Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  Daniel, like all men, had to be coaxed. They like to pretend that it isn’t in their nature to be bitchy, but of course, they love a good character assassination, the bloodier the better.

  Men make me laugh when they throw their eyes to heaven and sanctimoniously say, “Meeeeyoww!” whenever a woman makes an unkind comment. Men are worse gossips than women.

  “Lucy, if I tell you anything—and I’m not saying that I will, mind—it’s to go no further,” he said sternly.

  “Of course.” I nodded earnestly. I wondered if Charlotte would still be up when I got home.

  “Not even Charlotte,” he added.

  Bastard!

  “Oh go on, let me at least tell Charlotte,” I said sulkily.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No, Lucy. If you don’t promise, I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  “I promise,” I said in a singsong voice.

  No problem. Talk was cheap and I wasn’t under oath.

  I took a quick look at him and he had trouble maintaining the straight, stern face. He tried not to smile, but he couldn’t stop himself. I felt a surge of pleasure that I could still make him laugh.

  “Okay, Lucy,” he took a deep breath and finally started. “You know I don’t want to say anything bad about Karen.”

  “Good,” I said stoutly, “I wouldn’t want you to.”

  Our eyes met and again his mouth twitched. He looked sideways over his shoulder, pretending to look around the pub, but I knew he was trying to hide his grin.

  It had been a mistake on Karen’s part to insult Daniel and me together because it had united us against her. Until the sting of her allegations stopped smarting, we would be close allies. Nothing unites two people as warmly and lovingly as a shared grievance against a third party.

  Eventually Daniel cleared his throat and spoke.

  “I know it sounds like I’m trying to put all the blame onto her,” he said. “But Karen didn’t really care about me. She didn’t even like me very much.”

  “It sounds like you’re trying to put all the blame onto her.” I eyeballed him steadily.

  “But it’s true, Lucy, honestly! She didn’t care about me.”

  “You lying bastard!” I scoffed. “She was besotted with you.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” he said, with a bitterness that surprised me. “She was besotted with my bank balance—at least what she thought my bank balance was. She must have mistaken my overdraft for savings.”

  “Oh Daniel, no woman goes out with a man for his money. It’s an Old Husband’s Tale,” I said.

  “Karen did. Size mattered to her—the size of my wallet.”

  I would have laughed except he looked so miserable.

  “And she kept trying to change me,” he said miserably. “She didn’t like me the way I was. She was disappointed because she got a pig in a poke.”

  “A pig who gave her a poke, more like.” I was unable to resist the cheap joke.

  “I’m not a pig,” he said huffily.

  “In what way did she try to change you?” I asked kindly. I didn’t want him to get so huffy that he would stop telling me things.

  “She told me that I didn’t take my job seriously enough. She said that I should be more ambitious. And she was always on at me to learn to play golf, she said that more deals are done on the golf course than in the boardroom.”

  “But you’re a research person thingy.” I was confused. “You don’t do deals, do you?”

  “Exactly!” he said.

  “And do you remember when I took her to that work party at the end of July?”

  “No,” I said, managing to bite my tongue and not shout at him, “How the hell would I know what you took her to, it’s not as if you called me or anything to keep me abreast of what was going on in your life.”

  “Well, you should have seen the way she carried on at that!”

  I felt a cheap thrill and drew nearer, all the better to hear whatever awful thing he was about to tell me.

  “The way she behaved with Joe…”

  “Joe, your boss, that Joe?” I asked.

  “…Yes. It was horrible, Lucy. She practically offered to sleep with him if it would enhance my promotion prospects.”

  “God, that’s awful,” I said, blushing for her. “Joe, of all people! But didn’t you try to stop her?”

  “Of course I tried to stop her, but you know what she’s like, she’s so headstrong.”

  “How excruciating.” I squirmed.

  “Lucy, I was badly embarrassed for her,” said Daniel. He looked pale and sweaty at the memory. “I felt awful for her.”

