by Marian Keyes
‘Oh, Alastair, he’s a total babe. Look, sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Ah, shur, what harm? Heathrow is always charming at this time of year. Hey, maybe I’ll stay in London tonight and we can get dinner. Are you staying in Druzie’s? Can I bunk in with you?’
‘No. No to everything. I am staying in Druzie’s but I’ll be doing a crash-course in Matthew Carlisle, so no dinner, no bunking.’
‘Grand so. Christ, here she is. Talk to you later.’
The arrival of Sharmaine King is causing a right frisson even among the Home House media types, who’re well used to famouses. She’s lovely – blonde, vibrant and not-skinny, just all-round beautiful, the way healthy young people are always beautiful. She’s in rolled-up jeans, brogues and an oversized tweed boyfriend coat, which she removes to display a boxy raggedy-edged jumper.
The press is wrong: she doesn’t look like Ruthie at all. Yes, they’re both blonde and they’re both wholesome but I’ve always found Ruthie a bit watery and this Sharmaine is radiant.
There’s a moment of genuine sorrow that we won’t be signing her – she looks very promotable – followed by relief that we won’t have any part in ruining her. Another agency will snap her up and it’s obvious how things will play out – she’ll end up on Love Island or Celebrity Big Brother and for a couple of years she’ll be subject to daily snarking from the sidebar of shame. Eventually she’ll crash and burn – they all do. They think a scandal like this is an entrée to a world of riches and fame, but ultimately it’s just a one-way ticket to misery and oblivion.
Alastair takes Sharmaine off to a secluded couch at the far end of the room and my four o’clock arrives, a profile-writer from The Times. At about five, she takes her leave, and when we stand to say our goodbyes, Alastair and Sharmaine King are still in a cosy huddle at the far end of the room. For the love of God. He was simply meant to be shutting things down.
All my meetings have finished but I decide to hang around, work on Matthew Carlisle’s press release, then scold Alastair when he finally releases Sharmaine … Shite, three missed calls. Tim. I call him back.
‘You certain about this Matthew Carlisle thing?’ he asks.
‘Oh, I am, Tim. I’m glad to have a big new project.’
‘Alastair can do him.’
‘Um, no, he wants me specifically.’ Pleasure leaks out in my tone.
‘If you’re sure. He’s shortlisted for a prize at the Brighton Media Awards, but that’s a secret. He doesn’t know yet.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ah, someone mentioned it … But Paxman is also up.’
‘Guess this isn’t Matthew’s year.’
Tim says goodbye and I write Matthew’s press release.
Recent rumours in the press imply I had an inappropriate relationship with my children’s nanny. I emphatically and unreservedly deny all of these unsubstantiated rumours. There was no impropriety. This is a very difficult time for our family and I respectfully ask for our children’s privacy to be respected. There will be no further comment from me on this matter.
I email it to Matthew and his wretched brother for their approval … And what the hell is keeping Alastair? I stretch tall like a meerkat – they’re still in a head-to-head huddle.
I feel oddly protective of Sharmaine King, and if they haven’t finished in ten minutes’ time, I’m breaking things up.
Finally, Alastair stands. With narrowed eyes I watch him help Sharmaine into her coat – God, I wish I was tall: that coat is amazing. Zara, I recognize it from my online adventures, but it would swamp me. He places his hands on her forearms and – get this – slides his hands along, pushing the coat and jumper upwards, so he’s touching her bare skin. Everyone in the place is looking. He shifts her a few inches so that they’re facing right into each other, drops his knees slightly so that his hips are angled towards hers, kisses her fresh young cheek, lets his lips linger a moment too long … She blushes. I sigh. I’ll fucking kill him.
‘Bye,’ she breathes, then stumbles over her brogues. She’s gone and from the loud exhalation it’s clear the entire room has been holding their breath. Everyone seems to wake up from a reverie, looking at their companions quizzically, as if to say, ‘Who on God’s earth are you?’
I snatch up my stuff and meet Alastair at the door. ‘Come on.’ I’m walking at speed. ‘You’re catching a taxi to Heathrow – you need to get out of this country.’
