by Marian Keyes
And has a fake daughter, don’t forget the fake daughter. (Angeline had never tried to fool anyone that Fionn was a girl but the townsfolk’s mistake made them feel foolish and then resentful.)
Drugs, someone else whispered, behind their hands. And no father for that ladyboy. They loved talking about Angeline. Endlessly, relentlessly, they watched and talked and talked and watched and lost any interest in spying on the oddball Protestants in their preposterous glass home. Angeline’s beauty, her kohl-rimmed eyes, her murky past—she was better than a soap opera.
No one could believe it when she died.
It turned out that she’d had emphysema. Her story about coming to Pokey for the climate was entirely true. She’d been seeking fresh air to mend her poor damaged lungs when what she’d really needed was medication. But because she was a fragile, impractical type, who was desperate for positive outcomes, without any understanding of how to make them happen, she hadn’t asked for help.
Obviously, no one in the town had offered assistance. They couldn’t. Although they’d noticed she lived her life in chaos—Fionn didn’t go to school and there were often scenes in the supermarket because Angeline didn’t have enough money—not until Angeline’s descendants had lived in the townland for four generations could she be accepted as one of them. Harsh, perhaps, but rules were rules.
Everyone assumed that Angeline had been an amoral floozy with no idea who’d fathered her child, but Fionn produced details and one phone call from the Pokey police was enough to conjure up Pearse Purdue. A beautiful man, in Jemima’s opinion. As handsome as Angeline had been beautiful and, like her, a free spirit. (Or, if you wanted to be uncharitable, which Jemima didn’t, pathologically irresponsible.) A fisherman, Pearse had spent his life working the trawlers up and down the west coast. Fionn had been the result of a short-lived but very passionate marriage with Angeline, and although they hadn’t stayed together—Pearse was at sea eleven months of the year and Angeline spoke just a tiny bit too slowly for Pearse to endure—relations had remained cordial. Pearse loved Fionn but acknowledged he was incapable of parenting him.
He’d have to be fostered.
Which is when Jemima and Giles stepped in. They were aghast at Angeline’s death. “How could we have let it happen?” Jemima asked Giles.
“You brought her soup.”
“But I didn’t understand how ill she was. Fionn was giving her Lem-sip. I thought she just had a bad cold.”
“We weren’t to know,” Giles said, kneading her shoulders. “We weren’t to know. But we can give him a home now.”
“He’ll be a handful,” the man from Social Services warned Jemima. “He’s inherited irresponsibility from both sides of the family. A double hit. He hasn’t a hope. And he looks like a girl.”
“Giles and I aren’t daunted,” Jemima said. “A well-balanced child will always get a home, but it’s the poor damaged ones who really need it.”
Day 57 . . .
Today is Katie’s actual birthday.
“Forty,” Danno said when she walked into the office. “Next stop, death.”
A small delegation of staff approached her desk. “Happy birthday, Ms. Richmond,” Danno said. They presented her with a card and a gift-wrapped parcel. “It’s only small, we could never compete with Slasher’s loot, but we put a lot of thought into it.”
It was a fortieth-birthday diary. On the cover it said, “Life Begins . . . A guide to what’s left of your life.” At the top of each day was an uplifting thought.
“But this is divine.” Katie flicked through it. “Let me read out today’s message. “Dance joyously every day of your life. But don’t let anyone else see you, not at your age.” That’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have, guys.”
“Slasher Hathaway’s here!”
Wildly surprised, Katie looked at Danno.
“I thought you said he was in Helsinki,” Danno said accusingly.
“He was.”
“He’s flown back just to take you out for lunch,” George said.
George was probably right, Katie acknowledged. Conall was a great man for the grand gesture.
“In a private plane with cream-leather upholstery and royal-blue carpet, ankle-deep,” George said dreamily. “Drinking Krug and eating Beluga caviar although caviar is strange and disgusting. That popping texture . . . it’s like Space Dust for gourmets—”
“Shut up, you nutter,” Danno snapped. To Katie, he said, “He’s waiting downstairs. Eating chocolate, as usual, trying to push down all that guilt he must be carrying. He’s keen to see you.”
