by Marian Keyes
Stealthily she crossed the room. I’ll just stand here for a moment and look in at them.
Keeping well clear, she stretched and silently regarded the Creme Eggs with the same painful mix of love and longing that she used to give her boys when they were sleeping babies.
I’ll just eat one.
No, she wouldn’t. She was stronger than this. But she should leave now.
One, though. Just one. What harm would one do?
There was no such thing as one.
But the gorgeous feel of it in her hand, the hefty little weight as it lay in her palm, the roughness of the tinfoil against the tips of her fingers. Suddenly she was shaking. Saliva flooded her mouth and she was ripping off the wrapper and, oh, the crunch of the first bite – the sound was exciting, the sweetness coating her tongue, the sticky filling on her lips, one more bite, and then it was gone and, without thinking, she was reaching for another, then another, and what did it matter, because they were only small and there were so many in the bucket and she should take some from the other bucket to even things up and her heart was beating very fast and she couldn’t stop but she could replace them, she could just drive to the nearest Spar, they were always open, even on Easter Sunday, and now she was looking at a proper Easter egg, a big Wispa one. Dozens more were downstairs for whoever wanted them, it would be no trouble to replace, so she’d just eat it, eat it and enjoy it, because the damage was done, sheep as for a lamb, and then she’d stop. Pulling the cardboard, ripping at the foil, breaking the egg – hearing the crack gave her a thrill that was almost sexual. She was snapping pieces off and swallowing almost without chewing. But she began to feel sick. What she was putting in her mouth no longer tasted like pieces of Heaven but she kept eating until it was gone.
Then it was over – and sanity returned.
Oh, God. How had that happened? All those calories. Even as she was calculating the total, she was trying to blind herself to how much she’d eaten.
Friday hadn’t been spent climbing Torc for the endorphins or the bonding time with Nell, it had been done to burn fat. Same for Saturday’s trek around the lake. Everyone else had been loving life, living in the moment with the sunshine and the fresh air but she was only doing it because she wanted to be thin.
Her fat cells were filling up and expanding. Already her jeans felt tighter.
But it wasn’t too late …
She grabbed a bottle of water, swigged it all, then went to the bathroom, upended a tooth mug, filled it with tap water and gulped it down. Tasted disgusting, but that was good. Four more glasses, then she crouched over the toilet. Fingers down her throat and she gagged, gagged again, nothing happened and then a torrent, mostly water, but some chocolate.
Eyes streaming, nose running, she drank three more glasses of water and repeated the horrible exercise, with slightly better results.
It was exhausting, it was disgusting and yet, seeing all that chocolate reappear, it felt rewarding.
She cleaned up the bathroom, redid her make-up, gathered all the discarded packaging and bundled it into her bag.
On the way to the Spar, she felt light-headed, almost elated. She probably shouldn’t be driving.
She stuffed the evidence into the bin outside the shop, then looked at the pile of Creme Eggs on the counter. Would ten be enough? No. She hadn’t kept count but she reckoned fifteen might do.
‘Kids,’ she said sheepishly, to the startled assistant.
So this was very, very bad. But she’d got away with it and it would not happen again.
NINETEEN
Johnny’s phone rang. Who was calling him at ten past ten on Easter Monday? Celeste Appleton. What the hell was she ringi– Oh. Right. He might have an idea … Summoning inhuman quantities of energy, he hollered, ‘Celeste!’
‘Johnny!’
‘Well, this is a surprise!’
‘Are you still in bed?’
‘Ha-ha.’ Christ, trust her to mention bed only ten seconds in.
‘Application here for a summer internship from a Ferdia Kinsella. I thought, That name rings a bell. Is that Johnny Casey’s stepson? I wondered. So? Is he?’
Heartily, Johnny said. ‘I believe he is!’
‘I seeeeeeeee.’ He visualized her twirling a pen in her shiny, slippery hair, being pouty-mouthed and suggestive.
‘Over two hundred applicants for the spot. Why should I give it to young Mr Kinsella?’
‘His résumé is good. And he’s a hard worker.’ He wasn’t. He was a lazy little prick, but he could hardly tell her that. Not with Jessie earwigging.
