Grown Ups

by Marian Keyes

  Fired up with delight about his review, he rang her. ‘Did you see our first review? Five stars! They had great things to say about you and Hassan!’

  ‘Oh, good.’ She sounded distracted.

  ‘And our bookings?’ he enthused. ‘We’re nearly full for the next two months and people are already reserving into October and November.’ Liam had been right: even with the occasional empty nights, the Airbnb income was much higher than when Marek and Natusia had been tenants. Admittedly, he hadn’t increased their rent in seven years.

  ‘And the income is going into –’

  ‘Yep. New account.’

  Cara seemed stressed. Immediately he felt guilty. She had a lot on her plate and he was hardly helping. He’d been the one who’d pushed for her to do their monthly accounts, in the hope that it might focus Jessie’s mind on their spending. It had done feck-all to curb Jessie’s excesses, but poor Cara was still soldiering away. Probably – and this was where his guilt really kicked in – because she felt she ought to, as payback for all the holidays Jessie insisted on paying for. ‘You still okay to keep doing this?’ he asked. ‘It’s grand if you want to stop.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘No bother. But I’d better go.’

  ‘Course. Sorry.’ He shouldn’t have rung her at work. According to the latest etiquette, he shouldn’t have rung her at all. Not without having checked in advance that it was okay. God’s sake. Soon it would be illegal to say hello to someone without having first sent a telegram to see if now was ‘a good time’. ‘See you tomorrow night at Gulban Manor.’

  He turned his attention to the final details of Jessie’s birthday. Her fiftieth. He wasn’t too far behind and, like, Jesus Christ and all, but how had that happened? Assuming they lived their full number of years, they were both over halfway through their lives. Even that wasn’t guaranteed: what about Rory, snuffed out at the ridiculously young age of thirty-four?

  Lately life, with its unpredictable, precious qualities, had been troubling Johnny. Too much of his time was spent looking either back at the past or anxiously at the future. He’d better stop: he’d be no good to anyone if he went a bit mental. Although, from the sound of things, you got no say in it – mid-life madness was entirely out of a person’s control. You just had to roll with it.

  Enough of that. So, Jessie’s birthday. It wasn’t until Tuesday, five days away, which was when themselves and the kids would have a takeaway and a cake with candles. Nice and simple. The heavier guns were being deployed for the weekend at Gulban Manor. A Wonder Woman cake had been ordered – all credit to the baker, she’d captured Jessie’s ‘take-no-prisoners’ energy.

  His gift to Jessie had plunged him into a bout of soul-searching. Obviously, it had to be meaningful, but jewellery had never been her thing: she said she had ‘man’s hands, goofy ears and no neck’. Bracelets were banned because they got on her nerves. (‘All that jingling and jangling, I sound like a herd of Hari Krishnas.’)

  So, following Mary-Laine’s directives, he’d bought a Fendi handbag. The one Jessie liked was adorned with furry baubles, which looked like an evil little face. He’d had to check with Mary-Laine that this wasn’t a joke. And for all its furry, evil weirdness, the bag had proved spectacularly elusive. One had finally been run to ground in Abu Dhabi only three days ago and – shredding his nerves – had arrived in Ireland that morning.

  He wasn’t enjoying these feelings half as much as that lovely warm glow of pride, so he looked again at his Airbnb page. Already they were heavily booked – this weekend, all of next week and the following weekend. In fact, for the next three, four … six weekends! Many of the weekdays too. Oh, yes! As he scanned the calendar, his eye snagged on 6 August. There was something about that date … Ah, right. It was Michael Kinsella’s birthday. Funny the things you forgot and the things you remembered. Because now he was remembering that long-ago night when he and Rory had borrowed Michael’s lightweight Honda and headed for the bright lights of Celbridge. Driving home at 3 a.m., on dark, rural roads, the bike had spluttered to a halt. Rory had alleged that he could fix it, but that it was too dark to see. Johnny had called him a chancer. He still remembered the way they’d laughed, clear and echoey, in the still night air.

  ‘There’s a phone box about a mile away,’ Rory had said. ‘We’ll wheel the bike, and ring Dad.’