‘What have I done?’
‘You tell me.’ We’re walking down the stairs and out into the street. ‘That poor girl! You were meant to be giving her the kiss-off. It should have taken ten minutes tops.’
I see a taxi and stick my hand up. It stops before me, its engine ticking. ‘Get in.’ I prod Alastair.
‘Heathrow via Shepherd’s Bush,’ I tell the cabbie.
As soon as we’re settled, Alastair says, ‘I’m lonely.’
‘But you’re going about things the wrong way.’ The amount of times he’s already been told this stuff probably runs into the hundreds, but I’m going to tell him again. ‘You think The One is going to appear and the giddy feeling that everyone gets at the start of a relationship will last for ever. Okay, you fancy them and do the sexing, at least in the early days. But we’re all just flawed human beings, lurching along together as best we can. Eventually The One will annoy you, the way your friends sometimes annoy you – they’ll disappoint you, or when they’re eating apple crumble and custard, the sound of their spoon banging against their teeth will fill you with rage. But you can’t bail …’ My voice meanders to nothing. Because, of course, Hugh bailed.
It hits me like a blow in the chest. Again. Groundhog break-up.
Alastair prompts me. ‘You haven’t finished. Say the stuff about a relationship being like a small country. It’s for my good.’
I carry on my well-worn lecture on auto-pilot. ‘Creating a healthy relationship is like creating a small, land-locked country. The borders are always under threat and every day you have to shore them up. So when something in the country implodes, the shockwaves move outwards and the borders push back until eventually the crisis subsides …’
What right have I to say any of this to Alastair? None. Not now. Hugh and I have ruptured, our borders haven’t endured …
Alastair gives me a sharp nudge. ‘Amy, we’re not finished! Tell me I’m too good-looking, et cetera, et cetera. Come on!’
He’s like a child insisting on his bedtime story. Wearily, I gear up for the final part of my scolding. ‘People think it’s great to be good-looking but, Alastair, it’s the worst thing that could have happened to you. You’re irresponsible with it.’
‘It’s like?’ he prompted.
‘It’s like putting a child in charge of a gun.’
He nods. He looks simultaneously happy and hangdog. We sit in silence and, after about eight seconds, he gets out his phone, then so do I.
We don’t speak until we get to the flat in Shepherd’s Bush.
‘Tell Druzie I said hey.’ He lifts my wheely case out of the cab and places it on the pavement.
We hug. I’m fond of him and I feel bad for having lectured him. Pot, kettle and all that.
52
I’m running down a dusty grey street, tall broken buildings on either side of me. Far ahead in the distance is Hugh, and I try to call to him, but my voice won’t work. This is a dangerous place, a ruined city, snipers above me, enemies all around. In my arms are several kittens, wriggling and trying to escape, but when I look down, they’re not kittens, they’re baby girls. There’s Sofie. And Kiara. And Neeve. And one, two, no, three more Sofies, their baby faces looking up at me with weird blue eyes.
Through the smoke Hugh is still visible but he’s moving away fast so I try to speed up too. Then a tiny Sofie, much smaller than the others, slips from my hold and there’s no time to stop so I scoop her up by her ear and she’s wailing in pain but Hugh has disappeared now and I must run faster, but my legs are
too heavy. The sky is darkening with my terror – if I don’t catch him, our family is broken for ever, but he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
He didn’t know I was there. He didn’t know how hard I was trying to catch him. I don’t matter to him, not at all, and that loss is like a blow to my chest. It crackles with green electricity, painful enough to kill but I’m not allowed to die.
Then I wake up.
Lying in the darkness, my heart is pounding and it takes a few moments for the crackling sensation in my chest to disperse. I fumble for the light-switch and the instant brightness erases the horror of the nightmare.
53
Friday, 21 October, day thirty-nine
‘How about “Star in the Reasonably Priced Car”?’ I call across the office to Alastair. ‘Too laddish?’
‘Maybe. Fine line – you need him normal and likeable, but not so blokey he could be a nanny-shagger.’
