Occasionally, bits and pieces of news about them would flitter back to us on the grapevine: they’ve relocated back to Ireland/he’s changed jobs and is now working for Repak calculating people’s carbon foot-prints/something about them having twin girls. But, as I’m always saying to Fiona, you never hear the news you really want to: i.e., he’s realized that, actually, Fiona was the one true love of his life, and is now going around telling anyone who’ll listen what a colossal mistake his rebound marriage was/that Ayesha’s now in love with a Guatemalan professional poker player, so splitting up would suit her down to the ground as well/that, in the interim, she’s also put on three stone.
Ho hum.
Anyway, back to the awful photo which Fiona’s still staring at, and the more misty-eyed she’s getting, the worse it’s making me feel, so if only just to prevent me from coming over all sniffily, let me tell you a couple of things you should know about her in work.
1. She teaches English and history, and gets majorly pissed off whenever people tell her she has a jammy job, finished at four, long holidays, etc. The actual classroom stuff, she reckons, is the doddley part; fifty per cent crowd-control, and fifty per cent cattle-prodding. The real work is when she has to sit down every night and correct pile upon pile of essays with titles like, ‘Analyse the part played by Bismarck in the history of the German empire, 1871–1890’ or else, ‘In what way might Wordsworth’s “Surprised by Joy” be termed a typical Romantic poem?’ Deserves every red cent she makes, if you ask me.
2. It’s a posh, all-girls, fee-paying convent school, which effectively means Fiona’s chances of meeting a guy through work are slim to none. Apart from Mr Byrne, the art teacher, who’s late sixties and very likely gay (he went to Vegas last summer to see Céline Dion . . . go figure), all other staff members are female, married or else nuns. Also, a disproportionate amount of them are, for some reason, called Mary, but I digress.
3. Don’t get me wrong, the rest of the staff are all lovely, but Fiona is the youngest by a good ten years and is always saying that the collective age of the others is about two thousand. So you can understand her feeling a bit out of it when they’re all sitting around eating lunch and talking about Communions/ Confirmations/worrying about leaving their kids in the hands of Filipino housekeepers while they’re all mad busy at work/stressing about selling up their holiday homes for far less than they paid for them because of the recession, etc.
Hence Fiona spending most of her free-period time with her face stuck in a laptop. And half the time, I don’t really blame her.
4. Because she’s the only staff member without kids, she always ends up getting roped into running the school’s summer camps every year. Now Fiona always says she’s perfectly happy to do it, and that the extra cash comes in handy in paying off the mortgage on her new house, but if you ask me, it’s just another excuse for her not to come out at night when she’s supposed to be on her holidays. The pattern would be: I’d suggest dinner or a movie, or that she come over to me and James for a barbecue, and she’d faff on about the fact that, come the summer months, she actually ends up working harder than she ever does during the academic year. And that no one realizes, blah, blah, blah. At first, I figured she didn’t fancy spending time around James, as, to put it mildly, they never really got on. Took me a while to realize that these days, the main relationship in her life was with her computer. Hence the constant push/pull battle between us, with me constantly trying to drag her out, even if only for an early bite, and her wanting nothing more than a night at home with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in front of the bloody internet. To summarize our respective viewpoints: her attitude is that online dating is the way of the future, whereas mine is that you only end up meeting fellas with profiles like, ‘bachelor, early sixties, experimental, seeks nubile early twenty-something lass for good times. Must have own chicken.’
She gives a deep, heartfelt sigh then drifts back to the computer, and my eyes follow hers. There’s about ten guys’ profiles onscreen and she’s going through them at speed, finger hovering at the delete button. She discreetly checks over her shoulder, making sure the staff room’s still empty, then turns back to mutter at my photo.
‘I know what you’d say if you were here, Charlotte.’
‘I am here, babe,’ I say, but she doesn’t react. So strange.
‘You’d tell me, in no uncertain terms that I’m wasting my time . . .’
‘It’s a no-brainer, but then I’m a great advocate of getting a date without the use of a modem.’
‘. . . and I’m beginning to think you might have a point.’
