by Marian Keyes
Most of Johnny and Jessie’s outgoings were on their debit cards. There was so much, though. Pages and pages. In the main, boring basics – petrol, groceries, phone bills – but with regular splurges that wildly inflated the overall outgoings.
It was fascinating, having a spyhole into the finances of a much richer family than her little foursome. You could just tell that Johnny or Jessie never anxiously watched the meter in the petrol station, carefully timing it to stop at twenty euro because that was all they could afford. But she didn’t judge them. If they had it, why shouldn’t they spend it?
If she had unlimited money, she’d check into one of those Swiss places that were a cross between a hotel and a hospital and undergo luxury starvation. She’d be so busy being de-cellulited and un-wrinkled that she wouldn’t even notice the hunger. Returning to real life would be tricky, though. Maybe she’d hire a person to walk twenty paces ahead of her, sweeping away any chocolate in her path, like a sobriety coach, except for food and – What on earth?
Ferdia, dishevelled in sweatpants and a washed-out T-shirt, loomed over her. She yanked out her earbuds.
‘Christ!’ He was saying. ‘Oh, it’s you, Cara!’
She laughed, from shock. ‘Sorry. We scared each other.’
‘I thought I had the place to myself. Creepy-ass McGurk is gone out, collecting tablecloths or something.’
‘And you thought the coast was clear? What are you up to? Stealing bottles of wine?’ She was very fond of him.
‘Wi-Fi,’ Ferdia said. ‘Too ropy down in my granny flat.’
‘And instead you find your auntie lurking here.’
‘Yeah, but my favourite auntie.’ He threw himself into the chair next to her. ‘What are you listening to?’
‘A Star Is Born. Don’t judge me.’
‘Never. You didn’t go to the church?’
‘Short of time. You?’
‘Supposed to be studying. Twelve days till the exams start.’
‘Good luck with them. So? Plans for the summer? One long four-month party?’
His teeth flashed a grin. ‘With Jessie Parnell as my ma? Not a chance.’
Cara realized, with a slight jolt, that Ferdia was no longer a gawky, gangly boy, but an actual man.
It seemed like it had happened overnight. With his dark eyes, messy black hair and inkings up and down his arms, he had the look of a sexy messiah.
She opened her mouth to tell him laughingly, then stopped. Jessie went on so much about how good-looking he was that she felt sorry for him.
‘Two days after the exams,’ Ferdia said, ‘I start interning in the Social Research Institute. Apart from my forcible expatriation to a villa in Tuscany for a week in August, along with every other member of my extended family, it’ll be nose to the grindstone all summer.’
Still focused on his looks, Cara realized that he was very like the picture of Rory that hung on the living-room wall.
A noise in the hallway alerted them.
‘McGurk is back,’ Ferdia said. ‘See you later.’
‘Okay, darlin’.’
Through the sliver between the door and its frame, she caught a glimpse of McGurk’s skinny figure carrying trays into the kitchen. Desserts. She had a sixth sense for sugar.
The front door shut, and moments later came the sound of McGurk’s car driving away again.
As if the point of a knife was being held to her jugular, she was up and moving towards the kitchen.
Her heart banged hard at the array of beauty before her: macaroons in bright pops of orange, lilac and lime; dense, dark, swoonily moist opera cakes; raspberry tarts glistening with a luscious pale pink glaze; adorably solid little cheesecakes; platters of marshmallow and pineapple kebabs – they must be getting a chocolate fountain …
Her heart pounded, adrenalin pulsed through her and the top of her head felt open to the air.
The opera cakes were the ones she wanted, and nobody would mind if she had one. But if she had any at all, she wouldn’t stop until she’d eaten at least ten.
For the others to discover she’d devoured half a tray of cakes would be too shaming. She’d have to dispose of an entire tray of twenty.
She could do it. They’d just think McGurk had accidentally left a tray behind in the patisserie.
Or she could try to blame the dogs. Camilla was old and slow but Bubs was a scrappy little fighter who’d have no trouble getting on the table.
The deal-breaker was the bathroom. Going upstairs to Johnny and Jessie’s family bathroom would feel too much of a violation of their trust.