‘All the résumés on my desk are good, Johnny.’ There was a laugh in her voice. ‘And I’m sure they’re all hard workers. What else can you give me?’
There was a blockage in his throat. ‘What would you like?’
‘You can take me for lunch.’
Thank Christ it was only lunch she’d suggested. ‘I will, of course! Soup and a sandwich at a pub of your choosing!’
‘You can feck off with soup and pubs. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Always. Get back to me in the next few days.’
If he didn’t, Ferdia would have to look elsewhere for his summer job. ‘Will do. Lovely talking to you, Celeste. Now get out and enjoy some of that bank-holiday sunshine.’
She laughed. ‘You know me, Johnny. Hardest-working woman in Ireland.’
As soon as he hung up, Jessie said, ‘What?’
‘Celeste Appleton. Social Research Institute. Ferdia applied there for a summer job.’
‘Small world.’
Not really. He’d suggested it to Ferdia. He might even have said something braggy like, ‘Old friend of mine runs the place.’ With the unspoken addendum, She never really got over me.
‘Is she going to give it to him?’ Jessie asked.
‘If I have lunch with her.’
‘Is that right?’ Jessie said thoughtfully. ‘So, have lunch with her. Get him the job. But make sure you behave yourself.’
‘Course I’ll behave myself,’ he blustered.
Back in the day, Johnny had been a great man for casual sex. Jessie hated being reminded of it.
‘You and the kids start loading up the car,’ Jessie said to Johnny. ‘I’ll check us all out.’ And pay the doubtless colossal bill.
At the desk, as page after page was being printed out, Jessie was all smiles, yes, wonderful weekend, yes, they’d be back again next year, no, wouldn’t miss it for the world, oh, hurry up, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and just show me the final figure.
‘There we go, Ms Parnell.’ The smiley clerk passed over the sheaf of paper.
Jessie jumped right to the bottom of the last page. Shite. She’d been braced for a certain sum, but even with the early-booking discount, it was more than expected – it always was.
‘Everything okay?’ The clerk was solicitous.
‘Fine, yes, just, ah …’ But a scan through the list established that nothing unexpected had sneaked in – for example, that she hadn’t accidentally bought the fecking jaunting car, instead of just hiring it for four hours. But all those accommodation costs and several dinners for fourteen, room service, massages, packed lunches for the hillwalkers, mini-bar refills, casual lattes in the lobby: they tended to add up.
Christ, though, she was glad that Johnny wasn’t witness to this.
It was weird with him. He was her husband and they were meant to share everything. To be fair, they did: one joint bank account, joint credit cards and a joint mortgage. Most importantly, as soon as they’d got married, she’d given him a raise so that he was paid what she was. They already had several issues on their plates – Ferdia hating Johnny, the Kinsellas feeling betrayed: they didn’t need to make things worse by emasculating Johnny into the bargain.
But despite their ‘equality’, there were times when she definitely felt more equal than him.
She spent too much money. And he didn’t like it. He worri
ed. But she felt it was hers to spend. The company was her creation. She and she alone had founded it, she came up with the best ideas and she worked like a dog. She didn’t like feeling constrained and she didn’t like having to massage the truth.
It had been true what they’d said in that article: if she’d sold up in 2008, she’d have more money than she knew what to do with. She hated being reminded of the opportunity she’d missed, convinced – wrongly – that if she held on for another nine months, the price would just keep rising.
But you couldn’t think that way. Her life was great and they had enough money. As long as she kept working hard and business stayed buoyant and –
‘Everything all right?’ Johnny was suddenly at her shoulder, making her jump.
‘All fine.’ She summoned a bright smile and slid the enveloped bill into her bag.
‘Christ. You’re doing the scary smile. That bad, was it?’
‘Bad enough.’
‘I could look at it online. Find out just how bad.’
‘Ah, don’t, Johnny.’ She followed him to the car. ‘Promise me you won’t.’
He smiled. ‘I promise.’
‘Johnny, I don’t spend much money on clothes or shoes.’
‘What?’
‘Johnny, I don’t. You should see some of the prices on Net-a-Porter.’
‘Yeah, it’s Net-a-Porter, a luxury goods site.’
