Grown Ups

by Marian Keyes

  In his room, she kicked off her boots and unzipped her jeans.

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘Stop over-thinking things.’

  In the morning, she was just as breezy. ‘Nothing happened, okay? We don’t want an atmosphere around Ellen’s dinner table.’

  ‘Yes. Yep.’ His relief had been huge.

  Next time, he showed up at her home.

  Over the following few years, they made occasional booty calls on each other. Sometimes a flurry of several in one month, then a long time without anything at all. Eventually it petered away entirely.

  In the months after she had broken up with Tristão, a routine developed, where most Saturday afternoons, Izzy and Johnny came to Errislannan and stayed until Sunday evening. Ellen would load them up with home baking and they would indulge in gentle pursuits like Monopoly and Risk. If there was a birthday or some sort of celebration, Jessie visited with Ferdia and Saoirse. As would Keeva, Christy and their kids. They’d sing and eat cake and carry on around the appalling absence in their lives.

  Johnny was still Michael’s little helper. When Christy’s van broke down, even though Johnny understood nothing about engines, he went along to help.

  During the snow, when a tree fell across a neighbour’s gate, Johnny helped Michael chainsaw it away.

  It was Liam who eventually challenged Johnny. ‘Wait a minute, you’re nearly thirty-five. You spend your downtime sleeping in a single bed in your dead mate’s parents’ house. You need to man up.’

  But Liam hadn’t a clue: too young and too hard.

  ‘Or are you, like, depressed?’ Liam had asked. ‘Go see the doctor, get some tablets and get a grip.’

  Weeks later, Johnny looked up the signs of depression. Coincidentally he saw he did have some of them but there was no need to see a doctor: time would take care of him.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Monday evening after work. Both speaking urgently on their phones, Jessie and Mary-Laine arrived at the hipster bar at exactly the same time.

  ‘Gotta go.’ Jessie hung up, then hugged Mary-Laine. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘There’s a table.’ Mary-Laine pounced, then waved over a waiter.

  ‘Gin and tonic,’ Jessie said to him gratefully. ‘In a giant round glass – you know the one I mean? With loads of ice.’

  ‘Same for me,’ Mary-Laine said. ‘You had me at “giant round glass”.’ Then to Jessie, ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Who would I talk to about changing the business to online?’

  Mary-Laine frowned. ‘You want to do that?’

  ‘Not really,’ Jessie admitted. ‘But Johnny does.’ She hesitated before confiding the next part. ‘His birthday is coming up. This will be his present. Look, I know!’ She forestalled Mary-Laine.

  ‘I didn’t say a thing!’

  ‘You’re thinking he doesn’t deserve anything after the total shambles he organized for my birthday –’

  ‘I felt sorry for him, if you must know.’

  ‘And you’d be right. But, look, I’m over it now. This means a lot to him. But I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Talk to a management consultant.’

  ‘I don’t know any. And I don’t know who to trust.’

  ‘Karl Brennan. He’s the absolute best.’

  ‘Well, thanks!’

  ‘The only thing is, he’s sort of … awful. Handsy. Creepy. Always having children with different women. Oh, thank God, here come our giant drinks!’

  ‘It’s like a goldfish bowl.’ Jessie admired her enormous round glass, then clinked with Mary-Laine. ‘To gin.’

  After a glorious swallow, Jessie said, ‘Remember when gin wasn’t cool? What was wrong with us?’

  ‘We hadn’t a clue.’ Mary-Laine gulped a mouthful and sighed. ‘Christ, that’s lovely. They’re trying to make whiskey a thing now, but I don’t think I’ll ever like it.’

  ‘Why would we, when we have gin?’

  ‘Should I “reach out” to Karl on your behalf?’

  ‘I actually feel like singing a song about how much I love gin,’ Jessie said. She pulled back to study her giant glass. ‘These must be stronger than I realized.’

  ‘I’ve nearly finished mine.’

  ‘That’s because we’re businesswomen! Energetic self-starters. Do. Reach out. But in strictest confidence.’

  ‘Strictest confidence it is.’

  ‘If Karl Brennan says yes, what do I do?’

