Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  “I was married to an alcoholic,” she said. “I know exactly what you’re going through.”

  “I’m just a normal person who happens to have a father with a drinking problem. I’m not like you…losers who have to come to these stupid meetings and talk about how you’re managing to detach from the alcoholic in your lives.”

  “That’s what I said in the beginning too,” she said.

  “God!” I said, angrily. “I just want to help him to stop drinking. What’s so wrong with that?”

  “Because you can’t help,” she said. “You are powerless over him and his alcohol. But you’re not powerless over your own life.”

  “I have responsibilities.”

  “To yourself. And it’s never as simple as getting the other person to stop drinking and then you’ll suddenly be fine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what kind of relationships do you have with other men?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Lots of women like us have a really hard time having successful relationships,” she said.

  “I’m not a woman like you,” I said scornfully.

  “You’d be amazed how many of us have the wrong kind of relationships with the wrong kind of men,” she said gently. “Because our expectations of the relationship is based on what we learned from dealing with the alcoholic in our lives.”

  “Here’s my phone number,” she said. “Ring me if you ever need to talk. Any time.”

  I walked away before she gave it to me.

  Another avenue explored. Another dead end. Now what was I going to do?

  I tried to give him less money. But he begged and cried and the guilt was so awful that I gave it to him, even though I really didn’t have the money to spare.

  I swung from feeling furious to feeling so sad I thought my heart would break. Sometimes I hated him and sometimes I loved him.

  But I felt increasingly trapped and desperate.

  Chapter 72

  Christmas was horrible. I couldn’t go to any of the hundreds of parties. While everyone else was putting on short, black, glittery dresses (and that was just the men) I was on a train home to Uxbridge. While everyone else was puking or making out with their boss, I was begging Dad to go back to sleep, telling him it really didn’t matter that he’d wet his bed again.

  Even if there had been someone else to take care of Dad, I still couldn’t have gone because I was too broke to buy a round of drinks.

  Dad’s drinking got even worse in The Festive Season. I didn’t know why—it wasn’t as if he needed an excuse to drink. To compound my self-pity, I only got two Christmas cards. One from Daniel and one from Adrian in the video shop.

  Christmas Day itself was truly awful. Chris and Peter didn’t even come to see Dad and me.

  “I don’t want it to look as if I’m taking sides,” was Chris’s excuse.

  “I don’t want to upset Mammy,” was Peter’s.

  It was a horrible day. The best thing about it was that Dad was comatose by eleven in the morning.

  I was so desperate for someone else to talk to, anything to dilute Dad’s presence, that I almost looked forward to going back to work.

  Chapter 73

  Because Christmas had been so awful, I foolishly approached the new year with hope.

  But on the fourth of January, Dad went on a massive bender. He had obviously planned it because when I tried to buy a pack of gum at the station on my way to work, all my cash had disappeared. I could have run home and tried to stop him, but somehow I just couldn’t be bothered.

  When I got to town, I tried to get money from an ATM and it swallowed my card. “You are heinously overdrawn, contact your bank,” the flashing message advised. I will not, I thought. If they want me, they’ll have to come and get me. (They’ll never take me alive, etc., etc.)

  I had to borrow money from Megan.

  When I got home from work, there was a scary-looking official letter just inside the front door. It was from my bank instructing me to return my chequebook.

  Things were out of control. I tried to suppress the icy fear. Where would it all end?

  As I made for the kitchen, something crunched under my foot. I looked down and saw that the hall carpet was covered in broken glass. And so was the kitchen floor. The kitchen table was scattered with broken plates and saucers and bowls. In the front room, the smoked-glass coffee table was in smithereens, books and tapes scattered all over the floor. The whole downstairs was in a shambles.

  Dad’s handiwork.

  He’d done some drunken breaking and smashing in the past, but nothing as spectacular as this.

  Naturally, he was nowhere to be found.

  I went from the kitchen to the front room and back again, unable to believe the extent of the damage. If it was breakable, he had broken it. Even if it wasn’t breakable, he had tried to break it. There was a yellow plastic bucket in the kitchen that he had obviously attempted to smash the living daylights out of, judging by the number of dents in it. In the front room there was a whole shelf of disgusting china boys and dogs and bells that my mother had doted on, that he had wiped out. I felt a spasm of sadness for my mother. He knew what they had meant to her.

  I didn’t even cry. I just began to clean it up.

  While I was on my knees picking shards of broken china boy out of the carpet, the phone rang. It was the police calling to say that Dad had been arrested. I was cordially invited to come to the police station and bail him out.

  I had no money and no more energy.

  I finally decided to cry.

  Then I decided to call Daniel.

  Miraculously he was in—I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been.

  I was crying so much he couldn’t really understand what I was saying.

  “It’s Dad,” I wailed.

  “What’s dead?”

  “Nothing’s dead, it’s Dad.”

  “Lucy, either it’s dead or it’s not, it can’t be both at once.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, just get over here, will you?”

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I can,” he promised.

  “Bring lots of money,” I added.

