by Marian Keyes
No, nothing would be achieved by going to the doctor.
Instead I swung by Mercy Close, on the off-chance that Nicholas, the last remaining neighbour to be interviewed, was there. And he was. He was out in front of his house, unloading stuff from his jeep-style car. There was a surfboard on the roof of it.
I introduced myself and, as vaguely as possible, said I was looking into some stuff for Wayne and wondered if we could have a quick chat.
‘Good timing,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes earlier and I wouldn’t have been here. I’m just back from a few days in Sligo.’
He wasn’t the young surfey eejit I’d imagined when Cain and Daisy had talked about him. He was perhaps in his late forties, his skin a bit broken-veined and weather-beaten, and his hair springy and going grey.
I caught him giving my damaged forehead a quick glance, but I needn’t have worried. His type didn’t care about appearances. (Certainly not his own.)
‘Give me a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Just need to get this stuff into the house.’
‘Can I help with anything?’ I asked. Naturally I didn’t mean it but I knew the basics of pretending to be a normal person.
To my surprise (category: irksome), he said, ‘Carry this,’ and gave me a wetsuit. A wet wetsuit. ‘Take it out to the back garden. Throw it on the washing line to dry.’
I took a good gander at the house as I passed through it – a lot of knotty orange pine and comfort-free furniture. Futons galore. Obviously Nicholas wasn’t an ‘interiors’ person. What a terrible waste of a good house.
Nicholas followed behind me, carrying his surfboard. He was in his bare feet. Probably because he didn’t want to bring sand into the house – a laudable ambition – but the problem was that I definitely had a ‘thing’ about bare male feet; they reminded me of root vegetables like, for example, a pair of particularly deformed turnips. I could never concentrate around men in their bare feet. In bed is grand, in bed is fine, but in the normal run of things I’m always uneasy and bursting to say, ‘Put some socks on, for the love of God!’
Once all his stuff was unloaded he put on a pair of Birkenstocks (Shovel List – and how!). But to my displeasure he made me sit in the back garden for our conversation. Outdoorsy people – I didn’t find them annoying enough to put on the Shovel List, but I just had no point of connection with them.
Nicholas had special wooden reclining chairs with foot rests; clearly he spent a lot of time out in his garden.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘Ahh, feel that sun on your face.’
I did for five seconds, just out of politeness. Then I opened my eyes, sat up straight and said, ‘How well do you know Wayne?’
‘Just, you know, to say hello to, really, maybe have a quick chat.’
‘Is that all? You’re next-door neighbours.’
‘Yeah, but I’m away a lot, down in the west. I surf, I hike, I cliff-climb. And Wayne is away a lot too, working. Mind you, it’s funny.’ He chuckled, to illustrate the funniness. ‘I never realized I was living next door to a superstar. Of course I knew Wayne had been in Laddz once upon a time. But since Saturday night, with the whole reunion thing, the country’s gone mad! It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are so impressed that I live next door to him. Even people that you’d think would hate all that boy-band stuff. Who knew there was so much affection for them?’
‘I know what you mean. Even my sister Claire wants to go to the gig, and she’s really not the type at all.’
‘I hear they’ve added extra dates –’
‘Dates?’ I said, feeling mildly panicky. ‘Plural? I thought they were doing only one extra gig.’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘It was just on the radio. I heard it in the car. They’re doing eight extra gigs. That’s just in Ireland. And more in the UK. And doing a Christmas DVD. New lease of life for them all. Jesus,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I might even go to them myself. See if Wayne would give me a couple of freebies. I’m sure he would. Decent bloke.’
Being reminded of how much was riding on Wayne’s reappearance was making me horribly anxious so I decided to pursue the Gloria path.
‘I know this sounds like a dodgy question but has Wayne had any lady visitors in the past while?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘A girl has been coming to the house for the past … I don’t know how long, really … a good while, a few months anyway.’
‘Can you describe her?’ I barely dared to breathe, I was so hopeful.