‘So I buy my clothes from Zara. Look, family is my thing.’
It wasn’t even her family: they were his brothers. But she had no brothers or sisters of her own and she was nothing if not resourceful.
‘Who’s driving?’ he asked.
‘You.’ She’d a million emails to answer.
Climbing into the car, she was deep in thought. Maybe she needed to make changes to her spending, but it was hard to know what to do. Should you live each second to the full, grabbing every opportunity and making as many precious memories as possible? Or should you carefully salt resources away, having a comfortable buffer zone in place, in the event that disaster struck?
It was impossible to decide, because you never knew what was coming down the tracks.
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
* * *
MAY
Dilly’s First Communion
TWENTY
Cara hunted through the jumble of cosmetics on her dressing table. She’d pressed so much iridescent shimmer onto her cheekbones that more eyebrow definition was needed to balance it. And one more circle of glittery brown eyeliner wouldn’t hurt.
The lip gloss, though … She looked as if she’d fallen face down into a field of cherry jam, so sticky she could barely open her mouth. How had they lived like this in the nineties?
Her hair was loose apart from the two – frankly, amazing – horns on the top of her head, courtesy of Hannah. She’d twisted a thick lock of Cara’s hair around a cone of styrofoam, pinned it in place with a gazillion clips – ‘A nuclear missile won’t shift them’ – then sprayed each finished horn a sinister shade of dark red.
Unexpectedly, the clothes had been the easy part. The long slip dress, in slithery black satin, left over from her youth, had been lurking at the back of her wardrobe. Astonishingly – and admittedly with the assistance of Spanx – it still fitted. The red top, embossed with silver stars, she’d found on eBay. And Erin had loaned her the super-high leopard-print platform sandals.
Platforms were great. So easy to walk in, and looking taller also made her look slimmer and perhaps she should wear them more oft–
‘Hey!’ Ed was out on the landing, staring in. ‘You look –’
‘What?’ Suddenly she was anxious. ‘Stupid?’
‘God, no. You look …’ he studied her ‘… hawt.’ Moving towards her he said, his voice slightly hoarse, ‘Do you have to go out?’
‘Ha-ha.’ The very thought of missing this.
He slid his arm around her waist. ‘Are they your eyelashes?’
‘No … God, Ed, you haven’t a clue.’ She regarded him fondly.
‘If I kiss you, will we get stuck together?’
‘Yep.’
‘For ever?’
‘Yep. Have you got my drink?’
He produced her metal coffee mug. ‘A hundred mls of vodka in there, four measures. And as much Red Bull as would fit. Honey, you’re sure about this? Can’t you just go to a pub first?’
‘We’re reliving our youth.’ His concern tickled her. ‘We were grand then. We’ll be grand now. What’ll you do tonight?’
‘Put that pair to bed. Watch Kevin McCloud. Maybe smoke the world’s weakest spliff.’
‘Ed …’
‘No spliff?’
‘Not with the kids here. Even if they’re asleep. Sorry.’
‘No. You’re right.’
Her mobile beeped at the same time as a car outside. ‘That’ll be my taxi. Bye, honey. Don’t wait up.’
Crowds of Spice-Girl-alikes were milling around the gate. It took a while to spot Gabby and Erin in among them. Then, there they were, Gabby in denim cut-offs, a denim shirt over a silver corset and a long, flammable-looking blonde ponytail, Erin in red patent knee boots, a black latex dress and an orangey-red wig.
Cara launched herself at them.
‘You look so young!’ Gabby squealed. ‘It’s 1998 all over again.’
‘You look amazing.’
‘No, you look amazing.’
‘You look more amazing.’
‘We all look amazing.’ Erin plucked at her dress. ‘But I am melting in this. Latex is a young woman’s game.’ She produced a small Evian bottle. ‘Have you got your drink?’
‘Are we just going to do it, standing here in the street?’ Cara asked.
‘Sure!’ Erin took a defiant swallow and nodded at a hovering security guard. ‘Respectable mother of three, thank you for asking.’
‘Really?’ Gabby seemed uncertain. But after the first couple of swigs, she said, ‘Sneaky drinking is like riding a bike. It’s all coming back to me.’
