Grown Ups

by Marian Keyes

  Jessie looked to Keeva. Keeva was the voice of reason. ‘Would I?’

  ‘You would. Also, can you change your hair? Would it kill you to get highlights?’

  ‘No! No, it wouldn’t.’ Jessie was so eager to oblige. ‘Where should I go?’

  Over time Jessie began to make more girlfriends – her flatmates, some people from work. She felt she’d finally become ‘real’, normal, just like other people. Izzy and Keeva had seen her potential and given her the confidence to be herself.

  They became even closer when she began going out with Rory.

  ‘About fecking time,’ Izzy said. ‘We were afraid Johnny would get there first. Not that Johnny isn’t lovely, of course.’ She wiggled her fingers across the crowded pub at him. With a dazzling smile, she mouthed, ‘Wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating Tayto, darlin’!’

  Keeva was the best person in the world: she was solid, reliable and good. But Izzy was the one people noticed: high-spirited, spontaneous and generous, everyone wanted a piece of her.

  Straight out of college, she began working in personal wealth management, a banking job that required a lot of schmoozing and socializing. Informal and funny, she was nothing like her polite, polished colleagues and was a great success.

  Jessie was initially shocked, then impressed, at the rate with which she got through boyfriends. No sooner had she declared an interest in someone than she was reporting to Jessie, ‘Ah, it didn’t work out. Plenty more fish!’ Occasionally when a man disappointed her, her spirits were – briefly – dampened, but never for long. It wasn’t until she was twenty-seven, and Jessie and Keeva were already mothers of young sons, that Izzy met Tristão, a Brazilian banker who lived in New York.

  Tristão was stocky and immensely handsome.

  ‘What? I wasn’t good-looking enough for you?’ Johnny complained to her.

  Tristão was a big hit with the rest of them. He’d come to Errislannan, eat Ellen’s rhubarb tart, play with baby Barty and Ferdia, and spend Sunday afternoons standing on the side of a wet and windy GAA pitch, just like the rest of them. His English was perfect and his sense of humour impeccable.

  Once a month Izzy flew to New York for four days, then two weeks later, Tristão would come to Ireland. The transatlantic thing seemed to work for them, probably because they both had so much energy: Izzy could get off the plane and go straight into work. Their holidays were always strange and amazing: travelling on a camel caravan through Uzbekistan; ten days spent tracking polar bears in Alaska.

  ‘I thought I was very daring going to Vietnam,’ Jessie had said.

  Now and again there was talk that Izzy might move to New York permanently but then she’d say something like ‘Changed my mind. I like Ireland too much.’

  Over four years, she and Tristão split up at least twice, but always got back together. Their relationship might have been unconventional but it suited them.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  ‘Don’t stop!’ Jessie held onto Johnny’s hip bones, as he drove in and out of her, with the speed of a jackrabbit.

  ‘Are you …?’ he grunted.

  ‘Not yet! Go faster.’

  Propped on his arms over her, his hair was dark and slick with sweat. A drop landed on her face and she touched it with her tongue. She was absolutely loving this. Why didn’t they do it more often?

  They’d gone for a late drink to say goodbye to Loretta and Marcello.

  ‘So sad we will not see you for another year.’ Loretta had sighed, stroking Johnny’s cheek.

  ‘Are you flirting with my husband?’ Jessie asked. ‘Or just being Italian?’

  ‘Flirting,’ Loretta said. ‘He is sexy man.’

  ‘That eejit?’

  ‘To me he is not an eejit,’ Loretta said. ‘He is sexy man. I love Marcello, but if I have one night free of my marriage, I would choose Johnny.’

  ‘If I have one night free of my marriage,’ Marcello said, ‘I would choose Johnny also.’

  ‘Lord save us,’ Johnny bellowed, embarrassed. ‘Is it swingers ye are?’

  ‘He charms me,’ Loretta informed Jessie. ‘And simply, he is …’ she twirled her fingers around Johnny’s face and torso, her Italian hands painting an eloquent picture ‘… hot. Yes, he is hot.’

  All of a sudden, Jessie agreed.

