by Marian Keyes
Furtively, Jessie leant very close to Nell. ‘You want to come to the burlesque dance class tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Ugh … no.’
‘But don’t you feel the pressure? To keep adding to your sexual skill set.’
‘Like, no. We’re not performing dolls. Sex should be an equal, loving thing between two people.’
Jessie looked perplexed. ‘I struggle to keep up. I thought all young people did porn-star sex.’
‘Maybe I’m not young.’
‘You are young.’
‘Don’t forget Ferdia’s thing,’ Bridey said. ‘That’s at one thirty.’
‘What thing?’
‘In the brainy-people’s tent. He’s talking about free tampons for Perla.’
‘And other ladies!’ Dilly corrected her. ‘Not just Perla.’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Jessie frowned at Nell. ‘I thought you would. He’s “raising awareness about period poverty”.’
Johnny buried his face in his hands. ‘Of all the causes he had to pick. He’s doing it on purpose to mortify me.’
‘That reaction of yours is exactly why it needs to be done!’ Then Jessie muttered, ‘Mind you, I’m a bit morto myself.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Nell was stunned.
‘He’s been pestering politicians, pharmacy chains, journalists, all kinds of people. He was working on it while we were in Italy – I was sure he’d have told you. It’s very worthy. Mind you, he can knock it off now he’s back in college. If he doesn’t get a decent degree, I’ll kill him.’
Nell was stabbing at the app, trying to get details – and there it was. ‘Make Period Poverty History’. Apparently, Ferdia Kinsella and Perla Zoghbi were hosting a panel discussion at one thirty tomorrow in the Lightbulb Zone, where the literary and political talks took place.
This was … astonishing.
Suddenly it was all too much for Nell. ‘Hey, do you mind if I go to bed now?’
‘Aren’t you coming to make memories at Janelle Monáe?’ Dilly asked.
‘Too tired for memory-making tonight.’ She squinted at Dilly. ‘You’re eight years old. Don’t you need to go to bed?’
‘No. I’m – What did that lady say I was, Mum?’
‘Precocious.’
‘That word. That’s what I am.’
Nell found her tent and tumbled into bed without ringing Liam to say goodnight. If he complained, she’d pretend her phone had no signal.
NINETY
Johnny and Jessie were flanking the work station, keeping an apprehensive eye on Anrai McDavitt, who was as famous for his outbursts of rage as for his skill with a scallion.
Nell began circulating, iPad in hand. Pestering punters was daunting. Some were ultra-serious about food and cooking and did not respond well to any light-heartedness. Others were merely passing the tent and had popped in to be scornful. ‘Heard about your man. What is it with chefs and anger management?’
Everyone willingly gave up their info but, even so, Nell was relieved when it was over.
‘How d’you get on?’ Johnny asked.
‘Johnny! You should be given an award for all the excellent talking you do. You make it look effortless and it is hard.’
‘Any oul eejit can do it.’
‘They totally can’t. It is killer.’
‘Peasy.’ Ed had appeared.
‘That so?’ Johnny asked him. ‘How many people did you get?’
‘… Ah. Four. No, three. Feck, I forgot to ask the last man for his email.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘Mammals unique to Madagascar. Did you know that –’
‘No. And I don’t want to. Nell, how many did you get?’
‘Thirty-one …’
There was only an hour and a half until they were on duty again, but she was so full of nervy anticipation about seeing Ferdia that she had to do something – anything – to keep her from going bananas. She looked at the programme. What was on now?
‘Whatever you’re doing now, can you take the bunnies?’ Jessie swung by, looking harried.
‘Y’okay?’
‘Grand. Just, chefs, you know.’
Slightly late, Nell arrived at the Lightbulb Zone. It was crowded, all the seats were taken and some people were sitting on the floor. Ferdia was standing on the low stage, lanky and dishevelled, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. ‘… Abolishing Direct Provision is the endgame,’ he was saying. ‘That’s going to take work. The current system, where Ireland seems unattractive to asylum-seekers, suits our government. Only when the weight of public opinion becomes too great will change happen.’
