‘It’s just that . . . oh Christ, you mightn’t be able to get your head around what I have to tell you. Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No, go ahead.’
He plonks himself down at her little table, with the remains of her big greasy fry-up still sitting on a plate in front of him.
‘Can I get you some brekkie?’ says Fi, whipping the plate away, embarrassed.
‘It’s good of you to ask, but I think food might just make me sick.’
Ooh, nerves, this can only be good.
‘Why’s that?’ Fi asks, concerned.
‘You won’t believe this. I can scarcely believe it myself,’ he says shakily, and I just know that there’s something coming. Some big declaration. Something that’ll change the whole course of Fi’s life. Call it angel’s intuition, but if you ask me, it’s nothing less than fate that he called here this morning. It’s destiny, in fact. I’d stake my life on it.
Sorry, I keep forgetting.
A long, Pinteresque pause. The only background noise is the kettle boiling and then the clink clank of Fi stirring coffee round the mugs.
Hmm . . . wonder if he’ll ask her to get back together right here and right now? Which leads me to wonder whether he’ll pounce on her right here, right now . . . which leads me to wonder if Fi’s had a leg wax, and whether or not she has the good sheets on the bed upstairs . . . which leads me to wonder what I’ll do with myself if things start getting hot and heavy round here, I mean, I can hardly hang around, can I? Too voyeuristic by far, no thanks . . . oh, I know what I’ll do, I’ll go and see Mum, it’s been a while . . .
‘So, what’s up?’ says Fi, gingerly sitting down opposite him, and passing him over the hot mug of coffee. She keeps fidgeting with her glasses, whipping them off, then wiping them off on her dressing gown, which is a nervous habit with her. She must sense that there’s something coming, she must.
He runs his hands through his hair. Antsy body language of his which, bizarrely, I remember with astonishing clarity from all those years ago.
Another long pause, the longest this side of a Samuel Beckett play.
Oh, for God’s sake, come on, Tim, faint heart never won fair lady!
‘Look,’ Tim says after what feels like about half an hour. ‘It’s easier if I just say it straight out.’
‘Go on.’
Yes, go on, the suspense is driving me mental!
A long sigh. ‘The thing is . . . and I’m not proud of this . . . I just had a huge fight with Ayesha’s jockstrap of a boyfriend, Rick the Prick, and now the bastard is threatening me with assault charges,’ he manages to get out, twisting and turning in his chair, ejector-seat jumpy.
‘What the fuck?’ Fiona and I say at exactly the same time.
‘OK, OK, let me put it into context for you. This morning, I went around to Ayesha’s house, that’s MY house, to pick up the twins, as arranged. So, OK, I was maybe half an hour early, no big deal, right?’
‘No, no, ’course not,’ Fi and I say, again, together. ‘So jockstrap opens the door, MY hall door, in his bloody Leinster rugby shirt, and coolly tells me that I’m early and the kids have gone to the supermarket with Ayesha. Fine by me, I said, I’ll just come in and wait for them. Not a good idea, the smarmy git smirks at me. Seeing as how you don’t live here any more, he says. I swear, he was nearly goading me, just to see how far he could push his luck.’
‘So what happened?’ Fi asks, her eyes like saucers.
‘I lost it, I totally lost it. Honestly, I frightened myself with the blind rage I went into. Told him this was my home, which I’m paying the mortgage on, and who the hell did he think he was anyway, barring me from going inside?’
‘So then what?’
‘So then the arsehole starts getting all technical, saying that Ayesha’s dad actually helped out with the down-payment on the house, so therefore it’s only half mine. I’m roaring into the git’s face at this stage, and I’m aware that I’m making a show of myself in front of the neighbours, but I’m so far gone with fury that I don’t even care. So I shout at him and ask how he can call himself a man, yet live in a house that I pay the mortgage on as well as all the bills. How do you live with yourself knowing another man is supporting you, is the point I was trying to make, but the bastard twisted it and said . . . and said . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘. . . said that if Ayesha had been happy and satisfied with me, then she wouldn’t have needed to look outside of her marriage. So that’s when I really lost it. I shouted at him to step outside so we could settle it once and for all, but he wouldn’t. I went at him, from where he was standing in the doorway, and landed him one clean, hard punch right square in the gob.’
