by Marian Keyes
There was so much in those two words: criticism, contempt and a silent exhortation to make more of an effort. Another woman caught in his web would have rushed straight out and bought a gallon of Bio-Oil but I remember thinking, Here we go. This is the start of the curdling.
There was no way back from that: he’d already put me into turn-around and all that would follow from there on in would be subtle undermining that became more and more overt.
I rolled from the bed and located my underwear. ‘This has been fun, Max.’
‘Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.’
‘Nuh-uh.’
He frowned.
‘That was the last time.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You knew, Max, this was only …’ My lines seemed to be coming straight from a Danielle Steele mini-series.
‘Only what?’
‘Fun?’ I’d been going to say ‘fucking’ but I lost my nerve.
‘Fun? But –’
‘We’re both grown-ups and you’re a great guy.’ My voice petered away. ‘Actually, Max, you’re not.’
He went white.
‘You’re a terrible, terrible guy. You play games with human beings. You are astonishingly cruel.’
Even his lips had gone white. ‘Are you quite all right?’
‘I’m fine. But you, Max? I’d worry about you.’
Such a merciless judgement wasn’t like me but, looking back, it was clearly some sort of revenge for Richie’s caper: one womanizer was being punished for the behaviour of another.
In hindsight, my heart was hard, clenched tight as a fist, and I trusted no one. So it was miraculous that Hugh had managed to nudge me into unfurling, like a tight, bitter bud opening and blossoming.
22
Wednesday, 14 September, day two
At 4.37 a.m., I jerk awake and find myself in Druzie’s spare room. I sit up in bed and turn on the light. I know how the dawn horrors work – while I’m awake the artificial chatter of a busy life keeps the terrors tamped down. But in sleep all the layers of meaningless shite gradually lift up and float away until nothing is left but the truth, in its full horror.
Loss, shame, fear of the future – Shit, this is awful. Worst of all, the sorrow. I’m suddenly certain I can’t survive this. Hugh had loved me, I had loved him. We were each other’s happy ending.
I wish I knew how to self-soothe. I should have learnt mindfulness, and it’s too late now because it’s no good learning it when you’re already in crisis: you have to start when things are good. But only the very, very oddest would think, Hey, my life is perfect. I know! I’ll sit and waste twenty minutes Observing My Thoughts without Judgement.
I smoke my e-cig and scroll through Facebook – there they all are, with their perfect lives. I’ve now got ninety-three unread private messages and I can tell without ever opening them that they’re just bursting with gossipy hunger. It’s horrible being the person in the eye of a scandal, and I’ll tell you, it’ll make me think twice in the future about jumping on details of another person’s drama. Ask not for whom the ‘U OK Hun?’ tolls. It tolls for thee.
I take a quick look at Hugh’s feed. Even though he’d sworn to stay off it, I no longer trust him to keep his promises. There’s nothing new: the last thing was three days ago when he was still at home, and he shared one of Kiara’s posts about refugees.
I swap to Instagram, hoping for vintage dresses, but it’s awash with motivational platitudes. ‘Dare To Be Remarkable’, ‘You Are Stronger Than You Can Ever Imagine.’
Obviously I’m following the wrong people because I’ve no time for any of that nonsense. Maybe I should start. Maybe I should rethink these six months alone and regard them as an opportunity – to use Kiara’s phrase – to self-actualize.
Suddenly, on Instagram, one platitude catches my eye: ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with one foolish decision.’ And I laugh, literally out loud – usually I never make noise when I’m alone, not even if, say, I bang my baby toe on the side of the bath. What’s the point of saying, ‘Christ! My effing TOE!’ if no one will come and commiserate with me?
Immediately I heart the Instagram post. I’d treble-heart it if I could. Then I see who’s posted it – Josh Rowan – and, abruptly, my laughter stops.
23
Seventeen months ago
So, on a freakishly hot day the April before last, I was in my London ‘office’, working my way through emails when my phone rang.
It was a client, Premilla Routh, an actor, who’d struggled with an addiction to prescription medication – and a national paper had a recording of her buying drugs on the street.
