If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  Then, in sympathetic tones of condolence I haven’t heard since Dad’s funeral, off she goes again.

  ‘“Tim, Fiona here. I heard the news. About you and Ayesha, that is. And I just want to say . . . say . . .” (Normal voice.) Oh, for God’s sake, say what? “Now that you’re back on the market again, how about we hook up?”’

  She pours herself a cuppa, with hands trembling so much that it’s a minor miracle she doesn’t scald herself. She takes a sip, burns her mouth, curses, then goes back to where the mobile is looking at her accusingly from the sofa.

  Cue take five.

  ‘“Look, Tim, I know you’ll think it’s a bit odd hearing from me after all these years, but the fact is, you’re newly single and the last guy I dated might as well have had three sixes carved into the back of his scalp. So . . . so . . .”’ Then she breaks off, and dives into a pack of chocolate digestives on the coffee table in front of her, then starts yelling at the telly.

  ‘THIS,’ she says, stuffing her face, ‘is all your bloody doing, Madam Charlotte. Putting these thoughts into my head. I was perfectly happy until you started messing round with my psyche.’

  I sit beside her and put my feet up on the table.

  ‘But you have to admit I was right, though. Didn’t Tim’s mother confirm what I told you? He’s single, and if it wasn’t for me, you’d never have known. No need to thank me, love, that’s what we guardian angels are for. All in a day’s work.’

  But she’s on her feet again, about to make one last faux call. She picks up the mobile, punches in all but the last digit of his number, then holds the phone against her mouth and starts muttering to herself again.

  ‘What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just go through with this? He has a bald patch, for God’s sake. And an ex-wife and two kids, baggage you’d need a container-load for; he should be down on his knees, thanking his lucky stars, thrilled to hear from me . . .’ She lets out a shuddery sigh so deep it practically comes from her shoes, then clicks off the phone.

  ‘Oh, make a bloody choice, Hamlet.’ I’m pleading to deaf ears, but just at that second, her mobile beep-beeps suddenly and sharply as a message comes through.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ we both say together, clutching our chests in unison with the fright, like a pair of pantomime dames minus the garish costumes.

  It’s an email which the two of us read together, side by side.

  From: lovesgermanshepherds@hotmail.com

  To: lexiehart@yahoo.com

  Subject: Dinner this weekend?

  Dear Lexie,

  I feel it’s the very least I can do, to make up for so rudely leaving you high and dry earlier this week. Please let me take you to dinner; it just so happens my brother-in-law owns the best Chinese restaurant this side of Beijing, so if you were free at all, it would be a pleasure to take you. I absolutely promise, the beef in oyster sauce is something that’s reduced grown men to salivating morons.

  If you don’t have a weekend packed full of aerobics and spinning classes, that is.

  All the best for now,

  Blah, blah, blah.

  She smiles, then wavers a bit as she’s reading it, and I can practically see her wondering whether she should give him a whirl or not.

  Which clearly means it’s time for me to step in.

  Honestly, these mortals haven’t the first clue what’s good for them. I don’t know what they’d do without me, I really don’t.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Fiona’s tucked up in bed and sound asleep, so in I go.

  ‘Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up, I’ve something to show you.’ OK, so maybe I neglected to tell her that it’s not necessarily something she’ll like, but like a parent with a bold child, I’m only doing this for her own good. After much tossing and turning, she eventually notices me sitting on the edge of her bed.

  ‘Charlotte! Oh my God, I’ve so much to tell you.’

  ‘You don’t need to, I already know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘About your twenty-five failed attempts to call Tim, you big wussbag.’

  ‘Oh . . . emm . . . that.’

  ‘Have I let you down once? Ever since you started dreaming about me, have I fed you one single false bit of info?’

  ‘Emm . . . well . . . no . . . but . . .’

  ‘So what’s with all the faux calls? Honestly, you spend half your time moaning and whingeing about being single, then when I present you with a golden opportunity like this, you start acting like a twelve-year-old girl.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve come back to haunt me? Are my dreams going to be like some kind of war room till I agree to call him?’