She took her time. She’d had other things lined up for this, her birthday lunch hour, and she was pissed off at Conall’s presumption. Okay, so she’d only been planning a visit to the foot-protection section of Boots, but, for a woman who lived in high heels, it was where two of her specialist interests intersected. She was mildly obsessed with sole-protectors—invisible padded gel cushions which were meant to prevent that unpleasant burning sensation in the ball of the foot. She hadn’t yet found a brand that worked for her, that didn’t peel off the shoe and stick to her foot instead, but she remained hopeful. In addition, she’d seen an ad for a new product, a delightful see-through, wrap-around gel device to protect the little toe in open sandals, and she was keen for a look. And she was out of heel-guards, which she couldn’t live without. Not only did they prevent naked heels from chafing against the back of shoes, but they also helped to anchor the foot in the shoe, preventing it from lifting out at pivotal moments in one’s life, like crossing a stage to accept a prize in front of hundreds of people, as had happened to Katie when she had won PR of the Year some years back. The statue on her mantelpiece had eventually tarnished but that particularly humiliating memory had not. She would never permit it to happen again.
She made the four phone calls she’d been planning to make before Danno had announced Conall, then proceeded at a fairly leisurely pace to the ladies’ and put on all the makeup she could find in her bag. Only then did she get the lift downstairs. There, as Danno had said, was Conall, clicking away on his BlackBerry, deep in thought and looking grim.
As she approached, he lifted his head and his entire demeanor softened. He jumped to his feet. She let him kiss her, not a full-on supersnog, they were in her working environs, after all, and he hadn’t put up her mirror or replied to her text, then she pulled away.
“Happy birthday,” he said, his eyes shining into hers.
“What happened to Helsinki?”
He shrugged, still smiling. “It’s your birthday.”
“You mean, negotiations briefly broke down but you’re going back tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I can get nothing past you. I don’t even know why I try. Can I take you to lunch?”
She waited. She thought about her mirror. “Probably.”
“Then will you take the afternoon off work and spend it in bed with me?”
“I’ve got a press conference.”
“I’ve missed you,” he said softly.
“I’ve got a press conference.” She set her jaw. She would not let herself say another word.
He was unhumanly persuasive. He didn’t even have to speak to exert his will, all he had to do was look at her with those gravel eyes, eyes that said he was an unhappy man and all that made life bearable for him was Katie.
It was a measure of just how persuasive he was that, after the terrible first date at Glyndebourne, Katie ever went out with him again. She was adamant that she would have nothing further to do with him, but somehow he talked her into giving him one more try. On the second date, which was entirely different from a trip to the opera but probably as risky, Conall took her to meet his family. It was his nephews’ birthday, Laddie and Hector, fourteen-year-old identical twins with identical hostile haircuts growing down over their eyes and an identical absence of interest in Katie when she was ushered into their small sitting room. Only at Conall’s instigation did they grunt a greeting, but they
remained slumped immobile, one on the couch, the other on the floor.
Katie was mortified. No one but a headcase would think this was a good idea. But Conall’s brother, Joe, a balding sandy-haired man, was friendly enough, as was his wife, Pat. Then a little girl bowled into the room and declared, “I like your shoes.”
“Are you talking to me?” Katie asked.
“Who else here has wicked shoes?”
This was Bronagh, Conall’s seven-year-old niece, who looked so astonishingly like Conall that Katie actually laughed.
“I know,” Joe said. “You’d think the missus was diddling me brother behind me back, but she swears she wasn’t.”
Pat rolled her eyes. “I’m mad but I’m not that mad.” Too late, she realized what she’d said.
“Thanks, Pat,” Conall said. “Like I’m not having enough trouble trying to convince Katie I’m normal.”
