If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  Then, just as Rose goes to the window to yell at some kid who’s whingeing that her sister won’t let her have a go on the Barbie bike, Kate looks down, and gently pats her tummy.

  There it is, no mistake. A tiny little bulge, neat and perfect.

  ‘So, emmm . . . where are you having it, then?’ one of the horrors-in-law demands, mouth full of buttery scone.

  ‘Mount Carmel in Dublin,’ Kate smiles.

  ‘Never heard of it. Is that a proper hospital?’

  ‘Not really, it’s a nursing home.’

  This, of course, then leads on to a heated and lengthy debate about the merits of the maternity hospital where the whole lot of them had all of their kids versus the newest addition to the family being born in some fancy nursing home up in Dublin. But Kate doesn’t seem to care or even look in the least stressed about it. She just nods, smiles graciously and keeps on rubbing her little bump, miles away, floating on a little cloud of bliss.

  ‘And what about names for the baby?’ demands Rose suspiciously. ‘Have you thought about that?’ Honest to God, the woman is probably the only person alive who can make such an innocuous question sound like an interrogation.

  Kate beams at her, and I’m almost willing her to say something like, ‘Oh, for a boy we thought something distinctive like Plantagenet Winston Raphael, and for a girl, we’re going with my three all-time favourite recording artists, Britney Whitney Madonna.’ Just to shut them up. Just to put manners on them and see the looks on their faces. But, of course, this being Kate the ultra-conservative, she doesn’t.

  ‘Paul for a boy, after his dad, of course,’ she smiles, ‘and I think Charlotte for a little girl, after . . .’

  Shite, now I’m tearing up. Oh my God, that’s so thoughtful, naming a new little niece after me!

  Just then, the kitchen door bursts open and in comes Perfect Paul, all six feet two of hulking manhood, with one of his nephews sitting up on his shoulders and another one swinging out of his arm begging for pocket money. He makes a big deal of fishing in his pockets, letting on he’s broke, then producing ten euro each for the two of them to buy sweets with, leading to much crowing of, ‘Ah, Paul, you shouldn’t have, you’re far too good,’ from all the horrors-in-law. Then he’s straight over to Kate, kissing her and asking the others if they’ve taken good care of her while he’s been out.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie-down, love,’ he says to her tenderly. ‘And I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa in bed?’ The others look a bit enviously at her, and Rose snipes something about how you’re treated like a goddess for your first pregnancy, but by your second, third and fourth, you’re expected to carry heavy groceries in from the car with a toddler screaming at you and a three-month-old strapped to your back.

  ‘Not my missus,’ says Paul proudly, helping her out of her chair and guiding her to the door, as if she’s lost the use of her limbs. ‘If she fancies me playing soothing whale noises to her while she’s having her bubble bath, then that’s what I’ll do. Now come on, Kate, bed rest for you and Junior. Then later on, when you’re up and about, I want to talk to you about exactly how you’d like the nursery decorated and what colour schemes you want. So I can get started on it as soon as we get home.’

  There’s a collective, ‘Oh, that’s so loooooovely,’ from the others as Kate beams serenely.

  ‘Suppose you’ll pay for a nanny, too?’ says one of them, on to her third scone by now.

  ‘Interviews start Monday. We’ve gone through three different agencies, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Jaysus,’ mutters Rose. ‘If I was getting a nanny, as long as they didn’t have a police record, I’d hire them on the spot.’

  Just then the phone rings loudly, and suddenly Kate’s sitting bolt upright, wide awake. She looks disorientated for a minute, but then it’s not really surprising, she’s not a great one for crashing out on the sofa with the telly on.

  No, Kate, ignore the phone, stay with the dream! You’ve no idea how important it is!

  She doesn’t, though. Shit. And I wouldn’t mind but I was making great progress with this particular one. Ho hum, back to reality, then.

  ‘Hello? Paul?’ she says, sleepily answering the phone on the end table beside her.

  But it’s not Paul. It’s Mum, to thank her for coming back from Galway early so she could be with her all day today.

