Sorry. I should have put that in the past tense.
It keeps slipping my mind.
Hannah’s not like the rest of us, though. I don’t know how she manages to do it – keep the lines clearly delineated between work and private life, that is – but the fact is, I know as little about her now as I did the day she first came to work here, years ago. James and I often used to try to fill in the gaps as we’d lie awake in bed at night. We’d have great crack working out all these elaborate fantasy speculations: the best one was that she’d actually been married, but the husband was a huge drug baron and she didn’t realize it till it was too late, then when he died in a gangland shootout in West Tallaght, his multitudinous enemies came after her, so she went on the witness-protection programme and was issued with a whole new identity and sent to work in Meridius Movies, but one fine day, they’d come after her and it would all end up in a bloodbath. A bit like Goodfellas, except set in South Dublin. James would then throw in his tuppence-worth: that she was secretly working as a high-class escort girl for extra cash, to keep her in the lifestyle she was accustomed to, and that she’s not at all averse to threesomes. Typical him, always having to introduce sex into the mix.
‘A real mystery woman,’ he’d say admiringly, rounding off the conversation, before we turned out the lights. He fancies her, I’d then think, lying awake in the dark staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Inevitably, then, I’d slowly fill up with a totally irrational jealousy, followed by a bout of self-hatred for being so possessive over him. I mean, why did he have to have this effect on me? And what was I supposed to do, anyway, follow him into work every day to keep an eye on him? Funny, exactly what I had to go through just to see what a dysfunctional and ridiculous relationship I was in.
‘Dec, just popping out for a latte, want anything . . . ?’ Hannah breaks off, spotting James for the first time. ‘Oh my GOD, I didn’t expect to see you back at the office for . . . well . . . for a good while yet,’ she says, stunned. For a split second I wonder if she’s about to hug him, then I remember . . . she’s just not the demonstrative type. And I’m right, she doesn’t.
‘Thanks, Hannah, that’s really sweet of you,’ says James, looking up from a spreadsheet and smiling at her appreciatively. Not quite his usual full-on, charm-fest grin, given the circumstances, but not too far off it, either.
‘So . . . how are you doing?’ Hannah asks, genuinely concerned.
‘Holding up, you know yourself.’
‘I understand. I really am so, so sorry about what’s happened. And just so you know, we’re all here for you.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiles. ‘That’s good to know.’ I’m not joking, he even manages to eye her up and down while delivering this perfectly innocuous speech, like his uncontrollable flirt-gene just takes over. When you’re James Kane, women are there to have the pants charmed off them, regardless of what might be going on in your private life. Not even bereavement can stop him. Which, quite frankly, is starting to make me so, so angry.
Anyway, Hannah disappears off to do a coffee round, Declan moves on to the even more boring topic of location scouting for the TV series, and now I’m sat right beside James, bum on the big mahogany desk, inches from him, waiting to pick my moment.
He starts to shiver after a bit, so I know he’s sensing something’s up.
Good.
‘Can we get the heating on?’ he interrupts Dec. ‘I mean, is it just me or is it bloody freezing in here?’
‘Ehh . . . it’s just you,’ says Dec, looking worried. ‘It’s the middle of May, it’s not cold.’
Then James’s phone beep-beeps as a text comes through. Declan just looks up from across the table, clearly not impressed by another interruption, but too polite to say so. I’m right beside James, though, and can read the text over his shoulder.
JAMES, I WANT TO SEE YOU. TONIGHT? MY APARTMENT, SAY 8 PM? NEED TO TALK, SXXXXXX
Oh for f*ck’s sake, I do not believe this. If I hadn’t already copped who it was from, there it is right in front of me. I look up into the address bar and see one name. Sophie.
‘Anything urgent?’ Dec asks.
‘Eh, no, just Charlotte’s mum wondering if she can call over later to pick up some of her stuff,’ he answers, cool as chilled steel.
