by Marian Keyes
‘How do you do,’ Kathy said, wondering what a husfriend was. Perhaps it was something like a gal pal.
When Kathy left, they lapsed into extra-nice, super-jovial awkwardness – although they were well disposed to each other, there was no doubt but that this was a very strange situation with no clear code of behaviour. Oliver over-enthusiastically admired the house and Lisa grandiosely outlined her plans, with specific reference to a wooden blind.
Eventually they both calmed down and began behaving more normally. ‘We should get started, babes,’ Oliver said, and unloaded from his bag something that, for a heartbeat, she thought was a present for her, then realized was a box-file of documents: deeds, bank accounts, credit-card statements, mortgage bumpf. He put on a pair of silver-framed glasses and, though he looked deliciously professional, all her fluttery, nervy, girly anticipation abruptly vanished. What was she thinking of? This wasn’t a date, this was a meeting about their divorce.
Her spirits suddenly slithered to the bottom of the pole. Heavily, she took a seat at the kitchen table and set about the severing of their two financial lives, in order to restore them, functioning and complete, to their single status. It was as delicate and complicated a process as separating Siamese twins.
Playing paperchase with bank accounts that went back five years, they tried to list all the different payments they’d both made on their flat. Between deposits and endowment policies and solicitor’s fees, the two distinct strands were regularly obscured.
A couple of times it got jagged and ugly, as things often do over money. Lisa insisted quite forcibly that she’d paid all the solicitor’s fees, but Oliver was certain that he too had contributed.
‘Look here,’ he rustled and located a stiff-paged invoice from their solicitor, ‘a bill for five hundred and twelve pounds, sixteen pence. And here,’ he jabbed at his bank statement, ‘a cheque for five hundred and twelve pounds, sixteen pence, issued three weeks later. A coincidence? I don’t think so!’
‘Show me that!’ She examined them both, then muttered, ‘Sorry.’
The doorbell rang and Francine waltzed in. ‘Hiya Leeeeesa. Er, hiya,’ she nodded at Oliver, shyness eclipsing her confidence. She turned back to Lisa. ‘We’re having a slumber party tonight. Me and Chloe and Trudie and Phoebe. Will you come?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve already got plans.’
‘OK. Um, have you any spare face-packs we could use?’
Lisa bit back annoyance. ‘Sorry Oliver, just a sec. Come into my bedroom, Francine.’
‘Bless!’ Oliver exclaimed, when Francine departed with a plastic bag full of face-packs, nail polishes, exfoliants and other slumber-party paraphernalia.
Lisa twitched irritably. ‘She only called to get a look at you.’
They returned to the paperchase and kept stumbling over memories.
‘What the hell did we buy at Aero that cost so much?’
‘Our bed,’ Oliver replied shortly.
Stillness descended, dense with unexpressed feelings.
‘A cheque to Discovery Travel?’ Lisa asked later.
‘Cyprus.’
That one word hurled a bomb of emotions at her. Dazzling warmth, limbs tangled while late-afternoon sunshine slanted shadowy patterns across their sheets: she was intensely in love, on her first ‘married’ holiday, unable to imagine ever being without Oliver.
Look at them now, coming across the cheque as they prepared for their divorce. Wasn’t life weird?
A couple of hours on, the doorbell rang again. This time it was Beck. ‘Lisa, do you want to come OUT? We’re just kicking a BALL around.’
‘I’m busy, Beck.’
‘Hiya.’ Beck tried a man-to-man nod at Oliver, but couldn’t hide his manifest awe. ‘How about yourself?’
‘He’s busy also.’ Lisa was getting increasingly pissed off. They were treating Oliver like a freak-show.
‘Actually,’ Oliver put down his pen and took off his glasses, ‘I could do with a break. This is doing me in. Half an hour?’ He unfolded himself fluidly and Lisa watched his muscular grace.
‘You coming, LISA?’
‘Might as well.’
‘At the start she used to play dirty,’ Beck confided to Oliver, ‘but she’s stopped now.’
‘She plays football with you?’ Oliver sounded astonished.