Mic in hand, he was pacing slightly, looking like a hot young politician on the campaign trail. Nell felt horribly in love with him.
Beside her, Dilly whispered, ‘He looks like a man.’
‘He is a man,’ Bridey hissed.
‘No! Like a man off the telly. One we don’t know.’
‘… Sanitary protection costs approximately ten euro a month. Which is six per cent of the annual allowance women in Direct Provision get from our government. It’s a lot.’
He was loose and rangy, relaxed in his body. People were listening.
‘One of the reasons sanitary protection for periods isn’t free is that people are uncomfortable talking about it.’ His laugh was soft. ‘Yeah, you know you are.’
An appreciative wave of laughter rose.
‘Not so long since I was mortified too. You’re probably thinking I’ve some neck talking about period poverty. But the reality is that the public purse is controlled by men. If men don’t ally themselves with this issue, the chances of change are reduced.
‘Seriously, men need to get past their embarrassment. It’s a bodily function that happens to fifty per cent of the earth’s population. For the men here today, this analogy might help. Imagine you stepped in a puddle. Your sock is wet and your shoe is wet. You’re far from home, so you have to walk around all day with your wet sock and your wet shoe, the cold seeping into your skin and bones. Your friends might laugh at you because you were so stupid to step in the puddle in the first place, so you say nothing. Now imagine that happening for up to seven days in a row … and that it will happen again next month. And the month after. And the month after that.’
‘Being a woman is the worst,’ TJ said quietly. ‘The literal worst.’
‘In living memory,’ Ferdia said, ‘it was considered a bit off for heavily pregnant women to be out in public. Or they were draped in circus marquees, loose enough to hide their “condition”. Now? A woman who’s nine months pregnant can wear a bikini without anyone batting an eye.
‘But taboos don’t bust themselves. That change happened because enough women ignored the unspoken law. With this issue, the more it’s talked about, especially by men, the more we normalize it. Asking for free sanitary care for women in Direct Provision will kick off a lot of whatabout-ery: what about homeless women, what about women in refuges, what about women with low incomes? Here’s the deal: in a perfect world, sanitary protection would be freely available to all. But we’ve got to start some place, some time. Thank you for listening.’
He finished, to applause and one or two whoops.
Next, Perla told her story, but Nell couldn’t concentrate. As soon as the event ended, she hopped up, wove through the people and intercepted Ferdia as he jumped down from the stage.
‘Nell!’ He smiled.
Almost angrily, she demanded, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?’
The smile vanished. ‘I started a few times, but something always got in the way. I didn’t want to be all performative about it. You know? I didn’t want you thinking I was doing it for praise.’
‘Wow.’ Then, ‘You’ve changed.’
‘I’ve been telling you.’
‘You were great up there.’ Her chin wobbled. ‘You were amazing.’
‘So what’s everyone doing now?’ he asked. ‘Food? I just need to get my ch
arger from my tent.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Opposite yours. I’m in with Ed.’
She was confused. Maybe, for the benefit of the kids, he and Perla were pretending they weren’t sleeping together.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘You look …’
‘Just wondering why you’re not in Perla’s tent?’
He looked startled. ‘Perla’s tent? Me?’
‘Aren’t you …’ She paused. She could barely say the word. ‘… together?’
He seemed mystified. ‘… We’re working together on this project – Wait! You actually thought we were … Do you mean together-together?’
She was irritated at how unlikely he thought it was. ‘Why not? Or is she “too old”?’
‘… Um, Nell? Why are you pissed off?’
‘I’m not pissed off.’ She was close to tears. ‘But it’s not cool that you think she’s too old to be, like … She’s only twenty-nine!’
‘I said nothing about her age! I think she’s amazing, but it’s just not that sort of … thing.’
