If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  So, quite apart from the fact that he’s about to lose his business, not to mention Declan, the best thing that ever happened to Meridius Movies, where the hell is he going to go and live? This is a man who doesn’t do friends like the rest of us, so crashing out on some sympathetic mate’s sofa for the duration isn’t a runner. And I doubt very much that there’s any kind of plan B. Unless he’s planning to call his brother, to see if he can stay with him for the time being. Even thinking that sentence, I can hear the sound of barrels being scraped. To put it mildly, they never really got on, and anyway, the pair of them haven’t actually spoken since about three Christmases ago, and then it was only because they were having a row.

  Bloody hell.

  He calls Simon Webb first, is told by an assistant that he’s not available, so James, in his politest, humblest phone voice leaves a message then hangs up. He puts a ‘?’ beside his name on the list, and moves on to his next target. Alex Mackey, or Her Ladyship as he jokingly refers to her. Well, half-joking, half-meaning it. Amazingly, considering it’s this early in the morning, she answers. I only get one side of the call, but it goes like this.

  ‘Alex? James here, glad I caught you, honey . . . oh you’re on your way to the gym? You’re kidding me, babe, with a body like yours? Women go to the gym so they can end up looking like you . . .’

  He chats on, while I pause to gag. God knows why, this is the way he communicates with all women. I just forgot how nauseatingly, revoltingly sick-making all the forced flirtation is, that’s all. And that he can effortlessly switch into it in his half-pissed state just goes to show his level of desperation.

  ‘. . . is it really that long since I’ve seen you? The film festival in Belfast? You’re kidding me . . . my God, is it really three months since then? Yeah . . . yeah, I really enjoyed that night too, babe. We must hook up soon and do it again sometime . . .’

  OK, now I’m starting to sniff something in the air, and I’m not even sure what it is.

  ‘. . . but I did call you afterwards, Alex, I did. You were in such a rush to get out of my room the next morning before anyone saw you, I didn’t know what to think . . . of course no one saw us . . . I’m positive . . . because, Alex, remember? On the last day of the festival, the hotel was crawling with journalists, and if they’d copped on that something happened between us, we’d have been tabloid fodder for weeks. Charlotte would have got wind of it, made my life hell till she cooled down . . .’

  ‘I KNEW it!’ I yell out loud. Can’t help myself. All of a sudden, I feel like this Berlin Wall of white-hot fury has just been torn down, and now there’s no stopping me. I remember him going to that film festival like it was yesterday: he called me from the hotel so many times I lost count, to tell me how boring it all was, how, apart from the screenings, there was bugger all to do, ‘no one to go out and play with’ as he put it. Even on the last day of it, he rang to say how much he missed me, wished I’d been there, and couldn’t wait to get back home.

  While, all along, he’d spent the previous night with Alex.

  ‘You slept with her?’ I snarl into his face. ‘You actually slept with her? You know, I didn’t think that it was possible for you to slip any lower in my estimation, but congratulations, you just did. You lying, cheating, two-faced, hypocritical . . .’

  He covers his ear with his hand, as if I’m just a background noise that he can block out, and keeps on talking.

  Big, big mistake.

  ‘James, hang up the phone.’ I’m deliberately keeping my tone loud, clear and steady, like the way trained hostage-negotiators talk to kidnappers. He winces a bit, looks around, decides he’s imagining things, then goes right back to the full-on flirt-fest with Alex.

  ‘So listen, honey,’ he says, huskily, reaching for a Marlboro and lighting it up with his free hand, ‘I’m glad I caught you, because there’s something I wanted to run by you. An investment opportunity . . . no, not a movie, a TV series . . . ooh, it’s A list all the way, baby . . . guarantee you’d triple your money in next to no time . . . well, thing is, they’re queueing up and down the street to invest in this, but I thought I’d give you first refusal on account of us going back a long way . . . entry-level investment would be in the region of fifty thousand, but obviously, the more you put in, the more you’ll get back . . . oh. OK. Right then. Fine. Yeah, ’course I understand. Well, it’s your decision, Alex, but I have to tell you, you’re passing up a golden opportunity. Right, say no more. If you’re not interested, you’re not interested. Not a problem, babe. Just a shame that you’re passing up on this. A shame for you, I mean. Yeah, lunch on me next time I see you. I’ll get Hannah at the office to set it up. OK, take care.’