  ‘Meet him. Take him for lunch. Keep it light and chatty.’

  ‘And he’s the best, you say.’

  ‘Brilliant. Unfortunately. Now’s the time to get him, before he ends up in rehab. Or perhaps prison for some sort of sexual pestering.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Nah, be grand. Just don’t try to save him. He has …’ she lapsed into a thoughtful pause ‘… a repulsive sort of charm.’

  ‘Repulsive charm. Gotcha. Are we getting another fishbowl of gin?’

  ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the gin.’

  ‘Thanks for the info.’

  Jessie was scoping out the street, looking for her taxi, when her phone rang. Unknown number.

  ‘Jessie Parnell? Karl Brennan. Mary-Laine was on to me.’

  ‘That was quick. Did she explain?’

  ‘Some. We should meet. Is now good?’

  ‘Christ, you’re dynamic! Is that a management-consultant thing?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I’m on my way home. Tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Jack Black’s in Dawson Street. Seven o’clock? Email me your accounts for the last three years. I’ll text the address.’

  ‘Cara,’ Raoul said. ‘A word.’

  What now? Today had been absolutely insane. Zachery was sick so they were down a receptionist. Plus every possible thing that could go wrong had gone wrong. Guests arriving early. A departing guest developing a strange stomach complaint and being too ill to leave. A half-empty bottle of red wine accidentally spilling on the white carpet of the Honeymoon Suite forty minutes before the happy couple arrived.

  Cara had been firefighting for hours. No sooner was one drama resolved than another blew up.

  Just now a guest who’d checked out this morning had called saying they’d left a pair of diamond cufflinks behind in a drawer – but the new guests were already in situ, with a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. The caller had talked wildly of injunctions and it took every fibre of Cara’s energy to persuade him to calm down.

  The phone rang again, as Raoul said, ‘Don’t answer. What about your snack?’

  ‘My …?’ Oh, my God, her snack. She felt sick with embarrassment. ‘What time is it?’ It was two fifty-five p.m.: she hadn’t eaten in almost six hours.

  ‘I’m fine. Too busy to be hungry. Anyway …’ She indicated the phone.

  ‘Henry says you have to eat.’ Raoul sounded irritable. ‘We’ve a duty of care. But be quick.’

  It seemed easier to comply than to stand there and argue, so she hurried towards the stairs, to eat her handful of nuts in the locker room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Madelyn looked angry. And well she might. It was hours since anyone had even had a bathroom break.

  ‘Be back in a second.’

  Cara scooted away, but not before she heard Ling say, ‘Where’s she off to?’

  Several lone men haunted Jack Black’s, all looking a little post-work desperate. But the one who stood out sported sharply cut, silver-fox hair, a paunch, bloodshot blue eyes and a look-at-me suit with a faint but worrying metallic sheen.

  Don’t be Karl Brennan.

  ‘Jessie?’ Mr Dodgy Suit asked. ‘Let’s grab a table!’

  ‘Before we go any further, are you very expensive?’ Jessie asked, when the drinks were ordered.

  His smirk was lazily confident. ‘I charge in six-minute intervals. My rate.’ He scribbled a figure on a piece of paper, like he was in The Wolf of Wall Street, and slid it across to her.

  ‘Not your hour
ly rate?’ She had to check. ‘I’d better talk fast. Retail is dying, so everyone keeps telling me. Online is the future. Change or die.’

  ‘Yeeeaah. Something tells me you’re not crazy about making this change.’

  ‘My husband’s the one who wants to.’

  ‘What’s worrying you?’

  ‘A lot,’ she said.

  ‘Meter’s running.’

  Quickly she spilt it all out: her fear of the banks, her fear of irrelevance, her fear of losing everything. Her belief and pride in the current set-up, her conviction that her chef-pestering was a lucrative endeavour.

  ‘I did something similar for AntiFreeze,’ he said. ‘Bespoke, high-end adventure clothing operating from a lone store in London. It was all about the personal – hand-fitted boots, goggles, everything. Converted the entire business to online. Managed to recreate some of the one-to-one dynamic, using computer scanning, instant messaging. Not perfect, admittedly. But turnover is up by over 2000 per cent.’

