by Marian Keyes
A quick flick at her watch. It was suddenly a quarter to ten, and dread began a slow slide inside her.
Katie knew how these things worked. Television: yes, they did long hours, but the unions had them in a stranglehold. As soon as they’d worked a certain number of hours, the technicians’ hefty overtime rate kicked in. No director went there. Fionn should have finished work ages ago.
Suddenly, she was hungry, hungry, hungry, craving baked goods in sizable quantities, but there was nothing in her cupboards. She couldn’t keep confectionery in the flat, it would torment her and she’d eat it all, just to give herself some peace. She ate a banana and instantly wanted twenty more. It was imperative that she leave the kitchen right now.
She would watch a DVD, something short, only half an hour, and by the time it was over, he’d be here.
She watched an episode of Star Stories, the Simon Cowell one, her favorite, and when that was over she watched the one about Tom Cruise.
Maybe she’d give him until eleven.
He wasn’t coming.
She was a cretin to have thought he would. That’s it then! Cleanse, tone, moisturize and into bed! But should she go to bed still made-up? Just in case he called in the next five minutes . . . No! Without mercy, she scrubbed her face bare, until she was pink-eyed and raw-looking.
Bastard, she thought, with such a backwash of bile that she shocked herself. She’d better watch it. She couldn’t go the way she’d gone after Jason had met Donanda. She didn’t want to have to do another course. Or to be haunted by Granny Spade on Bitter Watch.
She turned off her light and, almost instantly, noises started up in the downstairs flat. Grunting and the slap of wood against something. Were they moving furniture? So late? . . . Oh no! It was people having sex!
An unbearable thought struck her: it wasn’t Conall, was it? With little taxi-driving Lydia? That would finish her off entirely. She would get out of bed and go downstairs in her pajamas and go out into the street and lie in the middle of the road and wait for a bus to run over her. There was no way on earth she could endure hearing Conall having sex with someone else. She switched the light back on, got out of bed and put her ear to the floor, listening hard. She didn’t recognize the grunting. Conall was a grunter, but a different kind. This must be one of the Polish guys, she reckoned. What was his name? She couldn’t remember . . .
“Andrei! Oh Andrei, Andrei!”
“Thank you,” Katie yelled at the floor. “I wouldn’t have slept a wink trying to remember. I’m very fecking obliged to you!”
Angrily, she thrust earplugs into her ears with such force that they almost lodged in her brain, and eventually she fell into a troubled but deep sleep.
Day 31 . . .
“You’re breaking up with me? On our first date?”
“The thing is, Rosemary, I’ve met someone else.”
“How? You only met me five days ago.”
Fionn shrugged helplessly. How could he describe how he felt about Katie? Unlike the first time he’d seen Rosie, with Katie there had been no spirals and color. Instead, he’d had an abiding, irresistible sense of safe harbor. Of docking. Of everything—everything—clicking into place. He was powerless over it and his short-lived fancy for Rosie had immediately seemed silly and skittish.
“Sorry,” he said, hoping he could go now. It would take him forever to get back to Star Street and Katie.
Rosie had chosen a spot far, far across the city for their first date. A pub in Greystones overlooking a little harbor. Very scenic. Also—Fionn suspected—handily placed so that it was unlikely she would bump into anyone she knew.
Fionn hadn’t wanted to go. Now that he’d met Katie, what would be the point? But the only number he had for Rosie was the one at the hospital (cagey creature that she was, she hadn’t given him her mobile), and she wasn’t on duty. He had no way of canceling and he couldn’t simply abandon her to sit in the Harbor View in a pretty lemon-colored cotton dress, sipping her West Coast Cooler all by herself, looking up hopefully every time the door opened. He’d loved her once.
He wanted a quick in and out—thanks for coming, sorry and all that, let’s move on—but he lost valuable time by getting a Dart going in the wrong direction and was twenty-five minutes late when he arrived.
“This is not acceptable.” Rosie quivered with affronted dignity. “You do not leave a lady sitting alone in a public house. You should always arrive fifteen minutes early.”
“. . . Um, sorry.” Fionn was suddenly afraid to admit his error with the Dart. “My job, it ran over and it’s television—”
“Television? I’m sure we’re all impressed. But I’m never impressed by bad manners.”
He had to suffer through a short lecture on etiquette and then found himself trying to talk Rosie out of her grump. The problem was that he wasn’t sure how to break up with her because he’d never had to do it before. It had always been done for him. When he’d refused to fall in with his girlfriends’ plans for the little van with his mobile number on the side, tears, shouting, perhaps throwing of objects would ensue. Finally, the girl would leave and he’d be alone for a while with his potatoes and courgettes until a new one showed up.
“Rosie, you’re a lovely girl,” he said, trying to feel his way through this.
She nodded. She knew that.
“I’m sure you’re a great girlfriend.”
“I’m a prize, Fionn.”
“And I’m sorry if I misled you—”
“ Misled me?”
“—but I’m not sure this is working out.”
That’s when she realized what was happening. “You’re breaking up with me? On our first date?”