Her hand gripped the door frame, a sheen of sweat coated her forehead and she only realized how tightly she was clenching her back teeth, when something inside her mouth slipped and snapped. In her head, the noise sounded like a mini-explosion, and something small and sharp was rattling about in her mouth.
Shocked, confused, she spat the object into her hand – it was a chunk of tooth. Using her tongue to explore, it dragged against the jagged edge of a molar. She tasted blood.
Horror shrank her skin. Teeth were vital. On a primal level, teeth represented survival. Why had this happened? She had an electric toothbrush. She had check-ups.
But it couldn’t be … She’d only been throwing up for about a month. That wasn’t long enough to erode a tooth to breaking point.
… Was it?
Unwelcome memories of vomiting three and four times a day assailed her. Yesterday, despite all her early hope, had veered out of her control.
She had to admit that she’d packed an awful lot into a very short time.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Liam stood in Johnny’s crowded back garden, watching Nell skilfully organize a noisy gang of besotted kids into some game of her own invention. It was only a year since he’d first seen her in that supermarket but sometimes a year seemed a very long time. Sometimes even a week did. Because within days of meeting her, he’d been poleaxed with love.
All of a sudden he’d understood where he and Paige had gone wrong. Marrying her had been a decision motivated by emptiness and fear: his career was over and a huge part of his identity had abruptly disappeared. He had almost disappeared. Paige had offered a structure, a shape, a new way to be.
But his feelings for Nell were entirely different. Her spontaneity and joy were contagious and he loved this new version of himself.
Nevertheless, he knew his form, and weeks were spent braced for the disenchantment to kick in. Eventually, cautiously, he’d come to accept that it might never happen.
‘Hi, Liam.’
It was Cara, pretty and dimpled.
‘Oh, hey.’ Everyone always said how ‘totally lovely’ Cara was, but something about her made him uneasy.
Nell flew past, trailed by a long line of children. They watched her go.
‘She’s magical with kids,’ Cara said.
‘Yep.’ Liam smiled. ‘Almost a shame she doesn’t want any.’
‘She does, though?’ Cara looked puzzled. ‘But there are already too many of us on the planet?’
‘Same thing.’
‘Is it?’
Luckily, this was the moment when that not-so-little thug Vinnie shoved one of the other kids and Cara left to intercede.
It was a relief. Encounters with Cara unsettled him, as if she could see right into his heart, cataloguing every dark thought he’d ever entertained. One of his most uncomfortable truths was that Nell’s decision to be child-free was the final sign that they were perfect for each other. He didn’t want any more children. He’d failed at fatherhood. When Paige had been pregnant with Violet, he’d been so buzzed. But his crazy elation at Violet’s birth had quickly evaporated in the face of her unknowable needs and incessant howling.
According to Paige, he did everything wrong: fed her too quickly; changed her nappies too clumsily. When he tried to calm her cries, she always wailed louder. Violet didn’t like him, he told Paige – who said that now he was being a baby.
When Len
ore was born, he’d hoped that she’d like him better than her sister did, but the same pattern was repeated.
He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong but they’d always been Paige’s girls. Now more than ever.
The truth was, he didn’t miss them.
Two buddies in his cycling club were in similar situations: divorced, living apart from their kids and doing okay. Sometimes, when they were a bit pissed, they talked about the shame they were supposed to feel.
‘I feel bad for not feeling bad,’ Dan had said, which was exactly how Liam felt.
Dutifully, once a week, he FaceTimed the girls – and those Sundays always came around so fast. He had so little to say and they had even less to say to him. (‘TBH,’ he’d told Dan, ‘if they decided they weren’t bothered about speaking to me, it’d be a relief.’
‘I hear ya.’)
‘Useless heap of junk!’ someone – TJ – yelled. The bat she’d been playing with had broken. ‘Grown-up needed over here!’ Her eyes slid right past Liam. ‘Ed,’ she called. ‘Can you help me?’
Ed had been earnestly counselling Vinnie-the-thug. Ambling over to TJ, he got down to her level.
