by Marian Keyes
when I did give vent to my anger, it commanded some respect.
I wanted to put my head down on my desk and sleep. But instead I got a twenty-pound note out of my purse and put it in an envelope and addressed it to my father. If Mum was no longer working in the minimart, money must be even tighter than usual.
The news that I wasn’t getting married spread through the company at least as fast as the original news that I was. There was a constant flow of people visiting my office on the most unlikely of pretexts. It was a nightmare. Groups of people fell silent, then sniggered, as I walked past them in the corridors. Apparently someone in Personnel had started a collection for an engagement present and a nasty scuffle had broken out when attempts were made to return the donations because the sums being reclaimed were a lot more than the sums that were originally contributed and although it wasn’t my fault I still felt, somehow, that it was.
The awful day seemed to last forever but it finally came to an end.
It was Friday evening and on a Friday evening it was traditional for me to go for “just one or two drinks” with the people from work.
But not that Friday. I was going straight home.
I didn’t want to be with anyone.
I was taking my embarrassment and my humiliation and other people’s pity at my single status home. I’d had enough of being a laughingstock for one day.
Luckily, on a Friday evening Karen and Charlotte also traditionally went for “just one or two drinks” with their respective workmates.
As “just one or two drinks” usually entailed a good seven hours of solid drinking, ending up in the early hours of Saturday morning in an anonymous, tourist-trap nightclub in a basement somewhere near Oxford Circus, dancing with young men in cheap suits wearing their ties knotted around their heads, there was a good chance that I would have the apartment to myself.
I was glad about that. Whenever I had a tussle with life and came out the loser—and I usually did come out the loser—I would hibernate. I hid myself away from people. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I tried to limit human contact to ordering in a pizza and paying the delivery man. And I preferred it if the delivery man kept his bicycle helmet on because it cut down on eye contact. The feeling always passed after a while.
After a couple of days I’d have regained the energy I needed to go out into the world and deal with other human beings. I’d have managed to reassemble my protective armour so that I wasn’t a whining, miserable pain in the neck. So that I was able to laugh at my misfortunes and actively encourage others to do so also, just to show what a good sport I was.
Chapter 13
By the time I got off the bus, it had started raining and was bitterly cold. Although I was mute with misery and desperate for the shelter of home, I stopped at the row of shops beside the bus stop to buy supplies for my couple of days of isolation.
First I visited the newsstand and bought four chocolate bars and a magazine, which I managed to procure without one word being exchanged between me and the shopkeeper. (That was one of the many benefits of living in central London.)
Then I went next door to the liquor store and guiltily bought a bottle of white wine, uncomfortably sure that the man knew I intended to drink the entire bottle on my own. I don’t know why I was so worried because he probably wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow even if I was knifed in the line, just so long as he got paid. But it was hard to shake my inherited small town mentality.
Next I stopped at the fish and chips shop and, apart from a rudimentary discussion involving salt and vinegar, I was able to avoid any real human contact and buy a bag of chips.
Then I went into the video shop, hoping that I could very quickly pick up something light and diverting, with the minimum of conversation.
But it was not to be.
“Lucy!” called Adrian, the video shop man, sounding all excited and delighted to see me.
I could have kicked myself for coming in! I had forgotten that Adrian would want to talk to me, that his customers were his social life.
“Hi, Adrian.” I smiled demurely, hoping to calm him down.
“Great to see you,” he shouted.
I wished he hadn’t. I was sure that the other people were looking at me. I tried to make myself smaller inside my inconspicuous brown coat. I quickly—a lot more quickly than I had originally intended—found what I wanted and took it to the desk.
Adrian smiled broadly.
If I wasn’t so curmudgeonly I would have had to admit that he really was sweet. Just a bit too enthusiastic.
“So where’ve you been?” he asked loudly. “I haven’t seen you for, oh…days!”
The other customers paused from perusing the racks and looked at me, waiting for my answer. Well at least that was how it felt to me, but I was self-conscious to the point of paranoia.
My face burned with embarrassment.
“So you went and got yourself a life?” asked Adrian.
“I did,” I murmured. (Shut up Adrian, please.)
“And what happened?” he asked.
“It fell through,” I smiled wistfully.
He guffawed. “You’re a laugh, do you know that?”
I gave a tight smile. I was sure that I could feel all the other customers craning their necks, looking at me and thinking “Her?—that insignificant little thing. Are you sure? She doesn’t look like a laugh.”
“Well, it’s good to see you again,” announced Adrian. “And what are you going to watch this evening?” He looked down at the box in my hands.
“Oh no!” he said. His broad smile vanished in disgust and he almost threw my choice of video back at me. “Not Four Weddings and a Funeral.”
“Yes, Four Weddings and a Funeral,” I insisted, sliding it back across the counter at him.
“But, Lucy,” he pleaded, sliding it firmly back to me, “it’s sentimental crap. I know, I know! What about Cinema Paradiso?”
“I’ve seen it,” I told him. “And on your recommendation. That was the night you wouldn’t let me take out Sleepless in Seattle.”