  “I bet.”

  Joe was gay.

  We sat in silence. Our thoughts occupied by a mental image of poor Karen, as she flashed her tits, but flashed in vain.

  “But apart from the career stuff and the money, did you have fun?” I asked. “Did you like her?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said firmly.

  I was silent.

  “Well, she was all right, I suppose.” He sighed. “She didn’t have much of a sense of humour. None, in fact.”

  “That’s not true.” I felt I had to say it.

  “No, you’re right, Lucy. She did have a sense of humour, the kind where you laugh at people who slip on banana skins.”

  Guilt wrestled with my desire to really trash her.

  Guilt won.

  “She’s beautiful though. Isn’t she?” I asked.

  “Very,” he agreed.

  “She has a great body, hasn’t she?” I asked, pressing him.

  He looked at me oddly. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose she has.”

  “Then why have you given all that up?”

  “Because I just wasn’t attracted to her anymore.”

  I laughed mirthlessly. “Ha! As if. A large-breasted blonde.”

  “But she was cold,” he protested. “It’s a terrible turnoff if you feel your lover doesn’t even like you. Lucy, contrary to the terrible things you think about me—and all men, from what I can gather—big breasts and lots of sex aren’t the highest things on my list of priorities. There are other things too.”

  “Like what?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Well, a sense of humour. And it would have been nice if I hadn’t had to pay for everything.”

  “Daniel, why are you suddenly so weird about money?” I was surprised. “It’s not like you to be stingy.”

  “It’s not the principle, it’s the money.” He grinned. “No, Lucy, I don’t really care about the money, it was the way she never even offered to pay that pissed me off. It would have been nice if she had taken me out for a change.”

  “But maybe she doesn’t have much money,” I suggested doubtfully.

  “It didn’t have to be someplace that costs lots. Just the gesture would have been enough.

  “But she had a dinner party for you.”

  “No, she didn’t. You and Charlotte did most of the work.”

  Suddenly I had a very vivid memory of the Night of the Long Preparations. “And we each had to pay a third of the cost,” I said, my integrity a shadow of its former self.

  “So did I,” he said.

  “What?” I screeched. “I don’t believe you!”

  You had to admire her nerve, all the same.

  “She probably got Simon and Gus to pay a third each also,” I exclaimed. “She must have made a huge profit on the bloody thing.”

  “She’d have had a long wait trying to get any money out of Gus,” said Daniel.

  But I didn’t tell him to fuck off and leave Gus alone. We had just spent the last hour destroying his ex-girlfriend’s character. It was only fair that Daniel got a go at my ex-boyfriend.

  “And she never read anything except that stupid magazine that has photos of lady this and countess that and Ivana Trump,” he added.

  “That’s bad,” I agreed.

  “I prefer the one with the articles about men who have babies and ‘I m
arried a child molester,’ what’s that one called, Lucy?”

  “The National Enquirer?”

  “No, Lucy, a girl’s one.”

  “Marie Claire?”

  “That’s it!” He was enthusiastic. “I love that. Did you see the report about the women who were imprisoned for having abortions? I think it was the February one. Jesus, Lucy, it was…”

  I interrupted. “But Karen does read Marie Claire,” I exclaimed in her defence.

  “Oh.” That brought him up short. He was silent and thoughtful for a while.

  “No,” he finally said.

  “No, what?”

  “I still don’t think I love her.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. God would punish me.

  “I suppose,” Daniel said sadly, “what it comes down to is I was bored with Karen.”

  “Again?” I exclaimed.

  “What do you mean, Lucy? Again?”

  “That’s just what you said about Ruth—that she bored you. Maybe you have a very low boredom threshold.”

  “No, I don’t. You don’t bore me.”

  “Neither does auto racing. But that’s not your girlfriend either,” I said smartly.