‘’Course she does.’ Now it was Beck’s turn to sound astonished. ‘She’s not bad. For a girl.’
Open-mouthed, Oliver said – almost accusingly – ‘You’ve changed.’
‘I haven’t.’ Lisa’s voice was level.
The thirty minutes spent skidding and scuffling after a ball around the cul-de-sac was a good idea. They were breathless and elated when they returned to the kitchen table strewn with documents.
‘Oooo-weee,’ Oliver winced when he saw it. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Hey, let’s leave it for tonight.’
‘Best not, babes. A lot to get through.’
Knocked back but hiding it well, Lisa rang for a couple of pizzas and they started work again. It was midnight before they stopped.
‘What’s the time-scale on all this?’ Lisa asked.
‘As soon as we’re in agreement over the finances we lodge it in the court, and the decree nisi will be delivered two to three months later. Then the final decree comes six weeks after that.’
‘Oh. That quickly.’ And Lisa couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The day had left her exhausted, sullied and sorrowful. Her neck hurt, her heart hurt and now it was bedtime and she so didn’t want to have sex.
Neither did he. They were both much too sad.
He undressed unthinkingly, wearily, letting his clothes lie where they fell, then climbed into Lisa’s bed as though he’d been there a million times. He held out his arms to her and she went to him. Skin against skin, they assumed their normal sleeping positions – spooned together, her back pressed tightly against his chest, her feet between his thighs. More intimate, more tender than sex. In the darkness she cried. He heard her and could find nothing within him to comfort her with.
The following day they took up their positions at the table once more and worked until three o’clock, when it was time for Oliver to leave. She took a taxi with him to the airport and when she returned to her cavernously empty house, her bed beckoned lasciviously. She was so depressed. But she resisted climbing back in and checking out of things again. Life must go on.
59
On Monday morning, Monica walked Ashling to work. ‘Good girl, off you go.’ It was like her first day at school. Ashling walked through the front-doors, then half-turned back and Monica gesticulated Go on! through the glass. Reluctantly she traipsed towards the lift.
When she took up her position at her desk everyone looked funny at her, then suddenly they became humiliatingly extra-nice.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Trix offered awkwardly.
‘Trix, you’re freaking me out,’ Ashling replied, then tried to look at the things on her desk. When she looked up a second later Trix was shaking her head at Mrs Morley and mouthing She doesn’t want tea.
Jack came flying in, a huge bundle of documents under his arm. He looked stressed and narky but when he noticed Ashling he slowed down and lightened up. ‘How are you?’ he asked gently.
‘Well, I’m out of bed,’ she offered. But her plaster-of-Paris rigid face was an indication that all wasn’t exactly jolly either. ‘Look, the day you came round to my flat… Thank you for the sushi, I was a bit, um, touchy.’
‘No problem. How’s the Weltschmerz?’
‘Alive and well.’
He nodded in encouraging, but impotent silence.
‘I’d better do some work,’ she said.
‘This sadness you feel?’ Jack asked slowly. ‘Is it free-floating or does it take a particular form?’
Ashling considered and after a while spoke. ‘A particular form, I suppose. There’s this homeless boy I know. Boo, the one in the photo
s, remember? He’s made homelessness real for me and it’s breaking my heart into pieces.’
After a silence Jack said thoughtfully, ‘You know, we could give him a job. Start him on something basic like being a runner at the TV station.’
‘But you can’t offer a job to someone you haven’t met.’
‘I know Boo.’
‘How?’
‘I saw him in the street one day. I recognized him from the photos, so we had a little chat. I wanted to thank him, those photos made a huge difference to the profile of Colleen. I thought he seemed very bright, very keen.’
‘Oh, he is, he’s interested in everythi– Wait a minute, are you serious?’
‘Sure. Why not? God knows, we owe him. Look at all the advertising those pictures generated.’
Ashling lifted momentarily, then she slid back into the pit. ‘But what about all the other homeless people? The ones who didn’t get into the photos.’
Jack laughed sadly. ‘I can’t give them all jobs.’
With a loud clatter the door opened and a dapper-looking young man beamed around the office. ‘Morning campers!’ he declared.