But she didn’t slink off in humiliated tears. She sat up straighter, seething with righteous indignation. “You can’t do this to me. I’m not the type of girl you play games with.”
Great alarm rose in Fionn. Was she going to insist on a relationship? Was she going to force him?
“Do you think I make a habit of giving my phone number to men? And meeting them in Wicklow? I’ve risked things for tonight. I have a boyfriend!”
“You still have him?”
Reluctantly, she nodded. Far too canny to dump one prospect before the other was a dead cert, Fionn realized. Thank God for that.
“Go back to your boyfriend, Rosie. Forget me.” Fionn remembered a line that had sometimes been yelled at him as a parting shot. “I’m a fucking eejit. I’m not worth it.”
They had to get the same Dart from Greystones back into town—Darts from Greystones were rare beasts and you missed one at your peril. Naturally, Fionn and Rosie occupied separate cars. When he got off at Pearse Street she stayed on the train, and as it pulled out of the station with its customary whine, her brightly lit carriage passed him. She lifted her little white chin and twisted sharply away from the sight of him, in an extravagant display of contempt. All very unpleasant.
Fionn bounded up the stairs to the top floor of 66 Star Street, but there was no response to his urgent knocking. Was Katie asleep? Or ignoring him?
It was imperative that he see her. She had to know that he wasn’t a flake. Or a . . .? He summoned further insults from past breakups. What else had been yelled at him before girls left for the last time? That he was a lightweight. A chancer. A messer. An immature moron. And most popular of all, by a long chalk, a fucking eejit.
But he was no longer any of those things; he was a man now, a man whose intentions were serious, and it was very important that Katie knew. But she wasn’t answering the door.
A note. He’d write her a note and explain everything. His pockets yielded up a leaky pen and a few pages of the previous day’s shooting schedule.
Dear Katie,
I’m sorry I didn’t get here until now.
But he didn’t own a watch, so he didn’t know when now was.
I would like to see you. I will call again. Depend on it.
Yours,
Fionn
But words were frustratingly inadequate. He had to prove his regret. He searched his pockets for something and brought forth an ear of sage. No. What good was wisdom? Or gray pebbles? Or a torn Orbit wrapper? A deeper rummage unearthed a withered dark-green sprig. What was that? Then he identified it. Well, perfect! It was rue. Rue was very much a statement herb—God Almighty, he was starting to think like Grainne Butcher’s scripts—as it was bitter, poisonous stuff. In times past, people threw it at weddings, when their loved ones were marrying another.
Please accept this gift as a token of my rue.
He wasn’t sure if that was grammatically correct, but it was from the heart, and Grainne kept saying that if it was from the heart it would work.
Then he folded the sprig into the note and tried to shove it under the door—but it wouldn’t go. Katie’s door had something like a short sweeping brush fitted to the bottom of it. (A draft-prevention measure, but he wasn’t to know, undomesticated animal that he was.) Reluctantly, he left the note outside and anxiously descended the stairs to Jemima’s flat, where Grudge had spent several hours waiting to bite him, then pretend it was an accident.
Fionn was quite afraid. This evening he had learned that not all women were like the ones in Pokey, who, in retrospect, were sweet, malleable creatures, always cutting him plenty of slack, despite the insult-fest that usually signaled the end of their dalliance. Katie might be as tough and unforgiving as that Rosie.
Katie might never speak to him again.
You’re right, Fionn, she mightn’t.
Day 30
Lydia’s phone rang. She flicked it open and said, “Hi, Poppy.”
“I got your message,” Poppy said. “But who is this man?”
“No one. Just some rich old bloke who has me tormented.”
“And he’s going to pay for everything? As much pink champagne as we want?”
“As much as we want.”
“Lydia, that’s not right.”
“He knows the score and he won’t leave me alone.”
“But it’s like . . . he’s buying you.”
“He’s not fecking buying me! I’m not for sale.”
“Aren’t you scared? Of him?”
“He’s not like that. I sort of feel sorry for him. He hasn’t a clue.”
“The flowers were good, though. Funny.”
“Yeah, the flowers were good.”
“I don’t know, Lydia, it all feels a bit sleazy.”
“Do you want to go to Float or don’t you?”
As Lydia had expected, Conall had been completely bloody clueless about cleaning. He’d emptied nearly a whole bottle of washing-up liquid into the sink and Ellen, Lydia and himself had almost been carried off in a wash of foam. The kitchen had looked like a Spring Break party.
But other than that, Lydia had to admit that he’d done quite well. Ellen had liked him.
“Are you Lydia’s boyfriend?” she had asked him, as he’d pawed through the bubbles, trying to locate the sink somewhere beneath him.
“Ah, not yet, maybe. But working on it.”
“An older man?”
“I guess I am.”
“The boys always liked Lydia.”
“I can well believe it, Ellen.”
A sound at the door made the three of them turn round. It was Ronnie, his lips very red beside his black satanic beard. Lydia couldn’t remember the last time she’d clapped eyes on him.
“What’s going on here?” Ronnie spoke softly and with terrible menace.
“Oh, you know,” Lydia said. “Cleaning a filthy house, taking care of our mum because—”
Ronnie ignored her and focused on Conall. “And who might you be?”