  ‘Oh. Right. Emm . . . yeah . . . that’s OK,’ says Kate.

  Am I imagining it, or does she sound disappointed that it’s not Paul calling her? Mum must ask her where he is, because Kate flicks the TV over to Sky News, realizes that it’s just gone eleven at night, and that he’s still not home. Then she clicks Mum on to speakerphone and starts tidying up her already spotless living room. Sorry, I mean drawing room. (She’s the one who insists we all call it by that grand title, not me.)

  ‘Shit, Mum, I must have nodded off. I thought he’d be well home by now.’

  ‘No need for the corner-boy language, love.’ Mum’s voice is filling the whole room now, bouncing off the walls nearly.

  ‘Oh, ehh, sorry. Can I call him, and then call you back?’

  ‘Of course, love. I was only ringing to say that Nuala’s only just rung me now, very late I know, but it wasn’t her fault, she was waiting in to hear back about the arrangements for the Mass . . .’

  I’ll spare you all the nitty gritty details, as Mum’s a great one for giving you the preamble to a story, dated from about twelve hours ago. E.g., Question: ‘Hi, Mum, how did you get on at your book club tonight?’ Answer: ‘Well. I got up at eight this morning, then I had a quick shower, oh no, hang on, I’m telling it all wrong, I meant to say, then I went to have a quick shower but the immersion wasn’t on, so then, of course, I had to wait a good twenty minutes for the water to heat up . . .’ Then there usually follows a whole spiel about the minutiae of her day, and then, approximately three-quarters of an hour later, you finally get to the part where the Merry Widows all debated the merits of The Kite Runner versus the latest Maeve Binchy. In other words, you’d be well advised to allow a minimum of an hour and a half for even a lightning quick chat with her.

  I think living alone must make you go a bit like that.

  Anyway, to condense Mum’s speech: it seems that her pal Nuala, who has a brother home from the missions, has organized a Mass the last Sunday of the month for . . . well, for me, as it happens. Which sets me off thinking: a whole month? Have I really been dead that long?

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll tell Paul, but look, Mum, I really have to go now . . .’

  ‘So, don’t forget, now, it’ll be twelve o’clock Mass in Blackrock church . . .’

  ‘Yes, you said, so I’ll just go and ring Paul now . . .’

  ‘Yes, do, and tell him all his family are invited, too. Although they’ll hardly drive all the way from Galway, but, all the same, I’d like them to know that they are welcome.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Kate says curtly, plumping up cushions.

  ‘And then, maybe we should treat everyone to lunch afterwards?’

  ‘Whatever you say . . .’

  ‘Or else maybe have a brunch beforehand?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s better by far, so look, I’ll head off now . . .’

  ‘You just keep agreeing with me, so which option will we go with? Brunch before or lunch after?’

  ‘Emm, after, then,’ Kate almost shouts at the speakerphone from the other side of the room, where she’s blowing out scented candles.

  ‘Oh yes, and I didn’t invite James Kane to the Mass, by the way. I never told you, love, but when I went to the house to collect some of Charlotte’s things, he was acting most peculiarly. Of course, maybe I’m rushing to judge the lad, and he’s completely distraught about what happened, he certainly insisted to me that he was, but then, as you know, I never really had much time for him . . .’

  ‘I know, Mum, I know, look I really have to go . . .’

  ‘Oh. Rightie-oh. Did you want to get off the phone,
then, love?’

  ‘Mum! I’ll ring you back, OK?’

  It takes another few minutes to sign off on the chat, and then Kate immediately hits the speed dial and rings Paul’s number.

  She’s left the speakerphone on, so I can hear both sides of it.

  And I wish I hadn’t.

  ‘Kate, hi,’ he answers the phone flatly. It’s noisy in the background, like he’s out and about.

  ‘Paul, where are you? It’s eleven at night! I’ve been worried sick about you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry about that, I meant to ring you. I’m still with Robbie and the developers. I’ve been with them all day, and I just didn’t have time to call. We went for a business dinner and I couldn’t get out of it. Sorry, but it’s been well worth it. Times are tough and they just wanted us to have a meal together to try and thrash out a few more ideas.’