  Johnny had picked up a bit of a tan, which made his eyes brighter and his teeth very white. Unlike Marcello, a squashy bear of a man, Johnny seemed lean and strong. Not tall, but a lot of power in those hips and thighs …

  Seeing her husband through the eyes of another woman had her hurrying through the farewells and pushing him back down the hill, into their bed, for a no-frills fuck.

  ‘No!’ she’d objected, as he’d planted a line of butterfly kisses from her stomach to her nipple. ‘No fiddly business. Get right to it. Now!’

  He tore off his clothes and slid straight into her, and she let herself yelp, ‘Oh, God!’ with a rare abandon.

  ‘Tell. Me. About. It,’ he said, matching each word with a thrust.

  When he slowed down and began varying his strokes, she howled, ‘No!’

  She didn’t want finesse, she didn’t want skill, she just wanted to be fucked. ‘Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing.’

  Tonight she wanted to come while he pounded away on top of her, but his breathing changed, he was making that sound that always indicated the end was in sight.

  ‘Hold on,’ she ordered. ‘Think about the dip in Kilkenny’s profits!’

  ‘Are you nearly …?’

  ‘Yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  Afterwards, star-fished across the bed, she murmured, ‘That was fucking fabulous.’

  ‘Telling me.’ He rested his hand on her hair.

  ‘Worried your arms would give out,’ she said. ‘But fair play, you stayed the course.’

  He made a noise that might have been a snore.

  ‘You always had good upper-body strength,’ she said, dreamily.

  On the last morning, Johnny lay by the pool, finishing his Lee Child. He loved Jack Reacher. Sometimes he wished he was Jack Reacher. Jack Reacher was afraid of nothing. What he found immensely satisfying was that the Lee Child book was always just long enough for his holiday. He was heading into the home stretch with both his holiday and his book. He’d finish it later this afternoon, on the plane, shortly before they landed.

  How many other writers could promise that?!

  None, he was prepared to bet.

  Jessie swished by and said, ‘Look at him there, happy out, reading his book.’

  ‘I am happy out,’ Johnny agreed.

  Nell, too, was lying by the pool. She wasn’t really a sunbather but she felt flat and disinclined to activity. End-of-holiday blues.

  Ed and Ferdia were in the water with all the kids, trying to shove each other off lilos. Ferdia seemed to be coming off the worst of it. Although he was probably letting them win.

  ‘You’re trying to kill me,’ he yelled, swimming to the side. ‘Recovery time!’ Straightening his arms on the edge of the pool, he hoisted himself out with smooth grace. He shook the water back from his hair and wiped his eyes. When he saw Nell, he laughed, his teeth very white. ‘Little feckers nearly had me drowned.’

  Putting down her book, she smiled into his face, his eyes, his spiky black eyelashes.

  A strange joy filled her.

  He got to his feet and his shadow moved over her, while drops of cool water fell from his body onto her hot skin.

  Oh, holy fuck, the queues at Dublin airport. It looked like the whole of Ireland had come home from holidays today and were ahead of them in the passport queue. Johnny’s mood nose-dived.

  He got out his phone to see if anything had happened while they’d been in the air. Jessie said, ‘Put that away, I’ve something to tell you.’

  Words to strike dread into anyone’s heart. ‘I don’t know, babes,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling a bit post-holiday suicidal –’

  ‘I was talking to Paige. Durin
g the week. I found out something bad.’ Succinctly she laid it out for him.

  ‘Oh, God.’ He moaned softly. ‘That’s … oh, Jess, that’s bad. Is it any of our business, though? I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know either. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said urgently. ‘Do nothing.’

  ‘Okay. You’re right. There’s another thing. I found out why Barty didn’t come on this holiday.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was instantly alert.

  As Jessie related the details of her conversation with Ferdia, Johnny’s dismay mounted. ‘Good for Ferdia, standing up for you. But how serious is it?’

  ‘Serious, he says. They might never be friends again. I’m sorry, babes,’ she said. ‘I know you’re upset. I’m upset too.’