And that’s what starts me off. Not that he can lie so easily, without it costing him a single thought, but at his having the brazen bloody neck to drag my mother into it.
Right then. War.
‘Oh Jaaaaaames?’ I’m almost shouting into his ear, like an Avon lady, and the reaction is hysterical: I swear I can nearly see the blood draining from his face.
He ignores me, though, and lets Dec drone on and on about the feasibility of a night shoot in some shopping centre, made to look like it’s daytime, to avoid gang-loads of kids running up to the camera and sticking their tongues into it.
‘I know you can hear me, James, and FYI, I’ve no intention of shutting up,’ I bellow at him, right into his face.
No reaction, just the merest eyelid flicker. Take more than that to put me off my mission, though.
‘No, dearest James, you weren’t imagining things this morning, either. Yes. It’s me. Your beloved Charlotte. Who you’re so, so SO upset about that you’re still taking texts from your new girlfriend.’
He coughs, and stays so unnaturally focused on Declan that now I’m half-wondering if what happened in the house this morning was just some kind of blip and . . . well, maybe he can’t hear me at all any more. Just like Fiona and Kate can’t.
Which effectively means I’m f*cked.
I mean, how am I supposed to wreak vengeance on the bastard, now?
‘Does Declan know about you and Screechy Sophie, by the way?’ I ask, probing, wondering how in hell I can provoke some kind of a reaction out of him. I try to pick up the glass of water in front of him, but nothing, my hand just glides straight through it. Shit. ‘Because I’m sure I can figure out some way of telling him,’ I bluff, pretty certain that if James suddenly can’t hear me any more, then it’s highly unlikely Dec can.
Still nothing. He’s still giving Dec his most laser-like, concentrated look, as if night shoots and budget costings are suddenly the be all and end all of his very existence.
One last try and I know exactly what’s guaranteed to drive him mental. My singing. No false modesty here, but I have, without doubt, one of the worst voices known to man, so bad that whenever we were having a row (i.e., often) all I’d have to do was break into a couple of verses of ‘Let It Be’ by the Beatles, and he’d either lock himself into the bathroom to escape the caterwauling or else concede defeat in whatever argument was blazing. Anything, just to get me to shut up.
I clear my throat, like a Covent Garden soprano about to launch into warm-up.
Right then, at the top of my horrific voice, I start belting out ‘Cabaret’ by Liza Minelli, the only song I know most of the words to. Now, I’m no Simon Cowell, but if by some miracle James can hear me, I’d say he’d rather listen to human nails being dragged down a blackboard than what I’m coming out with now.
I’m just at the bit, ‘When I go, I’m going like Elsie’, and am giving it an ear-shattering, diva belt, full throttle, the whole works, when out of nowhere James, white-faced, interrupts Declan.
‘Man, are you . . . ehh . . . hearing something . . . by any chance?’ he asks tentatively.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes yes!
‘Hearing what?’ says Dec.
‘That. That noise. That horrible noise. It sounds a bit like . . . emmmm . . . singing, actually.’
I’m happily caterwauling right into James’s face the bit about admitting from cradle to tomb not being that long a stay, and it’s hysterical, the louder I get, the paler he gets.
‘Maybe there’s . . . a radio or something on upstairs? Yeah, that’s it . . . a radio,’ he says, hopefully. ‘That . . . emm . . . Hannah might have left on?’
‘Ehh, no,’ says Declan, looking reall
y worried now. ‘There’s no radio anywhere. Are you absolutely sure you’re OK, man?’
‘Never better,’ he lies stoutly. ‘Go on, you were saying about the . . . emmm . . . oh yeah, the costings?’
Right then. I take a big, dramatic pause to refill my lungs so I can really do justice to screeching out the very last bit about coming to the CABAAAAAARRRRREEEEEET!!’ Bingo. Success.
James is up on his feet, green in the face and making an immediate beeline for the door, which he flings open, then listens intently, with his hand to his ear. A bit like a gesture you’d see someone doing in a bad play, only funnier. For the laugh, I stay totally silent now, just to play a little mind-game with the aul bastard.
