‘I rang you at work and spoke to Divine Jack. He told me what happened. I’m so sorry.’ Joy gathered her in her arms while Ashling lay as unresponsive as a rolled-up carpet.
Half-an-hour later Ted made a wary appearance. He and Ashling hadn’t spoken in over three weeks, since Ashling had quizzed him on his Edinburgh trip.
‘Ted, I’m sorry,’ Ashling said wearily. ‘I thought you were having an affair with Clodagh.’
‘You did?’ His dark narrow face lit up in delight. Then hastily he wiped it and assumed an expression of gravitas. ‘I’ve brought you some tissues,’ he offered. ‘They say “Groovy Chick” on them.’
‘Leave them there. Beside the tissues Joy brought me.’
At the sound of the key in the door, Lisa semi-emerged from torpor. Kathy again. But it wasn’t Kathy, it was Francine.
‘Hiya.’ Francine swung her roly-poly body into the bedroom. ‘My ma says I’ve to keep you company.’
‘I don’t want company.’ Lisa could hardly lift her head from the pillow.
‘Can I try this on?’ Francine had her eye on a pink feather boa.
‘No.’
She draped it around her anyway and admired herself in the full-length mirror, a stout little figure in flowered leggings and a yellow T-shirt.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ Lisa asked wearily.
‘Nah.’ Francine did a scornful swagger. ‘It’s Sunday.’
Blimey, Lisa thought in idle wonder. I’ve lost track of the days.
‘Though even if it wasn’t Sunday and I didn’t want to go to school, I wouldn’t go,’ Francine boasted.
‘But you won’t get an education and then you won’t get a good job.’ Lisa didn’t care whether or not Francine got an education, but she wanted to annoy her so that she’d leave.
‘Don’t need an education. I’m going to be in a girl-band and my da says they’re all as thick as bottled shite. Here! Will I show you my dance routine?’
‘No. Just piss off and leave me alone.’
‘D’you’ve a stereo?’ Francine stalwartly ignored Lisa’s hostility. ‘No? OK, I’ll hum. Right, you’ve to imagine that I’m in the middle and that there are two girls on this side of me and two on that side. Hold on.’ Quickly Francine rolled up her T-shirt into a makeshift crop top, displaying her childish, rotund belly.
‘What’s that gold mark on your stomach?’ Lisa asked, interested, despite everything.
‘My belly-button ring.’ Francine was defensive.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Look, I had to draw it,’ Francine insisted. ‘My ma says I can get a real one when I’m thirteen – though I’ll be dead by then,’ she added gloomily.
Then she rallied. ‘Two, three, four.’ She tapped her foot on the floor and counted herself in, then launched into her routine. Right elbow ‘chickened’ to the side twice, then left elbow. Two jerky hops on the right foot, two jerky hops on the left, then with a sharp smack to her plump buttock, she turned her back on Lisa. Humming all the while, she swung her hips, getting lower and lower to the floor. An exotic dancer couldn’t have been more explicit. She undulated back to normal height, then did an ungainly jump to the front again, her expression a fist of grim concentration. ‘This is the best bit,’ she promised. ‘Shimmmmmeeee.’ Stretching both arms out as far as they would go, she wriggled her shoulders and did a bosom-free shimmy at Lisa. ‘Da-dah!’ She finished by attempting to do the splits. She got nowhere near the floor.
‘Amazing,’ Lisa acknowledged. It had certainly been that.
‘Thanks.’ Francine was breathless and red with pleasure.
‘’Course I’ll be singing as well. I’ll be the lead singer. You get paid more for that. And I’ll write the songs too. You get even more money for that.’
Lisa nodded at her enterprise.
‘And merchandising, I’ll be in charge of that too,’ Francine promised. ‘That’s where the real money is.’ She gave Lisa a sharp look. ‘How’s your flu now? Better?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Are you eating that KitKat?’
‘No.’
‘Can I have it?’
It was only when Lisa couldn’t get out of bed to go to work on Monday morning that she suddenly realized she was losing it. Apart from skiving off early on Friday, she couldn’t remember when she’d last missed work. Had she ever? She’d gone in when she had period pains, head colds, hangovers, bad-hair days. She’d gone in on her holidays. She’d gone in when her husband had left her. So what was she at now?
And why wasn’t it nice?
She’d always been such a control freak that she’d never been able to understand those who’d cracked up, who’d been led sobbing from their desks and had never returned. But she’d entertained a perverse curiosity about losing it, suspecting that there must be some comfort therein. Wouldn’t it be liberating to be utterly incapable, to have no choice but to let others take charge?
Well, apparently not. She was unable to function and she hated it.
She should go to work. She was needed there. The Colleen staff was too small to accommodate absenteeism, especially with Mercedes gone and Ashling laid low also. But she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Her body was too heavy and her mind was too weary.
Eventually she became aware that she had to pee. She battled it, pretending it wasn’t happening, but eventually the discomfort got so great she had to go to the bathroom. Passing the kitchen on her return she noticed the divorce petition lying on the counter. She hadn’t looked at it since Friday, she never wanted to see it again, but she knew she had to.
She took it back to bed and forced herself to study it. She should hate Oliver. The fucking nerve of him, divorcing her! But what did she expect? Their marriage was over, ‘irretrievably broken down’ if you wanted to be technical about it, and let’s face it, he did.
The language on the petition was pompous and impenetrable. Again she realized how badly she needed a solicitor, how frighteningly out of her depth she was. She skimmed the stiff pages, trying to understand, and the first thing that actually made sense was that Oliver was seeking a divorce on the grounds of Lisa’s ‘unreasonable behaviour’. The words jumped out an
d stung her. She hated being accused of doing something wrong. The marriage breakdown wasn’t her fault, she fumed. They’d just wanted different things. Fucking bastard. She could come up with some unreasonable-behaviour accusations of her own, if she put her mind to it. Wanting her barefoot, pregnant and manacled to the kitchen sink – that’s pretty unreasonable.
But the anger cooled as she remembered the unreasonable-behaviour accusation was only a formality. He’d explained all that when he’d come to Dublin – they had to have a reason to give to the court and she could just as easily have sued him.
Reading on, there were five examples, just as he’d told her there had to be. Working nine weekends in a row. Missing his parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary due to work commitments. Cancelling their holiday in St Lucia at the last minute because she had to work. Pretending she wanted to get pregnant. Owning too many clothes. Each instance cut through her like a knife. Apart from the owning-too-many-clothes one. She presumed that by example five he’d run out of real complaints. Costs would be shared and neither would be seeking maintenance from the other.
Apparently she had to sign something called an Acknowledgement of Service and send it back to Oliver’s solicitor. But she was signing nothing. And not just because she hadn’t the will to pick up a pen. Her instinct for self-preservation went very deep.
There was a knock at her door. She actually managed a silent laugh. The thought of her leaving the bed to answer it was so unlikely as to be funny. Another knock. It didn’t bother her in the slightest. No chance she’d respond. Voices outside. Another knock – more of a pounding, really. Then a creak as the letter-box flap was lifted.
‘Lisa?’ a voice asked.
She barely registered it.
‘Lisa,’ the voice called again.
It was so not a problem to ignore it.
‘LEEEEEESSSSAAAA,’ the voice bellowed. She realized she recognized it. It was Beck. Well, that wasn’t his real name, but he was one of the Man-U-loving little boys who lived on the road. The one with the very loud voice. ‘I KNOW you’re in there. I’m on the MITCH too. There’s a BIG packet of flowers here, d’you want them?’