He thought about it. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Now that I think about it, she always seemed to wear shades. And a baseball cap. But we’ve had a bright spring and a sunny summer so far, so why wouldn’t she?’
See, outdoorsy types knew these things about weather that passed me by entirely.
‘Was she short?’ I asked. ‘Tall? Fat? Thin?’
‘I don’t know. Medium.’
Medium. That was a great help. But I should have known not to expect any help. Nicholas just wasn’t the sort of person to notice appearances.
I showed him the picture of Birdie. ‘Was it her?’
‘No. That’s his ex-girlfriend. I couldn’t tell you the details but they split up ages ago.’
‘Well, what kind of car did this mystery woman arrive in?’
He shook his head. ‘No car. If she did drive, she didn’t park in Mercy Close. She could have come on the Dart, of course.’
‘You weren’t by any chance here on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, were you?’ I asked.
He had a little think. ‘I was here Wednesday night. I went west early on Thursday morning.’
‘Did you notice anything strange on Wednesday night?’
I was waiting for the usual ‘What sort of strange?’ question, but to my surprise (category: astonishing), he said, ‘Yeah. I heard raised voices coming from Wayne’s. Him and someone, probably a woman, were having a barney.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
Oh my God! ‘Did you hear any specific words?’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘I wondered if I should go in but after a while they stopped. I was relieved, to be honest with you. Just … well, it’s not cool to be invading someone’s privacy. If someone wants to have a yelling match, you should let them, right?’
‘Sure, certainly, of course.’ Now was not the time for a philosophical discussion on the Social Contract. ‘And you think it was definitely Wayne and the mystery woman?’
‘I can’t say definitely. It could have been.’
‘Okay, let me put it another way. You definitely think it was Wayne?’
Nicholas thought about it. ‘Yeah. I know what his voice sounds like.’
‘And it was definitely a woman?’
Further consideration. Scrunching up of his weather-beaten eyes. ‘Yeah.’
‘And you didn’t hear any specific words?’ I was almost begging. ‘Even a single one would be helpful.’
He shook his head again. ‘Nothing. Sorry. That’s all I can do for you. Would you like some nettle tea?’
‘No.’
A second too late I added, ‘Thank you. No, thank you.’
As I made my way out of Nicholas’s house, Cain and Daisy suddenly appeared on the road, as if they’d just popped out of a couple of graves, and did one of their zombie lunges in my direction. ‘Helen,’ they called. ‘Helen!’ But I jumped into my car and squealed away. Sweet Jesus on a stick.
56
As I realized that my next stop had better be the MusicDrome, my panic suddenly returned with a vengeance. If Wayne was taking a break, he’d had enough time. He needed to be back by now. And if panic was rising in me, it was nothing to what Jay and John Joseph and the others must be feeling.
I took my phone off silent and two minutes down the road, it rang. Caller unknown, but I answered anyway. I couldn’t afford to miss anything at this stage in the game.
A woman’s voice said, ‘Is that Helen Walsh?�
��
‘Who wants to know?’ I asked cautiously.
‘This is Birdie Salaman.’
Jesus Christ!
‘This is Helen,’ I said, almost choking in my haste.
‘I want to talk to you about Gloria.’ She sounded strident, almost aggressive.
‘Hold on, I just need to …’ I was desperately looking for the first place to pull in. I couldn’t believe she’d finally come up with the goods. It just goes to show that, sometimes, badgering someone really does work.
I pulled into a bus stop bay. If a bus came, it would just have to park somewhere else.
‘Work away, Birdie.’ I was almost asthmatic with anticipation. ‘I’m all yours.’
‘No, I’m not doing this on the phone. You come to my office.’
I pulled back out into the traffic and drove directly to Birdie Salaman’s work. I parked outside, hurried past the reception desk and waved at Disgruntled Mum. ‘Birdie’s expecting me,’ I said airily and swung past her into Birdie’s office.