  ‘That sounds … hopeful. What now?’

  ‘I send you a contract. You pay a retainer. I’ll look at your accounts, do my research, pull together a few different proposals.’

  ‘Will they work? I won’t go out of business?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m good. I never said I was bullet-proof!’

  ‘How long will it take? I’d like to have something for Johnny’s birthday, which is four weeks away.’

  ‘That’s insane,’ he said. ‘Too soon.’

  ‘So how long will it be? Because at your six-minute rate, I’ll be bankrupt if it goes on much longer than that.’

  He laughed. And well he might. ‘Not every second of my time is chargeable. I’ll be waiting on information to get back to me. Now and again, taking some downtime.’ Another of those slightly repulsive smirks.

  ‘Ballpark?’

  ‘Six weeks, maybe eight?’

  Well, it was a start. The expensive contract would make a lovely birthday present for Johnny, ha-ha.

  In the taxi home she rang Mary-Laine. ‘I met him.’

  ‘He try to lure you to a lap-dancing club with his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend? No? You got off lightly. You must really love Johnny Casey,’ Mary-Laine said. ‘Putting yourself through this for him.’

  ‘I really must.’

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Cara ducked into SpaceNK and, within seconds, was testing foundation colours on the back of her hand. This was like mitching off from school – the same sense of freedom coupled with fear of being caught.

  At four o’clock she’d left work because today was Friday and that was what everyone expected her to do.

  But she wasn’t going to Peggy so she had a free hour to do whatever she liked.

  On Monday or Tuesday, she’d call Peggy’s assistant with an excuse for next Friday. Something, anything, it didn’t matter. She was an adult woman, a free agent: she wasn’t obliged to see Peggy. The week after, she’d write a letter, bringing the whole charade to an end.

  It wasn’t an easy decision: she’d grown very fond of Peggy. More importantly, she didn’t want Ed to worry. But she knew she could do this. She would be okay. There would be no more overeating, then vomiting. It was gone, done, in the past, and she was absolutely certain she had the strength to keep things that way. All she needed was enough time to prove it.

  When she got home, Ed sounded anxious. ‘How was Peggy?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, trying to sound positive, without actually saying anything. ‘Grand.’ Lying to Ed felt all wrong. But it was too soon to tell him the truth. He’d panic. He’d go straight into Follow the Instructions mode and insist that she return to Peggy quick smart.

  Getting her life back to the way it used to be would require careful handling. There were a few obstacles to manoeuvre. But by patiently dismantling the unnecessary scaffolding that had been constructed around her, she’d get there.

  SEVENTEEN DAYS AGO

  * * *

  TUESDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  ‘Nell! Nell!’ It was her dad, squeezed into his one suit, accompanied by Nell’s mum, looking blow-dried and glam.

  She crossed the lobby of the Liffey Theatre to them. ‘It’s only six thirty, you pair of eejits! We don’t start for another hour.’

  ‘We didn’t want to be late,’ Angie said. ‘Big night for our little girl.’

  ‘Will I understand the play?’ Petey asked. ‘No? Grand. I won’t bother trying, so.’

  ‘How’re you feeling, love?’

  ‘Anxious. Knackered. Excited. Listen, I’ve to do some last-minute checks. I’ll meet you in the bar. Lorelei is up there with her fella.’ Nell had offered freebies to all her friends, as was the norm, but because the festival was on, Triona and Wanda were the only ones who could be there.

  It was actually a relief that Garr wasn’t coming – because Ferdia was. At the end of last week, Jessie had texted:

  Any tickets left for your opening night?

  Nell had replied: For you, always. How many you like?

  Jessie answered: Two be okay? Me and Ferd. He’s your biggest fan lol!

  What the hell did that mean? She’d reread it a million times, agonizing over the meaning. Particularly the ‘lol’ – was it meant to be sarcastic?

  But Jessie wasn’t like that.

  In the bar, Petey said, ‘It’s twenty past, should we go in? Where’s Liam?’

  ‘On his way,’ Nell said. ‘You four go on in and I’ll wait in the lobby for Jessie.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Petey asked. ‘You’re very nervy-seeming.’