  His life, which only a day ago had seemed sunny and fulfilling, all of a sudden looked like an assault course: children and dogs and planes and meetings and chefs and piss-ups and DHL and mystery shoes and jaunting cars and stern phone calls from the bank and a secret bank account, which, despite all the people staying in the apartment, was filling up far too slowly.

  ‘Oh, there’s ours!’ Nell exclaimed, as a suitcase emerged from the mouth of the conveyor-belt.

  Contemptuously, Ferdia watched as Liam let her drag their bag off the belt. Liam’s ‘bad back’ seemed to ebb and flow to suit him.

  Now Nell was going from person to person, thanking everyone for an amazing holiday – Dilly, Tom, even Robyn. She spent a long time with Jessie, talking and laughing. Then it was his turn. Eagerly he stepped forward, only to receive a brief, awkward hug. ‘Thanks, Ferdia, I’d a great time.’ Her eyes slid past him and that was it.

  Crushed, he watched her leave.

  SIX WEEKS AGO

  * * *

  MONDAY, 31 AUGUST

  Dublin

  EIGHTY

  Maybe the centre of Dublin might be shut because of a terrorist threat. Not a real one: Cara didn’t want anyone hurt. But she’d really appreciate something to prevent her from showing up to work today.

  Since as long ago as last Wednesday, leaking anxiety into her final few days in Italy, she’d been dreading this morning. She’d have given anything to have this first day over and done with, to have had an encounter with every one of her colleagues and endured the unavoidable awkward hello. Even better, to be about a month down the line, when everyone had forgotten about her mysterious absence.

  Blow-drying her hair and doing her chignon took half an hour. She spent almost as long on her make-up. She moved from room to room, checking her foundation in different lights, watched by Vinnie and Tom, their mood sombre. They didn’t know the details but they knew some bad stuff was going down.

  ‘Are there any ball-y bits on my face?’ she asked Ed. ‘I need to look efficient and together.’

  ‘No ball-y bits. So. Breakfast?’

  Her stomach heaved, but she needed to eat. Peggy had warned that being back in the situation where she’d done most of her bingeing might act as a trigger.

  ‘I’ll make porridge,’ he said.

  But when she sat at the table, the steam from the bowl rising towards her face, her throat closed. She stood up. ‘Yeah, look, I’ll go.’

  Ed pulled her against him. ‘You’re the bravest person ever. Today will be tough, but you’re strong enough. And we’re all behind you.’

  ‘Do your best.’ Tom parroted what she usually said to him on school sports day.

  ‘Starting work again is a huge deal,’ Ed said. ‘One step closer to normality.’

  Walking to the Luas stop, her apprehension intensified. Cripes, a Luas was already hurtling towards her. Couldn’t it have had the decency to give her a few minutes?

  With a loud swish, the doors opened right next to her, almost as if they were making a point. She got on, feeling as if she’d boarded the train to Hell.

  Within mere moments, or so it felt, she’d arrived in town. Most of the carriage poured out at the St Stephen’s Green stop. On rubbery legs, she walked the short distance to the Ardglass.

  Once she was inside, the hotel felt subtly different. During the last five weeks, it had been getting on with life, experiencing a thousand tiny events a minute, without her. Ducking her head, she hurried through the underground corridors, heading for the locker room, to change into her uniform. A couple of people passed – a chef, an electrician: she nodded, gave half-smiles and kept moving.

  Outside the locker room, she took a breath, praying it would be empty.

  Henry had phoned on Saturday, allegedly to see how she was doing, but also, she suspected, to check if she really was returning. He’d said that her colleagues at Reception had simply been told she’d been ill. Anyone with half a brain would know that Cara’s illness wasn’t physical, not like pneumonia or cancer. It was obviously mental-health related – and the shame was killing her.

  Full of foreboding, she pushed the door open. Ling was inside.

  ‘Cara!’ She launched herself across the room and wrapped her arms around her. ‘Welcome back! Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yep. Yes. Totally. It was no big deal –’ She stopped. She’d been gone for five weeks, leaving her colleagues to pick up her slack: it would be all kinds of wrong to tell them it had been no biggie. ‘Sorry for leaving you guys in the lurch! But I’m completely better. Back to my best!’

