Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  “You’re like the Little Mermaid,” he said, suddenly changing the subject.

  “Am I?” I glowed with pleasure. This conversation was much more to my liking. And my hair did look long and curly and sleek, now that he mentioned it.

  “She had to suffer the agony of walking on blades in exchange for being able to live on dry land. You’ve made the same kind of bargain—you’ve paid for your freedom with guilt.”

  “Oh.” No mention of my hair.

  “You’re a good person, Lucy, you haven’t done anything wrong and you’re allowed to have a nice life,” he explained. “Think about it, that’s all I ask.”

  So I thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it. I smoked a cigarette and thought about it. I drank my gin and tonic and thought about it. While Daniel was at the bar buying me another one, I thought about it. I finally spoke.

  “I’ve thought about it. Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s time to move on.”

  The whole truth was that perhaps I was finally becoming bored of so much unadulterated misery. Bored with being so self-indulgent. And I could have gone on for a lot longer than I already had—years probably—if Daniel hadn’t pulled me up short.

  “Great, Lucy.” He was delighted. “And while I’m being mean to you, maybe you could give some thought to visiting your mother.”

  “What are you?” I asked sharply. “My bloody conscience?”

  “And seeing as you’re already pissed off at me,” he grinned, “I think I might as well tell you that it’s about time you stopped taking any more abuse from your dad. Stop punishing yourself. You’ve repaid your debt to society and your sentence is at an end.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I said angrily. Stop punishing myself, indeed! It was obvious that he hadn’t been brought up as a Catholic. I couldn’t even begin to contemplate a life that didn’t involve lots of self-flagellation.

  Although now that I thought about it, maybe going easy on myself was a good idea, a very pleasant option, in fact. And, as I wavered on the brink, Daniel said something that changed everything for me.

  He said, “You know, Lucy, if you feel that guilty, you can always go back to your father. Anytime you like.”

  The suggestion appalled me. I wouldn’t do that. Not ever. And it was only then that I realized what Daniel had been talking about. I’d chosen freedom because that was what I had wanted. I might as well enjoy it.

  I stared at him as realization dawned. “You’re right, you know,” I said faintly. “Life is for living.”

  “God, Lucy.” He sounded shocked. “There’s no call for clichés.”

  “Bastard.” I smiled.

  “You can’t be afraid forever,” he said, making the most of my good humour. “You can’t hide from your feelings, from other people.” He paused for emphasis, “Lucy, you can’t hide from men.”

  Now, that was going too far. He was trying to make me run before I could walk.

  “A boyfriend!” I said in alarm. “You want me to get a boyfriend after all the disasters I’ve been through.”

  “Christ, Lucy, hold on,” said Daniel. He grabbed my arm as if I was just about to run out into the street and proposition the first man I met. “Not immediately. I mean sometime, not now…”

  “But Daniel,” I wailed. “I’m such a bad judge of men. You, of all people, know how hopeless I am.”

  “No, Lucy, I only want you to think about it…” he said anxiously.

  “I can’t believe you think I’m ready for a boyfriend,” I said in surprise.

  “Lucy, I don’t mean…all I’m saying is…”

  “But I trust your judgment,” I said doubtfully. “If you say it’s the right thing for me, then it must be.”

  “It’s only a suggestion, Lucy.” Daniel sounded nervous.

  But something had tickled the back of my brain, the memory of the fun of being in love. I vaguely remembered how nice it had been. Maybe, along with being bored by my misery, I had also become bored with being without a man.

  “No, Daniel,” I said thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

  “Wait, Lucy, I only said…Now that I think about it, it’s a bad idea, a very bad idea, I’m sorry I ever mentioned it.”

  I held my hand up authoritatively.

  “Nonsense, Daniel, you were right to say all this to me. Thank you.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, Daniel, you’re quite right. The next time there’s a party going on, I’ll go!” I finished decisively.