  ‘At three in the morning?’ Johnny had never rung Canice for a lift. He never would. Not only would Canice refuse but he’d use it to mock Johnny for having a substandard bike. For coming running to Daddy. Whatever. But Rory had made the call, and about ten minutes later, misty headlights shone through the darkness. Michael pulled alongside them in a small pick-up truck. He was wearing his slippers and an anorak over his pyjamas.

  When he got down from the truck, Johnny instinctively stepped back.

  ‘Pair of eejits,’ Michael said, in a gentle, chuckley way. He hoisted the bike into the back and the three of them climbed into the warm cabin. ‘I hope you weren’t drink-driving the bike,’ Michael said, as he drove off.

  Rory would never be that reckless. He was always so good, so law-abiding, that if anyone had deserved to live to be a hundred, it was him.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  ‘Another?’ Garr pointed at Nell’s nearly empty glass.

  ‘Can’t. Got to go.’

  ‘Where?’ Triona asked. ‘Your loaded sister-in-law flying you all to Fiji for the weekend?’

  ‘Stop!’ Nell scolded, even as everyone laughed. ‘It’s a thing. For asylum-seekers. A public meeting. Speeches and, I don’t really know, fundraising, maybe.’

  ‘Fair play,’ Lorelei said. ‘I wish I was as sound as you.’

  ‘So no trip to Fiji?’ Triona asked.

  ‘Would a fancy villa in Tuscany in August do you?’

  There was an odd little silence. ‘Tuscany?’ Lorelei wrinkled her nose. ‘No offence, but won’t it be just tons of old people boring on about wine?’

  ‘Noooo.’ Nell laughed. ‘It’ll be beautiful and sunny. Near to Florence. Me and Liam have tickets for the Uffizi and we might go to Rome another day and, like, art, dude!’

  ‘You and Liam going to the Uffizi,’ Wanda cooed. ‘I want your life!’

  ‘But she has to spend a week with her in-laws,’ Triona said.

  ‘Isn’t it freaky that Nell has in-laws?’

  ‘Seriously,’ Nell said, ‘they’re cool.’

  ‘But are they not a bit, like … old?’

  Nell laughed. ‘I’m married to an old man! I’m old by association.’

  ‘Jesus H!’ Wanda said. ‘Liam Casey is so not old.’

  Nell accidentally made eye-contact with Garr, then looked away quickly. She didn’t want to talk about Liam and definitely not with Garr there. In many ways, she was closer to Garr than anyone else in the world. He’d never said one less-than-pleasant thing about Liam but she had a niggling suspicion that he wasn’t crazy about him. Age difference? Divergent lifestyles? Maybe he just thought she’d got married too soon. Whatever the reason, she suspected that Garr wouldn’t be one bit surprised that things had gone weird for Nell and Liam. She did not want to go there.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘Will you come out with us again soon?’ Garr asked.

  His voice was soft yet pointed, and she was mortified. ‘Yeah, like, course. God, I’m sorry. I miss you. I miss you all. The whole thing with Liam, it was intense there for a while, but I’m back to normal now.’ She wrapped each of them in a tight hug, spending longest on Garr because he was the one she loved the most. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed into his face. ‘I’ll be a better friend.’

  For a moment, she wished she could step back into her old life with them all, where everything had seemed more innocent and much more fun.

  ‘There she goes! Worthy Nell!’

  She got onto her bike and cycled fast, in the hope that she might leave her shitty feelings behind.

  She’d had the loneliest, strangest month of
her life.

  Once again, she’d discovered what they meant by marriage being work.

  After what Liam had done with Sammie, she felt horribly disenchanted. Liam had been feeling insecure, he was heartbroken about the girls not coming to Italy – was that enough to absolve him? She wasn’t sure. ‘I didn’t get married so that you could mess around with another girl,’ she’d told him. ‘That’s what boyfriends were for! And I swear to you that if you ever try a stunt like that again, I’m gone.’

  They’d had a long, searching talk, in which he’d abased himself with remorse. Enough time had passed so that she had – mostly – forgiven him. It had changed her, though; she was far less starry-eyed.

  Maybe that was how it should be.

  But how would she know? She was too ashamed to tell anyone. Her mum would go crazy with worry; Garr would probably tell her to leave Liam. As for Wanda, every time she saw Nell and Liam, she yelled, ‘Goals!’ The only creature she could talk to was Molly Ringwald.

