by Marian Keyes
I have a vague memory of his desperate face as I droned on and on and on. I was watching myself, like I was hovering outside my body, but I couldn’t do a thing to stop myself. “I’m thirty-three Gaz, thirty-three today, and my husband is dead and I’ll have another martini because if you can’t have a martini when your husband is dead when can you have one?”
I continued in this vein for some time. I half noticed a glance being exchanged between Gaz and Rachel but it was only when Rachel got to her feet and said overcheerily, “Anna, I’m coming over to you. I haven’t had a proper chat with you all night,” that I realized that I was an object of pity and people were almost paying bribes in order not to sit beside me.
“I’m so sorry, Gaz.” I grasped his hand. “I can’t help it.”
“Hey. Nothing to be sorry about.” Tenderly he kissed the top of my head, but then he nearly broke into a run. Seconds later he was sitting at the bar, knocking back an amber-colored liquid in one frantic slug. His glass hit the polished wood, he said something urgent to the barman, the glass was being refilled with the amber-colored liquid, then it was down the hatch in another single swallow.
I knew, without having to be told, that the amber-colored liquid was Jack Daniel’s.
54
I woke on Saturday morning with a horrible hangover. I was trembly, tearful, and in terrible pain. The arthritis/rheumatism-style aches were far worse than usual and the shooting zips of electric pain felt like my bones were on fire.
I was also swollen-tongued with thirst.
Old impulses die hard. I wanted to nudge Aidan and say, “If you get up and bring me some Diet Coke I’ll be your friend forever.”
Images of the previous night flashed through my head—pictures of me getting people into headlocks and doing long slurred monologues on mortality—and I cringed with mortification.
Briefly, my shame mingled with defiance. I had told Rachel I couldn’t handle people; I’d warned her. But the shame won and I had no one to tell me that I hadn’t made a drunken show of myself the night before, that I hadn’t been so bad really…
He used to be so nice to me whenever I was hungover.
“I wish you were here,” I told the empty air. “I really miss you. I really, really, really, really, really, really, really miss you.”
In all the time since he had died I had never felt more alone and the memory of what I’d been doing this time last year was almost unbearable. I’d had such a lovely birthday.
A few weeks before it, he’d asked me what I wanted to do and I said, “Let’s go away. Surprise me. But it must be someplace that doesn’t involve cosmetics. Or antique shops.”
“You don’t like antique shops?” He sounded really surprised and he was within his rights. I had made him spend at least two Sundays on the upstate “antique route,” all of it overrun with couples just like us.
“I tried.” I hung my head. “I really tried, but I like new clean modern things, not smelly old yokes riddled with woodworm. One more thing,” I’d added. “I don’t want to go too far from New York. I can’t take the Friday-night gridlock.”
“Orders received. Over and out.”
A few weeks later, on the night itself, he’d collected me from work in a limo (just a normal one, not a stretch, thank Christ) and was so secretive about our destination that he actually blindfolded me. We drove for ages and I thought we must be in New Jersey at least. I had a sudden dreadful fear that he might be taking me to Atlantic City and I began to claw at his arm.
“Nearly there, baby.”
But when he took the blindfold off, we were still in New York: about twenty blocks away from our apartment, to be exact. Outside a hot SoHo hotel, with a day spa and a restaurant with a three-month waiting list, unless you were hotel guests, in which case you automatically jumped the queue. I’d done a product launch there about four months previously and had come home raving about its beauty. I’d always wanted to stay there, but how could I when I lived five minutes away?
As I climbed out of the car, I nearly got sick with the thrill of it. “This is where I want to be more than anywhere else in the whole world!” I told him. “I didn’t even know how badly I wanted it until now.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” His tone was mild but he looked like he was going to burst with pride.
We had dinner in the fabulous restaurant then we spent the next two days in bed, only emerging from between our Frette sheets to do a quick foray to Prada. (I’d decided to skip the day spa, just in case they tried to sell me products.) It had been truly magical.
And now look at us…
Drunk as I’d been last night, I had picked up on the mood around the table: She’s as bad as she ever was, they’d all been thinking. Worse, even. Funny, you’d think that after five months she’d have got it together a bit…
Maybe after five months I should have got it together a bit? Leon had improved noticeably. He was a lot cheerier and he could be in my company without crying. Mind you, he had Dana; he hadn’t lost everything.
Another image from the previous night popped up: me talking to Shake about the next air-guitar championship heats.
“Play,” I’d urged him. “Play your heart out. Play with every fiber of your being, Shake. Because you could be dead tomorrow. Later tonight even.”
He and his hair had been nodding eagerly along with me but he’d recoiled speedily when I mentioned the possible imminence of his death.