‘Mmm.’
I’m working flat out on Matthew Carlisle and the greatest source of inspiration is the Guardian questionnaire he did two years ago.
Matthew Carlisle (39), the son of an electrician and an Italian immigrant, was brought up in Sheffield. For three years, he’s presented BBC political flagship This Week. He’s married to actor Ruthie Billingham, they have two children and live in London.
– When were you happiest? Last Tuesday: wife, kids, couch, movie, pizza.
– What is your greatest fear? No pizza.
– Which living person do you most admire and why? My mum. Came from Naples to the UK in 1968 with two pounds and worked three jobs after our dad left us.
– What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Impatience. Queues, microwaves, online orders, everything could happen faster.
– What is the trait you most deplore in others? Lying by omission. (I spend a lot of my life around politicians.)
– What makes you unhappy? Single socks.
– What did you want to be when you were growing up? A Premier League footballer.
– Who or what is the greatest love of your life? RB.
– What does love feel like? Home.
– If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose? Pink Panther bars. Happy memories of spending my pocket money.
– What would your super-power be? Redistribution of wealth.
– What was your most embarrassing moment? Stroking a stationary Maserati without noticing both the (slightly terrified) owners were sat in it.
– What makes you cry? Ikea.
– What do you most dislike about your appearance? My eyes are too close together.
– Who would play you in the film of your life? Someone boss-eyed.
– What do you consider your greatest achievement? Getting Ruthie to say yes.
– To whom would you like to say sorry and why? My first wife. I was a crap husband.
– How often do you have sex? Not often enough.
– What single thing would improve the quality of your life? A dog.
– What’s your favourite smell? My wife.
– How do you relax? I like to cook.
– What lesson has life taught you? We’re all faking it.
– Tell us a secret about you? I’m really just a big softy.
– Tell us a joke. What do you call a sheep with no legs? A cloud. (Sorry, my daughter told it to me.)
Matthew’s eyes are not too close together – they’re intelligent and warm and perfectly proportioned. I’m delighted to discover that he likes to cook – I’ve already talked to someone from Celebrity Masterchef. And he’s a dog-lover, so I’m planning to partner him with Dogs Trust. Nothing like a segment on The One Show of a grown man playing with abandoned puppies to melt hearts …
Then there’s the Maserati story, so he’s obviously a petrol-head. And maybe we could do some sort of comedy segment called ‘The Man Who Learnt to Love Ikea’ …
Most of Matthew’s profiles lazily trot out the same facts – mum an Italian cleaning lady; dad an electrician, who deserted the family when Matthew was a baby; ferociously intelligent even as a child; won a scholarship to Oxford; got a double-first in PPE, blah-dee-blah. An ill-judged, short-lived early marriage to a posho addict, followed by high-profile wedding to Ruthie.
There are two tones to the interviews: either breathless and giddy (the journalist was invariably female) or a sense that the writer admired him but felt he could do with lightening up. He fails the Howard Hunter Pint Test. (‘Would I want to go for a pint with this man? The answer is no.’)
Until recently all his coverage was uncontroversial – loves his wife and kids, lives and breathes politics and is zero-tolerant of double-dealing. If he’s guilty of anything, it’s a slight lack of a sense of humour. That, coupled with rumours of infidelity, does not play well.
Cheating + sense of humour = Lovable Rogue.
Cheating – sense of humour = Sleazy McSleaze.
He needs warming up and any excess pomposity excised so that he’d effortlessly pass the Howard Hunter Pint Test – every man in the country should want to go for a pint with him. And every woman should fancy him, while also being certain that he still loves Ruthie – What the hell?
It’s hard to believe but Richie has just sent another email, this time a screenshot of the actual invitation and underneath, ‘Think of the poor blind children.’ His behaviour is so pushy that I’m confused – surely he can’t seriously think he’s being persuasive.
‘Alastair, come and look at this.’
He reads it. ‘He’s gone insane,’ he says. ‘No other explanation. Now go home. Plans for the weekend?’
