by Marian Keyes
Pheakdei Thong had waited politely as Conall disappeared into his head, playing end games with myriad configurations, following the trail as every possible permutation branched, then split, then split again, until it came down to individual human beings dotted around the globe either losing their jobs or keeping them.
If I keep the warehouses in Hanoi, but shut the factories, do a deal with the suppliers in Laos, move the transport arm from Indonesia to . . . where? Possibly the Philippines, yeah okay, the Philippines. But in that case I need a port further north. Ho Chi Minh is a port. But the U.S. trade sanctions on Vietnam . . .
Right, let’s try it another way.
Keep the suppliers in Laos and—how come no one has thought of this?— manufacture in Laos, ship across the Mekong to Thailand, source warehouses there, eat the higher costs because of cheaper labor in Laos. But hold on, isn’t there a cap on trade between Thailand and Laos . . .?
He had tried out several more versions, wishing he could split himself in two, three, even six and nip back to the Philippines or Vietnam or Laos to clarify the local situation. Eventually, it had become clear that the solution to moving past this sticky impasse lay in the Philippines. He’d have to go back to Manila. Bollocks.
He’d stood up. “We’re done here.”
Pheakdei Thong had looked surprised. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing. You’re staying as you are.” It was a sickener: all that work wasted. “Could someone book me a flight to the Philippines?”
They had been openly delighted to get rid of him. At times, you know, he’d thought wearily, it could be a little depressing being hated and feared as much as he was. He’d left them celebrating his departure and caught a taxi to his hotel—where, due to exhaustion, he’d forgotten what country he was in.
He had to eat something; he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a meal. He didn’t have to look at the room-service menu to know what would be on it: Caesar salad, club sandwich, mushroom pizza.
But he was too depleted to face the chat when the food came. How was your day, Mr. Hathaway? Will I pour your coffee now, Mr. Hathaway? Will I leave it here, Mr. Hathaway?
These places always had M&Ms in their minibars, a fixed point in an uncertain world. Sure enough, there they were, his little friends. Gingerly, as if his body was stiff and bruised, Conall lowered himself until he was lying on the floor, then he tipped the entire bag of sugar-coated pearls of delight into his mouth.
When the phone rang at 6 a.m., he was still stretched out on the floor beside the minibar, a clod of half-crunched M&Ms in his open mouth.
Three years ago
Two days after Maeve returned from her honeymoon she met David in the corridor at work. Guiltily, she braced herself for him to hang his head woefully and sidle past her with dramatic sadness, as he had done every time their paths had crossed in the previous months, but this time, to her great surprise, he advanced toward her, presenting a pleasant smile.
“Welcome back, Maeve, or should I say Mrs. Geary?” he said, cordially. “Nice honeymoon?”
“Um . . . yes . . .”
“Sorry I didn’t show on the big day . . .”
“No! Please! Don’t worry, I get it. Did you mind being invited? It was like if we don’t invite you, you’ll be pissed off; if we do invite you, you’ll be pissed off.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.”
“David, I’m really sorry,” she said, quietly.
“It’s okay.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Forgiving me.”
“Hey, I never said that.” But he smiled and boulders of guilt tumbled away from her and she felt light and free. A new day had dawned in Maeve-David relations.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, David.” Fiercely, she said, “You meant a lot to me. You’re a good man. It was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
“I know that.” Almost shamefaced, he said, “I got you guys a wedding present.”
“Oh David . . .”
“But I don’t want to show up here with it. I’d feel a bit . . .”
“I know! Of course.”
“You could pick it up from my place.”
“Sure, like, whatever suits you.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure, why not?”