‘It should come back to you,’ Erin said. ‘As drinkers go, you were the worst.’
‘Excuse me, you were the worst.’
‘Sometimes I was the worst,’ Cara said.
‘You were never the worst drinker,’ Erin said.
‘But she had terrible form with men. Remember, Cara, you were seeing that fool –’
‘Which one?’
‘The … What was he? … The magician?’
‘Kian!’ Cara snapped her fingers.
‘Him. But there was another fool … He had a job … Bryan with a Y.’
‘Kian the magician showed up one night. Booty call. You didn’t want him to come in. Then Bryan with a Y arrived.’
‘Oh, I remember …’
‘You introduced them to each other, said they had lots in common, that they were both dickheads, then kicked them out. You were boss! Girl power that night, all right!’
TWENTY-ONE
… a ceramic bust of Lenin, a clock with Cyrillic numbers, a collection of military medals, another bust of Lenin … Jessie kept on scrolling through Etsy. She was drawn to the Soviet field telephones, with their old-fashioned black handsets, but she had to try to put herself in Jin Woo Park’s mindset. I am a Korean chef who lives in Geneva and collects Soviet memorabilia. What do I like?
On she scrolled. More military medals, another field telephone – then a vintage rubber chemical-protection suit in a dodgy shade of green. Jessie’s heart jumped. This! It was attractively weird and, if nothing else, would get Jin Woo Park’s attention. She put it into her basket, then narrowed her search to ‘Soviet Memorabilia Cookery’. A paraffin camping stove, stamped with ‘USSR’, popped up. That also went into the basket, along with some ancient-looking serving spoons and a stack of recipe cards in Cyrillic.
Right, that was plenty. She hurried through checkout and the appallingly high delivery charges. She wanted these ASAP.
Jin Woo Park was one of four chefs she was current
ly researching in the hope of luring them to PiG’s cookery school. He collected Soviet memorabilia, which wasn’t too out there. Certainly not as bad as the one who collected human teeth. You had to aim for these chefs when they were at a certain level: not so successful that they had their own range of sauces in Waitrose, but they couldn’t be so ‘up-and-coming’ that no one else had heard of them. If you shelled out five hundred euro to spend a day cooking with a famous chef, you wanted to boast about it – and how could you boast about a chef who was a complete unknown?
Jin Woo Park, chef and proprietor of Kalgukso, which offered Swiss/Korean cuisine, was in the sweet spot. He’d been passed over by the Michelin-star people in the latest round, to much grumbling on foodie boards, so he’d be feeling raw and amenable to flattery.
Those who couldn’t understand how Jessie persuaded such a chef to come to Ireland were missing the basics. The chefs came because Jessie put the work in. She researched and researched until they felt like her best friends – like, look at her now. It was almost midnight, and she’d been on her iPad for two hours, doing a deep dive on him.
Most nights, she went to bed around ten o’clock, intending to read a prize-winning book for half an hour, then get eight hours of restorative sleep. Instead, she went straight online, looking up amazing resorts or cheerily buying stuff. Or furtively opening the Mail Online – reading it made her feel almost queasy but she was irresistibly drawn to the comments beneath each story. Seeing the criticisms of Hollywood actresses – too thin, not thin enough, saggy neck, too much lip-filler – took some of the sting out of the hatred that came her way.
Tonight, though, she’d been focused on carefully assembling a gift box that would show Jin Woo Park she truly ‘got’ him. Jin Woo’s Swiss wife, Océane, was a long-limbed blonde at least a head taller than him. No kids, which was a shame because the quickest way to snag someone’s heart was to be nice to their children. But she’d work with what she had: she’d love-bomb Océane.
Océane’s Instagram was public, in English, and she posted a lot. Mostly pre-workout selfies or very spensie shoes. So Jessie would send her a pair of fabulous shoes. But she needed to know her size. If handbags had been Océane’s thing, it would have been a lot easier. Taking a chance, she commented on a pair of Océane’s Louboutins. ‘OMG. So beautiful. You have teeny-tiny feet, are you a thirty-six?’ She threw in four heart-eyed emojis and sent it.