  After a few triumphant minutes I said in a little voice, “But we’ll still see each other, won’t we? Not all the time, or anything, but you know…?”

  And he replied, “Of course we will, Lucy, of course we will.”

  It never occurred to me, not even for a moment, that Daniel might have had another reason for wanting to ease me away from him, for setting me free to fly on my own. That his concern for my independence mightn’t have been entirely altruistic. That, perhaps he might have had a new girlfriend impatiently fidgeting in the wings. Anxiously waiting for me to take my final bow and exit stage left so that she could take her rightful place in the spotlight. I never doubted that his concern for me was genuine and sincere and selfless. I trusted him utterly. And because of that, I decided to go along with what he suggested.

  Chapter 80

  The new me. Oozing strength. Independent. Reborn. Back out there. Fighting Fit. Firm handshake. Meeting new people. Social interaction. Flirting. Strong woman. Knows her own mind.

  God, it was exhausting.

  And so boring. As far as I could see, what Learning to Live Again really meant was just staying away from Daniel. Or at least cutting down drastically on the amount of time I spent with him. And I missed him terribly. No one was as much fun as he was. But it was for my own good, even I could see that, and rules were rules. Anyway, it wasn’t the awful cold turkey that I’d expected because he still called me every day. And I knew that I’d see him the following Sunday because I was taking him out for lunch for his birthday.

  This Learning to Live Again business was easier said than done—I’d been out of circulation for too long and I had no one to play with. I gatecrashed a post-work drink with Jed and Meredia and what a mistake that was. They both behaved as if I were invisible.

  The following night I went out with Dennis and, even though he had promised me a wild night, that was also a disaster. First of all he refused to go to any pubs except gay ones and I spent the night desperately trying to make eye contact with him as he twitched in his seat, watching young boys in tight white T-shirts over my shoulder. I could barely get a word of conversation out of him. And when he did bother to talk to me, all he spoke about was Daniel. Which was very irresponsible of him—he was feeding my habit, instead of weaning me off it.

  Megan was still laid low with her Seasonal Affective Disorder because, when I suggested going out and getting drunk and picking up men, she just sighed and said she was too tired.

  So that left Charlotte and Karen. And with all due respect, roommates were a bit of a last resort. I could have got drunk with them anytime.

  “Can’t you think of anything better for us to do than go to the Dog’s Bollix and have drinks spilled on us by Scottish construction workers?” I complained. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Scottish men,” I said quickly, as Karen’s face darkened.

  “Leave it to me.” Charlotte mysteriously tapped the side of her nose. And, with the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she produced a party for us to go to on Saturday night. Her workmate’s roommate’s boyfriend’s brother’s colleague’s cousin was having a party because he hadn’t gotten laid in forever. For this very reason Charlotte, Karen and I were extremely welcome.

  On Saturday night the preparations for the party were just like old times. Charlotte and I opened a bottle of wine and got ready together in my bedroom.

  “I wonder if there’ll be any nice guy
s there tonight?” asked Charlotte, as she tried to put mascara on her bottom lashes with a slightly drunken hand.

  “I wonder if there’ll be any guys there at all,” I said doubtfully. “Especially if the guy is only having the party so that he can get a girl.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Charlotte, her hand wobbling.

  “There’ll have to be some men, and one or two of them will probably be nice.”

  “I don’t care, as long as they’re not like Gus,” I said.

  Karen marched into the room and opened my wardrobe.

  “You mean the days of you bringing home drunk, penniless lunatics, who steal our bottles of tequila, are over?” she demanded as she efficiently flicked through my hangers.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh damn!” exclaimed Charlotte. “Give me a tissue someone, it’s gotten all over my face.”

  “And it’s all because of this business with your dad?” asked Karen, ignoring Charlotte.

  “Who knows? Maybe I would have grown out of penniless musicians anyway,” I said.

