by Marian Keyes
After the chopper had whisked her back uptown, I rang Leonard Daly at Devereaux. “It’s a go.”
“Take the rest of the day off.” A joke, of course. I had tons to do and now that Formula Twelve was about to officially exist, I had to set up our office. I wanted to locate the Formula Twelve camp of desks as far away from Lauryn as possible; she was not happy, not at all happy that I’d landed another job. She was even less happy that I was taking Teenie with me. My other assistant was a bright young spark called Hannah—I’d stolen her from Warpo and saved her from a life of terrible clothes. Her gratitude would guarantee loyalty.
On January 29, the March issue of Harper’s hit the stands and immediately work went mental. I emerged, a beautiful Formula Twelve butterfly from my Candy Grrrl chrysalis, and paraded around in my charcoal suits for all to see.
94
Check them out. They’re Jolly Girls for sure,” Jacqui muttered.
“Just because they’ve got short hair. You can’t judge.”
“But they’ve got quiffs, matching ones!”
It was our first night at Perfect Birth class, and of the eight couples, only five were male-female. But Jacqui was worried that she was the only woman there who had been deserted by her baby’s father.
Mind you, Joey had been ringing her from time to time. Well, at Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and on his birthday, to be precise—times, as she so rightly said, when he was drunk and mawkish—and left rambling, apologetic messages on her machine. Jacqui never picked up and never rang back, but she denied that she was being strong.
“If he rang me in the cold light of day with nothing in his system other than Gatorade, I might talk to him,” she said. “But I’m not making an arse of myself by believing declarations of love made when he’s jarred out of his jocks. Could you imagine it if I took him at his drunken word and rang him back?”
Sometimes we acted it out: I’d be Joey, leaving slurred messages on Jacqui’s machine, while Jacqui pretended to be a sappier version of herself, dabbing her eyes and saying, “Oh, he does love me after all! I am so heppy, the heppiest girl alive. I shall ring him soonest.”
Back to me, pretending to be Joey, waking up with a hangover and looking nervously at his phone as Jacqui said, “Ring ring, ring ring.”
“Hello,” I’d say narkily, answering the imaginary phone.
“Joey!” Jacqui squealed. “It’s me. I got your message. I knew you’d come round. How soon shall we be merrhied?” For some reason in these scenarios she always pronounced married as “merrhied” like we were in a period drama.
I’d throw down the invisible phone and break into a run and shout, “I want to join the witness protection program,” then we’d both shriek with laughter.
But at the Perfect Birth class, Jacqui wasn’t laughing. She looked highly uncomfortable, and not just because the whole thing was acutely Feathery Strokery. The facilitator was so good at yoga, she could put the sole of her foot behind her ear. Her name was Quand-adora. “Which means Spinner of Light,” she said. But she didn’t say in which language.
“Her own makey-uppy Feathery Strokery language,” Jacqui said later. “Spinner of Shite, more like.”
Spinner of Light invited us all to sit cross-legged in a circle, sip ginger tea, and introduce ourselves.
“I’m Dolores, Celia’s birthing partner. I’m also Celia’s sister.”
“I’m Celia.”
“I’m Ashley, this is my first baby.”
“I’m Jurg, Ashley’s husband and birthing partner.”
When we got to the suspected Jolly Girls, Jacqui paid particular interest.
“I’m Ingrid,” the pregnant one said, then the woman beside her said, “And I’m Krista, Ingrid’s birthing partner, and lover.”
Jacqui nudged me with her pointy elbow.
“I’m Jacqui,” Jacqui said. “My boyfriend broke up with me when he found out I was pregnant.”
“And I’m Anna, I’m Jacqui’s birthing partner. But not her lover. Um, not that it would matter if I was.”
“I’m sorry,” Celia interrupted, looking anxious. “I didn’t realize we would be sharing so much information. Should I have said that I used a sperm donor?”
“Hey, so did we,” Krista said. “It’s no biggie.”
“Share as much or as little as you feel comfortable sharing,” Quand-adora said, the way her type do. “Today we’re going to focus on pain relief. How many of you plan to give birth in a birthing pool?”
Lots of hands went up. Cripes! Seven of them were. Jacqui was the only one who wasn’t.
“Gas and air are available in the birthing pools,” Quand-adora said. “But over the next six weeks, I’m going to share with you some wonderful techniques, so you won’t need them. Jacqui, did you have any thoughts on pain relief?”
“Um, yeah, the thing, you know, the epidural.”
As Jacqui said later, it wasn’t that they looked disapproving; it was more that they looked sad for her.
“Oo-kaay,” Quand-adora said. “How about you don’t make your mind up right now? How about staying open to whatever energy comes your way?”
“Ah…sure.”
“The first thing you must remember is that the pain is your friend. The pain is bringing your baby to you, without the pain there would be no baby. So everybody close your eyes, find your center, and begin to visualize the pain as a friendly force, as ‘a great golden ball of energy.’”