‘Sorry.’ Tears had leaked onto her face. ‘I’ve had a weird week. Sorry.’
Nell lay on her bed, listening to the various Caseys outside her tent.
‘We need to be there early so Dilly and me can see,’ Kassandra wheedled.
‘Five minutes everyone!’ Jessie clapped her hands together. ‘Then we go to Duran Duran. Yes, I know it’s very early, but who wants Dilly and Kassandra to cry?’
‘Me!’ Bridey said.
‘I wouldn’t mind either,’ TJ said.
‘Bunnies!’ Jessie gasped. ‘No!’
Nell was exhausted. Being happy and dance-y would be impossible. She had too much to process.
So when Jessie called, ‘Time!’ she stuck her head out of her tent. ‘I’ll catch up with you all in a while.’
Jessie gave her a hard look. ‘You okay?’
‘Grand.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Fine.’
When their voices died away, she stuck her head out again, just to be sure they really were gone. Furtively, she emerged and headed for the woods, moving in the opposite direction from the main stage. She’d cut back down to it in a while, when she could cope.
Overhead, a tangle of branches formed a canopy, which muffled all sounds of the man-made world. The sun was going down, but a meandering path through the trees could still be seen. Out of nowhere, in a clearing, a tiny wooden house materialized. Startled, she came to a sudden halt. Gingham curtains hung at the fairy-tale windows and the little front door was painted red. Before Nell’s surprised eyes, the door opened and a woman in a long, shimmery dress, with glittery stuff in her hair, came out. ‘Hello there.’ She smiled. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Ugh … going to the gig.’
‘Funny route to take.’
‘I wanted some time to think. What are you doing here?’
The woman smiled. ‘I’m from your future.’
This was creepy. It was getting dark now and who knew where she was?
But the woman laughed. ‘I love saying that line. It’s so dramatic. No, no, you’re grand, I’m Altfy – A Letter To Future You. I’m on the programme. Take a look.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I give you a pen and paper. You write a letter to yourself – well, to the person you’d like to be in a year’s time. You describe your life then, all the good things you’d like, all the bad stuff you want sorted out. Then we stick on a stamp and post it to you in a year.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Brings positive change to a life.’ She paused. ‘So they say. When you write down what you want, it helps you focus on the important stuff. Allegedly.’
‘How much does it cost?’
‘Nothing. Included in your ticket.’ A bundle of pages was passed to Nell, along with a pen. ‘They located me off the beaten track,’ Altfy announced. ‘So that only those who needed this would be led here. Which I get. But I’ve only had six people all day. And no Wi-Fi.’
‘That sounds, um, boring?’
‘You have no idea. Anyway, plank yourself under a tree and work away. Don’t over-think this. Be optimistic.’
As she faced the blank page, Nell was nervous. This felt like a big responsibility. If she got it wrong, she felt, her future would turn out to be a shambles. ‘I’m scared,’ she called to the woman.
‘Ah, it’s only a bit of fun.’
‘How do I begin it?’
‘You could write “Dear Future Me.”’
Dear Future Me,
I’m writing this, in my present, where I’m very scared. I don’t think I love Liam any more. I promised I’d love him for ever, and I know nobody really thinks marriage is for life, but in fairness, ten months is pretty poor and I don’t like myself very much.
But in the new present, things are okay. I left Liam …
What?! She threw down her pen.
Had she really written that?
Altfy looked up. ‘Keep going,’ she said. ‘Think happy endings.’
You were scared sick, but it was totally the legit correct thing to do.
‘How do I know I’m doing this right?’
‘No wrong way to do it. Think positive.’
Liam’s doing good, these days. He qualified as a massage person, he left the bike shop and he probably has a new girlfriend because he’s Liam.
Your work is good too, Nell. You’ve been working steadily since this letter and you’ve just done a commission for Ship of Fools in the theatre festival.
Feck it, why not shoot for the stars?!