  “But…”

  “This mysterious new woman that you haven’t managed to get into bed yet—she doesn’t bore you?” I asked nicely.

  “No.”

  “Give it time, Daniel. I bet in three months time you’ll be complaining to me about how tedious you find her.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said. “You usually are.”

  “Good. Now take me somewhere and feed me.”

  We went to the Indian restaurant next to the pub.

  I wanted to be serious and offload onto Daniel about Gus. But I couldn’t nail him down for a serious conversation. Every time I asked him a question, he sang songs about the food. Which, no doubt, was very endearing, but I wanted to talk about matters of the heart. My heart. And he couldn’t sing. Not like Gus. But there was a good chance that Daniel wouldn’t fleece me for every penny I had. There was a bright side.

  “Do you think Gus and I saw too much of each other?” I asked, as the waiter put the pilau rice on the table.

  “Lay your head upon my pilau,” sang Daniel tunelessly, “Ah, here’s the bhajees. Lay your warm and tender bhajee close to mine.” He lined up our onion bhajees side by side. “I don’t know, Lucy, I really don’t.”

  Such high spirits were a bit out of character. Although maybe they weren’t. Daniel used to be fun, before my roommates went after him. In fact he was still fun, but I had no time to have fun with him, it was my job to discipline him. Let’s face it, no one else would do it.

  “But I really don’t think we did, you know. If anything I wanted to see him less than he wanted to see me…”

  “Your turn,” he interrupted. “You have to sing something.”

  “Er, popadom, don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep,” I half-sang awkwardly. I pointed to my popadom so that he’d know what I was singing about. “So do you think I’ll ever get over him?”

  “Here’s the chicken korma,” he said, as he saw the waiter coming.

  “Korma, korma, korma, korma, kor-ma, chame-le-on! You come and go, you come and go,” Daniel sort-of-sang, moving the dish close to me and then moving it away again, moving it closer, moving it away. “Course you will. Your turn.”

  I pointed to the bowl of aloo gobi on the next people’s table and sang absently, “Aloo, is it me you’re looking for? But when?”

  “Let me see,” he said carefully. “I’ll have to think about this one, Lucy. Oh yes, I know!”

  My heart leaped. Daniel knew when I’d get over Gus?

  “Tikka chance, tikka chance, tikka, tikka, tikka chance, tikka chance on me,” he sang. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?” He beamed. “Chicken tikka,” he explained kindly to my puzzled face. “You know, tikka chance on me—Abba sang it.”

  “But what about me and Gus?” I asked faintly. “Oh fuck it! I can see it’s pointless trying to have a serious conversation with you. What’s this?”

  “Vegetable curry.”

  “Okay. You can’t curry love, you just have to wait. Your turn.”

  It took him a moment or two before he thought of one.

  “It’s my paratha, and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to,” he tone-deafed at me.

  I stopped a passing waiter and asked him to bring me a bowl of dhal tarka, then I turned to Daniel.

  “Got myself a crying, walking, sleeping, talking, living dhal!” I sang.

  “Stand by your naan,” he replied.

  We spent the rest of the evening in convulsions. I know we had fun because the people at the next table complained about us. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such a laugh. Well, it had probably been one night with Gus.

  And when I got home Karen wasn’t waiting up for me.

  That was one of the great advantages of her having no respect for me. It meant that I could fly in the face of her orders, actively disobey her and it would never even occur to her that I might do so.

  Chapter 61

  The next morning when I arrived at work, Megan said, “That slime merchant Daniel just rang, he said he’ll call back later.”

  “What’s he ever done to you?” I asked in surprise.

  “Nothing.” It was her turn to sound surprised.

  “So why are you calling him names?” There was a defensive edge to my voice.

  “But that’s what you always call him,” she protested.

  “Oh.” I was shaken. “I suppose I do.”

  Technically she was right, yes, of course, I was nasty to Daniel all the time but it wasn’t as if I really meant it.

