by Marian Keyes
“That jacket should have its own show,” Katie said and the room exploded with good humor.
You couldn’t fake that. From her own job, Katie could tell the difference between hype and genuine belief in a product. To her, Your Own Private Eden felt right. Obviously, its success would all depend on viewing figures, which depended on time-slots, which depended on advertising, which depended on viewing figures. A chicken-and-egg kind of thing. It was very tricky to make a success of a television show. There were an unquantifiable number of variables and so much of it came down to luck.
By the door, Mervyn was guarding three bottles of fizz. If he hadn’t felt the show was working, he’d simply have put them back in the car and taken them home.
“Open them,” Grainne barked at Mervyn. “All three.”
A cork was popped and drink was poured and good wishes abounded. “Congratulations!” Katie stretched and ducked to touch her glass with Fionn’s, Jemima’s, Grainne’s and with Fionn’s again. Looking into Fionn’s eyes, she threw back a mouthful of fizz. It wasn’t champagne. It wasn’t even Prosecco. It was just some cheapo sparkly stuff, but it tasted of happiness.
Day 26 . . .
A home-improvement program. I mean, Matt thought afterward, with some acrimony, if that’s not safe, then what is? She wasn’t even particularly attractive, the presenter, Rhoda Stern. Well, obviously, she didn’t have two heads either because, if she had, she’d never have been allowed to front up a show, but her shtick was plain-talking advice, where she spelled out—with what Matt considered unnecessary glee—every mistake people had made in their home decorating.
Matt and Maeve were lying on their couch, watching with some sympathy as a young couple—not dissimilar to themselves—had their bedroom decor mocked by Rhoda.
“I don’t think it’s so bad,” Maeve said. “The curtains are nice.”
“But!” Rhoda shouted. (Because presenters always shouted in those shows.) “There is something that saves this room from being a total disaster!” The camera panned back to show a super-king-sized bed. “Mmmm,” Rhoda licked her lips, “I know what I’d like to do in that bed.” She gave a suggestive, sidelong glance at the camera. “I’d like to sleep for twelve hours straight.”
But it was too late. Something in that suggestive glance had awoken the beast. All of a sudden, Matt was aware of stirrings. Down there. In his groin. Swelling and thickening, it felt like liters of blood were gushing to the area. Stop, he ordered himself. I command you to stop. But it carried on, like it had a mind of its own, unfurling and becoming harder. He shifted slightly so that Maeve wouldn’t notice, but that just gave it more room to expand and it began to jut against his underwear, making a bid for freedom.
Interest rates, Matt thought desperately. Root-canal surgery. Anything to stop his body from betraying him like this. Mouse droppings. Gangrene . . .
Beside him, he felt Maeve tense up. She’d noticed. Then she twisted herself round to see into his hot face.
“Matt . . .?” She looked almost confused.
Without another word, she slid from the couch, taking care that no part of her body came into contact with his region, then, moments later, he heard the rushing of taps in the bathroom.
“I’m just going to have a bath,” Maeve called, in a fake-cheery voice.
“Enjoy it,” Matt called back, forcing similarly upbeat tones.
He heard the bathroom door being shut firmly, and he slumped back on to the couch, feeling quite hopeless. I am a man, he thought. I’m an animal. I’m programmed to respond in certain ways to certain stimuli. I can’t help it. I’ve no control over it.
I’ve no control over anything.
I’ve just come to a shocking realization: Matt’s and Maeve’s heartbeats are in perfect harmony, but nothing of a sexual nature has happened between them for a long, long time.
Day 26 . . .
Sitting on the loo, Lydia stared at her phone. Eight missed calls. Four messages. All from Flan Ramble.
Bollocks. Just when she was enjoying herself.
But no, she wasn’t going, not this time. Murdy could deal with it. Ronnie could deal with it. Mum could deal with it. After all, if there was nothing wrong with her, there was no need for Lydia to leave Float and rush down to Boyne in the middle of the night. Anyway, she was way too pissed to drive.