‘The dealer set me up.’ She was so overwrought she could hardly speak. ‘Amy, please help me. I’ll lose my job if this gets out. And I’ll probably lose my kids.’ She’d already lost her marriage.
‘Who contacted you?’ I asked.
‘Marie Vann.’
This was as bad as it got. Marie Vann was the British Herald’s shock-hack, her speciality eviscerating the vulnerable. People with mental illnesses she scorned as self-pitying attention-seekers so she was hardly likely to go easy on Premilla. Asking her to kill the story would only escalate things – like all bullies, Marie Vann had the great gift of manipulating people’s attempts at self-defence into own-goals. If I didn’t step carefully, Premilla and I would end up being painted as the aggressors in Marie’s doubtless vitriolic piece.
My only option – and I’d learnt this from Tim – was to go over Marie Vann’s head and throw myself on the mercy of her boss. (Tim, though he seemed colourless and low-key, was a remarkably able publicist.)
But the editor of the Herald was a remote figure. It would have been easier to swing an audience with Beyoncé. All I had in my arsenal was a flimsy online link to Marie’s immediate superior, the features editor. Josh Rowan was his name and, annoyingly, we hadn’t met – I’d extended a few lunch invitations, but he hadn’t accepted. We followed each other on Twitter and that was my only in.
‘Leave it with me, Premilla,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’
‘Thank you, Amy,’ she choked. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
Thanks were a bit premature. I’d no idea if I could do this, I rarely did – not unless the journalist was a close personal friend (never) and I had a massive exclusive hidden in my back pocket to use as a bargaining chip (hardly ever).
I gathered up my denim jacket, my satchel, my enormous handbag, headed out into the heat of the streets and straight into a taxi. En route to the Herald’s offices in Canary Wharf, I direct-messaged Josh Rowan, asking if he could meet me for a quick coffee. Then I rang the Herald switchboard because journalists were among the few people left on the planet who still answered their phones even if they didn’t recognize the number. Nothing doing, just his voicemail. So I texted Tim and Alastair, looking for a mobile number.
My stomach started to burn with a familiar mix of adrenalin and anxiety and I rummaged in my bag, found my Gaviscon and took a swig – it was nearly all gone: I got through the stuff as if it was water.
This part of my job, killing a negative story, was like going to war – the strategizing, the anticipation of my opponent’s battle-plans, the fear of failure … Every time I was plunged into the thick of it, I’d think, I hate having to do this, but funnily enough as soon as a big drama had resolved itself I missed the excitement.
What made this situation all the more important was that Premilla had right on her side – she’d become addicted to benzos when she was given them by a clueless doctor to calm a nervous facial tic. Over the preceding twenty months, she’d been determinedly trying to break free, but the withdrawals were so brutal she kept relapsing. Her livelihood depended on me getting this right.
After twelve tense minutes in the taxi, with me checking my phone every ten seconds, a direct message popped up: Josh Rowan saying he was available for a phoner. But with a request as delicate as this, only a face-to-facer would swing it. T
his Josh Rowan had to be made to like me and, by extension, Premilla. I pinged back, saying I’d be in the lobby of his building in half an hour. Seven minutes later came a terse message: he’d be in a pub called the Black Friar at four thirty.
The taxi deposited me at the pub at four thirty-three. It was dim, lined with dark wood and almost empty – there were a couple of small huddles of people in corners but no Josh Rowan.
Worrying, but assuming he did show, I was pulling off a territorial power grab.
A quick scan of the pub revealed the ideal spot for our chat – an upholstered booth, far enough from the huddles that we could speak openly but not so hidden that it looked like we were up to something unsavoury. A few desultory tables were scattered outside the pub, but I didn’t want us distracted by the sun bouncing off their zinc tops and half blinding us – one or both of us might have needed sunglasses and eye contact was vital here.
Then I waited.