  “Hardly,” said Charlotte, as she licked a tissue and dabbed it at the mascara streaks on her cheekbones. She was loath to give up on her theory. “Let’s face it, Lucy, you weren’t getting any younger. Froyd says…”

  “Oh shut up, Charlotte,” snapped Karen. “Lucy where’s your suede jacket, I want to wear it tonight.”

  I resentfully handed it over.

  Eventually we were ready.

  “Lucy, you look beautiful,” said Charlotte.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. Do I look like I’m wearing grey blusher?”

  “Not really. Anyway, you’re beautiful.”

  Actually, you could still see faint traces of where she’d rubbed the mascara into her face, but the taxi was on its way and we didn’t have time for Charlotte to redo her makeup. I’d send her to the bathroom when we arrived at the party.

  “Karen, we must watch Lucy in action tonight,” said Charlotte. “She’ll find the best-looking, richest man in the room and get together with him.”

  “No, I won’t.” I didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte.

  My transformation couldn’t be the immediate, miraculous one that she expected. “Decent men are in short enough supply as it is—why should I suddenly meet a gorgeous one who worships the ground that I walk on just because I’ve found out my father’s an alcoholic?”

  “You will.” She was adamant.

  “Listen to me,” said Karen. “If there’s a rich, good-looking man there, he’s got my name on him.”

  The word Daniel hovered unspoken between Karen and me.

  Then fearless Karen spoke it.

  “Do you remember when I thought there was something going on with you and Daniel?” she asked with a menacing laugh. “Although I’m still not convinced that you haven’t secretly got the hots for him.

  “Not that it’ll do you any good,” she continued. “Let’s face it, Lucy.” She flicked her sophisticated blond glance over my short, flat-chested body. I automatically obliged her by feeling ashamed and worthless. “You’re not exactly his type, are you?”

  Indeed I wasn’t. It was official—he had told me so. The memory of the night he had turned me down was at the forefront of my mind.

  Chapter 81

  At the party I spotted him immediately—the one I would have picked in my former existence. He was young, with sun-bleached surfer’s hair, which was long enough to indicate that he wasn’t a stockbroker. He was handsome and unreliable looking, with bright sparkly eyes. The sparkliness of his eyes had probably been achieved by chemical means. You could tell, just by looking at him, that he had never been on time for anything in his life.

  His sweater was what I would have once described as individual and unique, when the word horrible would have sufficed. He was loud and lively and in the middle of telling a story that involved great sweeps of his arms. The group of people around him were all laughing uncontrollably but then again they all looked like drug addicts. He was probably telling them about one of the times he was arrested, I thought uncharitably.

  I pulled myself up short. When did I get to be so bitter? It wasn’t right to lump every badly dressed, long-haired young man in the same category as Gus. This blond guy might be kind and generous with a good heart and lots of money.

  I stared at him, and thought, “You know, he is cute.”

  He caught me looking at him, and winked and grinned at me. I turned away.

  A few minutes later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and it was him—the cute, loud, sun-bleached jailbird.

  “Hello,” he said loudly. His eyes were an amazing glittery silver colour. The pattern on his sweater could have brought on an epileptic fit.

  “Hello.” I smiled. I couldn’t help it, it was completely automatic.

  “I spotted you from across the room.” He grinned. “And I spotted that you were spotting me too. I wondered if you’d like to come out to the conservatory with me to smoke a joint or twenty…”

  His voice trailed away as I just stared at him. I didn’t mean to be rude but I had to check my vital signs to see if I was attracted to him. But nothing happened, I was stone cold.

  “Er…maybe not…just a suggestion.” He backed away from me, his smile replaced by a look of nervous apprehension. “Stupid thing to say, because I don’t have any drugs, never touch them—‘Just say no,’ that’s my motto….”

  He bolted back to his friends and I heard him telling them that I was an undercover policewoman. They looked collectively ashen and, as a single body, shuffled from the room.

  Whatever he thought he had seen in me—the signal that I used to give out to attract men like him—had gone. It was only the ghost of it that had flickered briefly and lured him in error.