“Show us the new car!” Joe said, kick-starting a stampede to the front door. Even the Surly Twins were roused from their torpor at the idea of test-driving Uncle Conall’s new Lexus. They piled out of the house and Pat melted away to the kitchen, leaving Katie alone with Bronagh, who sighed extravagantly. “Boys and their toys. Give me a try on of your shoes and I’ll paint your nails silver.”
By the time the men returned from their trip around the block, Katie had been ferried upstairs by Bronagh, who confided that she had taken to her.
Conall’s risk had paid off: the warmth of his family had convinced her that he might just be semi-sane.
“You can take me for lunch,” she said to Conall. “Then you can feck off. You can’t just—”
“I know, I can’t just waltz in here, expecting you to up-end all your plans when they’ve been in place for weeks and it’s all my fault anyway for signing up for an unpredictable takeover which overlapped the week of your birthday and to add insult to injury I didn’t put your mirror up.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He’d said it all. “Exactly.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “But you can’t blame a man for trying.”
On their way to the restaurant, a cyclist zoomed toward them, scattering Katie and Conall to opposite sides of the pavement.
“Jesus Christ!” Conall said. “They’re bloody everywhere.”
“They make me feel guilty. I keep thinking I should start cycling to work.”
“The environment?” Conall opened the restaurant door.
“Mmmm . . .” That and her thighs. “But I’m so lazy. Funny, because I loved my bike when I was a kid.”
A managerial-looking type had recognized Conall and they were led straight to their table.
As they sat down, Katie asked Conall, “Did you have a bike?”
A shadow passed over his eyes.
“What?” she asked. “You twitched or something.”
“I had a bike.”
“So why the twitch? Tell me why. It can be my birthday present.”
“I already gave you a watch!”
“Tell me.”
He paused. “You know the upbringing I had?”
Conall had grown up without much money. Not abject Angela’s Ashes, drunken-father/mother-on-the-game poverty, but fairly hand-to-mouth. His dad had been a plumber, his mum a dressmaker. All through his childhood, their front room had been Mrs. Hathaway’s work space, covered with bolts of fabric and strange off-cuts and half-finished wedding dresses. He grew too fast and his mum was always worried about new shoes for him.
“There wasn’t any money for bicycles.”
Katie put her hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”
He waved away her apologies. “It’s okay, it’s okay. But Spudz did this offer where, if you collected five thousand chip packets, you’d get a free bike.”
“Who could collect five thousand chip bags?”
There was an odd little moment, then he said, “I did.”
“How?”
“I needed somewhere where they ate chips in huge quantities. So I went to the local pub and did my pitch.”
“What age were you?”
“Nine. No, ten. No, nine.”
“And what happened?”
“They had a good laugh at me, the barmen. But they said they’d collect them for me.”
“And did they?”
“Yeah. And in three other pubs too.”
“Three others!” Even aged nine he’d been an entrepreneur. What was she doing with this man?
“It took me nearly four months, but I got five thousand chip bags and I got the bike.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
She watched him retreat back into himself. “That I got a free bike when I was nine.”
That he never gave up? That if he wanted something, he got it? That he was driven in ways she would never understand?
“My mirror—” she said.
“It’s on the wall.”
“Since when?”
“Since . . .” He took a look at his watch. “Since an hour and forty-four minutes ago.”
“Jason’s wedding?”
“I’ll be back for it. I swear on my life.”
“On your life?”
“On my life, I’ll be there. Everyone in Helsinki knows about it.”
She exhaled slowly, wondering if it was okay to relax.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “For your mirror. For the way I am. I know you’re holding back on me . . .”
She was startled. Yes, she’d taken care not to fully surrender her heart and her hope and her future to a man who mightn’t be capable of caring for them. But she hadn’t realized he’d noticed.
“Who knows what’s going to happen with us,” he said. “But whatever it is, it won’t work if only one of us is into it.”