  Then he slams down the phone and starts talking scarily slowly, as he does whenever he’s dangerously angry.

  ‘You dooozy, tight-fisted biiitch, Alex Mackey, what’s fiiifty poxy graaand to you, anyway?’

  I’m standing right in front of him now, shaking with uncontrollable anger.

  ‘James, I know you can hear me, and for your own sake, you’d be well advised to listen to what I have to say.’

  He’s about to dial another number, then freezes, listens, checks the amount of Jack Daniel’s he’s actually drunk, then decides he’s still a bit pissed, and that’s all that’s wrong with him. That’s why he’s hearing things. So he pulls on his cigarette and starts rubbing his temples. Ignoring me. He looks around for a bit, is satisfied that it was all in his head, then keeps on dialling.

  Take more than that to shut me up, though.

  ‘Call me the voice of your conscience if you like, James, but can’t you see what’s going on here? You’ve spent your entire life treating not just women but everyone around you like complete and utter shite, and now it’s come back to haunt you. Chickens coming home to roost, and all that. For God’s sake, will you put the phone down, and for once in your life just listen to what I have to say? Or do I have to bitch-slap some sense into you?’

  He’s still rubbing his temples, like I’m some irritating, whiskey-fuelled internal, semi-drunken monologue that won’t go away, when someone answers the phone.

  ‘Hey, Shane, man, how are you? James Kane here . . . long time, no see . . . look, can you talk for a sec? There’s something I need to run by you, an investment opportunity . . . yeah . . . come on, man, we go back a long way and you were the first person I thought of calling . . . no, no, just hear me out . . . but, Shane . . . you were paid back every penny last time you invested with Meridius . . . well, it’s hardly my fault if you didn’t make back as much as you thought . . . come on, all investment is a risk, you know that . . . so, you’ve no interest in what I have to say to you, is that what you’re telling me? Fine, Shane. Absolutely. Your loss, mate, not mine.’

  ‘Another one turned their back on you,’ I almost sneer at him.

  I know, I know, I’m a horrible person, but right now I feel elated, vindicated, completely over the moon that this sad excuse for a human being, who ruined my life, is now, finally, getting his comeuppance.

  ‘Don’t you see, James,’ I say, standing over him and trying to steady my voice, ‘what’s happening here? The universe is trying to teach you a valuable lesson: treat people badly, shaft them, lie to them, cheat on them, and it can only come back to bite you in the arse. Surely even someone as insensitive and plain buck-stupid as you can realize what’s happening? It’s your punishment for treating me the way you did. Call it divine retribution, call it what you like, but you’re finally getting your just desserts, and here I am, with a front-row seat, cheering on your downfall. My God, if there was a gold medal for pure evil, I’d be the one handing it out to you. Maybe that’s why you can hear me, and no one else can. So I can act as Greek chorus to your final ruination. And believe me, I intend to make a full three-act opera with intervals and all out of this. Because it couldn’t happen to a more deserving person.’

  He’s still blocking me out, hand over one ear, and is on to the next call, though
. Joe McKinney. He doesn’t get him, though: Joe’s assistant answers, takes a message, then hangs up. Meanwhile, I’ve worked myself up into a right state, so I’m now railing at him, like all the combined furies of hell, all rolled into one.

  ‘What really gets me,’ I splutter and spit, ‘is that after all the time we spent together, after everything I did for you: always putting your interests first, never for one second doubting that you loved me, and that we’d be together for the rest of our lives . . . all the while you were just stringing me along. And I couldn’t even see it. Everyone around me could, except me. But I paid the highest price possible for being such a blind gobshite, and now you’re doing the same. And it’s what you deserve. Dear Jesus, if hell ever needs an ambassador, you’d be it.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, who is saying that?’ he witters, looking a bit scared now.

