by Marian Keyes
“Sure. You’ve got to invite her.”
So he did, but we got a nice letter back, thanking us for the invitation but saying that, as the wedding was in Ireland, she wouldn’t be able to attend.
I didn’t know whether I felt relieved or not. Anyway, she wasn’t coming and that was that.
But it wasn’t.
Because when I went on to our wedding-list Web site, I saw that someone called Janie Sorensen had bought us a present. For a minute I thought, Who on earth is Janie Sorensen? Then I thought, It’s Janie! Aidan’s Janie. What had she bought us? I clicked like mad to get the details, and when I saw, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Janie had bought us a set of kitchen knives. Really sharp, pointy, dangerous ones. Fair enough, we’d put them on our list, but why couldn’t she have got us a cashmere throw or a couple of fluffy cushions, which were also on the list? I sat staring at the screen. Was this a warning? Or was I reading too much into it?
Later I tentatively put it to Aidan and he laughed and said, “That’s typical of her sense of humor.”
“So it was deliberate?”
“Oh yeah, probably. But nothing to be scared of.”
There was more to come.
Less than a couple of weeks later, on a Friday night, I was at Aidan’s place, looking through take-out menus and calling out dinner suggestions to him. He was pulling off his tie and, at the same time, opening his mail, when something in one of the envelopes shocked him. I felt it across the room.
“What?” I asked, staring at the card in his hand.
He paused, looked up, and said, “Janie’s getting married.”
“What?”
“Janie’s getting married. Two months after us.”
I was carefully watching his reaction. He was smiling like billy-oh and he said, “This is great. Just great.” He seemed genuinely happy.
“Who’s she marrying?”
He shrugged. “Someone called Howard Wicks. Never heard of the guy.”
“Are we invited?”
“No. They’re doing it in Fiji. Just close family. She always said that if she got married she’d do it in Fiji.” He read through the letter again and said, “I’m really happy for her.”
“Do they have a present list?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but if they do we could send her a garrote or something? Maybe a nice big machete?”
Despite delegating as much as we could, organizing the wedding was three horribly stressful months. Everyone said it was our own fault, that we hadn’t given ourselves enough time, but I suspected that if we’d given ourselves a year the stress would have expanded to fill the available time, so that we’d have had a horribly stressful year instead of just three months.
But it was all worth it.
On a bright, blustery blue day, on a church on a hill, Aidan and I got married. The daffodils were out, throngs of shocking yellow, bobbing in the brisk breeze. Spring-green fields were all around us and the foamy sea sparkled in the distance.
In the photos taken outside the church, men in shiny shoes and women in pastel frocks are smiling. We all look beautiful and very, very happy.
26
I checked Aidan’s horoscopes. Hot Scopes! said:
Oh, boy, you are HOT today. Smokin’. Solar activity in Scorpio means this is the right day to get that new romantic relationship off the ground.
Hot Scopes! was the worst site. It always said something to upset me. I shouldn’t do this, I really shouldn’t. I knew it was all crap but I couldn’t stop myself. I was desperate for some sort of indication of how things were for him. Stars Online said:
Yes, it’s hard for you to rein in your natural urge to leap before you look—in affairs of the heart especially. But showing self-restraint is the only way forward if you want a happy ending.
That was more like it. And what had Today’s Stars to say for itself?
Keeping a firm grip on reality is vital for you over the next seven days.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Monday’s clothes
A red satin embroidered cheongsam (that’s Chinese dress to you), over cutoff jeans and red patent sneakers. My hair is in an updo held with chopsticks, in a cunning ruse to avoid wearing a hat. It is now 6 days since I’ve worn one, I’m having a quiet little rebellion. I wonder how long it will take for someone to notice, and believe me, they will notice.
I’d really like to hear from you, I love you.
Your girl, Anna
When I walked into the office, Franklin did a quick sweep over me, resting slightly longer on my hair. He knew something was missing, but was too agitated to decide. That’s because it was time for the MMM (Monday Morning Meeting); an hour and a half in hell would be preferable.
In preparation, Franklin corralled his “girls”—the people working on Candy Grrrl, Bergdorf Baby, Bare, Kitty Loves Katie, EarthSource, Visage, and Warpo (a brand that was even more edgy than Candy Grrrl—you’d want to see what they had to wear; I lived in dread of being moved to their team).
“Good job,” Franklin said to Tabitha. Bergdorf Baby’s new night serum had got a great write-up and—much more important—photo in Sunday’s New York Times.
To me and Lauryn: “We gotta get things back on track, ladies.”
“Yeah, but—” Lauryn started.
“I know all the reasons,” Franklin said. “All I’m saying is, you’ve got to catch up. Big-time.”
Lauryn gave me a hard sideways look; she had plans for me. She was going to try assigning all my time to her feature ideas, while I needed to start generating captions and photos on beauty pages and getting my targets back on track. Which of us would win?