I hadn’t known I had a center, but I did my best, and after we’d visualized for a good twenty minutes or so, I learned how to massage Jacqui’s lower back to provide pain relief, just in case the visualization wasn’t working, then we were shown a technique to slow the labor down. We had to get on all fours, our bottoms in the air, panting like dogs on a hot day. Everyone had to do it, even the nonpregnant people. It was quite fun, actually, especially the panting. Although having my face right up against another woman’s—Celia’s, as I remember—nether regions was rather disconcerting.
Jacqui and I were panting goodo, then we exchanged looks and stuck our tongues out and panted a little harder.
“Do you know something?” she whispered. “That bastard doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
95
As soon as January clicked over into February, the anniversary of Aidan’s death began to loom, like a big shadow. As the days passed, the shadow darkened. My stomach churned and I had moments of real panic, a genuine expectation that something terrible might happen.
On the sixteenth of February I went to work as normal, but with superreal recall, I relived every second of the same day the previous year. No one at work knew what day it was; they’d long forgotten, and I didn’t bother to tell them.
But by midafternoon I’d had enough. I invented an interview, left work, went home, and commenced a vigil, counting down the minutes and seconds to the exact time of Aidan’s death.
I’d wondered if, at the moment of impact from the other cab, I’d feel it again; a kind of psychic action replay. But the time came and went and nothing happened and that didn’t feel right. I’d expected something. It was too huge, too massive, too terrible, to just feel nothing.
The seconds ticked away and I remembered us waiting in the wrecked car, the arrival of the ambulance, the race to the hospital, Aidan being rushed into the operating room…
Closer and closer I got to the time he died and I have to admit that I was desperately—crazily—hoping, that when the clock reached the exact second he’d left his body, a portal would open between his world and mine and that he might appear to me, maybe even speak. But nothing happened. No burst of energy in the room, no sudden heat, no rushing wind. Nothing.
Straight-backed, I sat staring at nothing and wondered: Now what happens?
The phone rang, that’s what. People who’d remembered what day it was, checking that I was okay.
Mum rang from Ireland and made sympathetic noises. “How are you sleeping these days?” she asked.
“Not so good. I never get more than a couple of unbroken hours.”
“God love you. Well, I’ve good news. Me, your father, and Helen are coming to New York on the first of March.”
“So soon? That’s more than two weeks before the wedding.” Oh God.
“We thought we’d have a little holiday while we were at it.”
Mum and Dad loved New York. Dad was still mourning the end of Sex and the City; he said it was “a marvelous show,” and Mum’s favorite joke of all time was “Can you tell me the way to Forty-second Street or should I just go fuck myself?”
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“We’ll farm ourselves out. We’ll spend the first week with you, then we’ll see if we’ve made any new friends who’ll put us up.”
“With me! But my apartment is tiny.”
“It’s not that small.”
That wasn’t what she’d said the first time she’d seen it. She’d said it was like Floor 7 1/2 in Being John Malkovich.
“And we’ll hardly be there. We’ll be out all day shopping.” In Daffy’s and Conway’s and all the other manky discount stores that Jacqui and I wouldn’t go to if you put a gun to our heads.
“But where will you all sleep?” I asked.
“Me and Dad will sleep in your bed. And Helen can sleep on the couch.”
“But what about me? Where will I sleep?”
“Aren’t you just after telling me that you hardly sleep at all? So it doesn’t matter, does it? Have you an armchair or something?”
“Yes. But—”
“Ha-ha, I’m only having you on! As if we’d stay in your place; there isn’t room to swing a mouse, never mind a cat. It’s like that Floor Seven and a Half in Seeing Joe Mankivick. We’re staying in the Gramercy Lodge.”
“The Gramercy Lodge? But didn’t Dad get food poisoning the last time you stayed there?”
“He did, I suppose. But they know us there. And it’s handy.”
“Handy for what? Catching food poisoning?”
“You don’t catch food poisoning.”
“Fine, fine, whatever.” Old dogs, new tricks.
A couple of days later I woke up and felt…different.
I didn’t know what it was. I lay under my duvet and wondered. The light outside had altered: pale lemon, springlike, after the gray drear of winter. Was that it? I wasn’t sure. Then I noticed that I wasn’t in pain; for the first morning in over a year I hadn’t been woken by aches in my bones. But it wasn’t that either and suddenly I knew what the difference was: today was the day that I’d completed the long journey from my head to my heart—finally I understood that Aidan wouldn’t be coming back.
I’d heard the old wives’ tale that we need a year and a day to know, really know, at our core, that someone has died. We need to live through an entire year without the person, to experience every part of our lives without them—my birthday, his birthday, our wedding anniversary, the anniversary of his death—and it’s only when that’s done and we’re still alive that we begin to understand.
For so long I’d kept telling myself and trying to make myself believe that he would come back, that somehow he’d manage it because he loved me so much. Even when I was so angry over little Jack that I’d stopped talking to him, I’d still held out hope. Now I knew, really knew, like the last part of a jigsaw locking into place: Aidan wouldn’t be coming back.
For the first time in a long time I cried. After months of being frozen to my very center, warm tears began to flow.
Slowly I got ready for work, taking much longer than I usually did, and as I pulled the door behind me to leave, Aidan’s voice said, in my head, Put some hurtin’ on them L’Oréal girls.