He’d never been so forthright before and she wasn’t sure how to reply. “But Conall, you’re a workaholic. It makes you unreliable.”
He flinched. “I’ll change. I’m trying. I turn off my phone when we’re together, haven’t you noticed?”
She had but . . . She took a risk and jumped into virgin territory. “I’ve been heartbroken before. I really don’t know if I have the energy for it again.”
“Who’s to say that that’s what would happen?” He was earnest. “You could just as easily get sick of me.”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged.
“Please don’t.”
He sounded unexpectedly anguished and suddenly the word LOVE was hanging in the air, looping them together, garlanding them with flowers and hearts and lovebirds and pink mist. I love you. It was there, all that was needed to breathe life into it and make it real was for one of them to utter it. I love you. But Katie wouldn’t.
Even though she had fallen in love with him, just a bit. You couldn’t not. He was sexy, sexy, sexy.
It was up to him.
He looked at her, an eyebrow raised questioningly. She presented a bland face to him and he watched her for a little too long. “Okay.” He sighed. “Let’s order.”
Day 57 . . .
“Hi, Maeve.”
“Hi, Doreen.”
“What’ll it be?”
“The usual.”
“Ham salad on brown bread, no mustard? Despite there being a wealth of sandwich differentials to choose from in the modern Ireland?”
“I’m happy with the ham.”
“A bag of plain chips.” Doreen put them on the counter. “And a can of Fanta.” But there was no Fanta on the shelf. “Where’s the Fanta?” Doreen called to some unseen person behind a door.
“We’re out of it,” the unseen voice said.
Maeve became aware that the next girl in the queue seemed almost as distressed as she herself was by this news.
“Maeve, I don’t know what to say, but we’re out of Fanta,” Doreen said.
“Ah feck!” the girl beside Maeve groaned. “I love my Fanta!”
“Hi, Samantha. Sorry, girls.” Doreen looked grim. “Heads
will roll for this, is all I can say. I’ll do my best to have it in again by Monday.”
Suddenly, there was some kerfuffle at the storeroom door and then a hand was extended, holding one can of Fanta. “Last one,” the voice attached to the hand said.
“You’re in luck, Maeve,” Doreen said. “Sorry, Samantha.”
This was Maeve’s chance. An act of kindness, right there and then. She forced herself to gift it to this Samantha and it was hard, almost as hard as smiling warmly at random strangers. But Samantha was effusive with gratitude and Doreen gave Maeve a free can of Lilt as a substitute, and Maeve tried to savor the warm glow generated by her own goodness. The thing was that she didn’t like change. Any alterations to her routine, no matter how small, threw her, and refreshing and all as the Lilt was, she felt quite off-kilter for the rest of the day.
Day 57 . . .
Lydia, hungover and exhausted, had just pulled in to eat her lunch, a strawberry yogurt and a banana—it was all she could trust her stomach with after the number of units she’d consumed the previous night—when her phone rang. It was a County Meath number, one that she didn’t recognize—then she did! Shite.
“Lydia? Flan Ramble here—”
“Hello, Flan.” She spoke quickly. A low, dready feeling swamped her. He only ever rang with bad news. In fact, he seemed to delight in it.
“Don’t call me Flan. I’m Mr. Ramble to you.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s been a bit of a . . . an incident—”
“What?” Just tell me.
“If I was to say the words a small house fire, would you get my drift?”
“A fire? In the house? A small one?”
“Got it in one! A pot was left on the ring too long, the curtains went up, blew out the windows. No real damage, but you’ll have a fair old job dealing with the scorch marks.” He chuckled. “You’d better get down here pronto with your paintbrush.”
“I’m in Dublin, Mr. Ramble.” Flan, Flan, Flan.
“I’ve tried to get hold of Murdy or Ronnie, but I can’t run either of them to ground.”
Surprise, surprise. “I’m in Dublin,” Lydia repeated. “Fifty miles of road between us. With very heavy traffic.”