Nobody was badly freaked out when you left Liam. It was news for, like, five minutes, then everyone moved on. After a while even the Caseys didn’t care. They stayed friends with you. Jessie said that once a Casey, always a Casey, so you still get invited to things and you’re still best buds with Dilly, TJ and Bridey. Also Jessie and Cara.
Also, Ferdia.
Your lunacy passed. You were insane for a while, just because of the whole Liam thing. It seemed easier to think you didn’t love Liam any more because you’d fallen for someone else. Instead of facing the fact that you’d got married too fast. To the wrong person.
Soon as you left Liam, the feelings for Ferdia just disappeared.
This made Nell feel suddenly very sad.
Well, not exactly disappeared. They changed. You found you wanted to be good friends with him. Because you have a lot of common interests, like.
He finished his degree and you didn’t ruin his life.
Nell found she was writing faster and faster.
Now he has a job doing good work for a woke cause and he’s happy. Your age difference seems less and less, the more time passes.
You are still very, very good friends. Very close.
She was scribbling at speed now.
You see him a lot and none of the Caseys mind, not even Liam, and none of your friends think it’s weird and they all like him too and think he’s cool. And if he has a girlfriend you don’t mind, you think she’s class.
Suddenly aware of how self-obsessed she was being, she wrote,
Garr is getting great work and everyone knows what a genius he is. Wanda, Triona, all of my mates, they’re living their best lives. Perla’s case was heard. She and Kassandra got refugee status. Perla is a GP now and it’s all good.
Who else was there? Jessie. But Jessie had no problems. Cara, though.
Cara’s eating disorder is cured and she’s happy. Mum and Dad are grand and so is Brendan, even though his values are a bit fucked and all he wants is to be minted. Everything is good and fine, and life is going well for everyone I know, and I’m not obsessed with Ferdia any longer and that is good and everything is good.
Maybe she should stop now. She’d established that, in the end, everything would be okay.
Good luck, Nell!
From me to me
‘I’m done,’ Nell said. ‘Quick, an envelope, before I lose my nerve.’<
br />
‘Write your address and I’ll do the stamp.’
But who knew where she’d be living next year? Next week?
She wrote her parents’ address, then surrendered the envelope.
‘Cara!’ Delma exclaimed. ‘Hi!’
She led Cara into an alcove off the main restaurant. ‘We’re hidden in here. I guess they didn’t want twenty drunk women upsetting the date-night crowd.’
‘Are we the first?’ She barely knew Delma and had always found her a little too much.
‘Yep. So!’ Unashamedly Delma checked her out. She scanned every inch of Cara, from her face to her ankles, looking for … what exactly? ‘You don’t look too bad at all!’
Cara felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Yeah, heard about your little adventure. Look, Cara, could happen to any of us. Ah, here’s Gwennie.’
‘Cara!’ Gwennie exclaimed, wafting booze into her face. ‘Wasn’t sure you’d show up tonight.’ Then, a reassuring shoulder squeeze. ‘You’re doing great.’
‘Cara!’
‘Oh, hi, Quincy.’
Quincy gathered her in a clumsy hug. ‘Fair play to you.’
It was a long time since she’d seen this group, probably not since Gabby’s birthday last year. If every single one of them was going to make a big thing of her ‘eating disorder’, she didn’t think she’d last the night.
‘Cara, how are you?’
‘Heather, hi. All good. You?’
‘Please tell me the name of the tablets.’
‘What tablets?’
‘They must have given you something to stop the overeating? I need them too. Swear to God, if there’s crisps in the house, I literally cannot stop eating them. Am I right?’
A woman called Ita, whom Cara barely knew, steered her into a corner. ‘They’re idiots. Insensitive bitches, they understand nothing. You need to take care of yourself here. You’ve a killer disease. Fuck them. Do you hear me? Fuck them. You have an illness that can kill you, so if you need to get up and leave, to keep yourself safe, you do that!’
That actually felt worse than all the others put together.