‘Hello?’ he calls out, from the foot of the windy Georgian staircase right up to the top of the building. ‘Anyone up there?’
Silence.
Declan’s at his shoulder now, really concerned.
‘There’s no one else here, man,’ he says, gently leading him back into the conference room. ‘Hannah went out to get coffees, remember? Don’t you remember her asking you if you wanted anything? You chatted to her, just now. Do you remember? Tell me that you remember.’
Hysterical, he’s actually talking to him like a mental health professional.
Hee hee heee.
‘I could have sworn I heard . . .’ says James, looking bewildered.
‘Totally understandable,’ says Declan firmly.
‘No, you don’t understand . . .’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I think you’ve been through a terrible time, and maybe you should think about going home for a lie-down. I can take things from here. Listen to me. Go HOME. Sleep. Rest. Chill. Relax. Everything is under control.’
‘Not a chance, man,’ says James, shoving past him back into the conference room. ‘I wouldn’t leave you high and dry, especially after me letting you down like I did this morning. It’s not fair on you. I’m telling you, I’m OK. Just . . . thought I heard a voice, that’s all.’
Poor Declan’s anxious-looking face says it all. ‘You heard a voice?’
James looks at him, as if weighing up whether to confess all or not.
‘Charlotte’s voice,’ he eventually says, sheepishly.
‘I see.’ Declan sighs worriedly.
‘Not for the first time, either. Happened earlier today, too.’
‘You know, I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, man, but I do think you might have come back to work too soon. Why not take a bit more time off, maybe even talk to someone about this?’
Just the merest hint of a suggestion that he consider talking to a therapist is too much for macho-man James, who reacts as if it was suggested he join a church choir.
‘I don’t NEED to see anyone, I just could have sworn I heard . . .’
Oh, to hell, I’m perched on a swivelly chair, and I can’t keep shtoom any longer.
‘You weren’t imagining it, James. It is me. Charlotte. And I’m right here, as it happens. Don’t ask me how come you can hear me and no one else can, but there you go. Great unanswered mysteries of the universe and all that.’
Honestly, for a split second, I actually think he’s going to throw up.
‘Declan, please, for the love of God, will you tell me you heard that?’
‘Heard what? There’s nothing to hear.’
‘Charlotte, I swear, I can hear her. She says she’s here, in the room with us. Oh for fuck’s sake, what is going on?’ He’s getting hysterical now, and the more his voice rises the giddier I get. Well, could you blame me? He is single-handedly responsible for bringing about my demise, after all. I mean, I’m entitled to want his whole life to go up in smoke, aren’t I?
‘Tra la la la la, Tra la la la la,’ I hum loudly, the music from the Vodafone ad, just to annoy him.
‘She’s singing now.’
‘Singing?’ says Declan flatly.
‘Yeah. The song from the Vodafone ad, I think. Can’t be too sure, she has a minging voice.’
Just for that, I start singing even louder, as Declan moves into him, grabbing him by both shoulders like the Mafia do in films.
‘James, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You know that it’s not possible you’re hearing Charlotte right now. Don’t you?’
‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘It’s just impossible.’
‘I know.’
‘And you also know that there’s no way on earth she can be singing you the theme from the Vodafone ad, or any other commercial for that matter. I think what’s happening here is that you’ve been fraught for the last while, you’ve been strung-out, and now you’re just a bit over-emotional . . .’
‘I am not over-emotional, I am hearing her sing, will you listen to me?’
‘Let me finish,’ says Declan, gently but firmly. ‘This pitch tomorrow is too important to us. We only get one shot at hitting William Eames for finance . . .’
‘You think I’m not aware of that?’
‘Come on, you know what I’m getting at. We need a hit or we’re down the Swanee. We’ve had two consecutive flops, and we’re not going to survive a third one.’
‘I know, I know . . .’
Bloody hell.
I, on the other hand, did not know.