  ‘And you never thought to ring me and let me know? I’ve been out of my mind here.’

  ‘It’s work, Kate. WORK.’

  ‘I’m just saying, would it have killed you to even text me to say you wouldn’t be home tonight? I cooked dinner for you, you know. Your favourite, too, fillet steak and chips. I wanted to . . . well, I wanted to make it up to you for the awful row last night. I’m sorry for acting the way I did, Paul, I really am. It’s hard for me to be around your family, and I just could have done with a bit of moral support from you, that’s all.’

  I look at her, delighted. She’s making such an effort. I’m not saying it’s all thanks to me and the subliminal mind-games I’ve been playing with her, but . . . well, let’s be honest, it is mostly down to me.

  There’s a pause filled with laughing and chatting and busy, buzzy restaurant noises. I think Kate must be waiting for Paul to tell her that he’s sorry, too, for not going near her all night last night, and for abandoning her to the horrors-in-law.

  But he doesn’t.

  Instead he just says that Mike, the senior partner in the development company, has just ordered another bottle of Château Margaux, and that he’ll stay down in Galway tonight, but will call her first thing in the morning. The phone clicks as he hangs up, and Kate slumps down on the sofa, looking seriously pissed off.

  She stays there for a minute or two then mumbles under her breath, ‘Oh shit, the Mass.’ So she redials Paul’s mobile number, but this time he doesn’t answer. Probably can’t hear it ringing, with all the restaurant noise in the background. So she leaves a voicemail message, thinks for a minute, then whips out her mobile, scrolls down through her address book until she finds the number she wants. I’m reading it over her shoulder, and I nearly pass out when I see who she’s about to call.

  Briar Rose herself.

  You see? I think smugly. The power of suggestion. Not that Kate will ever be bosom buddies with any of her horrors-in-law, but they are family and . . . won’t things be so much better when they can all get along? Particularly when a certain happy event takes place, it’ll be lovely for Kate to have the love and support of her sisters-in-law, who are all mums, and who’ve all been there before.

  OK, so maybe love and support is a bit of an exaggeration, but you see what I’m getting at. I mean, everyone knows that Jackie Kennedy didn’t really see eye to eye with all the rah rah rah Kennedys whenever she had to go and visit them at Cape Cod, but she still managed to make it work with her usual grace and elegance, didn’t she? Same thing.

  Kate punches in the number and it rings through.

  ‘Hello?’ A little girl’s voice. Which is odd, to say the least.

  ‘Ehh . . . that’s not Rose, is it?’ says Kate, puzzled.

  ‘No, it’s Kirsten. Is that you, Auntie Kate?’

  ‘Yes, it is, pet. What are you doing up so late?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to be, so don’t tell my mammy, will you? The babysitter is on her mobile to her boyfriend, and she said we could watch DVDs if we kept our mouths shut while she’s on the phone.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘But, Auntie Kate?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘I think she’s having a fight with her boyfriend. I heard her saying bold words.’

  ‘And where’s your mummy tonight?’

  ‘She said fecker about four times, and that the boyfriend was a total pisshead.’

  ‘They’re very naughty words, Kirsten, and you shouldn’t repeat them.’

  ‘I couldn’t help hearing, the babysitter was screaming down the phone at him. My cousin Tommy was roaring laughing at her, but I wasn’t, honestly. I don’t like bad words.’

  ‘Good girl, I’m glad to hear it. Now, where’s your mum?’

  ‘Like when you were here last night? I heard Auntie Melissa and Auntie Sue say bold words about you, and I didn’t like that, either. Not after the bag of jellied eels from the Sweet Factory you gave me. That was really nice. I don’t care what anyone else says, Auntie Kate, I think you’re lovely.’

  Kate gives a deep, painful sigh.

  ‘Kirsten, pet, is your mum out for the night? It’s just that I need to leave a message for her.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Mum and Dad are gone to some party down in Sheehan’s pub.’

  ‘OK, love, would you ask her to call me in the morning?’