I nearly fall off the desk in shock.
‘Hallelujah, the girl has seen the light. Almost worth dying, just to hear you say that.’
‘But you’re not here and I miss you so much it hurts.’
I can’t answer. But I’ll tell you this much. Whoever said that angels can’t feel pain was talking through their arse.
‘Charlotte, if it’s one thing I’ve learned from what happened to you, it’s that life’s short. I have to get out there and carpe that diem.’
Another quick check over her shoulder to make sure the staff room’s still empty, which luckily it is, or else they’d have poor Fiona locked up for talking to inanimate Polaroids.
‘And I know you don’t approve of the whole internet dating notion . . .’ she mutters.
‘It’s not that I don’t approve, hon, it’s just I don’t happen to believe that anyone can download love. It’s such a waste of time, and if it’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that we have NO time to waste. None.’
‘. . . but I can’t think of any other way to fill this void that you’ve left in my life. So if you think about it, indirectly, this is all your fault.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not like I set out to die at twenty-eight.’
‘You know where I’m coming from, Charlotte. I’m just too knackered these days to get out there and do the whole clubbing, pubbing scene, so therefore this is the only avenue of meeting potential partners that’s open to me. Whether you like it or not, internet dating sites are the latter-day equivalent of fifties dance halls.’
Honest to God, she might as well add ‘discuss’ on to the end of that sentence. Like she’s doling out English assignments.
‘So,’ she says, turning back to her laptop, in her schoolmarm voice, only not nearly as shouty, given that she’s talking to herself. ‘Allow me to demonstrate what’s out there, and I’ll also provide a brief translation from guy-speak into English for you.’
‘I’m right here, babe, trying my level best to be nonjudgemental, but just so you know? You’re completely wasting your time. Besides, isn’t wading through all these profiles like some kind of misery tourism?’
‘When a guy, such as this one here, describes himself as “fun”, that means annoying. Similarly “wild” means gets drunk easily. For “new age” read smelly and hairy, and for “headstrong” read argumentative. “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” means he’s an alcoholic, and this one here,’ she says, tapping her biro on the screen, ‘says he’s “cuddly” which is a well-known euphemism for grossly overweight.’
‘Listen to you, when it comes to fellas, you’ve more ridiculous rules than Blockbuster Video.’
‘Honestly, when you read how these guys describe themselves, then you meet them in the flesh . . . some of them could give lessons in self-delusion to Heather Mills. But, on the plus side, what I do have going for me is that my expectations are very low. If you ask me, all relationships are one per cent romance, forty per cent being pissed off when they let you down . . .’
‘And fifty-nine per cent picking socks off radiators,’ I finish the sentence for her.
Weird, not getting any reaction.
‘However . . .’ she scrolls down a bit, then clicks on another guy’s profile.
‘. . . hello there . . . this one shows promise.’
‘Shows promise? Isn’t that teacher-code for what
you write on school reports for kids who are rubbish at a subject but try hard, and you know their parents will kill them if they go home with any less than a C minus?’
‘A dog owner,’ she muses hopefully. ‘This means that he’s capable of emotional attachment to another living being, and can therefore be interpreted as a Very Good Sign.’
She clicks on his profile and starts filling in personal details about herself. Except that under ‘age’ she knocks three years off, and under ‘occupation’ she puts ‘personal trainer’.
‘You dirty big liar!’
‘You needn’t sit there judging me,’ she mumbles back at my photo, almost making me think that the girl’s been a bit psychic all this time, and none of us noticed.
She definitely senses I’m close by, she must.
‘This is just to hook him in, that’s all. When they think I’m hanging around gyms all day in a spandex leotard, I get an average of fifty per cent more hits than I do when they visualize me sitting in a staff room correcting essays. Besides, everyone sexes up their life online. It’s not like this is a Stasi report, now is it?’
‘Fiona, I don’t know where your soulmate is but I can tell you one thing, he most definitely is NOT on a website. Besides, I bet his profile photo is airbrushed or Photoshopped and that in real life he’s BOBFOC.’
Body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch.