I’d completely forgotten how every morning he used to say something similar, a rousing “go team” form of encouragment. And now I’d remembered.
96
The bags containing our dinner had arrived. Rachel plonked a stack of mismatched plates onto the middle of the table and began dishing it up.
“Helen, you’re lasagne.” She handed her a plate. “Dad, pork chop. Mum, lasagne.”
She slid Mum’s plate in front of her, but instead of thanking her, Mum stuck out her bottom lip.
“What?” Rachel asked.
Mum said something into her chest.
“What?” Rachel asked again.
“I don’t like my plate,” Mum said, this time a lot louder.
“You haven’t tried it yet.”
“Not the food. The plate.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Rachel was frozen in position with her serving spoon.
“I want one with flowers on it. She got one.” Mum indicated Helen with a savage twist of her head.
“But your plate is nice, too.”
“It’s not. It’s horrible. It’s brown glass. I want white china with blue flowers, like she got.”
“But…” Rachel was perplexed. “Helen, I don’t suppose…?”
“Not a chance.”
Rachel was at a loss. This was only Mum, Dad, and Helen’s first night in New York. There were another two weeks to get through and already they were acting up. “There aren’t any of the blue-flowers ones left. Dad has the only other one.”
“She can have mine,” Dad offered. “But I don’t want the horrible brown glass one either.”
“Will a plain white one do?”
“It’ll have to.”
Dad’s pork chop was moved onto a white plate, and the swap-over of Mum’s dinner was effected.
“Everyone happy now?” Rachel asked sarcastically.
We settled down to our food.
“Anna, how’s your new brand going?” Luke asked politely.
“Great, thanks. Just today, the Boston Globe did a comparison of five supercreams: Sisley’s Global Anti-Ride, Crème de la Mer, Clé de Peau, La Prairie, and Formula Twelve. And Formula Twelve got the highest. They said—”
“Yes, but your new crowd don’t do lipsticks or anything, do they?” Mum clearly thought my new position was a demotion. With that, the subject was closed, but not before I’d had a flashback of how Aidan used to celebrate all my coverage and the dingbats of my rivals. How many times had he come home waving a newspaper and saying something like “Rocking good news. USA Today didn’t like the new Chanel cream. Girl said it clogged her pores. Whooh! High five!” Clap. “Low five.” Clap. “Behind-the-back five.” Clap. Lifting his leg, he’d go, “Under-the-knee five!” Clap. “And through-the-legs-and-out-the-back five!” Clap.
I was distracted from this unexpectedly happy memory by someone shouting, “Get out!”
It was Helen: Dad had walked in on her in the bathroom.
“You’d want to get a lock on that door,” Mum said.
“Why?” Rachel asked. “You don’t have one on your bathroom door.”
“That’s not our fault. We’d like one.”
“Why don’t you have one?” Luke asked.
“Because Helen filled the keyhole with cement.”
We all fell silent as we remembered that day. Helen had got the cement from the builders who were converting next door’s garage into a granny flat, and when she’d finished filling the keyhole, she went on to cement around the bathroom door, trapping Claire, who was in the bath, doing a home-spa day. Dad had to spend hours on his knees, in a chiseling frenzy, before she was finally freed, by which time the stairs and landing had filled with concerned neighbors and builders doing a vigil. The granny of the granny flat who was the cause of all the trouble had even suggested saying the rosary.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Neris Hemming
Your rescheduled appointment with Neris Hemming will take place on March 22 at 2:30 P.M. Thank you for your interest in Neris Hemming.
“I’m not interested,” I told the screen. “Neris Hemming can go and fuck herself.”
Two seconds later, I put the date and time in my org
anizer. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it.
Anna! Hey, Anna.”
I was hurrying along Fifty-fifth Street, on my way to a lunch with the beauty editor of Ladies’ Lounge, when I heard my name being called. I turned around. Someone was running toward me: a man. As he got closer, I thought I recognized him but I couldn’t be sure. I was pretty sure I knew him…Then I saw that it was Nicholas! He was wearing a big winter coat, so I couldn’t see what his T-shirt said, but his hair was still sticky-up and cute.
Before I knew what was happening, he’d scooped me up and we were hugging each other. I was surprised by how warmly I felt toward him.
He put me down and we smiled into each other’s face.
“Wow, Anna, you look great,” he said. “Sorta sexy and scary. I like your shoes.”
“Thanks. Look, Nicholas, I’m sorry I never called you back. I was going through a really bad time.”
“That’s okay, I understand. Truly.”
I felt a little embarrassed asking, “Do you still go to Leisl’s?”
He shook his head. “Last time I was there was about four months ago. None of the old gang go anymore.”
In a strange way I felt sad. “Nobody? Not even Barb? Or Undead Fred?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
After a little lapse into silence, we both started talking at the same time. “No, you go ahead,” he said.
“Okay.” This was something I had to ask. “Nicholas, you know when Leisl used to channel your dad? Do you think she really did? Do you really think you were talking to him?”
He thought about it, fiddling with his funny string bracelet. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. But I guess that at the time, I needed to go and hear what I heard. It got me through. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, actually. But like you said, it did what it needed to do at the time.”