“Conall Hathaway.” Conall wiped his sudsy hand on his jeans, pulled himself up to his full height and squeezed Ronnie’s hand hard enough to hurt. Neither man spoke, but so much hostility passed between them that Ellen gazed anxiously at Lydia.
The deadlock was broken when a noise beyond the house made Ellen look out through the window. “Murdy’s here!”
“It’s like a sitcom,” Conall said.
Ellen laughed with pleasure. “You should visit more often. Usually, the lads avoid Lydia like the plague.”
There was a startled silence at the astuteness of this observation. Even Ronnie seemed surprised.
“If you stay long enough,” Ellen’s eyes twinkled, “Raymond will be getting on a flight from Stuttgart.”
Murdy hurried in and fi xed Lydia in his sights. “Flan Ramble’s after ringing about the fancy car with the Dublin reg.” He contorted his forehead and almost shrieked, “Are you after buying a Lexus? ”
“No, it belongs to my friend here.”
Murdy stepped back as Conall loomed over him.
“Conall Hathaway.” Conall fi xed Murdy with a flinty smile.
“Good to meet you, good to meet you.” Murdy was smiley and overeager. He always went a bit mental when he smelled money. “Any friend of the sister’s and all that, you know yourself. Do you work together or is it more of a personal thing?”
He bombarded Conall with probing questions and outrageously fulsome compliments. (“How tall are you, six five, six six? Only six one? You give the impression of a taller man.” “Have you other cars or just the Lexus?” “What does your wife drive? No wife? By gor!” “Are you thinking of making sis here an honest woman?” “What wheels would you buy her if you tied the knot?” “Investment in small grass-roots businesses is the way to go in this current climate.”) Murdy was desperate to piece things together: how much was Conall worth? How much power did Lydia have over him? What could he, Murdy Duffy, get out of it?
“What’s brother number three like?” Conall asked Lydia, in full hearing of Ronnie and Murdy.
“Raymond? Great fun. Full of hilarious stories.”
“I hate him already,” Conall drawled.
Day 30 . . .
Katie didn’t want to wake up. She didn’t want to go to work. Everything was shit.
If it wasn’t for poor Wayne Diffney’s career relaunch she wouldn’t bother.
When she saw the note lying just outside her front door, she deduced it was from Fionn but her heart didn’t bother to lift. Her heart would never lift again. She unfolded the piece of paper and ignored the small dark-green sprig that floated from it.
I’m sorry
Yeah, right.
I will call again. Depend on it.
I don’t think so.
Please accept this gift
Another Conall, thinking he could buy his way out of things. Anyway, what gift? Casting a glance around the landing, she could see no flowers or chocolates, no box of flimsy ridiculous underwear. It could have been stolen, of course, by someone else in the house, but that was unlikely. What was lots more likely, nay, definite, was that this Fionn was another flake. Conall all over again.
She crumpled the note into a ball and threw it over her shoulder into her apartment, then locked her front door behind her. There was a weed on the floor by the stairs. She should pick it up and throw it away but instead she flattened it to a pulp with the red sole of her Louboutin.
Why had she told everyone at work about Fionn? They’d be dying to hear how she’d got on with him. She couldn’t handle the thought of their pity, so she decided she’d lie. Lie and be vague and airy. Yes, he called in, she’d say. Yes, he was very good-looking. No, he was a bit of a fool. No, she didn’t sleep with him. No, she wouldn’t see him again.
Day 30 . . .
No special makeup tonight. All Katie wore on her face was an expression of lemon-sucking disappointment.
Shortly after nine, frenzied knocking started up at her door. It could be a balaclavaed man with a harpoon in his hand and evil in his heart, but Katie opened it anyway. What did she care? Invade her home, violate her person . . . she no longer gave a shite. Nevertheless, she wasn’t exactly surprised to discover Fionn, golden and radiant, smiling a full beam of love right into her upturned face.
By twenty-four hours and twenty years, she thought.
“Can I come in?”
“No. You could have come in last night, but sadly you didn’t avail of that opportunity.”
“Last night,” he said, “I had something to do and it took longer than I thought it would. But did you get the rue?”
“The what?”
“The rue.”
Yes, that’s what she thought he’d said.
“It’s a herb. I left you a sprig last night.”
She remembered the weed that she’d crushed with her shoe this morning.
“I don’t know where it came from,” he said urgently. “I don’t grow it, it’s poisonous. But when I was desperate last night, trying to write how sorry I was, it appeared in my pocket. You must forgive me. It’s meant to be.”
Tosh. “You’re a flake.”
“Yes! And a chancer, a messer, an immature moron and, most of all, a fucking eejit. But I’m ready to change. Because of you.”
She was silenced. This was a really impressive apology. Way more anguished and convincing than anything Conall had ever rustled up.
“I’m really scared you won’t forgive me,” Fionn said. “I can tell you all about last night. I had to go to Greystones and I got on the wrong Dart, partly because, like you said, I’m a flake, and partly because I try to pretend Dublin doesn’t exist even though I lived here until I was twelve.”
