by Marian Keyes
“. . . the thing is, I’d have to think about it, David.”
“Think about it?” He looked confused, then hurt.
“It’s a big thing,” she protested.
“Hardly. We’ve been together for five months.”
“It’s only four.”
“Four and a half.”
“David, it just feels a bit . . . fast.”
“Fast? ”
“Yes. Fast.”
He stared at her in silence. “Okay.” He waved his hands in defeat. “Take whatever time you need. Let me know when it doesn’t feel so . . . fast.”
Day 59 . . .
“Did Slasher turn up?” Danno yelled at Katie as she came into the office.
“What?” God, she was barely in the door!
“I said,” Danno repeated with elaborate patience. “Did Slasher turn up for your birthday dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Shite!”
Across the office, George crowed with delight. “Told you he would! Where’s my tenner?”
Katie watched Danno open a strange-textured wallet—he claimed it was made from human skin—and pass a ten-euro note to George.
“You’re taking bets?” On whether Conall would turn up or cancel?
“I was sure he wouldn’t show,” Danno said. He gestured at his screen. He kept a graph of all the times that Conall canceled on Katie. Initially, it had been an average of one in four, then one in three. “Extrapolating from the data that he canceled on you three times in succession, that your relationship was in essence fl atlining, I calculated that he wouldn’t come. Any mathematician would have done the same.”
“But I’m an intuitor, I work from my gut,” George said. “I feel the three-cancellations-in-a-row was a blip. Also it was your birthday, he couldn’t let you down. Finally, because the dinner was to facilitate him, on account of him being away for your actual birthday, he had to be there.”
“A fallacy.” Danno raised a finger knowingly. “He could have rung the restaurant from Mogadishu or wherever he was slashing jobs, and given them his credit card number. Katie’s family and friends could still have had their dinner and expensive wine without him actually having to be there. Everyone else would probably have preferred it, no? Katie?”
“Probably,” she admitted.
“Lots of tension?” George asked, striving for sympathy.
“Yes,” she said. “He showed up at my flat with champagne.”
“Kih!” Danno scoffed. “That’s so over! No one drinks champagne. It’s all Prosecco, these days.”
George gazed at his screen with exaggerated intensity; George adored champagne. If he overlapped all of his fantasies, he would spend his days drinking Veuve from a pair of black patent Christian Louboutin platforms that had once been worn by Nicole Kidman.
“Charlie—” Katie said.
“That’s her brother,” Danno told George.
“I know.”
“Charlie wouldn’t accept a glass because champagne makes him fart.”
George winced at such crassness.
“And Ralph—”
“That’s her brother-in-law,” Danno told George.
“I know.”
“—wouldn’t have any because only girls drink it.”
“Honestly!” George rolled his eyes. “And did your mother ask Conall if he has any intention of marrying you?”
“Not out loud. But you could still hear it.”
“And did Conall answer her?”
“Not out loud. But you could still hear it. I’d better do some work,” Katie said, going to her desk, but then she seemed to change her mind. “Show me the graph,” she said to Danno. “Print it out.”
“Why torture yourself?” George said.
“Let her torture herself if she wants! Let her enjoy the few pleasures that are left to her. She’s forty in two days’ time.”
Danno laid his graph before her and Katie looked at the pattern over the last couple of months. She had to admit it was a good graph, very easy to follow.
“See these black areas here,” Danno said. “That’s where he’s let you down. As you can see, he missed MaryRose’s baby’s christening, your mother’s seventieth birthday and the dinner to make up for missing your nine-month anniversary.”
“Thank you, Danno,” she murmured. “You’ve set this out very clearly.”
“Working backward—” he tapped with his pen—“we’re soon into another black area. That would be the night he missed the charity ball followed by the time you tried to surprise him with the Coco de Mer knickers.”
That had been a particularly mortifying one, Katie admitted. She had let herself into his house, strewn the place with rose petals, climbed into the ridiculously uncomfortable underwear and waited for Conall to come home. And waited . . . and waited . . . and eventually discovered that he wasn’t stuck in traffic but in Schipol airport, waiting for a connection to Singapore. An emergency, apparently.