Of course, they’d expect her to jump to it, to hop behind the wheel, but they could feck off this time. She’d done that drive too many times, for all the good it had done her, to be accused of trying to steal her mum’s money. Let them try to manage without her for once. Let them find out that she, Lydia, was right and they were all wrong . . . Pleasantly adrift in her little reverie of self-righteous self-pity, she got a fright when her phone rang.
Flan Ramble again. But no, it wasn’t. It was—
“Mum?”
“Lydia?”
“Are you okay?”
“. . . Um . . . no.” Her voice was small and pitiful. “I did something and I don’t remember doing it and the police are here and I’m really scared.”
“Oh God, Mum. You didn’t kill someone, did you?”
“No. No.” She sounded less than certain. “Flan is here. He’ll tell you.”
“It’s all kicking off down here,” Flan said loudly. “She was driving back into town from depositing a fare in the outlands and she must have misjudged a corner, because she went flying off the road into the reservoir, and instead of fleeing for her life, like any normal person, she stayed in the car, laughing as she sank into the ooze. When the cops showed up, they couldn’t get over that she wasn’t scuttered out of her brains, but stark-staring sober. I told you, Lydia,” he said, sanctimoniously, “she shouldn’t be driving that car. And she won’t be after this. It’s only because she’s a well-loved figure in this town that she isn’t spending the night in a cell.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
Conall was still in the booth. Sending emails, by the look of things. What a tool. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Something’s after happening. Thanks for tonight.”
“Wait, wait, what’s going on?”
“Mum. She drove into the reservoir.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. But, like . . . upset.”
“You don’t need to go. Two of your brothers are right there.”
“You saw what they’re like.”
“You’re not planning to drive?”
“I’ll get a taxi. One of the lads will do me a favor.”
Conall stood up. “I’ll drive you.”
“You? Aren’t you over the limit?”
“Pink champagne isn’t my thing. Do you want to say goodbye to your friends?”
Lydia thought about it for a moment. But they were all so drunk; and the whole Mum thing—they’d never really got it.
“No, let’s just go.”
Day 25
Fionn woke Katie early. “Have a bath with me,” he whispered, helping her from the bed. He’d lit scented candles, the bath overflowed with foam and rose petals had appeared from somewhere. Katie was so floppy-limbed and giggly she could hardly stand. He lowered her into the warm water. Then he washed her, stroking her with the slippery lather until she was pink and swollen with desire.
“Gotta go now,” he said.
“Thass right. Leave me for dead.” She could hardly speak. It was like being stoned.
“Tonight?”
“Got a work thing. Launch party. Wayne Diffney. Poor Wayne.” She laughed softly to herself.
“Why poor Wayne?”
“Oh you know.” She was almost slurring her words. “When he was in Laddz, they made him be the one with the wacky hair.”
“Like the Sydney Opera House?”
“Thass him.”
“I thought I knew the name.”
“After he went solo, his wife left him for Shocko O’Shaughnessy and his record company dropped him. Then he wrote an album about it all, and you know something, Fionn?
It’s really not bad. I’ve heard worse, a lot worse. Tonight’s his big relaunch. Lot depends on it.”
“I could come over after it.”
“It’ll go on late. Doesn’t start till ten.”
“Can I come?”
“What?”
“Was that the wrong thing to say? I’ve spent too long buried in the back-arse of nowhere and I don’t know how things are done in the big city.”
“No, it’s just . . .” . . . that Conall had never once come to any of her launches. He’d used them as an excuse to work too.
Day 25 . . .
Matt didn’t recognize the incoming number but he answered anyway. In Sales, you always had to answer, just in case it was someone who’d decided on a whim to purchase a million-euro software system and this was the only time they might call. “Matt Geary speaking.”
“It’s Russ.”