Fiona looks like she doesn’t know what to do or say, so she goes back to putting the glasses back on, then whipping them off again.
‘Gave him a right shiner. I was thrilled. But here’s where the git is so clever. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t hitting me back, because I’d have killed him, I swear I would have. He just stood there with a smirk across his ugly face. Then I saw why: without me realizing, Ayesha and the kids had already pulled up on the road outside and witnessed the whole bloody thing. Of course, then she wouldn’t let me take the kids, said they were too upset by what they’d seen. So then git-face starts saying that his brother is some hotshot lawyer and that he’ll make sure they apply for a barring order against me. Oh, and that he’ll press assault charges, which shouldn’t be a problem as now he has witnesses. A barring order, Fiona? From going into my own home? I’m at my wits’ end here; I’m at rock bottom. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they do.’
‘Oh, Tim, that’s just terrible,’ says Fi, full of sympathy. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘All I want is to win her back. And I can’t do it alone. Help me, Fiona, please, for the love of God, help me. I know it’s hard to believe, and I know I mightn’t exactly have been husband of the year, but in spite of everything, I love the ground that woman walks on. She’s the other half of my soul, and I’m only sorry I had to go through all of this crap to realize it.’
Another silence as he takes a gulp of coffee, scalds his mouth, curses, then dumps the mug back down again. Fi just looks on with an expression on her face that I can’t make out.
She’s not liking this any more than I am, though, and that’s for sure.
‘So,’ Tim continues, ‘now you see why I had to come round here. I just needed to talk to a friend.’
‘A friend,’ she repeats dully.
It’s like he’s not even hearing her, though.
‘Right, then,’ he goes on, thinking aloud, ‘here’s what I think the best thing to do is. I need to take some time, but when I’ve calmed down a bit, and when she’ll agree to see me again, I need to go round there on bended knee and try to get to see her alone. And then I’ll beg, like I’ve never begged before in my life, for her to take me back. No matter what she asks of me, I’ll do it, if I can just get rid of Rick the Prick and get her back. I’ve no pride left, Fiona, and I don’t even care any more. You’re the only person I could come to for help, so for old times’ sake, I’m asking you now. Will you help me, Fi? To win my wife back?’
They continue talking for a bit, or rather, Tim continues talking while she just listens. Silently, nonjudgementally. Then after a while, she excuses herself and says she’s slipping upstairs to get dressed. On her way up, though, she stops at her computer, where Vet Man’s email is still flickering away on the screen, unanswered.
Discreetly, she clicks on the reply button.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Tomorrow . . . Sunday?
Hi there.
It’s a date.
And by the way, my real name is Fiona.
Chapter Twenty-one
JAMES
Everything’s going wrong. Everything. Kate and Paul are ripping each other apart, while Fiona
and Tim, who I had such high hopes for, are a total disaster. All he can live, eat, drink, sleep or talk about is Ayesha, Ayesha, bloody Ayesha: how much he loves her and how he’ll do anything to get her back.
The guilt is suffocating me. It’s all my fault. I mean, I’m the one who engineered them back into each other’s lives, and what good has it done? In total despair, I leave them to it, and go back home. Sorry, back to James’s house, I mean. Don’t even know why I’m drawn there, all I can put it down to is that it does my heart good to witness James down on his luck and at rock bottom. Where he belongs.
Next thing, I’m in our, sorry, his, living room and . . . oh, for Jaysus’ sake. Screechy Sophie is here, mid-screech. Another row in full flight. Dear Jaysus, how many more of them am I supposed to witness? Everyone is suffering. Everyone is miserable. And all I can do is look on, powerless.
I’m starting to think that the life of an angel sucks, it really does.
‘So, that’s it, then? You’ve nothing else to say to me?’ Sophie is yelling at him, and it’s only then that I notice two packed suitcases sitting neatly at the front door.