‘Tomorrow Steevie’s having a brunch and I know it’s going to be a Why Can’t They Keep Their Lads in Their Pants special.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘She means well, but she’ll want me to get drunk and bitch about Hugh and I don’t want to.’
‘No?’
‘I wish none of this was happening, but if he comes back and wants to make everything right, I don’t want to be full of hate and resentment.’
‘It takes all sorts, I suppose. How’s Derry? Still riding?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Tell her I say hey.’
‘I won’t.’
At Mum and Pop’s all the talk is of Mum’s vlogging debut and spirits are very high.
‘They’d seen it at work,’ Joe says. ‘Everyone says she’s a hoot, talking about checking her privilege.’
It’s already the most-watched vlog Neeve has ever done.
‘Can we do another one?’ Mum asks Neeve. ‘Can you sort me out with new hair? I was thinking I’d like to go blonde.’
Neeve swallows. ‘Um, sure. Probably. Leave it with me.’
‘Now, don’t shout at me,’ Mum says, ‘because this is my moment. But where exactly is it?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The internet? Where do they keep all the stuff? Like the shoes you got for me and the picky-up thing for Pop. And now my videos. Is it in a big warehouse? Like, out beyond the M50?’
Poor Neeve. It’s almost visible how she shoves down her rage. ‘Granny, it’s not in a place. It hangs in the air, like, like electricity. Or God!’
Mum gives Neeve a look. ‘God is dead.’
‘Is he?’ Pop says. ‘Well, he had a good innings.’
54
Saturday, 22 October, day forty
Steevie comes to her front door, towel-drying her hair. She looks startled and well she might: I’m twenty minutes early. ‘Amy! What time is it?’
‘You’re okay, it’s only twenty to.’ I step into the hall and pass over a bottle. ‘Listen, Steevie, before the others arrive, can I ask a favour?’
‘Course.’
‘Today, do you mind if we don’t have any toasts to bad things happening to Hugh?’
‘Like what?’
I’m striving for a jokey tone. ‘Well, like him getting the clap and his dick going green and dropping off.�
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Her face falls. ‘Why not?’
She was meant to laugh. Laugh and agree to go along with my wishes. I take a second to gather my resolve. ‘Because I don’t feel that way.’
‘But you should! The nerve of him, taking off for six months, leaving you here to face the humiliation. It’s a disgrace what he’s done and he’s a total fucker! I hope his dick does go green and drop off!’
‘See, I don’t think Hugh’s a total fucker.’ I keep my tone mild.
‘But he is. He is a total fucker.’
She’s confused – and hurt. Not only has she gone to the trouble of having a brunch for me, of getting up early and making her famous vegetarian moussaka, then doing her chocolate pavlova, then going to Donnybrook Fair and buying four different types of salad and a selection of expensive cheese but I have the outrageous cheek to throw it all back in her face by not thinking my husband is a total fucker.
My spirits slide: this is going to be a long brunch.
‘Have some wine,’ Steevie says. ‘And don’t worry about Hugh. He’ll eventually get what’s coming to him.’
And here comes Jana ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’ Shanahan, in some ditsy-looking dress, her hair in a falling-down updo. Her juvenile look has always charmed me, but I think I might be going off it.
I’m still wondering what the fallout from Casserole-gate is going to be. It’s a weird thing, being bound by middle-class mores, where even if someone uses a casserole as a pretext for shameless rubbernecking, you’re obliged to pretend that their intentions were noble. For a moment I wonder what would happen if I stopped with the fakery and calmly said, ‘Genevieve Payne is a bitch.’
God, no. I’m not brave enough.
Mind you, even now, weeks later, whenever I think of Neeve saying, ‘Keep your casserole,’ I convulse with silent laughter.
Shortly after Jana’s arrival, we greet Tasha Ingersoll, dolled up to the nines in – eek! – a blue Hervé Leger bandage dress. I haven’t seen her in at least a year and I’ve never liked her. Next, in skinny jeans and a floaty shirt, is Mo Edgeworth. She’s nice enough but I barely know her, and it’s only then that the common denominator is revealed: every woman here has been shafted by a man.