‘OK, then, Mr Loves German Shepherds,’ says Fiona, turning her full focus back on to the screen. ‘Maybe it’ll turn out you look like someone saving up for a sex-change operation, but there sure as hell is only one way to find out.’ She immediately starts clickety clacking in her reply, and I’m not joking, the girl is faster than a travel agent at the keyboard. I peep over her shoulder and see what she’s written:
Hey there, you sound interesting, WLTM. Free tonight for drinks at Dunne & Crescenzi?
‘Fiona, don’t tell me you’re actually going out at night? Like, without me having to physically put a gun to your head?’
She keeps typing, though.
Let me know soonest so we can fix a time, Lexie Hart.
‘Lexie Hart? What’s going on, hon, are you leading some kind of secret cyber life?’
Then a bell rings in the distance, and suddenly the place goes from total silence to complete chaos, with the unmerciful thunder of classes changing and kids rushing anywhere and everywhere, screeching at each other. In the space of a few seconds, the staff room fast fills up with teachers all dying for teas/coffees/bitching sessions about the students. Sister Teresa, the principal, strides over, giving Fiona just enough time to snap her laptop shut and look like she’s SO engrossed in a pile of history essays about Bismarck that she couldn’t possibly have noticed anyone come in. I know by how practised she is that this is a very regular occurrence.
You can do a lot of things, Fi, but you can’t fool the dead.
‘Miss Wilson?’ Sister Teresa says to her, at her shoulder now. ‘A word?’
‘Yes, Sister?’
Sister Teresa is standing right beside us now, and my God, you should see her: not one single wrinkle, and the skin all dewy and glowing, like she’d just stepped out of a salon having had a La Prairie facial. And I wouldn’t mind, but she has to be at least my mum’s age . . . what is it about being in a convent that halts the ageing process? If it’s some enzyme that you only produce when in a non-male environment then scientists should bottle it and sell it quick.
Mark my words, this is how vast fortunes are made.
‘I just wanted to say how very sorry I was to hear about your friend’s awful accident. Such a trial of faith when these horrific things happen.’
‘Thanks, Sister.’
Fiona’s eyes have welled up again.
Come on, hon, whatever you do, don’t cry, because if you start, I’ll start and there’ll be no stopping me.
‘Just so you know, we’re all praying for her in the community.’
‘That’s very kind. I’ll be sure to let Charlotte’s family know, too.’
‘And you know what I always say: trials keep you strong, sorrow keeps you human, failures keep you humble, but only you keeps you going.’
So, so nice. And Fiona’s always giving out about her, and the way she constantly talks in religious euphemisms. She also claims that the minute school’s out for the day, the nuns crack open the martinis, and that half of them smoke and watch porn. But if you ask me, it’s exactly like in The Sound of Music, minus the Alps and the Nazis. Anyway, she and Sister Teresa chat on about the mock Leaving exams and my thoughts go back to Fiona.
I have to communicate with her, or I’ll never be able to help her. I have to use everything I learned on my angelic crash course, except without frightening the living daylights out of her and giving her a heart attack. That pleasure I will save for James Kane, thanks very much.
Because, let’s face it, my work here is clear. I have to find the perfect guy for Fiona. Or should I say Lexie.
Chapter Six
KATE
‘I was so very sorry to hear about your sister.’
‘Yes.’
‘We all were.’
‘I know.’
‘How is your mother taking it?’
‘Not so good.’
Next stop Kate. Don’t ask me how I managed to do it; honestly, it’s as if time and space have absolutely no meaning on whatever plane I’m on right now. Totally mental, I know, and if I was a nuclear physicist working at CERN in Switzerland, I might have some outside chance of giving an explanation, but I’m not and I don’t. All I know is that one minute I’m focusing intently on someone, the next minute I’m with them. What can I say? I’m starting to feel like Alice in Weirdland. And I wouldn’t mind, but this beaming in and out of situations lark would have come in particularly handy when I was alive. Like when Anna at the agency where I worked had a minging hangover and was in a fouler, for instance. Or whenever Mum was nagging me yet again about finding a less rubbish boyfriend. Or when I was alone at night for hours on end miserably wondering where the hell said rubbish boyfriend was.