Actually, tonight suited her perfectly. Matt was going out for dinner with potential clients; only back from his honeymoon and straight back into the schmoozing he did so well. Out of nowhere, a little voice in her head piped up that it might be best if she didn’t tell Matt about this. Obviously, he’d know after the event, with a brand-new wedding present sitting in the middle of their flat, but was there any need to tell him in advance? He might tell her she shouldn’t bother, that David was in the past. But this was her chance to mend fences with David, to lessen her load of guilt. It was okay for Matt, Natalie was so arrogant that nothing could knock her faith in herself for long, but Maeve had done lasting damage to David and it was doing her head in.
Day 8
At first, Lydia thought the flat was empty. But Andrei was sitting very quietly in the living room.
“Hello,” he said, his face a polite mask. “You have been in Boyne?”
“Yeah. I borrowed your bag.”
“I notice.”
She squinted. Was that a snarky remark or a statement of fact?
He gazed back at her—and it was as if they’d been launched from a catapult. Suddenly, they were clawing at each other’s clothes, hair, skin. Moving as one, they backed across the landing, bumped into his bedroom door, then crashed on to his bed. He handled her with purpose and, in moments, he was sliding himself inside her. No foreplay or niceties, it was fast and furious, and she wanted it fast and furious. Whatever force overtook them, it could only be acted out in a frenzy. No talking, no technique, just straight down to business.
He was like an animal. And so was she, when she was with him. It was all about instinct and feeling.
But, as soon as it was over, sanity returned. She was . . . well, she was surprised.
She’d thought that Conall Hathaway had cured her of Andrei. But, now that she examined the facts, she realized that she had barely seen Andrei in the last two weeks, and on the couple of occasions she had seen him, Jan was in tow. It was easy to be cured of accidentally having frantic sex with someone when you didn’t see him.
“That was the last time,” Lydia said. “Last time ever. I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“You want medal? I have girlfrie—” Andrei froze. Sounds were coming from beyond the bedroom. “Jan. He is home.”
Andrei sprang from the bed and began pulling clothes on over his sweaty body. “Get dressed!”
“You get dressed!” It was mildly insulting how much Andrei wanted to hide things from Jan, but Lydia didn’t want Jan finding out either. It’s not like what they were doing was illegal or anything, but the fewer people who knew, the easier it was for her to believe that it hadn’t taken place at all. Mind you, it was a miracle that Jan hadn’t guessed yet even if you did factor in his monumental stupidity.
He was singing to himself out there. There was a clinky noise as he dumped stuff onto the kitchen table, then he went into the bathroom. As soon as the lock clicked, Andrei said urgently, “Go.”
She rang Poppy, but she didn’t pick up. “Pops, ring me. I’m not cured.”
Then she rang Sissy, but she didn’t pick up either.
She had no option but to ring Shoane, although as a moral arbiter, Shoane wouldn’t be her first choice. “I’ve had sex with Andrei again.”
“Riiiggghhhtt.” She heard Shoane light a cigarette, settling in for a chat.
“He’s going on his holidays to Poland at the end of next week, but I’ll have to live with him till then. What if it happens again? Like, Hathaway’s sort of my boyfriend now. I don’t like being a two-timer.” Having a series of boyfriends, grand. Having a new one three days after she’d dumped the previous one, fine.
But two-timing, no. It just didn’t feel right to her.
“Ah, I wouldn’t worry,” Shoane said. “I’m sure Hathaway gets prostitutes when he’s in those hotels.”
“You think?”
“Well, maybe. Like, he could. He has enough money and he’d be in those business places and, look, I’m only saying, don’t worry about it.”
“Well, okay. Thanks for your words of comfort. I suppose.”
Day 8 . . .
Maeve and Dr. Shrigley were sitting in silence. Neither had spoken for over seven minutes.
“. . . I don’t know.” Wearily, Maeve rubbed her face.
“Are you still being bothered by Fionn?”
“Um . . . no . . . he has a girlfriend now. Katie. She lives in the same house as me.”
But it made no difference. The damage had been done. Fionn’s letters and blatant gawking had started some kind of unraveling, and even though he’d lost interest in her, it wasn’t enough to reverse the momentum.