Christ! Alex’s friend, the other best man! “Russ!” Automatically, Matt forced exuberance into his voice. He’d heard nothing from Alex since he’d done a no-show last week and, in a way, Alex’s silence was more shaming than if he’d rung in a rage. “So, Russ, how’re things with you?”
“Not in a happy place. What’s the story, Matt? Your brother is getting married—”
“It’s work,” Matt interrupted. “You know yourself. Challenging times!” He barked out a laugh. “Up to my tonsils in it!”
“I’ve booked the flights to Vegas.”
“You have?” Shit! “Fair play. Thanks a million—”
“Twelve of us. We fly out on 23 August, back on 30 August. I need a check from you. I’ll email the details.”
“Hey, thanks, Russ.”
“You’ve arranged the time off work, right?”
“Sure! Did it ages ago!” He hadn’t even mentioned it to them.
“Good. We were a bit worried . . . Right. As well, I’ve booked the hotel.”
“Have you? You’ve been a busy boy!”
“The Metro MGM. You’re sharing a room with Walter.”
“Dad? Well, ah—”
“Tough shite if it doesn’t suit you. You should have come along last week to the Duke and staked your claim. Now, Matt, listen to me. Alex has done a lot of the work on this, but there are some things you and I need to organize.”
“Like what?”
“Surprises,” Russ said irritably. “ATVs, that sort of thing. You can’t make the poor bastard book his own treats. You and me need to meet up.”
“Grand! Listen, I’ll get back to you on that in the next day or two.”
“No. We’re fi xing something now—”
“Great! I’ll call you back.” Quickly, Matt hung up. The phone slid from his grasp, his hands were so sweaty.
“So! Young Mr. Geary! How close are we to finalizing the deal with your Bank of British Columbia?”
The sweat from Russ’s phone call had barely dried on Matt’s hands before he’d received a sudden shocking summons to the Office of Fear, to account to Kevin Day, the MD, for all the money he’d spent trying and failing to flog a system to the Bank of British Columbia.
The trio of Edios bigwigs—the MD, the Finance Director and the Chairman—were gathered in Kevin’s office and they were keen to talk to Matt. No warning had been given.
“You’ve shelled out a fair few bob,” the Finance Director said, tapping a page in front of him and fixing Matt with an assessing stare.
“Gotta spend it to make it.” Could they see the sweat on his face, gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights?
“How soon will it close?” Kevin Day asked.
How soon? It was over ten days since anyone at the bank had even returned his calls. “I reckon,” Matt said, gazing up at a ceiling corner. “I’d say we should have it wrapped up in the next week.”
“You do, do you?” More shrewd looks from the Finance Director. Matt’s bowels spasmed. God, he was afraid. He should have been expecting this; he didn’t know why he hadn’t prepared himself.
“Good, good, within the week. Excellent,” the Chairman said. “Tell me, Matt, how’s morale?”
Morale was rock-bottom. Matt and the team had poured boundless energy into this deal without any sign of a return, yet they hadn’t been cut loose to lick their wounds and move forward.
“Morale?” Matt flashed a cheesy grin and felt a line of sweat trickle down his back. “Morale is great!”
The perfect prospect was right there in front of Matt. An elderly man was all goofed up with the automatic check-out in Tesco. He couldn’t get his barcodes to scan and he didn’t know he had to weigh his apples. He looked confused and quite frightened by the hostile vibes from the arsey queue that had built up behind him. Absolute bloody godsend. Matt could go in and gently point out the apples on the screen and show him where the barcode on his cookies was.
But he kept right on going and waited for another check-out.
No Act of Kindness today. Or ever again. No point. Fucking things didn’t work. And he was going to tell Maeve. When he got home tonight she’d ask, like she always asked, what today’s Act of Kindness had been and he would tell her he hadn’t done one. Just like that. No explanations, no anxious apologies. He’d make it way clear that he’d had a tailor-made opportunity and he’d walked right past it. Spurned it. See what she had to say to that.