  He arrived two china dogs, a china bell and half a coffee table later.

  “Sorry, Lucy,” he said, as soon as I opened the front door. “I figured it out. It’s your Dad?”

  He went to put his arms around me but I skipped nimbly away. The last thing my melting pot of emotions needed was sexual attraction.

  “Yes,” I said, as tears poured down my face. “But he’s not…”

  “Dead,” he finished for me. “Yes, I’d gathered that much. Sorry, I couldn’t hear you very well. Christ, has there been an earthquake out here?”

  “No, it’s…”

  “You’ve been burgled! Don’t touch a thing, Lucy.”

  “We haven’t been fucking well burgled,” I wept. “My stupid, drunk bastard of a father has done all this.”

  “Oh no, Lucy.” He looked genuinely horrified, which made me feel even worse. “But why?” he asked, running his hands through his hair.

  “I don’t know. But it gets worse. He’s been arrested.”

  “Since when can they arrest you for breaking things in your own house? God, this country becomes more and more like a police state every day. Next it’ll be illegal to burn the toast and to eat ice cream straight from the carton and…”

  “Shut up, you bleeding-heart liberal.” I laughed despite myself. “He hasn’t been arrested for breaking his own dishes. I don’t know why he’s been arrested.”

  “So he needs to be bailed out?”

  “He does.”

  “Okay, Lucy, to the chick-mobile. Let’s go and rescue him!”

  Dad had been charged with about a million things—being drunk and disorderly, causing a public nuisance, causing damage to property, intention to cause actual bodily harm, obscene behaviour and on and on. It was horrific. I had never imagined that the day wo
uld come when I’d have to bail my father out of jail.

  When Dad was led from the cells, he was as meek as a lamb—the fight had gone out of him. Daniel and I took him home and put him to bed.

  Then I made Daniel a cup of tea.

  “Okay, Lucy, what are we going to do about this?” he asked.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” I asked defensively.

  “You and me.”

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “For once, Lucy, just for once, Lucy, could you try not to fight with me? I’m only trying to help.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “You do. You wouldn’t have called me if you didn’t,” he said. “There’s no shame in it,” he added. “Lucy, there’s no need to be so touchy.”

  “You’d be touchy if your Dad was an alcoholic,” I said, as tears splashed down my face—again. “Well, maybe he’s not an alcoholic…”

  “He’s an alcoholic.” Daniel was grim.

  “Call him what you bloody well like,” I sobbed. “I don’t give a shit whether he’s an alcoholic or not. All I care about is he’s a drunk and it’s ruining my life.”

  I sobbed a good bit more, the burden of months of worry spilled down my cheeks.

  “Did you know?” I asked. “You know, about Dad?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “But how?”

  “Chris told me.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “They did,” he said.

  “Well, why didn’t anyone help me?”

  “They tried. You wouldn’t let them.”

  “What am I going to do now?”

  “How about moving out and letting someone else take care of him?”

  “Oh no,” I said in fear.

  “Fine, if you don’t want to move out, you don’t have to, but there’s lots of people who can help you. Apart from your brothers, there’s live-in helpers and social workers and all kinds of people. You’ll still be able to take care of him, but you won’t have to do it on your own.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  At midnight, while Daniel and I were still sitting gloomily at the kitchen table, the phone rang.

  “What now?” I asked in fear.

  “Hello?”

  “Might I have a word with Lucy Sullivan?” roared a familiar voice.

  “Gus?” I asked, as joy flooded through me.

  “The very fella,” he shouted.

  “Hello,” I wanted to dance. “Where did you get my number?”

  “I met the scary, blond woman in McMullens and she said you were living out in the middle of nowhere. I’d been thinking about you and missing you anyway.”

  “Had you?” I was almost in tears with joy.

  “Indeed I had, Lucy. So I says to her, ‘give me the phone number, I’ll call her and take her out.’ So here I am, Lucy, calling you and asking to take you out.”

  “Great!” I said in delight. “I’d love to see you.”

  “Okay, give me the address and I’ll be right out to get you.”

  “You mean, now?”

  “When else?”

  “Oh, now isn’t a good time, Gus.” I felt very ungrateful.

  “Well, when is?”

  “The day after tomorrow?”

  “Right you are. Thursday, after your work, I’ll come and get you.”

  “Great.”

  I turned back to Daniel with shining eyes.

  “That was Gus,” I said breathlessly.

  “I gathered.”

  “He was thinking about me.”

  “Was he?”

  “He wants to see me.”

  “He’s very lucky that you’re so obliging.”

  “What are you pissed off about?”

  “Couldn’t you have made him work a bit harder, Lucy? I wish you hadn’t given in so easily.”

  “Daniel, Gus calling me is the nicest thing that’s happened in months and months. And I don’t have the energy to play games with him.”

  He gave a tight little smile.

  “You’d better have plenty of energy for game playing on Thursday night,” he said curtly.

  “And so what if I do?” I asked angrily. “I’m allowed to have sex, you know. Why have you gone all Victorian-dad on me?”