  The bottom line was that she loved Liam less than she used to. Or maybe she’d never loved the real Liam.

  None of this was the way that love was depicted in movies. In real life when your person disappoints you, you have to readjust yourself – and not them – so you can keep loving them.

  Maybe – and this was another scary thought – Liam was having to do that too.

  She moved through the busy function room. It was her first time at a public meeting about asylum-seekers, and it was nice to know she wasn’t the only one who cared. She recognized a politician from one of the smaller parties, maybe the Social Democrats. And a woman who might be from the Refugee Council of Ireland. Where was Perla? Perhaps she hadn’t arrived yet.

  As she made her way to the top of the room, her attention was caught by a striking-looking man, half a head taller than everyone else – Was that … Ferdia?

  Jessie must be here. Good on her.

  Someone called her name. Barty, who was all smiles.

  ‘Barty. Hey.’ They shared an awkward hug.

  She and Ferdia nodded at each other and Nell looked around. ‘Where’s Jessie?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Ferdia shrugged. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Perla’s doing a talk for this. So, you know, supporting her. You?’

  ‘Same.’ He coloured slightly. ‘Supporting Perla.’ Then he blurted, ‘You don’t mind? She’s your friend, really.’

  ‘We’re not at school. I mean, more than one person can be friends with her.’ Nell had intended to sound jokey but it came out sounding snide.

  ‘Here’s the woman herself,’ Barty said.

  Here, indeed, was Perla, smiling prettily, her hair bouncing over her bare shoulders, wearing a flax-coloured sundress that Nell had previously seen on Saoirse.

  ‘You look nice,’ Barty said.

  ‘Recognize my dress?’ She turned her sparkling eyes on Ferdia. ‘It was your sister’s. Jessie insisted I took it.’

  Knowing Jessie, Nell thought, she’d probably tried to give Perla every stitch the Caseys possessed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ferdia sounded mortified.

  ‘No! I am grateful. You are all very kind to come.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’ Nell asked.

  ‘I feel excited.’

  Nell had to admit that she was unrecognizable as the woman she’d met that cold, miserable night at the start of the year.

  ‘Perla?’ A young man wearing a lanyard had come to take her to the stage. ‘We’re about to start.’

  ‘Good luck,’ they called after her.

  ‘You’ll be great!’ Barty yelled. ‘Break a leg!’

  ‘Bart,’ Ferdia hissed. ‘Could you just not?’

  ‘Calm your keks,’ Barty said. ‘Nell, sit with us.’ Furtively, he widened his eyes at Ferdia and mouthed, Looper.

  Positioned between Barty and Ferdia, she was suddenly afraid she was going to be felled by an attack of inappropriate, uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘How’s things?’ Barty asked. ‘Haven’t seen you since the weekend from Hell in Mayo.’

  He was gas, she decided. Zero sensitivity but hilarious. ‘That was a bad one,’ Nell admitted.

  ‘And now he brings me to this! Sometimes I wonder if he hates me!’

  Her smile dimmed. This thing tonight was meaningful. It wasn’t right to slate it.

  ‘How’s Sammie getting on?’ she asked Ferdia.

  ‘They’re being mature,’ Barty said. ‘Aren’t you, Ferd? They’ll always “think fondly” of each other.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Ferdia surprised her with a smile. ‘She said to say hey. So how’s your summer going?’ That was a sore point. ‘Did you get that job?’ He’d clearly just remembered. ‘Down in Mayo, weren’t you doing some project?’

  ‘Yeah. Yep, I was.’ She cleared her throat and made herself speak cheerily. ‘I didn’t get it.’

  Ship of Fools had been gentle but, weeks later, it still hurt. ‘You overstretched yourself,’ Prentiss had said, almost sadly. ‘It’s a shame, Nell. We wish you the best for the future.’

  There was a lame attempt to argue her case, but he was right: she’d tried to do something she wasn’t experienced enough to pull off and the person responsible for that, she felt, was Liam. He was the one who’d urged her to take things in a new direction while her own instinct had told her to stick to what she was good at.

  In her heart she knew the only person to blame was herself, but the sting of losing the gig was rolled up with her general disillusionment.