  “It’s what we both call him, Lucy,” she reminded me. She sounded concerned and well she might. When Megan had first met Daniel and she said that she didn’t like him and couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, I had been thrilled. I held her aloft as an example of intelligent womanhood to anyone who would listen. “She says that Daniel wouldn’t stand a chance in Australia,” I gleefully told everyone, including Daniel. “She says he’s too slimy and she likes her men to be rougher and tougher than him.”

  And now Megan was concerned that I had changed the rules. It was no longer open season on Daniel.

  I hadn’t changed any rules, I thought uncomfortably, but it sounded funny to hear Megan call Daniel a slime merchant. Horrible, actually. I felt as if I was being disloyal to him, especially after he’d been so nice and paid for my dinner.

  But then Meredia lumbered in, followed by Jed. And I forgot about Daniel because Jed was so funny. He hung up his coat, stared around at the office, rubbed his eyes and said, “Oh no, so I didn’t dream it, it wasn’t a nightmare! It’s horrible, HORRIBLE!”

  He did that most mornings. We were so proud of him.

  The day proceeded.

  I barely had my computer switched on (which meant that it was about ten to eleven) when my mother phoned and said that she was on her way up to town; it would be nice to meet me.

  I couldn’t have agreed less, but she was insistent.

  “I’ve something to tell you,” she said mysteriously.

  “I can’t wait,” I said patiently. Her “somethings” were usually about the next-door neighbours stealing our trash

  can lid, or the birds continually pecking the tops of the bottles of milk even though she had repeatedly told the milkman to close the gate after him, or something equally earthshattering.

  It was odd that she was coming up to town. She didn’t ever, even though she was only twenty miles from central London.

  Twenty miles and fifty years.

  I didn’t really feel up to meeting her but I felt that I should because I hadn’t seen her since the start of the summer. Not that that had been my fault—I’d been out to the house lots of times—well, once or twice anyway—but only Dad had been there.

  I agreed to meet her for lunch, althoug
h not in so many words. I didn’t think she was au fait with the concept of “lunch.” She was more of a “cup of tea and ham sandwich” kind of woman.

  “Meet me in the pub across the road from my office at one o’clock,” I said.

  But she was appalled at the suggestion that she sit in the pub on her own and wait for me.

  “What would people think?” she asked in alarm.

  “Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll get there first and you won’t have to wait on your own.”

  “But no,” she said, sounding panicked. “Sure, that’s just as bad, a single woman in a public house…”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I scoffed and began to tell her that I was always going into pubs on my own, but stopped myself in time, before she started wailing, “Oh, what kind of girl have I reared?”

  “Someplace where we can have a cup of tea,” she suggested, again.

  “All right then, there’s a café near…”

  “Nothing too fancy,” she interrupted anxiously, terri

  fied that she might be caught in a “which one of these five forks should I use” scenario. But she needn’t have worried, I wasn’t too comfortable in those kinds of places either.

  “It’s not too fancy,” I said. “It’s nice, relax.”

  “And what kind of things do they have there?”

  “Normal food,” I reassured her. “Sandwiches, cheesecake, that kind of thing.”

  “Black Forest gâteau?” she asked hopefully. She knew about Black Forest gâteau.

  “Probably,” I said. “Or something very similar, anyway.”

  “And do I ask for my tea at the counter or do I…?”

  “You sit down, Mum, and the girl takes your order.”

  “And can I just march on in there and sit wherever I like, or should I…?”

  “Wait until they seat you,” I advised.

  When I arrived she was already sitting at the table, looking like a hick up from the sticks for a day, all awkward, as if she felt she had no right to be there. She was wearing a nervous “I’m just fine” smile and had her handbag clenched tightly against all the muggers. “They won’t get the better of me,” her grim little hands seemed to say.

  She looked slightly different—slimmer and younger than usual. For once Peter had been right—she had done something funny to her hair. But it suited her, I grudgingly admitted.