‘Let’s take a look. Ah, right.’ He pointed at the handle. ‘See here, TJ …’
Ed had a way with children. It was all to do with how he managed his energy, Liam saw. He slowed it right down to the speed of the child. There he was, patiently explaining what had gone wrong. If it had been Liam, he’d have grabbed the bat, seen it wasn’t fixable, then impatiently urged TJ to play another game, while he shifted his attention back to something that interested him.
‘Can you fix it?’ TJ beseeched Ed.
‘I’ll give it my best shot.’
Maybe, Liam thought, because he’d been the baby in his own family, he’d never learnt how to behave with younger kids. Or maybe he was too selfish. Maybe some people just weren’t cut out to be fathers …
For much of the afternoon Nell was watchful, waiting for an opportunity for her ‘chat’ with Dilly.
Eventually it arrived when Dilly flung herself on her, looking for a hug.
‘Hey?’ Nell asked. ‘Can we have a conversation?’
Dilly squinted suspiciously. ‘A good one or a bad one?’
‘Aaaah …’ She didn’t want to traumatize Dilly and get into Jessie’s bad books. ‘An interesting one.’
‘Ooookay.’
They sat, cross-legged, on the grass. Liam joined them.
‘Liam is your godfather.’ Nell got out the envelope. ‘I’m Liam’s wife and this is from both of us. So. I haven’t known you very long but I think you’re aces.’
‘I think you’re aces!’
‘Can we tell you about a little girl called Kassandra? She’s eight years of age, the same as you. If you open the envelope, you’ll find a picture of her.’
Confused, but obedient, Dilly studied the photo. Uncertainly she said, ‘Her hair is cool.’
‘She comes from a country called Syria, where a war is going on.’
Dilly’s face formed into an expression of slightly theatrical fear.
‘It’s okay,’ Liam said, quickly. ‘She’s safe here in Ireland.’
‘But!’ Nell was not to be derailed. ‘She had to leave all her stuff behind in Syria. Her toys and her clothes and, well, everything.’
‘Can’t she buy new ones?’
‘Her mum has no money. And her dad is dead.’
Dilly flicked a fearful glance at Liam. She seemed genuinely moved.
‘She doesn’t live in her own house. She doesn’t have her own room. All their meals come from a big kitchen that feeds lots of people.’
‘So her mum doesn’t have to cook!’
Riiiight … Dead Dad was good, had impact. Mass catering not so good. Nell had better reframe this. ‘But sometimes she gets given …’ What food did Dilly hate? ‘… shepherd’s pie.’
‘Ewww!’
‘And if she doesn’t eat it, no one makes her another dinner.’ Like they would do for you. ‘So Kassandra has to stay hungry until the next morning.’
‘Oooh …’
Dilly was too privileged to understand hunger, but she knew the concept to be a tragic one.
‘So today Uncle Liam and I can give you two hundred euro. Or we can give Kassandra that money. It can be a gift from you to her.’
‘Could she buy a house?’
‘No, honey. But she could buy two bags of Haribo and two Twirls every week for the next year.’
‘That’s all?’
‘But that’s lots! That would make her very happy.’
‘Well, sure. Maybe we could have a play-date.’
And maybe not. Jessie had been charmed by the idea of Dilly’s communion money helping another kid. But even the nicest-seeming people were weird about hanging out with asylum-seekers. ‘In the envelope is a letter from her, telling you about her life. You could read it if you like.’
‘Okay. I will. Ferdia!’ Her half-brother was passing. ‘Ferdia, can I show you my exciting thing?’
‘’Kay.’ He knelt while Dilly filled him in.
‘So there’s this little girl from … What country, Nell?’
‘Syria.’
Tripping over her words, Dilly explained everything.
‘Whose idea was this?’ Ferdia sounded concerned. Slightly angry, almost.
‘Mine,’ Liam said. ‘Mine and Nell’s. Both of us.’ There was a belligerent edge to his voice.
‘Really?’
‘It’s a cool idea.’ Anxiety had risen in Nell. Things had been going so well. This fool had better not derail it. ‘Dilly is happy for it, because she’s a generous, thoughtful person.’