  So she shook her hair back, all cheery. ‘Hey, ya know, just wasn’t meant to be.’

  ‘That sucks.’ He sounded sincere. ‘You really wanted it, right?’

  ‘Yeah …’ Then she blurted, ‘I was devastated. Even now …’ Her confidence was in bits.

  ‘Give it time.’ His voice was halting. ‘It sucks. But, dude, you need to get back on the horse.’

  ‘Right.’ She hadn’t gone near the horse since the rejection. It was as if she’d lost all love for her work.

  ‘Right?’ Ferdia repeated.

  Actually the smaller productions for September’s theatre festival would be looking for people. Maybe she’d send a couple of texts, see what came back. At least Liam would be happy. He hadn’t known how to deal with a negative, pessimistic Nell. Especially because he’d enrolled on a massage course and was all gung-ho about it. Which made a change from his usual bitterness about Chelsea’s lack of respect.

  A squeal of feedback returned her to the room.

  Up on the stage, the first speaker started talking about lobbying the government. After a while, someone else focused on fundraising, then a journalist spoke about calling the media out on inaccurate articles.

  Eventually it was Perla’s turn.

  ‘’Bout time,’ Barty whispered loudly. ‘I was nearly nodding off there.’ Then, ‘Whoops. Sorry, Ferd!’

  Perla described day-to-day life in Direct Provision. She was concise and confident. Increasingly, the woman she’d once been was coming into focus: a middle-class wife and mother and a respected professional.

  Nell had always thought of her as physically small but, although she was thin, these days she looked far less diminished. It was her posture: she stood differently now, fully inhabiting her space.

  ‘I am a doctor,’ she said. ‘I deal with situations scientifically, logically and without too much emotion. But when I talk of Direct Provision, it is all emotion, because there is no logic. I feel wrong to criticize the system, because I am grateful that I am here. But why can I not work and live independently while I’m waiting to find out if I can stay in Ireland?

  ‘All my life I have worked to help people. I want to help people in Ireland. They have been kind to me. The principle of Direct Provision is designed to humiliate. We are treated almost as prisoners.

  ‘People need to live like human beings, to be independent and to work for their livelihoods. You let me move to your country, you keep me physically alive, but you don
’t let me live a full life. Please try to imagine yourself in my situation and remember that the only difference between you and me is the luck of where we were born.’ She stopped, smiled briefly and said, ‘Thank you for listening.’

  Instantly Ferdia got to his feet, clapping enthusiastically.

  Perla bounded over, giddy and energized. ‘It was okay?’

  ‘More than okay,’ Ferdia said. ‘You were great. Really great.’

  So …? Ferdia liked Perla? Liked liked?

  ‘We going for a drink?’ Ferdia asked.

  Perla literally turned out the empty pockets of her dress. ‘It’s not looking good.’ She gave a goofy little grin.

  ‘It’s on me,’ Ferdia declared.

  Wow. Seemed he really did ‘like’ her.

  And did she like him back? They certainly seemed comfortable with each other.

  Nell’s worry was Jessie. She was cool – much cooler than Nell had first realized. She was clearly fond of Perla. But she might turn on a hairpin if Ferdia fell for Perla – a woman eight years older than him, who already had a child.

  Right now Nell was high in Jessie’s estimation, but as the person who’d brought Perla into the Caseys’ life, she’d get the blame if things went sideways. Maybe she was jumping the gun here. They might just be friends.

  ‘I’ve to head off,’ Nell said. ‘Enjoy your night.’

  ‘See you for Mum’s birthday thing,’ Ferdia said.

  ‘You’re going?’ She was surprised.

  ‘… Yeah. Like, you’re right.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘She’s not so bad.’

  ‘Oh. That’s cool. What character did you get?’

  ‘Quentin Ropane-Redford. Racing-car driver and eligible bachelor.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘Ginerva McQuarrie. An adventuress.’

  ‘What’s that? Someone who does extreme sports?’

  Nell laughed out loud. ‘I think she’s a swizzer, a woman who pretends to be rich –’

  ‘“– who schemes to win wealth or status by unscrupulous means”,’ Ferdia said, reading from his phone. ‘Wow. That’s a bit …’