  ‘Uncle Paul is with them, too. Did you want to talk to him?’

  ‘What did you say, love?’

  ‘Uncle Paul was here earlier with that girl from the band, the one with the yellowy hair, and they were laughing and messing in the kitchen. They were here all evening, the four of them, and Uncle Paul gave me money. Then they took mammy and daddy down to the pub with them. She’s nice, the lady with the yellowy hair, but I forget her name.’

  Kate looks completely shell-shocked.

  ‘Her name is Julie, love.’

  I stay with her for the night, not having the first clue what to do now. I can’t even plant a happy dream in her head, because she spends the entire night tossing and turning and not even sleeping a wink.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JAMES

  . . . is scribbling out a list. I should know, I’m reading it over his shoulder. Five names, five contacts, five people who he’s now trying to ask for help in digging him out of the black hole he’s found himself in. All scrawled across a tatty bit of Meridius headed notepaper in his sloping, scary-looking, serial-killer handwriting. My thoughts are still with poor old Kate, but very early this morning she finally did nod off, and I figured it best to leave her and give the girl a bit of peace, for the moment at least. I’m dumbfounded, gutted, and still not able to quite believe that Paul, Perfect Paul, would lie so blatantly to Kate. It just can’t be true . . . can it? I so want to believe that maybe it’s all a big misunderstanding, that Kirsten, who innocently ratted him out on the phone, somehow got it all wrong. She’s only about eight after all . . . but until Kate actually gets to speak to Paul to clear this up, I’ll just have to wait and see.

  No other option. For now, at least.

  So, in a blind temper, I look in on James, and I’m glad I did: he’s like living, walking proof that sometimes bad things do occasionally happen to complete and utter bastards, and it goes a long way towards making me feel that there is actually some sort of justice in this world.

  His begging list reads as follows:

  1. Simon Webb.

  (Another independent producer, but unlike James, one who behaves like a gentleman, treats everyone who works for him fairly, and most importantly of all, actually gets stuff made.)

  2. Alex Mackey.

  (Wealthy socialite, divorced from a billionaire, and rarely out of the papers, where she’s never photographed in the same designer outfit twice. Kind of pally with James in that they air-kiss whenever they meet, call each other darling, and she gives good red carpet at any premieres he’s having: i.e., will always turn up in her glad rags, look suitably glam, and garner many miles of column inches in the press.)

  3. Shane Ferguson.

  (President of the Irish Film Board. Dug James ou
t of a hole years ago by investing in a documentary he made. Probably worth a try.)

  4. Joe McKinney.

  (A real long shot. Multi-millionaire who made his money by buying a radio station, then building it up to become one of the biggest in the country. I’m classifying him as a long shot, however, as he’s well known to hate James’s guts, and has on more than one occasion rubbished projects he’s been attached to, and encouraged his DJs to do so as well. Live, on air, that is.)

  5. James’s brother, Matthew.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. That’s a measure of just how desperately bad things have become. In fact, throw in four horsemen and you’ve pretty much got the apocalypse on your hands.

  He’s sitting on the couch at home, looking rough, dishevelled, red-eyed and hungover as a dog. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s beside him, which he keeps topping up his glass with. At nine in the morning. With a slightly shaky hand he picks up the phone and hits his first call. I want to shout something at him, but I can’t think what. Something suitably cutting . . . like, ‘This, James Kane, is the law of karma in action.’ Or maybe, ‘You see? Your downfall stemmed from treating everyone around you like a piece of shite, and look at you now. Poorer than Michael Jackson.’ Then again, on the other hand, maybe I’ll just limit myself to sitting on the sidelines like Madame Defarge, cackling at the proceedings while waving a pair of knitting needles in his face.

  But, bloody soft eejit that I am, I take one look at his trembling hands and his ashen, wasted face and it stops me in my tracks. Then I look around the house and think, he’s this close, inches away, from losing it altogether. After everything that I’ve done to it, all my hard work and effort and energy and money and . . . OK, you know what? I have to stop myself right here, because in the mood I’m in right now, there’s a good chance I might just start pitying him, and I’m not allowed.