  ‘Cool! Okay, well, see you upstairs.’

  As the door swung shut behind Ling, fear overwhelmed Cara. She was a hard worker, a person who took their job seriously. This was the first time she’d realized how much she valued being seen as reliable, respectable, even. Now that that part of her identity had been compromised, she was mortified.

  The door opened once more. This time it was Patience. ‘Welcome back, Cara. When you’re in uniform, can we have a quick chat? Henry’s office.’

  So, no cosy fireside chat with a silver coffee pot for this debrief?

  At least her uniform still fitted. That was something to be grateful for. Her stomach in knots, she went to Henry’s office.

  Raoul was there, with Henry and Patience.

  ‘Shut the door and sit down. How are you feeling?’

  She sat up straight and smiled. ‘Fine. Excellent.’ Then she blurted, ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. It was a one-off, a blip, a moment of craziness.’

  ‘More than a moment.’ Henry was smiling, but still.

  ‘I can’t apologize enough.’

  ‘You’re ill,’ Henry said. ‘You don’t need to apologize for being ill.’

  ‘It’s not an illness, not really.’

  ‘You were out on sick leave.’ Henry let that hang in the air.

  Oh.

  ‘How can we support you?’ he asked. ‘To prevent a relapse?’

  ‘I won’t relapse.’

  ‘You’ve been out on sick leave,’ Henry repeated. ‘We have a duty of care.’

  Suddenly Cara saw the dilemma. The reason she hadn’t been sacked was because she was ‘ill’ – which meant she was a potential liability, prone to relapse. This was, this was … bad. ‘I need to eat every three hours.’ She spoke very quickly. ‘Only a snack, it won’t take me away from the desk for more than a minute or two. I’ll see a therapist once a week. On a Friday. If I work through my lunch, can I leave an hour early?’

  Henry looked at Raoul. ‘Can she?’

  ‘Should be possible.’

  ‘And that’s all you need from us by way of support?’

  ‘No more disappearing to the bathroom downstairs?’ Patience spoke for the first time.

  Feeling as if she might die of shame, Cara whispered, ‘No.’

  ‘You were our best receptionist,’ Patience said. ‘We would be sorry to lose you.’

  There was no doubt about it: that was a warning.

  No, it was a threat.

  ‘If anything changes,’ Henry said meaningfully, ‘you will let us know immediately.’

  It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t conce
rn.

  ‘We won’t throw you straight into the deep end on your first day back.’

  ‘Oh! But I’m keen to work. To work hard. You can depen–’

  ‘For the next few days, you’ll shadow Vihaan,’ Raoul said.

  Vihaan. Only five months ago, he’d been shadowing her. But she had to swallow the humiliation. Bit by bit, the new reality was dropping and clicking into place: she would never again be trusted the way she’d once been.

  She’d been so, so good at her job. It had given her a huge amount of pride – and it was gone.

  If she had come to work as normal on that Monday after her seizure, no one at work would ever have known anything.

  Now she was damaged goods and she would be that way for ever.

  ‘Today was probably the worst day,’ Ed said when, white-faced and stunned, she got home that evening.

  She nodded, too shell-shocked to speak.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked. ‘Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it. Anything.’ He was all fervour.

  But he could never understand the immensity of her loss.

  ‘You’ve got to let me help you,’ he said.

  ‘I need to go to bed.’ That was all she knew.

  ‘Go up, put on a hotel show and I’ll bring you some dinner.’

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Bing-bong noises alerted Liam to a FaceTime call from Violet and Lenore.

  I won’t answer.

  But it was a couple of weeks since they’d spoken.

  Christ, though, these stilted chats were the worst …

  To his shock, the person on the screen was Paige. Despite everything, he was panicked: were his daughters okay? ‘What’s up?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘So the girls were invited to Tuscany?’ Paige said. ‘And you didn’t tell me.’

  Fuuuuuuuuck.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ Liam asked. ‘Jessie, right?’

  ‘You lied to Jessie about me. Said I couldn’t change their camp dates. I knew nothing.’

  ‘Not what I said.’