If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  Shite, no, this is turning into a nightmare!

  On and on she runs, and now all sorts of unlikely people are walking towards her and leering at her creepily: Simon Cowell and Nicole Kidman wheeling a buggy. Still the singing is getting louder and louder, till eventually she comes to a door facing her, right at the very end of the corridor. It has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on it, but she hammers on it and bursts in anyway.

  Paul is there all right, sitting up in a king-size bed strumming on his guitar.

  With Julie in the bed beside him.

  I don’t even have to snap Kate out of it, as just at that exact moment, a key turns in the hall door downstairs.

  Phew.

  Suddenly she’s wide awake, with beads of sweat covering her pale, drawn face.

  ‘Paul? Is that you?’ Like a bullet, she’s out of the bed and racing downstairs to where he’s dumping an overnight bag on the hall table.

  They look at each other, but neither one speaks. Then he goes back to taking off his jacket and flicking through a pile of mail. Blanking her.

  ‘Mind the good cream rug, your shoes are filthy,’ she says, out of habit more than anything else. Then she looks mortified at having come out with something so utterly nagging and stupid and completely daft at a time like this. Paul just turns to look at her, kicks the shoes off, sending them flying against the bottom stair, and now it’s like a ‘who’ll blink first’ contest. Like he knows right well there’s a row coming, and is content to sit back and let her strike the first blow.

  Which she does.

  ‘Why didn’t you return my calls?’

  ‘Battery on my phone went dead.’

  ‘You couldn’t have called the landline? I’ve been worried sick, you know.’

  ‘Does it matter? Sure, I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Of course it matters.’

  He continues to stare stonily at her, and there’s another long pause.

  Oh God, it’s like I can’t watch, and yet feel compelled to. Because I just have a slow, sickening feeling that hell is about to be unleashed.

  ‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Kate eventually asks, but then she’s a great one for skating over surface tensions.

  ‘No, just a shower. I’ve been in the car since seven this morning.’

  He brushes past her to go upstairs, and I’m standing there thinking, is that it? No mention of the row the other night? Or of the fact that he spun her a yarn about being with property developers when he was out on the piss with his family and bloody Julie?

  Kate lets him get half-way up the stairs before stopping him.

  ‘You know, I think, Paul,’ she says in an unsteady voice, ‘that you at least owe me an explanation.’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ he answers coldly, turning to face her defiantly, arms folded, like he’s waiting for a full-on verbal onslaught.

  ‘You told me the other night that you were having a business dinner . . .’

  ‘That’s because I was.’

  ‘So how come when I called Rose’s, her youngest told me you were all gone down to Sheehan’s pub for the night?’

  ‘Because that’s where we went after dinner. Jesus, Kate, what is your problem? What are you trying to do anyway, spy on me?’

  Right, that’s done it. Gloves off, barriers down, as Kate really lets him have it.

  ‘Don’t dare speak to me like that, after all the worry I’ve been through . . .’

  ‘Well, you asked for it, have you any idea how embarrassed I was in front of my whole family after you picked a fight with me back at the house, the night of the party for the fortieth?’

  ‘After you ignored me for the entire night, you mean?’

  ‘I was playing with the band, in case you hadn’t noticed. Christ Alive, Kate, do you ever listen to yourself? Do you ever stop to think about anyone other than yourself?’

  ‘I went all the way down there to be with you, and you didn’t exactly look over the moon to see me, to put it mildly.’

  ‘I was just surprised, that’s all . . .’

  ‘Then you leave me all alone with your family . . .’

  ‘I was practising for the birthday do! Anyway, what’s wrong with my family? Is this what this is really about, Kate?’

  ‘I think it’s no secret that Rose and Melissa and Sue don’t really like me, and yet I sat with them for most of that awful night just to be there, just so I could support you . . .’

  ‘Maybe they don’t like you because you don’t make any effort with them . . .’

  ‘That is so bloody UNFAIR! I make every effort with them . . .’

  ‘Not what they all say . . .’