‘Who’s that?’ Ashling wondered, taking in his streaked hair, tailored magenta pants, see-through T-shirt and the tiny leather jacket he was peeling from his body.
‘Robbie, our new boy. Mercedes’ replacement,’ Jack said. ‘He started on Thursday. Robbie! Come and meet Ashling.’
Robbie fluttered a hand to his almost-naked chest and affected surprise. ‘Little old moi?!’
‘I think he’s gay,’ Kelvin hissed.
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Trix said with withering sarcasm.
Robbie solemnly shook hands with Ashling then, with a gasp, fell on her handbag. ‘Very Gucci! I think I’m having a fashion moment.’
Ashling actually managed to work – which came as a surprise. In fairness, she wasn’t given anything remotely taxing. And the one thing that resolutely didn’t appear on her desk for her to edit, sub-edit or input was Marcus Valentine’s monthly article.
At the end of the day, her mother collected her from work and permitted her to go straight to bed when she got home.
On Tuesday morning, with much prodding, poking and motherly encouragement, she managed to get up and go to work again. Same on Wednesday morning. And Thursday.
On Friday, Monica returned to Cork. ‘I’d better. Your father will probably have burnt the house down in my absence. Now, keep taking the tablets – never mind if they make you feel dizzy and like puking – then sort out some counselling and you’ll be grand.’
‘OK.’ Ashling went to work and felt she was doing quite well – until midday, when Dylan walked into the office. Immediately, her low-level nausea increased. He’d have information. Information she was hungry for but which would inevitably cause pain.
‘Free for lunch?’ he asked.
His arrival sent a thrill through the office. Those who didn’t know what Marcus Valentine looked like mouthed excitedly to those who did, Is that him?. Were they going to be witness to a romantic passionate reunion? So they were very disappointed when those in the know mouthed back, No, that’s the friend’s husband.
As Ashling got her bag, Dylan’s and Lisa’s eyes met in a flare of one-beautiful-person-to-another interest.
Dylan looked different. He’d always been handsome, if a mite bland. But overnight, he’d acquired a glittery hardness, a dissipated magnetism. With his hand on Ashling’s waist, he guided her out, the eyes of the entire office burning the backs of the two cuckolds.
They went to the pub next door and found a table in a corner. Though Ashling would only have Diet Coke, Dylan ordered a pint of lager.
‘Hair of the dog,’ he exhaled. ‘On the serious razz last night.’
‘Still at your mother’s?’ Ashling asked.
‘Yes.’ A bitter little laugh.
So that meant Clodagh and Marcus were still together. It hadn’t all blown over and revealed itself as a brief madness. She had a very real, visceral desire to vomit. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘Not much yet, except that we’ve decided I’ll see the kids every weekend and stay in the house on Saturday nights.’ Shame-faced he admitted, ‘I’ve told Clodagh I’ll wait for her, so hopefully she’ll cop on. Though she’s actually told me she loves this wanker. God knows why.’ A pause of realization. ‘Sorry.’
‘’s OK.’
‘How are you doing?’ He turned the spotlight of his concern on to her and momentarily he was like the old Dylan.
She hesitated. What was she going to say? I hate the world, I hate being alive, I’m on anti-depressants, my mother has to put the toothpaste on my toothbrush in the morning and now that she’s gone back to Cork I don’t know how I’ll manage to brush my teeth.
‘Fine,’ she said.
He didn’t look too convinced, so she promised him, ‘Really, I am. Go on, tell me more of what’s been going on.’
Dylan exhaled miserably. ‘It’s the children I’m really worried about. They’re so confused, it’s desperate. But they’re too young for the whole story. And I shouldn’t be turning them against their mother anyway, even if I hate her.’
‘You don’t hate her.’
‘Oh, believe me Ashling, I do.’
Ashling found his truculence pathetic. He only hated Clodagh because he loved her so much.
‘It might all blow over,’ Ashling said, with as much hope for herself as for Dylan.
‘Yeah. Let’s wait and see. Have you spoken to either of them?’