  Pity, though, because he really was very cute.

  Later on, I heard someone complain that there was no one at the party to buy any drugs from. I had the grace to feel guilty.

  It was an awful party, the neighbours didn’t even call the police. The music was terrible, there was almost nothing to drink, and not a single attractive man.

  None that I liked the look of anyway.

  Karen got her knickers all in a twist because of some big, beefy guy whose dad was rumoured to be loaded. And, in her usual determined manner, she found someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the big, beefy guy and ended up speaking to him.

  Charlotte and I sat on the sofa while all the people milling around completely ignored us. I was bored out of my skull. Charlotte kept up a running commentary on everyone there. “See him, Lucy, the way he’s got his arms by his side—a classic anal tentative,” and, “See her, Lucy, desperate for affection—probably wasn’t breastfed.”

  And I muttered, “It’s retentive,” and, “That’s her husband she’s holding hands with.”

  How I rued the day Charlotte had ever gotten her hands on my Psychology for Miserable Women books.

  The tedium continued. But at least there was the walk to find a cab to look forward to.

  Karen flitted by with the human steak.

  “Girls,” she said to Charlotte and me, in her put-on I’m-so-charming voice, “this is Tom. He wanted to be introduced to the two of you—God knows why!”

  Charlotte and I laughed. Because we knew there would be trouble later if we didn’t.

  “Tom, this is Charlotte and this is Lucy.”

  Up close he wasn’t so bad, really. Brown eyes, brown hair, quite a kind face. It was just that I couldn’t stop imagining him covered with pepper sauce.

  The person beside me on the couch got up because their friend had collapsed in the bathroom. And Tom asked Karen if she wanted to sit down.

  “No,” she said. Because she wanted to stand beside him, of course.

  “Are you sure?” he asked puzzled.

  “Quite.” She laughed gaily up at him. “I love to stand.”

  “Okay,” he said, really puzzled
by then. And, to Karen’s slack-jawed horror, he sat down beside me.

  Quick as a flash, in a damage control exercise, Karen perched on the arm of the sofa, beside Charlotte. Actually, she really sat on Charlotte. Then she leaned across us so that she could talk to T-bone, almost obscuring Charlotte and me.

  But she was wasting her time.

  “I’m so glad I met Karen,” said Tom to me.

  I smiled politely.

  “Because,” he continued. “I’ve been watching you all evening and I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to come and talk to you.”

  I smiled politely again.

  Christ! Karen would kill me.

  “So I couldn’t believe my luck when I ended up speaking to your friend.”

  “What’s this?” Karen smiled.

  “I’m just telling Lucy how glad I am that I got talking to you,” said Tom.

  Karen tossed her hair back in a gesture of triumph.

  “I’ve spent the whole night wondering how I could get to meet Lucy,” he continued.

  Karen froze mid-toss. Even the strands of her hair were rigid. She turned a Lucy-you-will-die-for-this-you-bitch face on me.

  I shrunk back into the couch. A few days later I heard that all the plants in the house died that night.

  And it wasn’t as if I found Tom even remotely attractive—after all, I was almost vegetarian.

  “I’m glad I was of use to you, Tom,” said Karen corrosively. She stood up and stalked across the room.

  Tom and I looked at each other, him in shock, me in fear. Then we both burst out laughing.

  It was typical that Tom liked me. Because I didn’t like him. I hadn’t even noticed him. I had always found that the best way to get men interested in me was not to like them. But I had to mean it—faking it never worked. Men always knew that when I ignored them and lifted my chin haughtily, I was actually dying for it. (I quote.)

  Charlotte—obviously on a death wish—ran after Karen, so I talked to meaty Tom. I was touched by his little confession about being too nervous to talk to me, etc., etc. And he seemed nice. But of course he did—he wanted to get me into bed. I almost shuddered at the thought—he was so big, it would be like having sex with a bull.