  ‘Ehh . . . pretty much, yeah.’

  ‘Because I’m almost getting afraid to go asleep. This is like Nightmare on Elm Street.’

  ‘It’s for your own good, you know.’

  ‘You should have seen me trying to ring his mother last night. I had to have two full glasses of wine before I could even bring myself to do that.’

  ‘I’m actually raging I missed it. I could have done with seeing the look on your face when you found out what I’d been trying to drum into you all along was true, and that Tim is a free man again. But I was with Kate last night and haven’t figured out the art of bi-location yet.’

  ‘Besides,’ says Fi insistently, ‘the best I can ever hope for with Tim is that we become friends again. I mean, it’s years since we dated. So aren’t we jumping to conclusions to think that he’ll say, “Oh, great to hear from you out of the blue like this, Fi, what a daft mistake I made marrying Tangerine Head, please come back into my life, and let’s live happily ever after?”’

  ‘How will you know unless you call him? What are you, psychic?’

  But she’s gone off on a tangent, acting out Tim’s dialogue in the phone-call-to-be.

  ‘“Oh, Fiona Wilson?”’ she says sarcastically, doing Tim. Or rather, trying to. ‘“Yeah, I remember you, ex-love of my life. And now that the word’s got out that I’m separated, you’re straight on to my mum to try and track me down . . . say, tell me this, Fi, are things really that tough for single women in Dublin that exes from years ago are back on the menu again? Who in the name of Jaysus do you think you and I are, anyway? Prince Charles and Camilla?”’

  ‘I understand you’re apprehensive,’ I say soothingly, ‘but to let him slip through your fingers once is a misfortune. Twice is just carelessness.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair, what about the vet guy? He asked me out to dinner, you know.’

  ‘The man who stood you up? And who would probably have no difficulty whatsoever doing it again? If you arrange to meet him, you’re a worse eejit than I took you for. Mark my words, he’ll leave you sitting pretty in a restaurant all over again because a kitten farted somewhere in Carlow and he just has to be there.’

  ‘What is this . . . do you get some kind of kick out of bullying me?’

  ‘No, that was an unexpected bonus. Now take my hand, we’ve work to do.’

  She’s used to me by this stage, because she does as I ask without my having to arm-wrestle her, and away we go.

  She opens her eyes . . . and discovers that we’re right back where we started, in her house, this time in the living room, though. Except that it’s changed completely. Instead of looking fresh and new and all Ikea’d the way it usually does, now it’s tired and mangy with damp patches on the walls. Not a touch I’m particularly proud of, but needs must. In the corner beside the fireplace, there’s the saddest-looking Christmas tree you ever saw, covered in faded tinsel, with the tinfoil starting to peel off the edges. The TV’s on in the corner, some Christmas Day compilation show, while Fiona sits on the sofa, with an opened selection box in front of her.

  Then she notices what she’s wearing.

  OK, OK, so I may have overdone it just the teeeeeeniest bit here, but you know, sometimes we angels just have to lay things on with a trowel. Fiona’s wearing a granny cardigan that looks like it should only ever be worn ei
ther for jam-making at the Irish Country Women’s Association or else saying novenas in, a sensible tweed skirt, and flat, comfy brogues, the kind you only get in Marks & Spencer.

  ‘What is this, national dress-up-as-your-granny day? Or am I on my way to a fancy-dress party, by any chance, and I decided to come as Barbara Bush Senior?’ Fi asks, hopping up to the mirror above the fireplace to get a better look at herself. ‘Oh sweet Baby Jesus and the orphans, what have you done to me? You’ve just turned me into the poster girl for liver spots. I do love you, Charlotte, but just so you know? Right now I’m loving you like a cold sore.’

  She’s actually aged well, but at seventy-odd years of age is showing signs of wear and tear. Her hair is in a neat Marcel wave and she’s wearing those massive bifocal glasses that cover most of her face.