  ‘Who do you think?’

  A long pause as he looks at the whiskey bottle, then does a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan of the living room, checking, looking, panicking.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I’ve had too much to drink, that’s all that’s wrong here,’ he mutters.

  ‘Oh, you arsehole, don’t you understand? You NEED to listen to me! Why do you think I’m even bothering to be here, when I’ve far better things I could be getting on with?’

  But just then, another call is answered. This time, it’s his older brother Matthew. Hedge-fund manager and filthy rich with all the trappings. The five-bedroomed house on millionaires’ row in Malahide (close to the sea, close to the airport, dontcha know), the trophy wife and the two perfect, gifted kids, and the holiday home close to a golf course in the fashionable part of the Algarve. Although he’s not as much of a charmer as James, he’s a far, far more honourable, decent, gentlemanly character.

  Which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be too difficult.

  James does his pitch, somehow managing to make it sound like he’s actually doing Matthew a favour, by bringing him in on this mega-deal that will propel Matthew to even greater riches. But like a twobit conman, he seriously underestimates his mark. Matthew didn’t get to where he is in life without asking tough questions, and pretty soon, whether it’s through exhaustion or semi-drunkenness, James is confessing everything. Bit by bit, Matthew somehow manages to prise it all out of him. That the real reason for the first phone call he’s graced his brother with in years is that he’s having cash-flow problems. That the lease is up on Meridius’s office in a few weeks, and he doesn’t have the money to renew, and then, the pièce de résistance, that his house is about to be repossessed.

  I can’t hear what exactly Matthew says, but judging from James’s curt response, I’m guessing it goes along the lines of, ‘Who exactly do you think you are, calling me up looking for handouts when I haven’t heard from you in over two years? What do you take me for, anyway, some kind of ATM machine . . . etc., etc., etc.’

  Then comes the killer blow. I press my ear right up close to the phone, so I can hear it for myself, so it’s muffled, but there’s no mistake. The normally cool Matthew is raising his voice at James now, making it all the easier for me to tune in.

  ‘Fine, bro,’ James snaps. ‘I ask you for a bit of short-term help, and you can’t even see fit to dig out your own brother in his goddamned hour of need.’

  ‘I am trying to do you a favour,’ Matthew explains patiently. ‘You’re at rock bottom now. This is the best thing that could happen to you, because your hand’s forced. You’re hungry and you’re going under. Isn’t that when you artistic types do all your best work? When the wolf is at the door?’

  ‘Matthew, ten grand would see me out of this, come on, it’s not like you’re even going to miss it, now, is it?’

  ‘My company has already given to all our designated charities this year. Which, considering we’re in recession, we feel is more than generous.’

  ‘Hear me out, will you?’ James wails, sounding close to real hysteria now. ‘I mean, come on, we’re brothers, aren’t we? If you don’t help me, what am I going to do?’

  A long pause.

  ‘You say you’ve a few weeks before the lease on the Meridius office expires?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ says James, gratefully grabbing at this lifeline. ‘Even if you could sort me out for the cash to cover that . . .’

  ‘I was about to do no such thing. All I was suggesting is that, when your house is repossessed, at least you can crash out on your office floor.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  FIONA

  Well, thank God for one angelic success story, is all I can say. Though, I suppose in a way I can count what’s happening to James as a success of sorts. He asked for it, and yeah, he got what was coming to him, although you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. I then remind myself that James Kane is, in fact, my worst enemy. I hope for his sake that he’ll somehow unearth the life lesson that’s to be learned in there, and who knows? With me hissing in his ear every opportunity I get, there’s a chance that even a hopeless moron such as he is might, just might, make the correlation between how he’s behaved and how his whole world has turned upside down. As for Kate, poor, strung-out Kate, I haven’t decided how best I can help her now, and until she has a showdown with Paul, there’s damn all I can do for her. So I go to see Fiona, my golden project, if I do say so myself.