I didn’t order a drink, because it wouldn’t look good to be swilling down a large vodka if he ordered a prim cup of tea. Frankly my hopes were high that he’d order a drink-drink, but if he didn’t, neither would I. All about the mirroring, in these situations. Saying, I’m just like you. See how alike we are. Yes, you can trust me.
As I waited, I worried, and there was plenty to worry about but, as always, my appearance got the worst of my criticism – perhaps because it was one of the few things under my control.
My clothes were the problem and it was my own fault for not reading the weather forecast. Yesterday morning in Dublin it had been pleasantly mild, but today in London the sun was splitting the stones. And my dress – a 1950s cotton-poplin skater, with elbow-length sleeves and patterned with splashy red and pink roses – looked way too lady-like. It needed my denim jacket to toughen it up. But I would die of heat in it. My blue nail varnish and my shoes – chunky silver sandals – might mitigate somewhat, but there was a strong chance this Josh Rowan would see me as a Doris Day-style sap-lady.
(In its defence, I loved that dress. It was one of the best things Bronagh had ever found me – the cotton was so crisp the dress could almost stand up by itself.)
I didn’t dare go to the loo to check my make-up in case I missed him, so I slid my handbag mirror out and took a quick look. Christ, the hair. I was working an ambitious twisty- wavy artful-undone thing that had been achieved that morning with a heated wand and tons of texturizing spray, but during the cross-town dash it had mutated from artful-undone to plain messy.
I rummaged in my giant bag for my comb, and couldn’t find it. More systematically I delved a second time, and I was getting nervy because I needed it.
On the third go-round, when I’d practically climbed inside the bag, I realized, with rising rage, that my comb was never going to turn up. It had been stolen – probably by Neeve, but it could have been any one of the girls.
‘Bitches,’ I muttered.
‘Who?’
I froze in my hunched searching and looked up to see a man with an intelligent, slightly hangdog face. He looked busy and harassed, his shirt-sleeves pushed up his forearms. I knew it was him, Josh Rowan. And he knew it was me.
‘I …’
‘Who?’ he repeated.
There was no choice but to style this out. I sat up straight. ‘My daughters. They’ve stolen my comb.’
‘And you need it why?’
‘I’m meeting a journalist. I need to look pulled-together so he’ll take me seriously.’
He gave me a once-over, then said, ‘You look fine. Pulled together. He’ll take you seriously.’
And there was a moment. Eye contact. Stillness. Something.
‘Okay. Good.’ But that tension stayed.
He sounded like he came from Newcastle or thereabouts.
An awful thought hit me. ‘You are Josh Rowan?’
‘No, pet, you’ve just been telling your secrets to some random man.’ At my shock, he relented. ‘You’re okay. I’m Josh.’
Relief flooded me. ‘It is you. You look like your Twitter photo. Mind you,’ I said, ‘experience has taught me that people usually look like older, much more unlucky versions of those photos.’
He made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.
‘Now let’s get you a drink.’ I was working a motherly vibe even though we were around the same age.
‘I don’t have time –’
‘Sure. No bother.’ I delivered a warm, confident smile. This was the way to proceed – warm, warm, warm. Then sensible, sensible, sensible. No drama, no heightened emotion, just two grown-ups having a grown-up conversation in a grown-up way.
He took a seat and looked like he wasn’t planning on staying long, but I sensed that if I could get him on-side we’d be home and dry. Hard to say what it was about him – his hair was an ordinary mid-brown, his eyes an unremarkable grey – but he had something, perhaps a strong sense of himself coupled with a hint of humanity, that marked him out as special.
‘So what is it?’
‘Marie Vann,’ I said.
Instantly his face shut down. He watched me in silent assessment.
‘Premilla Routh is my client,’ I said gently.
Still he said nothing, just watched me with his hangdog face and one-way eyes.
‘Don’t run it,’ I said. ‘Please.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s mean.’
He barked with laughter.
‘She’s a decent human,’ I said.
‘Marie?’
‘No,’ I spluttered. ‘Premilla.’