Rachel had kept moving me along, from person to person, before I wrecked anyone’s buzz too much. But I suspected I’d engendered a bit of a panic because after the dinner, as we’d stood outside, deciding where to go next, the Real Men were drunkenly punching the air and hollering that the night was young and that they were going to parteee (play Scrabble) till the sun came up. Even short, neat Leon was tilting his head back and yelling at the sky. They were all in a howling-at-the-moon, grab-life-by-the-balls frenzy.
“I spooked them,” I said out loud. “Aidan, I spooked them.” And suddenly it seemed funny—and comforting. Me and him were in it together. “We spooked them.”
God only knew what they’d got up to: I hadn’t stayed around to watch. With my arms filled with gift-wrapped scented candles—everyone bar none had given me one as a birthday present—I’d peeled away quietly, light-headed with gratitude at escaping a big “the bereaved woman is leaving early” scene.
It was too soon to ring anyone to find out what I’d missed, so I went back to sleep—a rare, rare event, I might try these hangovers more often—and when I woke again I felt better. I switched on the computer. Incoming e-mail from Mum.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Many Happy Returns of the Day!
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well and enjoyed your birthday “celebration.” I am remembering this time thirty-three years ago. Another girl, we said. We wish you were here. We had a cake in your honor. A chocolate Victoria Sandwich. There was a sale of work for the upkeep of the Protestant church, and although I don’t like to encourage them, I cannot deny they are “dab hands” at cake making “et al.”
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. If you see Rachel will you tell her that my sisters—NONE of them—have heard of sugar-snap peas.
P.P.S. Is it true that Joey fancies Jacqui? A little bird (Luke) tells me there was a bit of a “vrizzon” at your birthday yoke last night. Is it true that Joey stole one of her Scrabble As and put it down his pants and told her that if she wanted it back she knew where to find it? I didn’t know if Luke was just “having me on.”
P.P.P.S. Was it just in his trousers pants or in his underpants pants, because if it was his underpants pants, I hope he washed it afterward. It is a breeding ground for germs down there. You don’t know what you might pick up. Especially from Joey. He gets a lot of “action.”
Oh my God. Aidan, what did we miss?
I sat starin
g at the screen and after a while I rang Rachel.
“Mum’s sent me an e-mail.”
“Oh yes? If this is to do with sugar-snap peas—”
“No. About Joey and—”
“Christ, he was outrageous! He kept writing words like sex and hot on the board, then looking meaningfully at Jacqui. Since when did he start fancying her?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t a clue! It’s too weird. Mum says he put one of Jacqui’s As down his jocks.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“So why did she think—”
“It was her J. Which is worth eight points.”
“And what happened?”
“He told her that if she wanted it back, she knew what she had to do, so all credit to her, she rolled up her sleeve, fished around, and got it back out again.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Scrabble down the pants?
No, Joey did not steal one of Jacqui’s Scrabble As and put it down his pants and tell her that if she wanted it back, she knew where to find it. He stole her Scrabble J and put it down his pants and told her that if she wanted it back, she knew where to find it.
Love,
Anna
P.S. It was his underpants pants, not just his trousers pants.
P.P.S. She did actually retrieve it.
P.P.P.S. I don’t know if she washed it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Scrabble down the pants?
Your father is upset. He read your last e-mail by mistake, thinking it was for him (although who ever writes to him?). He says he’ll never be able to look Jacqui in the eye again. He is not himself, this weather, what with all this dog business.
Your loving mother,
Mum.
P.S. So she actually delved in and got it back out? She’s tougher than she looks, so she is. I’d be able for it, as in “a former life” I was used to handling turkey “giblets,” but not everyone would have the stomach for it.
P.P.S. I have thought of a “pun.” Jacqui “scrabbled” around in Joey’s jocks.
I reached for the phone. I had to talk to Jacqui. This was unbelievable—her and Joey? But her bloody machine picked up. The frustration!
“Where are you? In bed with Joey? Surely to God not? Ring me!”
I left the same message on her cell phone, and paced around, chewing my nails, trying to kill time. Which was when I made a discovery—I had ten nails to chew. Somehow while I hadn’t been paying attention, the two missing ones had grown back.
At five past five in the afternoon, Jacqui finally surfaced.
“Where are you!” I asked.
“In bed.” She sounded sleepy and sexy.
“Whose bed?”
“Mine.”
“Are you alone?”
She laughed, then said, “Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Have you been alone all night?”
“Yes.”
“And all day?”
“Yes.”
Casually, I said, “Last night was fun?”
“Yeah.”
Then super-super-casually I said, “Have you ever thought Joey looks a bit like Jon Bon Jovi?” To which she roared with laughter.
But interestingly, didn’t reply.
“I’m coming over to you,” she said.
Wearing white cutoffs (Donna Karan) and a tiny white T-shirt (Armani), displaying long, tanned legs and arms, and with an aqua metallic Balenciaga bag which cost approximately a month’s rent (gift from a grateful client) slung over her shoulder, she arrived. Her hair was tangled and bed-heady and she seemed to be still wearing last night’s makeup, but not in a bad way. Her mascara and eye stuff was smudged so that her eyes were dark and come-hither. She looked, if it’s possible, like a really sexy ironing board. (Standing upright.)