“What are these gold bits?” George asked.
“Those areas correlate to the times Conall actually did turn up.”
Katie studied the graph. There were sizable gold bits, but also sizable black parts. She thought about the mirror, still on the floor, the text that she’d fired off and still hadn’t had a response to . . .
“Did Conall give you a birthday gift?” George interrupted her introspection.
She raised her hand in the air, so her sleeve fell to her elbow.
At the sight of the watch, George went pale. “Platinum? Diamonds? Tiffany? Oh girlfriend. This man is in looooove.”
“Not at all,” Danno said briskly. “Slasher Hathaway marks his territory by spending money. He might as well have pissed on her. It means nothing.”
Day 59 . . .
More things Lydia hates:
Golfers
Socks with holes in the big toe
People who say, “Thanking you.”
Her brother Raymond
Mental illness
The smell of other people’s urine
People who say, “Thank you kindly.”
People who say, “Ta, love.”
People who say, “Ta muchly.”
People who say, “Muchas gracias.” (Unless they’re Spanish, but they
never are.)
People who say, “Merci bow-coup.” (Unless they’re French, but they
never are.)
Customers who ask for receipts
People who say, “Here’s the thing.”
People whose names are actually surnames (e.g., Mr. Buchanan
Buchanan)
Schoolchildren, particularly the very young
Red lights
Pedestrian crossings
Her father
Please note: this is not a complete list.
Day 59 . . .
Jemima was on the afternoon shift. “Hello, Celtic Psychic Line, Mystic Maureen speaking, how may I help? Cards? Very well, dear. And your name? Laurie. Now what appears to be the problem?”
Jemima listened. And listened. When the tale of woe eventually ended, Jemima said briskly, “No, dear heart, he’s not going to marry you.”
“That’s on the cards?” Laurie’s voice yelped.
Jemima hadn’t actually consulted the cards yet. Quickly, she cut the deck. The Knave of Hearts, a young bachelor devoted to enjoyment: that came as no surprise. She cut again. The ten of Swords: grief, sorrow, loss of freedom.
“Dear heart, permit me to be frank: one doesn’t need to be psychic to know that this chap of yours is a wastrel and a scoundrel. A scut, if I may be so bold. Kick him to the curb!” She picked another card. The Queen of Diamonds. Oh my! “And don’t be surprised if he subsequently makes overtures to your sister.”
“But she’s seven months pregnant.”
“I’m seeing a fair-haired woman given to gossip and wanting in refinement. A spiteful flirt.”
“That’s my mum! He’s hardly going to put the moves
on my mum!”
“There are few limits to this young man’s perfidy,” Jemima said darkly. “Yes, he’s a wrong ’un and no mistake.”
“But I love him.”
“You merely think you do. But there is someone far better on his way to you.” She felt there was no harm in saying this. There probably was someone on his way to Laurie, but she’d never meet him if she stuck with this ne’er-do-well. She picked another card. The Ace of Cups. “You will be calm and content.”
“I don’t want to be calm and content. I’m nineteen!”
“Quite right.” She picked another card. The Ten of Clubs. “I see travel by sea.”
“The Dublin Bay Sea Thrill.” Laurie sounded downcast.
Jemima picked the final card. The Ace of Clubs. This was a very good one, even though you were supposed to pretend there was no such thing as “good” or “bad” cards and that it was all a matter of interpretation. “Aha. Pleasant tidings. Money is on its way to you.”
“Okay, that’s a bit better.”
“I wish you well, my dear, and I urge you not to ring again. The cost-per-minute is dreadfully high—I’m afraid I have no influence over what they charge—and the answer isn’t going to change. Spend your money on something better. Buy yourself a nice . . .” What did young people wear? “. . . a nice thong and go out . . .” What did young women do? “. . . go out binge-drinking with the money.”