“How was your day?” Matt asked Maeve.
“Oh, you know.”
Go on, ask me, ask me.
He was ready, he was braced, he was pumped.
Go on, ask me, ask me.
But she didn’t. Nor did she offer details of her own AOK and that was strange too. Things got stranger still when the time came for bed and they got into their sleeping clothes and she didn’t produce their Trio of Blessings notebooks out of her drawer.
No explanation was offered and in the end Matt cracked. He had to know what was going on. “Er, Maeve, no Trio of Blessings tonight?”
“Nope.”
“Are we giving it up?”
“Yip.”
“. . . Why?”
“It’s not working.”
And then he was really scared.
Day 25 . . .
Conall pulled into a service station on the outskirts of Boyne. “We’ll get some stuff for the drive home to Dublin.”
They hadn’t eaten properly all day, had just drunk endless cups of tea in Ellen’s kitchen. Someone, probably Murdy’s wife, Sabrina, had done a run to SuperMacs but had miscalculated the amount of food needed. The place had become Crisis HQ and had been overrun with people—Buddy Scutt and Flan Ramble and various cops, as well as Murdy and Ronnie. All very well, Lydia had thought, but they’d eaten hers and Conall’s dinner boxes. The gall of Buddy Scutt, sitting there tucking into her crisis chicken pieces when he’d had the nerve to tell her nine months ago that there was nothing wrong with Mum.
Lydia had urged Conall to leave, had told him that she’d make her own way back to Dublin, but he’d said he had such a good signal on his BlackBerry that he’d stay. So she let him. She couldn’t help but notice—and it was fiercely annoying—that everyone was taking her far more seriously now that Conall was hanging around.
He clicked away on his BlackBerry and nobody said he was rude, then, when Ellen went to the bathroom, he made an announcement to the full room. “Listen up. An MRI scan. That’s what Ellen needs. That’ll give a better idea of how things are.”
“What’s that you said? An MRI scan?”
“What does that do?”
“It gives a photo of her brain,” Lydia said tightly. No one had listened when she’d asked for it, but because a rich man who drove a Lexus suggested it, suddenly everyone was all ears. “It’ll show up the damaged parts, and then she can get treatment.”
“How do we get one of them?”
“Her GP refers her.”
“Except he won’t,” Lydia said.
“Can you sort her out with an MRI scan?” Ronnie narrowed his eyes at Buddy Scutt.
“Aa
aah.” Buddy shifted in his chair. “I suppose I could.”
“Why didn’t you do it before now?” Ronnie hissed.
“Yeah,” Murdy sneered. “Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with her. Neither did you.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“I’m not her son.”
“We could sue you for this,” Murdy said.
“Boys, boys, less bickering please.” Conall shook his head. “You’re all to blame. Lydia’s the only one who’s tried to help.”
“I can fight my own battles,” Lydia said hotly.
But, obviously, she couldn’t.
Conall had dozed off in an armchair and slept away the afternoon, and only when the evening shadows began to fall, did Lydia wake him.
“We’re going home,” she said.
“ ’Kay.” A bit dazed, he stood up.
They’d driven less than a mile when he pulled into the service station. Lydia, still in her short tight dress from the night before, attracted a lot of attention, as she prowled the aisles, gathering up smoothies and bags of popcorn.
At the check-out she rejoined Conall, who was trying to control an armload of ice creams and sweets.
“Give me them,” she said. “I’ll pay. Least I can do.”
They sat, parked outside, eating their Magnums. He crunched briskly through his, shattering the chocolate coating without a second thought.
“I like to eat mine slooowww.” She flashed a glance from under her lashes—then she stopped. It wasn’t right to torment him. “Thanks, you know, for this. Driving me down and staying all day. How did you know about MRI scans?”
“I got Eilish to find out. Didn’t take her long. Your mum should have had one months ago. I don’t know why she didn’t.”