  ‘I look like my granny,’ she stammers. ‘Christ, I even smell like her,’ she says, sniffing at her wrists. ‘Yardley’s Lily of the Valley. The choice of pensioners. Charlotte, not to put it too mildly, HATING this! Can you just, like, beam us out of here, please? Or at least splash some cold water on my face to wake me out of this nightmare?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ I say, firmly. ‘Look, look around you.’

  Suddenly the TV catches her eye. The King’s Christmas Day speech is just coming on.

  ‘The . . . King?’ she mutters, staring at it.

  ‘We now go live to Sandringham,’ says the announcer, ‘where King William will address the nation.’

  ‘King William?’ she splutters in disbelief, then grabs the remote and starts flicking channels. The news is on Channel Four, with a feature about President Clinton’s Christmas visit to the victims of global warming in Alaska.

  President Chelsea Clinton.

  ‘What . . . ? What the fuck is going on . . . ?’ says Fiona. Then she notices a Christmas card on top of the TV, which she grabs. The outside greeting screams, ‘Happy Holidays and Have a Great 2050!’

  ‘Twenty bloody fifty?’ stutters poor, bewildered Fi, before she rips the card open.

  ‘Dear Miss Wilson, have a terrific Christmas and a magical New Year. We miss you so much here at Loreto, things really aren’t the same without you! But we hope you’re having a long and happy retirement, and that you’ll call in to see us very soon.’

  ‘So, I’m like . . . seventy?’

  ‘Yes, you are. Ahead of all of us, you know.’ Well, except me.

  ‘But . . .’ she hesitates, looking all around her as the horrible reality starts to dawn on her. ‘Charlotte . . . hang on a sec . . . it’s Christmas Day, right?’

  ‘December twenty-fifth.’

  ‘And . . . I’m here, still living in the same house . . .’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Still single . . . because that card calls me Miss Wilson . . .’

  ‘Yes, love, you never married.’

  ‘And . . . I’m alone. ALONE. On Christmas Day.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect? This is the life you’ve chosen, Fi. Doesn’t exactly look like a barrel of laughs, now, does it?’

  ‘You’re right,’ she says, slowly slumping on to the sofa, moving like an old, old lady.

  ‘Charlotte, just look at me. I’m pathetic and sad and lonely and I HATE this so much I can’t tell you. I know it’s only a dream, and in case you’re wondering why I’ve this constipated look on my face, it’s because I’m actively willing myself to wake up and snap out of this torture. For God’s sake, who have you turned into anyway? The ghost of relationships future?’

  For a second, the eyes start to tear up, but then she quickly pulls herself right back together again.

  ‘Anyway,’ she snaps primly. ‘I would never be alone on Christmas Day. Sure, I’d be with my parents for starters.’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, but your parents have long since passed on, hon. And your brother and his family are all off skiing.’

  ‘What about my other friends?’

  ‘All with their own kids and grandkids today, I’m afraid. They’ve invited you over for Boxing Day, but let’s face it, Christmas is a time for family, and you chose not to have one, remember? Believe me, I don’t like being the bearer of bad news, but this is the life that you’ve chosen for yourself.’

  God, there’s times I hate being an angel. The tough love you’re expected to dole out would nearly finish you off entirely. I sit down beside poor, shaken Fi and take her hand.

  ‘All that went wrong in your life is that you met your soulmate young. That’s all. And now he’s alone, and you’re alone, and you won’t even pick up the phone to call him. Yes, he made a mistake marrying Ayesha, but aren’t we all allowed mistakes? Jeez, you only have to look at the gobshite I spent five years with for proof of that. Don’t let pride lead you to this,’ I say, waving around me.

  She looks up at me with red, swollen eyes.

  ‘Fiona Wilson, we all have a road not taken. Here’s a rare chance to do something about yours.’

  Next thing, she’s wide awake, sitting bolt upright on the bed and sweating, actually sweating. She can’t see me now, but I’m right beside her, willing her to call Tim. There’s a radio on her bedside table, still switched on quietly in the background, and the ten o’clock news is just coming on. It’s early still.