  It’s a gorgeous, balmy, summery Friday evening and when I join her, she’s strutting down Wicklow Street in the heart of the city, checking out her reflection in just about every shop window she passes. She does this a fair bit, and it’s not out of vanity, more like insecurity. No need for that tonight, though, she’s really pulled out all the stops, and is looking jaw-droppingly amazing in a gorgeous, fuchsia-pink dress, cut to show off her neat, trim little figure. I’ve never seen it on her before, which means she must have gone shopping especially for tonight, when my back was turned.

  Which is such a good sign. Balm to my wounds, in fact.

  Her neck is craned checking, checking, checking out the name of every dinky little restaurant she passes, then eventually she lights on the one she’s looking for, Trentuno. It’s small, but cosy and romantic, with the doors thrown open to let in the cool evening air, and a gorgeous smell of garlicky sauces drifting out from the kitchen.

  It’s packed full with Friday-evening revellers, but good old reliable Tim is there ahead of her, patiently waiting at a discreet table for two at the back, and I swear I think my heart is racing just as much as hers must be, at the sight of the two of them greeting each other. Not knowing whether to hug or not, then going for it, but a bit awkwardly, then accidentally banging their heads off each other, and both laughing nervously. They talk over each other, overlapping sentences at the same time, and it’s just so endearingly cute to see how red-faced and teenagery they are around each other.

  It’s not that I want to earwig, it’s just that, given my own disastrous relationship history, it’s so refreshingly good to see actual soulmates come together. After what I’ve been through, there’s nothing more heartening than the sight of a good woman and the man who’s held a candle for her all along, and who adores the ground she walks on, getting it together. Finally, after all these years. I look on at the two of them proudly, delighted that at least here is a little bit of earthly happiness that I can take total credit for.

  The conversation begins awkwardly.

  ‘You haven’t changed a day.’ Tim smiles at her as the waiter delivers the wine list.

  ‘Except I got rid of the jam-jar glasses.’

  ‘I liked the jam-jar glasses. They made you look cute.’

  ‘Come off it, they made me look like Deirdre from Coronation Street.’

  He smiles again, as the waiter drops off the wine list.

  ‘What would you like to drink? Red or white?’

  ‘Wet and alcoholic will do me grand, thanks,’ says Fi.

  ‘No, you definitely haven’t changed. That was always your sta
ndard answer to that question.’

  ‘Emm, neither have you,’ says Fi politely, but she’s actually lying through her teeth, as Tim now looks so completely different from the mad messer we knew all those years ago, that you’d pretty much be hard-pressed to pick him out of a police line-up.

  A long pause, while they both take stock of each other.

  Go on, get some alcohol into you, guys, that’ll jump-start things a bit!

  Tim takes the cue, thankfully orders a bottle of Chianti, and they both ease back into their chairs.

  Another bleeding long-drawn-out pause.

  ‘So,’ Fi eventually says tentatively. ‘Emm . . . how are things since, emm . . . well, you know, since . . .’

  ‘Since Ayesha and I split up, you mean?’ he finishes the sentence for her.

  ‘Emm, well, yeah.’

  ‘Fiona, all I can say is that I hope neither you nor anyone else I know ever has to go through what I’m going through right now.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, it must be awful. But you know I’m here for you.’

  Good. This is good stuff. Now he’ll open up to her about the miserable years he spent with Ayesha, and then, who knows? After the Chianti kicks in, maybe that will lead to him musing about how different his life would have been had he and Fi stayed together, which in turn might lead to them getting back together again, etc., etc.

  If I say so myself, this is one angelic project I can be seriously proud of.

  ‘I think I’m still completely raw about the whole thing,’ Tim says, just as the wine arrives. ‘The hardest part is not being able to see the kids every day.’

  ‘That must be terrible. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through,’ says Fi, sitting forward in her chair, with me willing her to take his hand.