‘I saw Clodagh two weeks ago today on the… that Friday. But I haven’t been able to get hold of…’ She hesitated. Saying his name hurt. ‘… Marcus. I’ve tried ringing him, but he’s stopped answering his phone.’
‘You could call to his house.’
‘No.’
‘Good on you. Keep your dignity.’
Ashling shifted forlornly. It wasn’t really that. She simply hadn’t the heart.
When Oliver returned to London he didn’t ring Lisa, and she didn’t ring him either. There was nothing to say. They were both going to get approval from their solicitors over their financial situations, then the decree nisi was only a matter of months.
Lisa got through the week but, although she was functioning, she wasn’t anything like OK. She’d managed to put the October issue to bed, but it had been like pushing a ball of glue up a hill. Especially with Ashling going round like a zombie.
Robbie was good, though. Full of wild ideas for future issues. A lot of them too outré, but at least one – for a shoot styled like an S&M session – was pure genius.
When everything had gone to the printers on Friday evening, several people invited her for after-work drinks. Trix and Robbie and even Jack had suggested they go somewhere to celebrate ‘closure on October’. But she’d had enough of them all and she went straight home.
No sooner was she in than Kathy called to the door. Kathy seemed to be around a lot. Or if it wasn’t Kathy it was Francine. Or several others from the road.
‘Come over to us for your dinner this evening,’ Kathy invited.
Lisa almost laughed at the thought, then Kathy said, ‘We’re having roast chicken,’ and suddenly Lisa found herself agreeing. Why not? she thought, trying to justify it. She could start the Scarsdale diet, she hadn’t done it in ages and roast chicken would fit in perfectly.
Ten minutes later she walked into Kathy’s kitchen and was hit by steam and the noise of the telly and children fighting. Kathy looked frazzled. ‘We’re nearly ready. Stir the gravy, you useless eejit.’ This was directed at John, her benign lump of a husband. ‘Drink, Lisa?’
Lisa was about to ask for a glass of dry white wine when Kathy elaborated, ‘Ribena? Tea? Milk?’
‘Erm, oh, milk, I suppose.’
‘Get Lisa some milk.’ Kathy levelled a passing kick at Jessica, who was rolling on the floor with Francine. ‘In a good glass. Sit at the table, everyone.’
Lisa noticed th
at she was given about three times as much as anyone else. Kathy had heaped at least four roast potatoes on to her plate before she could protest that she didn’t eat them. She tried to pretend they weren’t there but they looked and smelt so delicious… She fought it a little harder, then yielded, and for the first time in ten years, a piece of roast potato crossed her lips. I’ll start the diet tomorrow.
‘Stop kicking the table leg!’ Kathy yelled at Lauren, the youngest. Lauren made a face, stopped and started again three seconds later.
‘You’re sticking your elbow into me,’ Francine complained to Lisa.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry,’ Francine was instantly contrite. ‘You should say that at least you don’t make noise when you eat.’
‘Right, got it.’
‘Or that you’re not a big fat greedy guts,’ Jessica offered helpfully.
‘Or that I’m not the one who keeps farting,’ Lisa said.
‘Yeah!’
Crammed around the small kitchen table, the telly blaring, milk moustaches on everyone, including herself probably, Lisa had a flash of déjà vu. Of what? What did this remind her of? And a dreadful realization lunged at her. It was just like her own home in Hemel Hempstead. The crampedness, the noise, the good-natured bickering, the whole feel was the same. How on earth did I end up back here?
‘Are you OK, Lisa?’ Kathy asked.
Lisa nodded. But she was fighting the desire to catapult vertically from her chair and run from the house. She was a working-class girl who’d spent her life trying to be something else. And despite years devoted to the gruelling treadmill of networking, sucking up, doing down, always paying attention, never relaxing, she’d been brought inexorably back to where she started.
It knocked the power of speech from her.
She’d never really considered what she was sacrificing as she’d rocket-launched herself away from her roots. The rewards had always seemed worth it. But sitting in Kathy’s kitchen, she could see no evidence of the glamorous life she’d constructed for herself. Instead she was walloped by what she’d forfeited – friends, family, worst of all Oliver, and for nothing.