  Bloody right she was nervy-seeming. She was a total wreck. And praying that Liam didn’t turn up at the same time as Ferdia, interfering with any chance of talking to him.

  Here came Jessie now! Nell’s heart was thumping in her chest.

  Behind Jessie, she spotted Saoirse.

  Why was she here? No one had mentioned her and there wasn’t a spare ticket. Unless … no. It couldn’t be … Had she come instead of Ferdia?

  ‘Nell!’ Jessie descended, and pressed a bottle of something on her. ‘Congratulations!’

  Feeling crazed with disappointment, Nell submitted to an over-excited hug from Jessie, then Saoirse. ‘How many tickets do you need?’

  ‘Two, thanks – me and Saoirse.’

  ‘Just …’ she cleared her throat ‘… you’d mentioned Ferdia?’

  ‘Oh, I did, didn’t I?’ Her vagueness was almost unendurable. ‘No, he’s up to something with Perla so –’

  ‘Grand. Fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘You two go on in. I’m just waiting for Liam.’

  Once she was alone again, the loss felt like vertigo. She’d been so tightly wound, so ready, that she couldn’t cope. She’d wanted eye-contact with him, a chance to piece together what exactly had taken place that night in the Button Factory.

  Yeah, well, she knew now what had happened – absolutely nothing. He wasn’t here. In fact, he was out with his girlfriend. What else did she need to know?

  ‘Nell, you should go in.’

  ‘What?’ Still stunned, she turned.

  An usher was by her side. ‘Need to go in now, honey. They’ll be starting.’

  ‘Oh. But I’m waiting …’ Then she made her decision: feck Liam. It was gone half past seven. He was legit late. Why wait any longer?

  The lights dimmed, the screen rose, the play began. Nell had a lot of arm-squeezing and people leaning forward in their seats so that they could smile encouragingly at her. Making a concerted effort, she tried to concentrate on what was happening on stage. She’d already sat through this six times, but you never really knew if everything worked until it had a paying audience.

  It was Not Bad. Maybe even Quite Good. But she was sad about the props they hadn’t been able to afford, the little tweaks here and there that could have improved everything.

  Her self-berating concentration was broken as people near the aisle stood up. Liam had arrived.

&
nbsp; ‘Sorry,’ she heard him whisper, as he pushed past them. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  It was seven fifty-six, almost half an hour late.

  He finally reached the empty seat beside her. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Chelsea being a bitch again.’

  She acknowledged his arrival with a small chin incline. Her eyes didn’t move from the stage.

  At the interval, they piled into the bar.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Triona said.

  ‘Yeah, totally,’ Wanda echoed. ‘It’s really good. Your work, I mean. Innovative.’

  ‘Not a baldy what’s going on,’ her dad said. ‘But it’s a solid-looking construction. Couldn’t fault that. I’ll get the drinks in.’

  ‘I don’t know the right words,’ Angie said. ‘But you’re so clever. You have such imagination.’

  ‘A genius is what she is,’ Jessie declared.

  ‘She is.’ Saoirse hugged her.

  ‘So, you’re not going to believe it,’ Liam announced. ‘Chelsea, right? Told her I needed to leave early. Told her why. So I’m there, in the shop, it’s ten past seven, no sign of her. So I text, I need to leave. Tell her, you need to be here, to do the till and lock up. And she texts back, says she knows nothing about it.’

  ‘She’d forgotten?’ Angie sounded scandalized.

  ‘My arse she had. She’s just a bitch.’

  ‘Oh, Liam, you really need to get out of that place. The sooner you qualify as a massage person, the better.’

  Nell felt as detached as if she were watching a movie.

  Liam turned and placed his hands on her upper arms. ‘I’m so sorry, baby.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Really?’ He seemed uncertain.

  ‘Fine.’

  At 6.35 a.m., Nell woke again. Once more she reached for her iPad. Since 3 a.m., she’d been dozing on and off, refreshing the media sites, desperate to know what kind of reviews Human Salt would get.

  Finally, Wednesday’s newspapers were live.

  Her stomach fluttering with fear and excitement, she clicked on the Independent’s review of the theatre festival.