“Binge-drinking?”
“Not to the point of incapacity, but have a few . . . what are those delightful-looking, ruby-hued drinks? Sea-breezes? Yes. Go dancing. Smile. Have fun. Forget this cad. Bye for now.”
She hung up. She was supposed to keep them on the line for as long as possible, running up astronomical costs on their credit cards. It was a disgraceful racket, one of the many ways the modern world took advantage of the sad and lonely, and in her own small way Jemima was quite the subversive. Sooner or later the owners of this wretched Celtic Psychic Line would find out what she was up to but, in the meantime, so many people to help, so little time.
As she waited for the next call, and it wouldn’t take long—there seemed to be an endless stream of lovelorn young women seeking psychic guidance—she looked around at her dark, crowded living room. It never failed to lift her spirits.
Jemima had lived in her little flat for five years and she adored it. Her now-deceased and much-missed husband, one Giles, had been an architect who had designed an award-winning example of “High Modernism,” which was built (due to vocal objections from residents in almost every other part of Ireland) in County Monaghan. “High Modernism” meant glass, lots and lots of glass. Acres of the stuff. Jemima used to have nightmares that she’d been charged with the task of cleaning all the windows in the world and her only tools were a small bottle of Windowlene and an old newspaper. Then she would discover that she was not, in fact, asleep.
In addition to the constant daily round of window-cleaning, Jemima had never felt entirely comfortable in attending to her private needs. For example, if she was rereading Madame Bovary and was overtaken by an irresistible basic need—as can happen to all human beings, regardless of their moral rectitude or exalted position in life—such as to scratch her bottom, she was obliged to check first that three or four bored locals didn’t have their sights trained on her. That was the main trouble with Pokey: there was absolutely nothing to do, and spying on the oddball Protestant in her ludicrous glass cube was accepted as a hobby by local employers on job applications, along with compulsive gambling and suicide ideation.
When Giles shuffled off his mortal coil, Jemima felt his loss with shocking impact but she wasted no time putting the Glass House on the market. To the almost-orgasmic pleasure of the agent, she said she was prepared to throw in all the lightweight titanium furniture, which had been specifically designed for the house. They were welcome to it, she thought. She was off to Dublin, armed with great plans to trawl auction rooms, seeking dark, heavy stuff, furniture of substance.
She’d had enough of Pokey. There weren’t enough needy people to give her do-goodery tendencies their full rein. Also, if she were to be perfectly honest, she was sick to her craw of green fields. Yes, it was buzzy Dublin for her, as close to the city center as she could afford. She wanted to feel life going on all around her. Luckily, Dublin house prices having been what they were five years ago, her needs were modest. Two bedrooms, so that Fionn could stay whenever he wanted, but otherwise a small little place was perfect for her needs. She wanted minimal housework, no window cleaning and—most liberating of all—no wretched garden with its need for perpetual upkeep!
The move was not without its upheaval. Fionn was the issue. She would miss him terribly and, of course, he would miss her. But she wouldn’t be alive for ever. Time to cut the apron strings.
Day 59 . . .
Lydia was having a right old Irkutsky day of it. The city was riddled with summer tourists and a busker—a bloody busker, no less, some madman with an accordion—had attracted such a large crowd in Westmoreland Street that people had spilled into the street, dancing, causing her to swerve and almost collide with a cyclist, who shrieked red-faced, moral-high-ground, no-carbon-emissions abuse at her. She hated buskers with their passive-aggressive pretense at providing a service. Even when they were atrocious you felt obliged to give them a couple of bob because they were making the effort. People who simply sat on the pavement begging for money, that she could deal with. It was a much more honest transaction because you knew what you were getting, which was precisely nothing.
And she hated cyclists—another sanctimonious bunch with their namby-pamby whining about doing their best for the environment so it was okay for them to navigate the roads like lunatics and it was up to taxi drivers, decent people such as herself, to be responsible for their safety. If she ruled the world, cyclists would be shot on sight.