I could go on for hours.
Anyway, the bad news is Kate’s not on her own. Shit. I was dying to test out whether or not she can hear me, but now I’m afraid of mortifying her/making her jump six feet out of her skin in front of someone else. Like I said, hilarious with James but, believe me, Kate’s just not the type you mess around with.
‘Such a pretty girl,’ says Chidi, the gorgeous Zimbabwean therapist who works with Kate at the health club. ‘Always so funny . . . always joking.’
As ever, I get a lump in my throat when I hear people talking about me in the present tense. And saying nice things somehow makes it worse. Not that I ever expected them to say, ‘Oh isn’t it great Charlotte’s dead and buried? God, I hated that stupid cow, and I’m so glad she finally got her comeuppance in life, there’s the law of karma for you.’ It just would have made me far less teary and emotional, that’s all I’m saying.
‘I know,’ Kate answers, curtly. Briskly. Like she’s trying to get rid of a telemarketer off the phone.
‘It’s heartbreaking when these things happen.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘This must be a very hard time for you.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Monosyllabic answers, Kate? That the best you can do? Come on, she’s only trying to be nice.
An awkward silence as Kate fumbles herself into a big towelling dressing gown while trying to hide all her girly bits from Chidi. Hang on, except Kate’s normally at the front desk and Chidi’s a therapist. Then, looking around, I slowly realize we’re in the changing area of The Sanctuary, the spa that’s a part of the health club where the pair of them work, and now it’s all starting to make sense. Jammy cow must be getting some kind of treatment done. Kate, I should tell you, has a lot of time on her hands. I mean, she’s the type of person who could tell you to the nearest euro the price differences in organic potatoes between Tesco, Lidl and Aldi. That’s t
he kind of free time we’re talking about. Whereas for me there are just never enough hours in the day, and I always seem to be chasing my tail around the place like some kind of demented puppy.
Sorry, I should put that in the past tense. I keep forgetting.
‘But you know we’re all here for you. And if there’s ever anything I can do . . .’
‘Right then. Fine. Thank you.’
Not even the merest trace of a wobble on Kate’s lower lip, nothing. But then, I mentally remind myself, she has a tendency to react with anger and not anguish to things. Example: when Dad died, she was just furious with everyone and everything for about two years afterwards, which is about how long they say grief takes to heal to a bearable level. I went for bereavement counselling, which incidentally was a total waste of money. The only pearls of wisdom I got were that there are apparently five stages you go through: numbness, disbelief, anger, all of which are a sort of dress rehearsal for the depression which follows, then finally one happy day you arrive at acceptance, or at least that’s the theory.
It took six grossly overpriced therapy sessions even to be told that much, and the dull, gnawing pain I was going through didn’t lessen a jot. All I could do was sit there thinking that for the exact same money I could have had a lovely new Fendi handbag. I had all the grief to deal with anyway, might as well have had a decent accessory to go with it. I really am that shallow. Kate, on the other hand, absolutely refused point blank to talk to anyone about Dad’s death; she just went into a very bad mood for years, and didn’t really come out of it until she met Perfect Paul.
In her defence, though, I do have to point out that you’ll go a long, long way to meet someone with a heart of gold quite like hers. Always worrying about Mum, always minding her, calling her every day, doing all her grocery shopping for her, generally taking care of her in an older, responsible, big-sistery type manner. Then there’s the way she’s forever giving me little lectures about how she’d basically rather see me dating an Ebola-ridden test monkey than a messer as non-committal as James Kane. Not her exact words, and certainly not what I ever wanted to hear, but that was her general drift. She only says these things because she cares, I’d have to remind myself through gritted teeth. And there really, genuinely, isn’t anyone as caring, generous or concerned as our Kate. Honestly. It’s just that sometimes you have to mine quite deep to find that thread of gold that runs through her, that’s all. Besides, she only ever gets really thorny when a) stressed, b) pre-menstrual, or c) grieving.
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 8