“That’s good,” Dr. Shrigley said. “. . . Isn’t it? Maeve? Are you with me?”
“Sorry. Yes.”
“Are you still doing your daily Act of Kindness?”
“Yeah.” She hadn’t done any in ages.
Once again they eddied back down into quiet.
“You were late today,” Dr. Shrigley said suddenly. This surprised Maeve. Dr. Shrigley rarely instigated any exchange. “You’ve been late for the last three sessions.”
Maeve shrugged.
“All behavior is communication,” Dr. Shrigley said. “Your lateness communicates that you may no longer be committed to this process.”
Relief began to steal through Maeve. It sounded like Dr. Shrigley was working her way round to sacking her. She wouldn’t have to come here any longer and pretend. It would be the last part of the act to go.
Day 8 . . .
Something had happened. Before Katie had even got her key out of her bag, her mum had wrenched open the front door. Penny was quivering with rage. “Your photograph was in the Herald,” she hissed. “With your new boyfriend. What a thing to do to your father on his birthday.”
“Oh really?” Katie was quite excited. Over the course of her career, she’d been in the paper disappointingly few times. Considering the number of launches she went to and the high-caliber celebrity of people she worked with, you’d think it would happen more often. “Was it nice?”
“No, it was not nice. You looked boss-eyed. And you’re late. We’re already sitting down.”
Katie swung into the dining room. They were all there: Naomi and Ralph and the kids, Dad at the head of the table. Even Charlie had turned up.
“God!” Katie recoiled dramatically. “Haven’t seen you since—?” Since her birthday. Ages ago.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” She slung him his present. “Right! Show us this photo.”
“There are only two times in her life when a lady should appear in the press,” Penny said. “On her marriage and on her death.”
“Is that a real rule?” Katie asked. “Or did you just make it up?” Yet another way to make them all feel shit? “So come on. Where is it?”
“We threw it out,” Penny said.
“You didn’t?” Suddenly, she was quite riled. She’d be able to get a copy of it at work, but she wanted to see it now. “What did you do that for?” Mean old cow.
Penny looked speculatively at Katie. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Never better,” Katie said, breezily. It was Fionn, he was her painkiller. She was scooting through life, too fast to touch the sides, and nothing could burst her bubble, not work, not a bitterly angry mother, nothing.
“And why, seeing as the entire country now knows about this romance, haven’t we met this man?”
“It’s just a fun, temporary thing.”
“Fun?” Penny’s brows furrowed in alarm. “Temporary?” She couldn’t decide which was worse. “Katie, please remember that a woman’s good reputation is all she has.”
“I don’t mean to be picky but I also have a flat, a car, a television—”
“Too small to matter,” Charlie interrupted.
“—thirty-eight pairs of shoes, a Lucy Doyle painting and two hundred euros in the bank.” And credit card debts that ran to thousands but no need, no need at all, to get into that now.
“None of them count for anything if you’ve got a name for yourself. And he’s a gardener? A manual worker? A lot younger than you?”
They must have given Fionn’s age in the paper—some age, anyway, it could have been anything.
“Katie, you’re a professional woman! How much does he earn?”
“Feck all,” Robert said, thinking of how much he and Penny paid their own gardener. “At least Conall Hathaway had a proper job. Instead of being a young wastrel who’s only with you for your money.”
“Fionn’s making a television show.” Although he was getting paid buttons (Grainne Butcher was shameless).
“A media whore.” Penny had obviously come across the phrase only recently. “And Naomi says he lives with that old woman in your building? But he’s not her son? Her grandson?”
“No. He’s her foster—”
“Well, there it is, then,” Robert declared. Fionn clearly made a habit of attaching himself to wealthy older women.
“And he’s living there rent-free?” Charlie asked.
“We don’t actually know that—”
“Just pokes the oul’ wan from time to time to keep her sweet,” Charlie said.