Then she unwrapped her breakfast bagel to discover that the boy in the sandwich shop had, on his own, added chopped cabbage to her cream cheese. Even if she didn’t abhor cabbage—which surely all non-madzers did—in what universe did he think that cream cheese and cabbage would go together?
Overwhelmed by the bagel atrocity, she began thinking about other atrocities until she had to pull into a parking space and ring her brother Murdy, who murmured, “I know how you feel,” when clearly he didn’t because, if he did, he’d do something.
“Come down at the weekend,” he said. “We’ll discuss it over supper. I’ve got to go now.”
Tears of Murmansky frustration interfering with her vision, she pulled back out into the traffic and, in quick succession, almost drove into a bus, almost rear-ended a scaredy-cat student driver and almost took the side off a white van, the driver of which treated her to a stream of abuse in a strong Cavan accent. Abuse she could take, abuse she was used to, but abuse in a Cavan accent, now that was pushing it. Taxi drivers, she thought grimly, are the scapegoats of the driving world. We are everybody’s whipping boy.
All the same, perhaps she should wait until she was a little bit calmer before continuing her day’s work. As soon as she found another vacant spot, she parked and rang her brother Ronnie, then wished she hadn’t. Novosibirsk!
Day 59 . . .
Brutal and all as Danno’s assessment was of Katie’s relationship with Conall, Katie had to admit that he had a point. This is all my own fault, she acknowledged. Right from the very first time she’d gone out with Conall, the warning signs were there. After that shambles, she thought darkly, she should have killed the whole thing there and then.
It had been such a big deal, the first date. Conall had actually presented her with a travel folder. “Tomorrow a car will pick you up from home at twelve. You’re flying to Heathrow at two.”
“And then what?”
“Everything will unfold on a need-to-know.”
“We couldn’t do something small and normal, like going a round the corner for something to eat?”
He’d laughed; he’d thought sh
e was joking.
“What am I meant to wear for this magical mystery tour? Because if it’s sturdy boots and a hat with earflaps, I’m not coming.”
He laughed again. He was still finding her every utterance absolutely enchanting. “A dress. Formalish.”
A little desperately, she said, “I need more information than that.”
“Really, you’ll look great no matter what you wear.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t tell me more, I can’t come.”
“Oh . . . okay . . . A black dress. High heels. A small pointless bag.”
She hurried home and emptied her wardrobe onto her bed. A black dress was no problem; she had dozens, almost impossible for anyone other than her to tell apart. And at least he hadn’t told her to be fashion-forward (although would a straight man even know such a term?). She’d never done cutting-edge with conviction, not even when she’d been the right age (sixteen to twenty-two). Something to do with the size of her chest meant she looked uproariously funny in trend items: if she wore sparkly hairbands, for example, she looked like a simpleton daughter who was still living with her parents at the age of forty-nine.
With her wardrobe laid bare before her, she was alarmed by the amount of well-cut, classic stuff it featured. She was like a bloody French woman! Curses! She didn’t want to be a French woman. She didn’t think like a French woman. She’d rather be one of the those early-nineties Slaves of New York types with red and black striped tights, eighteen-hole Doc Martens and denim shorts, but you had to be skinny, skinny, skinny for that look.
Thank God for shoes and bags. Even if she had to play it safe with the basics, her shoes and bags were defiantly hip. And at least she could wear jeans again. At the height of things with Jason, when all they did was nestle in domestic bliss and eat apple tarts, she was far too lardy for jeans. Then it had ended and it was awful, but on the up side she’d lost three stone.
For the mystery date with Conall, she finally decided on a severely tailored (black, of course) dress, cut with hip-narrowing, stomach-flattening deftness. For the flight she covered it with a roomy jacket and a certain amount of resentment: it was embarrassing having to get on a plane—alone—in a sexy dress and sexy shoes in the middle of the day. People might think she was a delusional type, like those mad old duchesses who went to the dry-cleaners in their tiara and dressing gown.