  ‘And what about Julie? How do you think I feel when I see the two of you all cosied up, you playing and her singing together?’

  ‘You’ve really done it now,’ he says coldly. ‘She happens to be a good friend of mine. If you’re insinuating something, why not come right out and say it?’

  Kate stops, as if she’s realizing that she’s beginning to sound irrationally jealous, and that maybe she went a bit too far. So she regroups.

  ‘All I’m trying to say is that, on top of everything else that I’m dealing with at the moment, I wouldn’t have minded a bit of support from my husband. Is that too much to ask?’

  He gives a shrug and doesn’t answer her. As if he’s finally realizing that he’s acting like a complete tosser.

  ‘It was a stressful time for me,’ he eventually says, but a bit more gently. A bit more like the Paul I know. ‘And I didn’t expect to see you down there.’

  Good, thank you, God, thank you, God. This is an improvement.

  ‘But . . .’ he goes on and I’m not liking that but . . .

  ‘Seriously, Kate, what exactly is it you want? That I hold your hand every time you’re with my family? On the rare occasions that you actually condescend to visit them, that is.’

  Oh shit, shit, shit, nononononono.

  That’s really done it now.

  ‘Have you any idea how hurtful that is?’ she screams back at him, hand clenched tightly on to the banister rail, with him still half-way up the stairs, coolly looking back down at her. I’m sitting in on a stair between the two of them, covering my ears with my hands, feeling hollow and empty and helpless, like a kid whose parents are bickering and not caring about the emotional fallout of the accusations they’re hurling at each other.

  Stop this, stop this, please stop this now, before one of you says something you can’t take back . . .

  ‘I made huge efforts with Rose, and with your other sisters-in-law, but they’ve made up their minds that I’m not one of them, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Well, maybe you just need to spend more time with them. Take the trouble to get to know them. They’re family after all, and family comes first.’

  ‘I know. Of course I know.’

  I look up, suddenly heartened that they actually seem to be agreeing on something.

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way, Kate. Because given that any bit of construction work going seems to be in the west these days, I think it’s time we looked into getting a place down there. Close to my family, close to work, save me doing this ridiculous drive every time there’s a sniff of a job . . .’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ she says disbelievingly. ‘What about my family, in Dublin? How am I supposed to see Mum for starters, if we’re living three hours’ drive away? How’s she supposed to cope without me?’

  ‘So maybe I get a flat in Galway, and stay there on my own.’

  He was way too quick to say that, which makes me suspect that he’s been thinking about this for a long time.

  ‘Why would you want to do that when your home is here? With me?’

  ‘I dunno, Kate, maybe because I hate the colour cream. Maybe I’m sick and tired of feeling like I’m dirtying up your spotless mansion. Maybe I’m fed up with how every single conversation I seem to have with you these days somehow turns into a screaming match. Maybe I
just want some shagging peace.’

  Kate just looks at him, like she’s been punched with a knockout blow.

  ‘But . . . but Paul, if you get an apartment in Galway, and I’m here in Dublin, then . . .’ She gulps, as if she’s somehow trying to find the courage to finish her sentence.

  ‘. . . then, what’s the point in being married?’

  ‘I honestly don’t think I know any more, Kate. You tell me.’

  Chapter Twenty

  FIONA

  I just had to get out of there. Away from Kate and Paul ripping each other apart, away from the rows and accusations and bitterness. It’s eating me up just watching them, and all I can think is . . . where will it all end? I’m such an emotional coward, I need to get as far away as possible from the pair of them and be around someone happy and positive and whose life is turning a corner for her . . . so that’d be Fi, then.

  I should fill you in. Her date with Tim wound up earlyish, with him dropping her back home in a cab and promising that he’d call her. And yes, OK, I admit he did do a fair bit of talking about Ayesha and a possible reconciliation, but I’m putting that down to him being male and therefore an eejit in all matters of the heart, and therefore needing signs flagged in neon waved under his nose saying, ‘But your wife treated you appallingly! And now Fiona is back in your life! You loved her once and will learn to do so again, moron!’