We streamed into the boardroom. We were all there, all fourteen brands. Some women were clutching newspapers and magazines. They were the lucky ones, the ones who had managed to get coverage.
I even had one or two pages myself. Not in the newspapers, obviously. While I’d been away, it looked like nobody had bothered to keep the badgering of newspaper beauty editors up-to-date—I didn’t know what those temps had actually done.
But because of the glossies’ long lead time, some of the schmoozing I’d done months ago had borne fruit—like putting bulbs down in September and flowers appearing months later, the following spring.
Along the wall, people jostled for space, trying to become invisible; you could almost smell the fear. Even I felt anxious, which was unexpected. After what had happened I’d have thought that a public bollocking at work wouldn’t touch me. But clearly it was a Pavlovian response; something about standing in this room on a Monday morning tripped my fear switch.
Monday mornings were horrible. I knew they were horrible for everyone, everywhere, but they were extra horrible for us because so much of our success or failure depended on what had appeared in the weekend newspaper supplements. It was so obvious.
Sometimes, if they’d been let down by a beauty editor and hadn’t got the coverage they’d expected, girls threw up before the meeting.
As we took our places, Ariella ignored us. She was sitting at the head of the long table, flicking through the glossy pages of a magazine. Then I saw what it was—we all saw at the same time: this month’s Femme. Shit. It wasn’t on the newsstands yet. She’d got an early copy and none of us knew what was in it.
But she was going to tell us. “Ladies! Come in, come closer. See what I’m seeing. I’m seeing Clarins. I’m seeing Clinique. I’m seeing Lancôme. I’m even seeing fucking Revlon. But I’m not seeing…”
Who was it? It could have been any of us. But who should it have been?
“…Visage!”
Poor Wendell. We all lowered our eyes, ashamed but oh so glad it wasn’t us.
“Wanna talk to me about that, Wendell?” Ariella asked. “About the most expensive campaign we ever did? Where exactly did we fly those leechy beauty gals to? Couldja just remind me?”
�
��Tahiti.” You could barely hear Wendell’s voice.
“Tahiti? Tahiti! Even I haven’t been to fucking Tahiti. And they couldn’t give us a lousy four-by-two? Whatcha do to her, Wendell? Throw up on her? Sleep with her boyfriend?”
“She was all set to give us a quarter page, but Tokyo Babe just brought out their new eye cream and her editor overrode her because they advertise so heavily.”
“Don’t give me excuses. Bottom line: if someone else gets coverage, you have failed. You are a failure. You have failed, Wendell, not just because you didn’t work hard enough but because you couldn’t get them to like you enough. You’re not a likable-enough person. Have you gained weight?”
“No, I—”
“Well, SOMETHING’S wrong!”
Horrible but true. So much of the PR game depended on personal relationships. If a beauty editor liked you, you had a better chance of your brand fighting its way to the top of the pile. But there was precious little anyone could do if a major brand threatened to pull a twenty-thousand-dollar ad if you didn’t give them nice coverage.
After the main event—the humiliation of Wendell—we moved on to Any Other Business. This was where Ariella pitted brand against brand. If one had done well, it was an opportunity to point out the failings of another. She also enjoyed pitting Franklin against Mary Jane, the coordinator of the other seven brands.
Then it was all over for another week.
As everyone trooped back out, several people murmured, “That wasn’t too horrible. She was okay today.”
And the great thing about the MMM was that once it was over, the week could only get better.
27
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: On the mend
Got the plaster off my arm today. It doesn’t look like my arm anymore, it’s a puny, shrunken little thing and so hairy, nearly as hairy as Lauryn’s arms. My knee is pretty good (and not hairy). Even my nails are growing. It’s just my face now.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: My name is Anna
Today someone left an AA meetings list on my desk. Anonymously, as it were.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: New hair!
I begged Sailor for a low-maintenance cut but he told me we have to suffer for our beauty and gave me a “directional” brushed-forward shaggy yoke. The only good thing is that it covers a lot of my scar. But when I try to blow-dry it myself, it’ll be such a disaster I’ll have to start wearing hats again. Obviously it was all a big conspiracy.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna
All week, I put in twelve or thirteen hours a day at work, and somehow enough time passed so that it got to be Friday evening. But no sooner had I let myself in and put down my keys than I saw, like a big guilt-making accusing thing, the flashing light on my answering machine. Bums. How bad was it? How many messages? I kept my feet planted where I stood and leaned the top half of my body over to look: three messages. I looked at Dogly’s kindly face and said, “I bet they’re all from Leon.”
He had me badgered with messages. Badgered. I’d had a couple of near misses at work, when he’d withheld his number, but so far I’d manage to avoid talking to him. I’d have to ring him back soon; it was only a matter of time before he arrived in person at the apartment—or far more scary, set Dana on me. But I just couldn’t bear to, not yet anyway.