That the company was in trouble, that is. I mean, I knew his last two projects lost money, but then James is always so brimming over with confidence and gusto and showmanship, I figured, sure his next film will make him back everything and more, won’t it?
For a second, I feel a tiny bud of sympathy.
Then I remember Sophie and it instantly withers and dies.
‘. . . You, of all people, know how it is in this game,’ Declan is saying. ‘You’re a bit like a footballer, only as good as your last match. Which leaves Meridius Movies with a helluva lot to prove. So I strongly suggest you take a bit of time off and let me take the meeting. I’ll handle it. William Eames will understand, what with everything that’s happened in your private life.’
You should just see the pair of them squaring up to each other, like in a Western. James looking so pale, you’d swear he’d just donated a few litres of blood to a passing vampire. Declan, gripping his shoulders, designer scruffy sleeves rolled up on a shirt I know right well his mammy probably ironed for him on his way out to work this morning.
‘Dec,’ James eventually says. ‘This project is my baby, and it has been from day one. There is just no way I won’t be there tomorrow. I’m not going to let you down. Come on, I can do this in my sleep, you know that.’
‘I’m just saying that a bit of time out might do you some good . . .’
‘Forget it,’ James bellows, so forcefully that it shuts me up singing. Then he must realize that he’s being overly brusque with Dec, because he immediately back-pedals.
‘Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
‘It’s OK. You’re stressed out. I understand.’
‘I’ll be there, and we’ll raise the eight hundred grand we need, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘And no more talk about hearing voices in your head?’
‘Whatever’s going on with me, I can control it.’
‘You know, Betty Ford set up a clinic in the desert based on that very statement,’ says Dec, doubtfully.
‘I guarantee you.’ James smiles, a bit more confidently, a bit more like himself. ‘I’ll be in better form for this meeting than you’ve ever seen me in your whole life, and that’s a promise.’
Oh really, James dearest? You think so?
Chapter Eight
I’m still with James. Sorry, but it’s all got that bit too interesting and, what can I say? My inner nosiness just took over. A lot I didn’t know, and a lot to find out. Declan’s taken him off to Toner’s pub on Baggot Street, round the corner from the Meridius office. So now the two of them are sitting at a table in the snug, looking for all the world like a pair of old geezers, whingeing about the youth of today/price of a p
int/ state of the country being run into the ground by politicians and bankers/having to go outside and stand in the street to pull on a Sweet Afton cigarette because of the smoking ban, etc., etc. Well, that is to say, a pair of old geezers who both happen to be wearing denim jackets with one single stud earring each. You get the picture. Not for this pair one of those über-cool bars only down the road, with Armani-suited bouncers on the door looking like the secret service, packed to the gills with accountants trying to pick up models, and lawyers trying to pick up anyone who’ll speak to them. No, James and particularly Declan, who never lets the hardman persona drop, not even for a millisecond, will only ever drink in a proper pub with sawdust on the floor and a smell of stale beer, where the average age is about ninety-seven and there’s no women. Probably scared off by the horribleness of the toilets, no doubt.
They’ve been talking for well over an hour now, and I’m sitting across the table from them with, I’m sure, a face like a slapped mullet. And I haven’t even opened my mouth once since we got here to torment James, but then that’s the effect that total shock tends to have on me.
There’s so much I didn’t know.
That Meridius is on its last legs, for instance. I mean, OK, I knew they hadn’t had a big hit in a while, but I’d no idea just how critical things had become. It seems the last project they produced that actually made a profit was Liberator, a four-part documentary about Daniel O’Connell. Made three full years ago, which in production terms is a lifetime not to have had a hit in. And that was only because the DVD sales to schoolkids who had to study him for their Leaving Cert were so high. An in-built captive audience, so to speak. Declan’s project, too, I hasten to add, but then anything highbrow produced by Meridius always is. James is more of the ‘bread and circuses’ school of thought. Sorry, make that bread, circuses and sex.
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 10