‘Okay.’ The fire in Ferdia’s eyes had died down. ‘Yeah, well …’ As if realizing he couldn’t fault the plan in any way, he said, his tone reluctant, ‘So that’s … yeah, great. Fair play, Dilly.’
‘Chocolate fountain!’ Dilly cried, clambering to her feet and racing across the garden. Ferdia followed.
‘What is his problem?’ Nell demanded.
‘Over-indulged brat.’
‘It’s like he thinks he’s the only woke one round here.’
Quietly Liam said, ‘“Could she buy a house?”’
Instantly Nell’s mood lifted. ‘I know! I thought I was going to lose it when she said that.’
‘We did a good thing.’
She clasped his hand. Gratitude washed through her, so much that she felt almost high. ‘Thank you for this.’
TWENTY-NINE
Daddy, when is the chocolate fountain starting?
Johnny, get Liam a beer.
Dad, Camilla needs to do a poo.
Johnny, get Raphaela some rosé.
Buddy, where’s your jacks?
Johnny, give your phone to Bridey.
Dad, Camilla’s done a poo in the doll’s house.
The afternoon had passed in constant motion, attending to the needs of others, until, in an unexpected lull, nobody was looking for anything and Johnny was almost felled by sudden exhaustion.
He made his way to the garden table and gratefully lowered himself to the bench. He felt about a hundred and twenty.
It never stopped. It. Just. Never. Stopped.
Shrieking kids were running around the grass that he’d never got the chance to cut. Adults were swigging energetically, crossing to and from the kitchen – probably for more alcohol, God, you could never really get enough on an afternoon like this – and darting around the garden, irritably admonishing their charges for bad behaviour.
He took a long swallow from his beer bottle.
It had been a hard week. The trade fair in Frankfurt, those days were so long. Four meetings an hour, twelve hours a day. For three days. Pitch after pitch from one food supplier after another. Having to make decisions on the spot. Should he order four crates? Or seven thousand? By the end of the first morning his brain had turned to noodles.
But this week hadn’t been exceptional: every week
was hard.
There went Jessie again, striding with purpose. There was something about her that was giving him that fearful feeling … Through exhausted eyes he watched her. It was the shoes. White pointy things that he’d never seen before. Momentarily, he was impressed by how she avoided sinking into the grass in the skinny heels – pure strength of will.
Then the fearful feeling returned. There was some story attached to those shoes. Not a good one. He could check but, right now, he didn’t want to know.
All he wanted was a peaceful day, maybe a rainy Sunday afternoon on the couch, watching a black-and-white film, the kids and Jessie slumped sleepily beside him, ice-cream cartons and spoons on the table. There was a yearning in him, for – yeah – a holiday. Not one of their usual action-packed ones, but an actual rest, of sleeping and silence. Jessie often talked dreamily about a restorative break at a spa. It wouldn’t be for him – he was scared to have a massage in case he got an erection – but there were men’s retreats, surely …
Except he suspected that that would probably involve chopping down trees to build his own shelter, which sounded even more stressful.
Oh Christ, here came Jessie, looking like she had a job for him. If Camilla had done another poo, he was just going to get into his car and drive to Rosslare, board the ferry to France, disembark at Cherbourg and keep going across Europe until he ran out of land, then maybe just drive into the sea.
‘Johnny, don’t go mad, but the box of Soviet stuff for Jin Woo Park? When it comes I want to deliver it in person.’
‘To Geneva? No!’
‘Ryanair flights are barely more than the cost of FedExing the box.’ She stopped. ‘Bad time? You’re wrecked, babes. Sorry, sweetie. Enjoy your beer.’
That was the thing about Jessie. She always knew when to pull back … Hold on, what’s happening here?
Ferdia, his face in a too-familiar thundery expression, was striding across the grass – Jesus Christ, he was the spit of Rory. How had he not seen this before? Or maybe it was a new development. Either way, it was impossible to move past the Kinsellas. If Ferdia and Saoirse weren’t visiting their grandparents in Errislannan, newspaper articles were rehashing the bad blood. Ferdia had just had some sort of a scuffle with Liam, by the look of things.