  Mortals. It scares me to think how they’d manage without angels like me watching over, guiding, steering, manipulating, etc. And do you think I’ll get as much as a word of thanks?

  Saturday mornings, Fiona usually makes out all these ‘to do’ lists for herself, along the lines of:

  7 a.m.: rise, breakfast on a slither of Ryvita covered with a thin glaze of low fat spread and some hot water with a tiny squeeze of lemon juice. Read papers from cover to cover, including the boring financial bits.

  8 a.m.: spinning class at the gym.

  You get the picture, virtue on a monument. Her actual morning, however, tends to be a bit more along the lines of:

  10.30 a.m.: roll over for second sleep.

  11.45 a.m.: eventually haul ass out of bed.

  12 noon, stick on frying pan and stuff face with rashers, sausages, eggs, white pudding etc., etc., then maybe start to think about leaving the house.

  So by the time I get to her, just after midday, she’s sitting at her desk, I guessed right, still in her dressing gown, putting away the last of a breakfast fit for a builder, eyes glued to the computer, reading her online horoscope for the day ahead.

  ‘I wish you could hear me, Fi,’ I say morosely, parking my bum on the desk beside her. ‘I’m sick with worry about Kate, and I’d so love to pick your brains about it.’

  I’m now starting to seriously resent not being able to even have a proper chat with her. Funny the things you really miss about being alive: it’s a cliché to say it, but it really is the little things. Nattering to Fi on a lazy Saturday morning being one. EastEnders being another. Oh and Hob Nobs. Being able to talk to my mother whenever I feel like it.

  Oh well. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck in this dimension now, so I might as well just get on with things. Made my bed, have to lie in it, and all that.

  Lazily, Fi stretches, burps, then hops up, and, bringing her empty plate with her, heads into her tiny kitchen, where she dumps the plate on the table and pours herself out a fresh mug of tea. Then she’s straight back to her computer, with me at her shoulder, checking into her emails.

  Another one from that vet fella. Jaysus, I’ll say this for him, he might not be the guy for Fiona, but if nothing else, he’s persistent.

  From: lovesgermanshepherds@hotmail.com

  To: lexiehart@yahoo.com

  Subject: Tomorrow, Sunday . . . ?

  Dear Lexie,

  OK, OK, I get the hint. So a Chinese meal doesn’t do it for you. Not a problem. Thing is, I still feel like such a heel for letting you down the other night, and I’m worried now that I’ll never get a chance to apologize to you in person. So here it comes, my final game plan. If, by a miracle, the sight of my profile picture doesn’t make you want to be physically sick, and if you think you could put up with me for a few hours, then I’d like to invite you to my local annual summer fair tomorrow afternoon, down here in Carlow. I’d be really happy to come and collect you wherever you’re based (I’m guessing Dublin?) and then, of course, drop you back whenever you’d like. A mad invite I know, but I promise you one thing: it’s always hilarious, one of the funniest days out of the year, in fact. I’m judging the under-twelves ‘best pet’ contest, so I can promise you VIP access to all the tents. Of course, this basically means you get to stand in your wellies in the front row for all the events, surrounded by kids carrying parrots in cages, fighting over whose has the best-groomed plumage. I kid you not, think Glastonbury, only with bands that aren’t on drugs, more mud and animals everywhere. If you’re reading this and wavering . . .

  I look over to Fi, who’s taking a slurp of tea out of her mug.

  She is wavering, the eejit!

  ‘OK, Fi, you know what? That’s quite enough of this shite. Honestly, who does he think you are? Felicity Kendal from The Good Life? The kind of woman who’ll conveniently forget about being left all alone in a restaurant, throw on a pair of wellies and then go haring off down to Carlow?’

  She keeps reading on, though, so I do, too.

  . . . then let me tell you a bit more about myself, so you’ll know you’re not about to sign up for an afternoon with a psychopath or an escaped convict.