“Aha!” he said triumphantly. “But what about Cinema Paradiso, The Director’s Cut?”
“Seen it.”
“Jean de Florette?” he asked hopefully.
“Seen it,” I said.
“Babette’s Feast?”
“Seen it.”
“Cyrano de Bergerac?”
“Which version?”
“Any of them.”
“Seen them all.”
“La Dolce Vita?”
“Seen it.”
“Something by Fassbinder?”
“No, Adrian,” I said, fighting back despair, but trying to sound firm. “You never let me take out anything I want. I’ve seen every cult and foreign film that you stock in here. Please, please, just this once, let me watch something lighthearted…. That’s in English,” I added hastily, before he attempted to find me something lighthearted in Swedish.
He sighed.
“Well, okay,” he said sadly. “Four Weddings and a Funeral it is. What have you got for your dinner?”
“Oh,” I said, thrown slightly by the abrupt change in subject.
“Give up your bag,” he said.
I reluctantly put my bags up on the counter.
This was a ritual that Adrian and I usually went through. A long time ago he had confessed to me that his job made him feel very isolated. That he never had his meals at the same time as anyone else. And that it made him feel as though he still belonged to the real world if he kept in contact with the nine-to-fivers and what they did with their evenings and, more specifically, what they ate.
Normally I had a lot of sympathy for him, but that
evening I wanted to get out of the outside world and be alone with my chocolate and my wine so that I could revel in the complete absence of any other human beings.
Also I was ashamed of the high-sugar, high-saturated-fat, low-protein, low-fibre purchases.
“I see,”
he said, poking through my carrier bags. “Chocolate, chips, wine—the chocolate will melt if you leave it next to the chips, you know—are you feeling a bit depressed?”
“I suppose,” I said, trying to smile, trying to be polite. While every atom in me ached to be at home, with the door locked behind me.
“Poor you,” he said kindly.
Again I tried to smile, but I wasn’t able. For a moment I thought I might tell him about the whole me-getting-married fiasco, but I couldn’t find the energy.
Adrian was sweet. Really sweet. And cute, I realized vaguely. And I kind of thought that he had a crush on me. Maybe I should consider him, I thought halfheartedly. Maybe that’s what Mrs. Nolan meant when she told me that at first I may not recognize my future husband.
Then, with a little burst of irritation, I realized that even I had started to believe Mrs. Nolan, that I was just as bad as Megan and Meredia. Angrily, I told myself to get a grip, that I wasn’t marrying anyone and certainly not Adrian. It would never work.
To begin with, there were financial considerations. I wasn’t sure what kind of money Adrian was earning, but it couldn’t have been much—it certainly couldn’t have been much more than the pittance I earned. I certainly wasn’t mercenary, but face it, I thought—how could we possibly keep a family on our combined incomes? And what about our children? Adrian seemed to work twenty hours a day, seven days a week, so they’d never even get to see their dad.
In fact, I’d probably never get to see him long enough for him to actually impregnate me. Oh well.
Adrian had keyed in my account number, which he knew by heart and was telling me that I owed a late charge for something that had been taken out ten days previously and hadn’t yet been returned.
“Really?” I asked, turning pale at the thought of the amount I owed and the fear that I might never actually get out of that shop.
“Yes,” he said, looking concerned. “That’s not like you, Lucy.”
He was right. I never did anything risky. I was far too afraid of annoying someone or of being told off.
“Oh God,” I said in alarm. “I don’t even remember taking out something in the last fortnight. What is it?”
“The Sound of Music.”
“Oh,” I said, worried. “That wasn’t me. That must have been Charlotte using my card.”
My heart sank. That meant that I was going to have to tell Charlotte off for impersonating me. And I’d have to get money from her for the late charge. Extracting teeth would be easier.
“But why The Sound of Music?” asked Adrian.
“It’s her favourite film.”
“Really? Is there something wrong with her?”
“No,” I said defensively. “She’s very sweet.”
“Ah, come on,” scoffed Adrian. “She must not be too bright.”
“She’s not dumb,” I insisted. “She’s just young.”
“If she’s over the age of eight, she’s out of the ‘just young’ category,” he snorted. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-three,” I muttered.
“Old enough to know better,” he said.
“I bet she has a pink duvet cover,” he added, his lip curled in disgust. “And she loves children and animals and gets up early on Sunday mornings to watch Little House on the Prairie.”
If he only knew how close he was.
“You can tell an awful lot about a person by the video they choose,” he explained. “Anyway, why is it charged to your card?”
“Because you closed her account. Remember?”
“She’s not the blond who took Planes, Trains and Automobiles to Spain?” said Adrian, his voice rising in alarm. He looked appalled at the realization that he’d lent out one of his precious videos to the awful girl who had taken one of his babies across Europe and then refused to pay the late charge on her return. That somehow the trade sanctions that he’d imposed against Charlotte had been breached.
“Yes.”
“I can’t think how I didn’t recognize her,” he said, looking upset.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” I said soothingly, willing him to clam down and let me go home. “I’ll get it back. And I’ll pay the fine.”