Today Birdie was wearing a vintage-looking tea dress patterned with black cherries. Her hair was long and loose, the top of it twisted in a victory roll, and her mouth was perfectly painted in a startlingly bright red lipstick. You know, she really was very, very stylish.
She looked up. She wasn’t exactly overwhelming me with friendliness.
‘Go on. Sit down.’ She pointed with a pen at the chair opposite her desk and I eased myself into it.
‘What happened to your forehead?’ she asked.
‘Oh.’ I put a hand up to touch it. ‘Someone hit me.’
‘Who? That Walter Wolcott oaf?’
‘Er … maybe. You’ve met him, then?’
‘He was at my front door at seven thirty this morning, looking for a chat. Pushy as you please.’ She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘But I don’t want to talk to you about him. I want to talk to you about Gloria. So who is she?’
More than a little startled, I said, ‘Why are you asking me?’
‘I shouldn’t care,’ she said. ‘But it’s driving me mad. I want to know who she is.’
‘I haven’t a clue. You said you knew her. You rang me.’
She stared at me angrily. ‘I didn’t say I knew her. I’d never heard of her till last Friday, when you came here and asked me where you could find her. I thought she must be Wayne’s new girl.’
Timidly I said, ‘Is she not the woman Wayne left you for?’
‘No.’ She sounded exasperated, then confused. ‘Wayne broke up with me because of Zeezah.’
‘What? Wayne and Zeezah? Zeezah? And Wayne?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘How would I know? I had no idea,’ I said faintly. ‘When? What happened? Was it recent?’
‘I’m not sure of the exact date that he began cheating on me.’ She seemed a little bitter. ‘But I’m guessing himself and herself got it together around last October or November.’
‘What happened?’ I was amazed. Agog. Dying to know. ‘Will you tell me?’
Suddenly her eyes were swimming with tears. ‘Wayne and I were really happy, you know?’
‘I know. I could see it in the photo.’
‘You shouldn’t have been looking at that photo. It’s private.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m very, very sorry.’ I couldn’t afford to antagonize her more than I already had. ‘But he’s missing, he’s been missing since Thursday, and I’m doing all I can to find him. I’m sorry I encroached, but anyway, you were telling me about Wayne and yourself and how in love you were …’
Impatiently, she swiped away her tears. ‘We were together for about a year and a half. He was back and forth to various places – Turkey, Egypt and Lebanon – for work, but we were doing good. Then he met Zeezah. And with that arse of hers, I didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Your own arse looks pretty peachy,’ I said.
‘No.’ She shook her head darkly. ‘Zeezah’s arse is world class. I was badly outclassed in the arse department. And every other department too,’ she added. ‘Wayne saw her talent, her potential, her everything. He fell for her so hard, and he came up with this big concept to launch her career outside the Middle East.’
‘That was John Joseph’s idea.’
‘It was Wayne’s idea first.’
‘Wha-at? Are you serious? When did all this happen?’
‘Last, I suppose, October, it started. Every phone call he made to me he was going on about it, he was so excited. Then in November I went to Istanbul to visit him and I met her, and even though they were just supposed to be colleagues, Wayne couldn’t hide it. It was obvious he was crazy about her.’
‘So … what happened? You broke up with him? He broke up with you?’
‘He ended it,’ she said, some rancour in her tone. ‘I was hoping we could try to work it out. We were really good together. But he was just … you know … mad about her.’
‘So that was only last October or November? So how come –’ I counted on my fingers – ‘four months later, in March, John Joseph Hartley has imported her into Ireland and married her?’
‘When Wayne told John Joseph about his plans for Zeezah, John Joseph nicked it all off him: the idea, the protegée, if you want to call her that, and the girl.’
‘Cripes,’ I said, taking a moment to let such momentous news settle. ‘Cripes,’ I said again. ‘So all that stuff about how John Joseph hadn’t a clue when he first met Zeezah that she was a big star … all that stuff about hearing her sing at a friend’s birthday party …’ No wonder Roger St Leger had been so scathing. ‘So all that was just bullshit?’