  1. I do have a sense of humour, honestly. OK, so everyone says that on their profile, but my mates really do tell me that I’m funny. And just while we’re on the subject, I think it’s a complete myth that women find men who can make them laugh sexy, because I’m always making girls laugh, and can’t get a date for the life of me. (You see? If nothing else, I’m honest about it!) Also, if it was true about women loving funny men, then Woody Allen wouldn’t have had to marry his adopted daughter, would he?

  Fiona snorts aloud at this.

  ‘Stop right there,’ I say bossily to her. ‘All this from the gobshite who stood you up? If you agree to meet this tosser, then you’re only sending him a message that it’s absolutely OK for him to treat you like that. Come on, what about Tim? Remember? Lovely gorgeous Tim who’s now miraculously back in your life and newly single?’

  She scrolls down, though, totally engrossed.

  2. Once upon a time, men set great store by a woman who could cook. Me? I’d be over the moon just to meet a girl who can eat. My last date was with a non-fish-eating, wheat-intolerant vegetarian who was ‘off carbs’ for a year. Oh, and who didn’t drink alcohol, either.

  ‘I love my food,’ Fi mutters, so keenly interested that it’s starting to worry me. ‘Plus, show me a bottle of Pinot Grigio and I’m in heaven.’

  ‘Switch off the shagging computer, and put this thundering eejit out of your head!’ I’m yelling at her, now, pointlessly of course, she just keeps on reading. ‘Oh and, on a point of order, I should tell you there is no alcohol in heaven at all. Like permanent Good Friday up there.’

  3. A lot of the guys I hang around with talk about their perfect woman. One mate is looking for a combination of Catherine Zeta Jones, Germaine Greer and Abi Titmuss. And he thinks he’ll meet her in Carlow by the way, where men outnumber women by about four to one. Another pal says his ideal mate is a half-Swedish, half-Japanese permanently twenty-five-year-old, five foot eight bisexual gymnast, with a penchant for wearing tastefully slutty cocktail dresses. Lexie, there are times when I despair. Particularly when I can sum up what I’m looking for in a life partner thus.

  I’d like to find a Linda McCartney and not a Heather Mills.

  ‘So sweet!’ Fiona mumbles, impressed.

  ‘Oh stop being so gooey-eyed, this is probably a standard round robin email that he sends to every girl he stands up. Why he bothers I don’t know, but then they say serial killers
can be exceptionally charming when you first meet them, too.’

  Just then there’s a loud thumping on the front door. Fi jumps up, looking puzzled, like she’s not expecting anyone, then pads barefoot down the tiny hallway to the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she calls out, cautiously waiting for a reply before unlocking all the deadbolts and chain locks.

  ‘Ehh . . . hi . . . Fiona? I hope I’m not disturbing you, but do you think I could come in for a sec? It’s me, Tim.’

  Oh thank God, thank God, thank God. This is so amazing! Perfect timing, too. He’ll bring her back to her senses and stop her from fantasizing over Vet Man and his bloody welly-fest in Carlow.

  She unlocks the door, which I’m not joking, takes almost another ten minutes, then lets him in. Poor old Tim, he’s looking even greyer and more washed-out than he did last night, and that’s really saying something.

  ‘Sorry for barging in like this,’ he apologizes, following her into the kitchen, where she sticks on the kettle.

  ‘No, it’s no problem, none at all!’ she says over-brightly, pulling her dressing gown tightly round her, like she’s suddenly mortified to be found half-dressed and not wearing her contact lenses. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Love one. Look, if I said I just happened to be in the area, you know I’d be lying,’ he says, standing behind her as she pulls down mugs and a jar of Nescafé from the cupboard above her head.

  Good, good stuff, Tim, now come on, this is no time for shyness or game-playing. Tell her, I dunno, that you’ve been thinking about her all night, that you couldn’t wait to see her again . . . you’re a guy! Go to it . . . romance her!

  ‘You’re welcome to call anytime,’ Fiona smiles, spooning coffee into the mugs.