But I laughed at the idea that Marie could be described as decent. It had bumped me out of my groove. He didn’t laugh again but we locked eyes, the tension between us unwound somewhat, and in that moment I felt everything might be okay. ‘I know you’re in a hurry,’ I said. ‘And this is confidential but –’
‘Maybe I will have a drink. What can I get you?’
‘I love your accent,’ I blurted. ‘Geordie’s my favourite.’ Blood rushed to my face. ‘Sorry.’
There was a tiny exasperated eyeroll. ‘So, to drink?’
I reached for my bag. ‘Let me.’
He gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘I’m buying.’
If he got the drinks I was surrendering all control. But there was no way of insisting without making a thing of it.
‘Okay. Thanks. White wine.’ I wanted alcohol and was too tired and strung-out to second-guess him. ‘Anything. Sauvignon blanc. Whatever they have.’
‘We’re pretty sophisticated down here in Canary Wharf.’ Hard to tell if he was being ironic. Although he probably was.
‘Sauvignon blanc is grand.’
He went to the bar and I checked him out properly. He was tallish, but not one of those absurd heights, like six four or six five. Call me old-fashioned – or short – but anything over six one is unnecessary, unless he’s Ashley Banjo and, sadly, he never is.
Josh Rowan wore a pale cotton shirt, open at the neck, and it gave the impression that he’d be totally at home in a fast-moving newsroom. All he needed were those funny, elasticated sleeve garters around his guns to complete the picture of classic newspaper man.
He looked fit but some intuition told me he’d scorn the gym. Five-a-side football on a Wednesday night would be more his thing. Or maybe he’d got those guns from shifting furniture around at the weekend to please his wife.
Because there was definitely a wife – he wore a wedding ring and, although my recall was hazy, I’d seen some sort of familyish pictures on social media.
I was too far away to hear what he was saying to the barman but it was clear he was being pleasant. This shouldn’t be worthy of comment but so many people aren’t nice, and it gave me hope. Then he was back with my wine and some beer-style drink for himself.
‘Canary Wharf’s finest.’ He drew up a chair to the table.
‘Thanks.’
With perfect synchronicity we picked up our drinks and automatically clinked glasses. Then
there was a weird pause. We locked eyes and I felt myself colour.
After an awkward moment he said, ‘Go on, then. Tell us.’
I gave him a speedy run-through of Premilla’s troubles. He listened without comment.
‘She’s tried very hard,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t deserve the bad stuff she’ll get if Marie runs her piece.’
‘I’m not promising,’ Josh Rowan said, ‘and I mean it. But I’ll see what I can do. Now I’d better get moving.’
We both got to our feet. I looked up into his face. ‘Thank you, Josh Rowan.’
‘I mean it, I’m promising nothing.’
‘But you’ll do your best?’
An exasperated half-laugh. ‘Aye.’
We stepped outside the pub into the wall of early-evening heat and I started scanning the streets for a taxi.
‘Where you off to now?’ he asked.
‘Heathrow. Flying home.’
‘You live in Ireland?’
‘Dublin.’
He raised a hand to flag down a taxi, closed the door once I was installed and stood watching while we drove away.
As soon as we’d turned a corner and he’d disappeared from view, I breathed out, a long, nervy exhalation, then called Premilla and made cautiously optimistic noises. She launched into effusive thanks, which I shut down immediately. It’s always best to dampen the expectations of clients, but some instinct told me I’d probably pulled it off.
My flight was long gone but there was a seat available on a later one. Adrenalin was still coursing through me and I wanted to have all the drinks on the departure-lounge menu, but managed to stick to mint tea.
To pass the time I did a deep background on Josh Rowan, which I should have done long ago. Really, it was very remiss: a features editor in a British national and I didn’t know his dog’s name. (A springer spaniel called Yvonne, I now discovered, via a mutual friend on Facebook.) He had two kids, both boys – perhaps ten and twelve from their photos, but hard for me to know as I didn’t really do boys – and a wife, Marcia. I switched over to her feed, which made for more rewarding spying.
I studied her avidly, keen to know how other people managed the tricky, tricky business of being a woman. She looked early forties, attractive but no stunner. Interesting.