‘I know. Did you see them on Saturday night on Maurice McNice? I don’t know how I saw it – I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than watch that garbage – but I was clicking through the channels and somehow there they were. I could have puked. The lies of it.’
Then I remembered John Joseph’s charade when I’d asked him for Birdie’s phone number, when he’d pretended he didn’t know where Birdie lived or worked. ‘No wonder John Joseph didn’t want me talking to you,’ I said.
‘No wonder he didn’t. Hon.’
‘Hon?’ I said. Then I got it. ‘Oh right, hon. Did he call you “hon” too?’
‘Certainly did, hon. Isn’t John Joseph Hartley a patronizing prick, hon?’
‘He is indeed, hon. He told me he didn’t know where you lived, hon.’
‘Hon, he’s such a liar! He’s been to my house loads of times.’
‘He told me he didn’t know where you worked, hon.’
‘Of course he knows where I work!’
‘Hon. You forgot to say “hon”.’
‘Of course he knows where I work, hon.’
‘Hon.’
‘Hon!’
We said ‘hon’ to each other about twenty more times and, unexpectedly, we were smiling at each other.
Entente cordiale fully established, I said, ‘I can see why they wouldn’t want the story getting out about how Zeezah was with Wayne before she was with John Joseph.’
‘No, she’s a bit of a hard sell to the Irish public, what with John Joseph being such a fave with the mammies and her being a Muslim. Even though I hear she’s converting.’
‘So why did Zeezah swap from Wayne to John Joseph? From the sounds of things Wayne is far nicer. Is it because John Joseph had more money and Aston Martins?’
‘I suppose. I don’t know if she was feeding Wayne a line, but she said she was torn in two. She said she couldn’t make up her mind between the two of them.’
She couldn’t make up her mind between the two of them.
Where had I heard that recently?
Maybe it would come to me.
‘But I suppose she did make up her mind in the end because she married John Joseph,’ I said. ‘Fast work, though.’
‘Zeezah needed Irish citizenship in order to work here, so herself and John Joseph got married. But maybe they love each other.’
‘In fairne
ss,’ I said, ‘they act like they do. They’re super-tight with each other. You know something?’ I felt suddenly obliged to say something important. ‘Wayne still cared about you. He felt really guilty.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.
‘I could feel it,’ I said, surprising myself. ‘Really. People say I have no empathy. But maybe that’s not true. I admit I don’t have much sympathy, but that’s only to protect myself. The thing is that Wayne kept your photo in his spare bedroom. That room, I swear to you, Birdie, it’s so sad. It’s the saddest place. Not a happy cheater, was he?’
‘Why are you talking about him in the past tense?’
I paused. ‘I don’t know. Listen, can I ask when you were last talking to Wayne? If it’s been recent, like in the past few days, I’m begging you to tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him since March. Not since it came out about Zeezah and John Joseph’s surprise wedding.’
I gave her the steady one-woman-to-another eyeball.
‘Stop that,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I rang him and he was in absolute bits so I thought if I gave him some time … I know I sound pathetic, but Wayne and I were really in love. I thought Zeezah was just one of those mad infatuation things and that what he and I had was real and that he might cop on and come to his senses. But then you showed up, talking about someone called Gloria, and I couldn’t help it, I wanted to know who she was.’
‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘I haven’t a clue. All I know about her is that she was the last person who left a message on his landline before he disappeared on Thursday. But maybe she’s nobody.’
‘She can’t be nobody.’
Although maybe she was. Maybe she was just a telesales person, trying to get Wayne to change his electricity supplier. Those bullshit upbeat tones: ‘I have good news for you!’ They all talked like that.
But then she’d said she’d ring Wayne on his mobile and a telesales person wouldn’t have had that number. I was stymied. I really didn’t know what to think.
‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘where were you yesterday? I called round and there was no sign of you.’