James is lying stretched out on the sofa looking like death on a plate. The nesty hair, the same manky jeans and jumper he had on last time I saw him, looking like he hasn’t bothered to haul himself up off the sofa since then, either. To complete the hobo look, he has a blanket pulled around him, and, because I’m close by, he shivers, pulling it closer to him. Right beside him are two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, one empty and one half-empty. He looks like he hasn’t stopped drinking since I last saw him, and, what’s more, that he doesn’t even give a shite.
‘I’m doing this because I do still care about you, you know,’ howls Sophie, standing over him. He’s not even reacting to her, just staring ahead, glazed. Glazed and pissed, that is. ‘But if you think I’m staying another minute under this roof just to watch you drink yourself to death, James Kane, you’ve another think coming.’
No response.
‘I’ve had it with you. I’ve given you every chance, and you’re just behaving like a complete boor.’
Still no reaction.
‘Everyone goes through tough times with work, you know. It’s not like you’re the first person this has ever happened to. I mean, look at me. I went for that musical audition the other day and I never even got a recall. But do you see me wallowing in misery, refusing to even get up off the sofa? No, because I’m a survivor, that’s why. I deal with the knocks and I move on. Just like Liz Taylor.’
Oh yeah? I’m thinking, looking at her big, stupid poodley head. Because what happened to you, and what happened to James is the exact same. Not getting a callback for some dopey musical, and what he’s dealing with: i.e., losing his home, company, career and right-hand man, all within the same few miserable days.
‘James?’ Sophie’s nearly on top of him, now, and I’m starting to worry that her decibel level will actually dislodge plaster from the ceiling. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
No reaction. In fact I wish I could figure out how he’s managing to tune her out, because, God knows, it’d come in very handy.
‘This is it, you know. Because once I walk out that door, there’s no turning back. You can beg and plead all you like for me to give you another chance, but you’ve had your final warning. I won’t take your calls, I won’t ever see you again, and God help me, but if you even dare to come near me in public, I’ll throw a drink over you. Do you understand?’
James just does that thing of rubbing his eye sockets with his palms, but otherwise stays silent.
‘Right, then,’ she says, the penny eventually dropping that he’s not exactly putting up a fight to get her to stay.
Hee hee hee.
‘Well, James, this is it, then. If I can give you one piece of advice before I go . . .’
It’s the first time he’s actually turned to look at her.
#x2018;. . . it’s that you get help. Look at yourself. You’re a complete mess. Drag yourself down all you want, but don’t for a second think you can drag me down with you. Right then. I’m off. Don’t try to contact me, there’s no point.’ With that, she swishes the stupid poodley curls, picks up her cases and opens the hall door.
‘Sophie?’ he calls after her in a gravelly voice, just as she’s about to leave.
‘Yes?’ She’s straight back in, and I get the feeling that all it would take from him is a minor bit of grovelling for her to do an about-turn and agree to stay. And maybe agree to throw a Hoover around the place as well; it’s so filthy, it’s driving me mental.
‘Just before you go . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Throw me over my cigarettes, will you? They’re on the hall table right beside you.’
She doesn’t, though. The only thing she throws is a filthy look, and with a deafening, ‘to hell with you’ door slam, she’s out of there.
I manage to find a tiny bit of the coffee table that isn’t covered in ash or discarded scripts or empty glasses, and sit down beside him, just taking in the whole scene. I’m so close to him, I can smell him, and it ain’t pretty. Hasn’t washed in days by the whiff off him.
‘So,’ is all I can manage to say.
He looks up sharply.
‘This is what it’s come to, James.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he says, leaning over and pouring himself out another glass of JD. ‘Now that she’s gone, at least I have the voices in my head to keep me company,’ he says, clinking his glass off the bottle, then taking a huge gulp. ‘Thank you for that unexpected bonus, Mr Jack Daniel’s. Thanks a bunch.’
I’m watching him, numb. I said I’d be here for the final act in his demise and here I am, front-row stalls. Exactly as I’d wished for. Just a shame I can’t feel anything. Not pity or sympathy or anything.