I would have agreed to pay anything so that I could leave.
“No,” he said. “Just get it back.” The way tearful mothers of missing children do on television appeals.
“Just get it back,” he repeated. “That’s all I ask.”
I left. I was exhausted. So much for not wanting to talk to anyone. But I wouldn’t speak to anyone else that evening, I decided. I couldn’t speak to anyone else that evening. I was taking a vow of silence. Although it felt more like a vow of silence was taking me.
Chapter 14
The apartment was in a terrible mess. The kitchen was in a shambles, with dirty dishes and pans piled higgledy-piggledy in the sink. The trash needed to be taken out, the radiators were covered with drying clothes, two pizza boxes were flung on the living-room floor, perfuming the air with onion and pepperoni, and there was a funny smell coming from the fridge when I opened it to put in my bottle of wine.
Although the state of the place made me more depressed than I already was, I couldn’t summon the strength to do anything more than put the pizza boxes in a trash bag.
But at least I was home.
As I foraged gingerly around in the kitchen for a cleanish plate to put my chips on, the phone rang. And before I had realized what I was doing I had answered it.
“Lucy?” said a man’s voice.
At least, for a moment, I thought it was a man. But then I realized that it was just Daniel.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound polite but cursing myself for answering the phone. He was obviously calling to gloat over the fortune-teller marriage nonsense.
“Hello, Lucy,” he said in a friendly, concerned tone. “How are you?”
I had been right. He was definitely calling to gloat.
“What do you want?” I said coldly.
“I called to see how you are,” he said, doing a passable imitation of a surprised voice. “And thank you for the warm welcome.”
“You’re calling to laugh at me,” I said huffily.
“I’m not,” he said. “Honestly!”
“Daniel,” I sighed. “Of course you are. Whenever something bad happens to me you call to rub it in. The same way as whenever something bad happens to you, I laugh myself hoarse. It’s the rule.”
“It’s not actually,” he said mildly. “I can’t deny that you seem to get great enjoyment whenever I have bad luck, but it’s not true to say that I laugh at any of your misfortunes.”
A pause.
“Let’s face it,” he said kindly. “I’d spend my entire life laughing if that was the case.”
“Goodbye, Daniel,” I said coldly, pulling the phone toward me.
“Wait, Lucy!” he shouted. “It was a joke. Good lord,” he muttered. “You’re so much nicer when you have your sense of humour plugged in.”
I said nothing, because I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe that he had been joking. I was very sensitive about the seemingly disproportionate amount of disasters that befell me. I was terrified of being ridiculed and, even more so, of being pitied.
The silence continued.
What a waste of a phone bill, I thought sadly. Then I tried to pull myself together. Life was bad enough, I thought. There was no need whatsoever for me to go into a total slump about the tragedy of unspoken words on a telephone call. To pass the time I flicked through my magazine. I found an article on colonic irrigation. Ugh, I thought, that looks disgusting. It must be good.
Then I ate two Rolos. One on its own wasn’t enough.
“I hear you’re not getting married,” Daniel finally said, after the silence had stretched taut.
“No, Daniel, I’m not getting married,” I agreed. “I hope I’ve made your weekend. Now I want to go. Goodbye.”
“Lucy, please,” he begged.
&n
bsp; “Daniel,” I interrupted wearily, “I’m really not in the mood for this.”
I didn’t even want to talk to someone, let alone bicker with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically.
“Are you?” I asked suspiciously.
“I am,” he said. “Really.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I really want to go now.”
“You’re still pissed off with me,” he said. “I can tell.”
“No, Daniel, I’m not,” I said wearily. “But I just want to be left alone.”
“Oh no,” he said. “Does this mean that you’re going to disappear until next weekend with a box of cookies?”
“Maybe.” I laughed slightly. “See you in a week.”
“I’ll stop by every so often to turn you,” he said. “I don’t want you getting bedsores again.”
“Thanks.”
“No, look, Lucy,” he said. “Why don’t you come out with me tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” I asked. “Saturday night. That’s the night for going to parties and trying to meet men, not for going out with old friends. That’s what God invented Monday nights for.”
An alarming thought suddenly struck me.
“Where are you?” I demanded suspiciously.
“Er, at home,” he said, sounding shamefaced.
“On a Friday night?” I asked in astonishment. “And
you want to go out with me on a Saturday night? What’s wrong?”
Then I knew. And my spirits lifted perceptibly.
“She’s dumped you, hasn’t she?” I said, coaxingly. “That woman Ruth has come to her senses. Although I have to admit that up until now I didn’t actually think she had any senses to come to.”
I always made unkind remarks about Daniel’s girlfriends. I thought that any woman stupid enough to become involved with someone so obviously flirtatious and commitment-shy as Daniel deserved to have disparaging things said about her.
“Now aren’t you glad that I called?” he said nicely. “Aren’t you glad that you didn’t just pawn me off on the answering machine?”
“Thanks, Daniel,” I said, feeling slightly better. “You’re very thoughtful. A trouble shared is a trouble doubled. So what happened?”