I told her as much. Yes, even the bit about the ironing board. Because if I didn’t say it, she would.
She shrugged off my praise. “I look okay in clothes, but when you see me in my bra and knickers for the first time, you might get a bit of a fright.”
“Who’s going to be seeing you in your bra and knickers for the first time?”
“No one.”
“No one at all?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s go for a pizza.”
“Great idea.” Little hesitation. “But first I’ve got to drop by Rachel and Luke’s. I left something there last night.”
I stared at her steadily. “What? Your sanity?”
“No.” She sounded a little annoyed. “My cell phone.”
I murmured an apology.
But when we arrived at Rachel and Luke’s, lo and behold, who happened to be sprawled on their sofa, moodily kicking the brick wall with his boots, only Joey.
“Did you know he was going to be here?” I asked Jacqui.
“No.”
At the sight of Jacqui, Joey sat bolt upright and agitatedly brushed his hair back, trying to smarten himself up. “Hey! Jacqui! You left your cell phone here last night. I called you. Did you get my message? I said I’d swing by with it if you wanted.”
I looked at Jacqui. So she had known he was here. But she wouldn’t look at me.
“Here it is.” Joey leaped up and retrieved it from a shelf.
It was quite entertaining, seeing him trying to be nice.
“Thanks.” Jacqui took the phone and barely looked at Joey. “Anna and I are going for a pizza. Everyone’s welcome to join us.”
“And after the pizza,” I asked, “will we be playing Scrabble?”
At the word Scrabble, something funny happened, as if there had been a power surge in the room. Between Jacqui and Joey there was a vrizzon, a definite vrizzon.
“No Scrabble tonight,” Rachel said, dousing the mood. “I need my sleep.”
Jacqui and I shared a cab home. We sat in silence. Eventually she said, “Go on. I know you want to say something.”
“Can I ask a question? Mum tells me you put your hand down his jocks to get your Scrabble piece back—”
“Jesus H!” She buried her face in her hands. “How does Mammy Walsh know that?”
“Luke told her, I think. But it doesn’t matter, she seems to know everything anyway. But what I’m wondering is, was it nice?”
She thought about it for a while. “Quite nice.”
“Quite nice? Just quite nice?”
“Just quite nice.”
“And was he soft or…er…you know?”
“Softish when I started. Hard when I finished. It took me a while to find the piece.”
She flashed me a sudden minxy smile.
“Something you might like to think about,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Your beef with other men is that they’re always nice to begin with, keeping the fact that they’re bastards well under wraps. At least with Joey, you know where you are. He’s a narky prick and he’s never pretended to be anything else.”
Jacqui was thoughtful, then she spoke. “You know, Anna, that’s not really a recommendation.”
55
Aidan? The spiritual place? Should I go today?”
No voice answered. Nothing happened. He just continued to smile from the photo frame, frozen in a long-ago moment.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do a deal.” I tore out a page from a magazine and scrunched it up. “I’ll throw this ball of paper at the bin over there, and if I miss, I’ll stay at home. If I get it in, I’ll go.”
I closed my eyes and threw, then opened them to see the scrunchedup page lying in the bottom of the bin.
“Right,” I said. “Looks like you want me to go.”
First, I had to make excuses to Rachel, but because the weather was still boiling, she wanted to go to the beach. I told her I was going to spend the day at a spa, which she seemed happy enough about. “
But next time, tell me or Jacqui and one of us will come with you.”
“Grand, grand,” I said, relieved to be off the hook.
Nicholas was already waiting in the corridor. This week his T-shirt said DOG IS MY COPILOT. He was reading a book called The Sirius Mystery and I made the mistake of asking him what it was about.
“Five thousand years ago, amphibious aliens came to earth and taught the Dogon tribesmen of West Africa the secrets of the universe, including the existence of a companion star to Sirius, a star so dense that it’s actually invisible—”
“Thanks! Enough! Okay, do you believe Princess Diana is working at a truck stop in New Mexico?”
“Check. And I also believe the royal family murdered her. That’s how good at believing I am. I am a true believer.”
“Roosevelt knew in advance about Pearl Harbor and let it happen because he wanted America in the war?”
“Check.”
“They faked the moon landing?”
“Check.”
Along lumbered Undead Fred—while everyone else was sweltering, he was in his black suit and barely breaking a sweat. Next to arrive was Barb.
“What about this heat?” she asked.
She dropped down beside me on the bench, her thighs apart, lifted the hem of her skirt, and flapped vigorously. “That’ll get a bit of air up there.” She added, “Not a day to be wearing underpants.”
Oh God. Had she just told me she wasn’t wearing knickers? My head went spinny: this was what Aidan’s death had reduced me to, hanging around with these oddballs.