“Careful that he doesn’t get you to change your will in his favor,” Ralph said, his first contribution to the conversation. “And watch out for any cups of tea that taste of bitter almonds.” He winked. “Arsenic poisoning.”
“This is no laughing matter,” Penny said. “Katie could be taken advantage of.”
“Basically, you all think that Fionn seduced me for my money and I’m so old and loveless and vulnerable that I think he really loves me?”
“Seduced?” Penny said anxiously.
“Seduced.”
The word hung in the air and Ralph muttered, “Christ, you’ve done it now.”
“Mum.” Katie smiled. “I have sex. I have done for many, many years. And Naomi smokes twenty cigarettes a day. And . . .” This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for, to reveal the secret that had come to her courtesy of Conall some months ago, to drop the bomb that would blow the whole respectable, rancorous family setup wide open. Could she do it? “. . . and Charlie has a little boy that none of us are supposed to know about.”
Day 7
Lydia tumbled into her room and came to an abrupt stop. It was all different. Her short, stumpy bed was draped with the Polish flag, and on her wall was a Blu-tacked poster of that Polish pope, which normally lived on the wall beside Jan’s bed. Unfamiliar clothes—men’s jeans and T-shirts—were hanging on her clothes rail.
“Where’s my stuff?” she called.
She dashed into the other bedroom. The two single beds had been shoved together, to make a double bed with mismatched duvets. A wilted, decomposing gerbera, left over from a bouquet Conall had sent, had been flung on to it. It looked like an accusation. A place of filth.
“What’s going on?” she yelped.
Jan appeared.
“So you find my movings?” He sounded bitter, most unlike Jan.
“You did this?”
“I am not so stupid. You are making the sex with Andrei.”
“I am not making the sex with Andrei.”
“I know it. Do not lie.”
Thinking fast, fast, fast, Lydia started talking. “Look, Jan, you’re upset.” Because he hero-worshipped Andrei and thought Lydia was unworthy of him. She knew there was no way Jan wanted Lydia and Andrei sharing a room; he was just making some sort of point about his feelings—maybe he felt humiliated that he’d been kept in the dark—but never mind Jan’s feelings, she hadn’t time for them now.
“Jan, would you liste
n to me? This is important. I admit it’s happened a couple of times, but they were accidents.”
She couldn’t share a room with Andrei. The thought filled her with a horror beyond description. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. No, no, no.
“Rosie is nice girl. Good girl.”
“Jan, help me move the things back.” Quick, before Andrei gets home and decides it might actually be a good idea.
“No. I will let you two love boats be as one.”
“No, you won’t. And you mean love birds.”
“Oh, do I?” He gave a little shrug of defiance. “You are love birds?”
“Up! Shut! Quickly! Fast, fast, fast! Get all my stuff outtttttt!”
She’d managed to scare Jan into obedience and inside fifteen minutes she was back in her own room, with her own stuff, but not feeling so good. This had got way too messy. She’d have to move out.
But no, I have plans for her. She can’t move out.
Three years ago
“Where’s everyone?” Maeve asked, stepping into David’s flat and noting the silence.
“Not home yet, I suppose. Go on in.” He gestured to the sitting room. “You know where it is.”
Nothing had changed—the rough woven throw on the couch, the Tibetan tapestry hanging on the wall, the Moroccan rug on the old wooden floor, the beanbags, the peasant ceramics, the lava lamp, the guitar in the corner. Stuff and dust and loose tobacco everywhere.
“Have you still the same—”
“—flatmates? No. Marta went back to Chile and Holly went traveling. Two guys from Turkey now. You might meet them later.”
She wasn’t planning on staying longer than an hour; but why talk about leaving when she’d only just arrived. He was so bright-eyed and happy to see her.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Okay. Tea, thanks.”
“No, no. No. A drink drink. Not every day my ex-girlfriend gets married. Beer.”
He produced two Dos Equis and clambered beside her onto the couch. “To old friends.” He clinked bottles.