  “Because you deserve better than him.”

  He got up to leave. “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay the night?”

  “I’m sure, thanks,” I answered.

  “And you’ll think about what I said about getting help for your Dad?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.”

  As he bent to kiss me—on the cheek—I said, “Oh, er, Daniel, can you loan me any money?”

  “How much?”

  “Er, twenty, if you don’t mind.”

  He gave me sixty.

  “Have a nice time with Gus,” he said.

  “This money isn’t for Gus,” I said defensively.

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  Chapter 74

  I was beside myself about seeing Gus. Obviously, because I hadn’t been out for about three months, some of the excitement was good plain old-fashioned cabin fever. But it wasn’t just that—I was still crazy about him. I’d never given up hope that it might work out for us. I was so excited that I was able to put my worry about Dad on hold.

  When I told the others in the office that I was meeting Gus, there was mayhem. Meredia and Jed gasped with delight, then linked arms and skipped around the office, knocking over a chair in the process. Then they changed direction and Meredia’s generous hip sent a desk organizer flying onto the floor, scattering paper clips and pens and highlighters everywhere.

  They were almost as excited as I was—probably because their social and romantic lives were as uneventful as mine, and they were glad of any diversion, personal or vicarious.

  Only Megan looked disgusted.

  “Gus?” she asked. “You’re going out with Gus? But what happened? Where did you meet him?”

  “I didn’t, he called me.”

  “The little bastard!” she exclaimed.

  There was a chorus of disagreement from the rest of us.

  “No, he’s not,” yelled Meredia.

  “Leave him alone, he’s a great guy,” shouted Jed.

  “So what happened?” demanded Megan, ignoring them. “He called you and then what?”

  “He asked me to meet him,” I said.

  “And did he say why?” she quizzed. “Did he say what he wants from you?”

  “No.”

  “And are you going to meet him?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can we come too?” begged Meredia, as she crouched on the floor, scooping up handfuls of staples.

  “No, Meredia, not this time,” I said.

  “Nothing nice ever happens to us,” she said moodily.

  “Oh, come on now,” said Jed jovially, trying to cheer her up. “What about the fire drill?”

  We had had a fire drill about a week before, and in fairness, it had been great fun. Especially as we got advance warning of it—Gary in Security leaked details of it to Megan in a fruitless attempt to advance himself sexually with her. So, for two hours before the bell went off, we had our coats on and our bags on our desks, ready to go.

  According to the memo that had been circulated, I was a Fire Monitor, but I didn’t know what that was, and no one had explained it to me. So, instead, I took advantage of the bedlam and confusion and went to Oxford Street and took in a couple of shoe stores.

  “Don’t meet him, Lucy,” said Megan. She sounded upset.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured Megan, touched by her protectiveness. “I can look after myself.”

  She shook her head, “He’s bad news, Lucy.”

  And then she was unusually silent.

  The following day when Jed came into work, he said he hadn’t been able to
sleep the night before with excitement. Then he complained all day long that he had butterflies in his stomach.

  He insisted on personally vetting my appearance before I met Gus. “Good luck, Agent Sullivan,” he said. “We’re all depending on you.”

  It had been a long time since I had felt this young and happy. As if life had possibilities.

  Gus was waiting outside the building for me, swapping insults with Winston and Harry (which I later discovered were real). When I saw him my stomach did a flip—he looked so good, his black, shiny hair falling into his green eyes.

  The passage of four months had done nothing to diminish his attractiveness.

  “Lucy,” he shouted when he saw me and lounged sexily over to me, opening his arms wide.

  “Gus.” I smiled breathlessly, hoping he wouldn’t see that my legs were wobbling from exhilaration and nerves.

  He threw his arms around me and wrapped me tight, but my soaring happiness came to a screeching halt as I got a whiff of alcohol from him.

  It was nothing unusual for Gus to reek of alcohol—in fact it was more unusual for him not to reek of alcohol. That was one of the things I found attractive about him.

  Or rather, had found attractive about him.

  Not anymore, it seemed.

  For a moment I felt a flash of anger—if I’d wanted to spend the evening with a smelly drunk I could have stayed at home with Dad. My evening with Gus was supposed to be The Great Escape, not more of the same.

  He moved back slightly so he could look at me, but kept his arms around me and smiled and smiled and smiled. And I cheered up. I felt dizzy to be within kissing distance of that sexy, handsome face. I’m with Gus, I thought in disbelief, I’m holding my dream in my arms.

  “Let’s go for a drink, Lucy,” he suggested.

  There was that feeling again—a surge of annoyance.

  Well, surprise, surprise, I thought, pissed off. I had hoped he might have planned something a bit more imaginative for our reconciliation. Silly me.

  “Come on,” he beckoned and started walking briskly. In fact, he almost broke into a run. He must be dying for a drink, I thought, as I traipsed behind him. He led us to a nearby pub, which we had been to lots of times in the past. It was one of Gus’s favourite pubs, he knew the barman and most of the clientele.