Instead, I turned on the computer—and my heart lifted when I saw that there was a new e-mail. I held my breath and waited, frozen with hope. But it was from Mum! That made twice in one lifetime. What could be up?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mystery
As regards the woman and her dog, I am still keeping you “in the loop,” as they say. There has been plenty of “action.” This morning I “lay in wait.” She normally comes at ten past nine, so I was ready for her. As soon as she appeared, I pretended to be putting out the bins which I thought was a good “ruse,” even though bin day is Monday and it is your father’s job anyway.
“Nice morning for it,” I said, meaning, “Nice morning for making your dog do his wees at an innocent stranger’s gate.” Right away your woman pulls at the lead and says, “Hurry up, Zoe.” Now we have a clue. What a name for a dog! Then something terrible happened, the woman gave me a “look”—our eyes met, and as you know, Anna, I am not a fanciful woman, but I knew I was in the presence of evil.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. In a couple of weeks’ time myself and your father are going away to “The Algarve” for a fortnight. It will be nice. Not as nice as the Cipriani in Venice, of course (not that I’d know), but quite nice. While we’re gone, Helen will be staying with “Maggie” and “Garv,” as you all insist on calling them. This means it will be hard to keep “tabs” on the old woman, but seeing as she gave me such a dirty look, this is probably no harm.
Across the room, the flashing light of the answering machine continued to accuse me. Go away, go away, why do you torment me so? I wished I could delete the bloody messages without having listened to them, but the machine wouldn’t let me, so I hit play, then legged it to the bathroom, hearing as I went, “Anna, it’s Leon. I know this is hard for you, but it’s hard for me, too. I need to see you…”
To drown out his voice I ran the taps with such Niagaraesque force that I drenched the front of my dress. I stepped back, counted to twenty-three, then cautiously turned the water toward off, but I heard Leon say “…my pain, too…” and with a lightning-fast flick of my wrist, turned the water back up to torrential, counted to seven and a half, eased it down again, heard “…we can help each other…” and immediately ratcheted the flood up as far as it would go. It was a little like tuning a radio and picking up signals. Radio Leon.
Eventually he finished what he had to say and I tiptoed from the bathroom and hit delete.
“All messages deleted,” the machine said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
On Saturday night Rachel “invited” me over to her and Luke’s—an offer I couldn’t refuse. Not unless I wanted a well-meaning lecture.
I had a pleasant-enough time until, a couple of hours in, I was overtaken by a panic that was starting to seem terrifyingly familiar: I had to get away.
Rachel would only permit me to leave after she’d questioned me closely on my plans for Sunday, but I had it all sewn up: Jacqui had arranged for me and her to go to a day spa called Cocoon. She’d said it would be good for me.
And it was. Apart from the aromatherapist telling me I was the tensest person she’d ever worked with and the pedicurist complaining that she wouldn’t be able to paint my toenails until I’d stopped twitching my foot.
Then it was Sunday night; I’d survived another weekend. But instead of being relieved, I was seized with terrible desperation. Something had to happen soon.
28
It finally happened. Aidan finally showed up.
Two and a half weeks after I’d come back from Ireland, I was at work, sitting at my desk, laboring at a quarterly spreadsheet, when he just walked in. The joy at seeing him was like the warmth of the midday sun—I was thrilled.
“About time,” I exclaimed.
He sat on a corner of the desk and his smile nearly split his face in two. He looked delighted and shy simultaneously. “Happy to see me?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ, Aidan, I’m so happy! I can’t believe this. I was afraid I’d never see you again.” He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the first day we’d met. “But how did you manage it?”
“What do you mean? I just walked in here.”
“But, Aidan.” Because I’d just rem
embered. “You’re dead.”
I woke with a jump. I was on the couch. Lights from the street lit the room with a purplish glow and there was some racket outside: people shouting and the boomy bass line of a bridge-and-tunnel limo, which pulsed below me until the traffic lights changed and it moved on.
I closed my eyes and went straight back into the same dream.
Aidan wasn’t smiling any longer, he was upset and confused, and I asked him, “No one told you, you were dead?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’ve been afraid of. And where have you been?”
“Hanging around. I saw you in Ireland and everything.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were with your family, I didn’t want to butt in.”
“But you’re family now. You’re my family.”
The next time I woke it was 5 A.M. The morning beyond the blinds was already citrus bright but the streets were silent. I needed to talk to Rachel. She was the only one who could help me.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I was awake anyway.” She was probably lying but there was a chance she wasn’t. Sometimes she got up at the crack of dawn to go to an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting before work.
“Are you okay?” She tried hard to stifle a yawn.
“Can you meet me?”