‘James, you know, none of what you’re going through means anything unless you can learn from your mistakes.’
‘Voices in my head moralizing at me now, lovely. Nice touch.’
‘For once in your life, you’ve got to listen. You shafted everyone you came into contact with, me included. You lied, you were horrible to people who were in your corner the whole time, like Declan, you manipulated all around you . . .’
‘Yeah. It’s called being a producer. Get used to it.’
What’s weird is that, right then, he starts laughing. A loud guffawing cackle. Real gallows humour.
For some reason, I’m starting to get frightened, and I don’t know why. Something’s going to happen, I’m just not sure what. All I know is that I’m beginning to be afraid.
I don’t have long to wait.
Another gulp of whiskey later, and he’s up on his feet, unsteady. He knocks over a table lamp and sends it flying on to the floor. Then he kicks it savagely.
Now I’m holding my breath.
Staggering, he somehow makes it to the downstairs bathroom, and suddenly I can breathe again. It’s OK. Panic over. He’s just going to the loo, that’s all.
But he’s not.
There’s a crashing noise, and I follow to see what’s going on. He’s at the bathroom cabinet, but is so plastered drunk, he’s sent the entire contents of it flying. Boxes of Tampax, a few bottles of foundation I’d completely forgotten I even had, vitamin C tablets, Berocca, lavender oil, all go clattering across the tiled floor. Now he’s rooting around, like he’s searching for something.
Oh holy shite.
At the very back of the cabinet, there’s a box of pills belonging to me, from ages ago.
Sleeping pills.
I got a prescription for them about a year ago, after a trip to New York with Kate, to help me get over the jet lag, and I forgot all about them. James clearly hadn’t though: he knew exactly where they were and where to look. He seizes on them, almost goes flying when he trips on the jar of lavender oil, steadies himself, then somehow makes it back to the sofa.
Oh, please, don’t let this be happening . . .
He open
s the jar and there’s about a dozen pills left. So he grabs the bottle of whiskey, pops one of the pills into his mouth and slugs it down, with a gulp of Jack Daniel’s.
‘OK, James, stop it, stop it right there. This is a crazy carry-on, what do you want to go and take sleeping pills for? On top of the amount that you’ve drunk? Don’t you realize that’s lethal? You’ve had one, that’s enough, now stop, please STOP.’
He doesn’t, though. He takes another and another and another. Now I’m shouting at him, begging, pleading with him to stop, but it’s like he’s gone to another place where I can’t reach him.
Down and down he swallows more and more, and now I’m hysterical. I’m tearing my hair out, screaming, shrieking, terrified of what’s going to happen, what he’s trying to do to himself . . .
‘Don’t, James! Please stop this! Oh for the love of God, is there somebody who can help me? HELP ME! For God’s sake . . . PLEASE HELP!!’
And, suddenly, like that, I’m yanked out of there.
Chapter Twenty-two
I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is that I’m frightened. Terrified.
Slowly, uncertainly, I open my eyes and . . . find myself sitting all alone in what looks a bit like a bank-manager’s office. Oversized oak desk, swivelly chairs, the works. Honestly, the only things missing are a pile of mortgage application forms, a Bank of Ireland calendar, and bars on the windows. I blink and look all around me, desperately trying my best to take it in. My heart’s still walloping against my ribcage after the fright I got with James, and now I’m starting to get even more panicky. And yet, there’s something about this place that’s giving me the strangest sense of déjà vu.
Then the door bursts open, and the minute I see who’s standing there, suddenly it all clicks into place.
It’s Regina. Marshmallow lady, in a pink suit, with her pudgy pink roundy cheeks and pink-rimmed glasses. Who sent me to angelic training school, and who got me the gig looking after James in the first place. I remember thinking how pleasant and lovely and friendly she was when I first met her. Kind of like a cross between Angela Lansbury and an Aer Lingus hostess. Except she doesn’t look a bit warm and stewardess-like right now. Her face is thunderous as she strides up to the chair opposite me, dumping a pile of papers down on to the desk with a dull wallop.
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 28