  ‘Come on, come on, girl, you can do it,’ I whisper encouragingly. ‘Everything will be fine, I faithfully promise you. If it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is not to be taken in baby steps.’

  She gets out of bed, throws on a cardigan, then does a bit of pacing. The will-I-won’t-I-call-him two-step.

  She picks up the mobile, then puts it down at least three times before she starts muttering under her breath.

  ‘OK. If the phone rings out and he doesn’t answer, then this was a mental idea. Tim and I were never to be, and that’s the final proof. If it goes to his voicemail, then there’s a tiny chink of hope for us. But then if he actually answers . . . oh shite . . .’

  She slumps back on to the bed, her resolve weakening, and I just know the one thing she needs more than anything else.

  A sign.

  I’m concentrating harder than I ever did in my whole life, sorry, I mean death, and then it happens.

  The news finishes and the DJ on the radio butts in. He sounds young and nerdy, and I’d guess is about twelve.

  ‘OK, we’ve a very special request here for an oldie but a goldie, this is going out to all you kids at Loreto College, youse have mad taste so you do, but you asked for it, so here ya go . . . it’s Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols with “Pretty Vacant”.’

  Dear Jesus. That was their song. Fiona and Tim’s song. Not the most romantic or smoochiest, but it was definitely their song. I dunno how it happened, I’m not even sure whether I was the one who made it happen, but by God it does the trick. She doesn’t miss a beat, just picks up the phone and calls.

  It rings once . . . twice . . . three times . . .

  ‘Hello? Tim? Hi! Emm . . . you won’t believe who this is!’

  And it’s that easy. Not that I’m eavesdropping or anything, but they chat for a good hour, laughing and messing and picking up exactly where they left off, like you can only do with people from the past that you really, really loved. I’m not sure what he says, but just before Fi hangs up, she says that yes, of course he can call her tomorrow, and no, that she hasn’t eaten in that particular restaurant, but would really love to this weekend.

  Waves of euphoria wash over me as she clambers back into her bed and snuggles under. Worth dying just to see the look of pure bliss on her face. She’s just nodding off when her phone beeps as a message comes through. It’s another email from Mr Loves German Shepherds, saying that if she doesn’t like Chinese food, they could always eat somewhere else this weekend.

  She doesn’t even bother scrolling down to the bottom of the email, just deletes it, switches off the light and drifts off to sleep.

  The girl is learning. Finally.

  Chapter Sixteen

  KATEr />
  Six months hence. And she’s back sitting at Briar Rose’s kitchen table in Galway, which, as ever, resembles Grand Central Station with all the comings and goings. There’s hordes of kids running in and out, fighting with each other over who had the remote control last/one of them calling another one gay/that particular pre-teen saying their accuser doesn’t even know what gay means/ the first kid then subsequently changing their insult to, ‘Well, what would you know, anyway, sure you’re only an arsehole’. . . etc., etc. All three of her horrors-in-law are present and correct, so much so that you’d almost swear they were all part of some religious cult that are required to live under the same roof as each other, co-parent each other’s kids and all eat together at the same table.

  Like Moonies. Or that weird religion that Tom Cruise is in.

  But, this time, there’s one big difference. Briar Rose is prattling on about how her eldest, Robbie Junior, just got two As and a B plus in his last school report and how he’s clearly destined for academic greatness, while the other two horrors-in-law are drinking mugs of tea, buttering hot, fruity scones straight from the oven, and bragging about how gifted their kids are at rugby/breaking into cars/pilfering from supermarkets, whatever their respective talents are. Nothing unusual there, then. Except that, instead of squirming in her chair and making half-hearted attempts to contribute to the conversation, all the while wondering how the hell she can get out of there, Kate sits serenely in the middle of them, nodding politely at their competitive bragging and admirably restraining herself from throwing in the odd cutting comment, such as, ‘Oh, but Melissa, I always knew your Tommy was highly skilled at tackling other kids and hurling them to the ground in a rugby scrum, I think he must get it from you, ha ha ha.’