by Marian Keyes
‘There’s no catch.’
‘You’re just going to come in here, give me a bin liner containing thirty-thousand euro, which you swear is legal tender, and you’re going to ask for nothing … just walk away?’
‘Exactly.’
And that’s exactly what he did.
I didn’t know what to do with it so I stuffed it under the bed. Now and again I pulled out the bin liner and held the bundles, then gathered them up and put them away again. It took me about four days to realize – to really realize – that it was money. And that I could spend it.
My first thought was scarves. A person could buy an awful lot of scarves with thirty grand.
But then something else occurred to me … I still had the keys to my flat.
I thought it was pretty unlikely I’d be able to get in. I was fairly sure that someone else would already be living there. At the very least I expected that the locks would have been changed by the mortgage company.
But when I went back I found that everything was untouched – it was exactly as I’d left it, a month or so earlier. The reason? Throughout the country, thousands upon thousands of people were in mortgage arrears and my outstanding amount was, relatively speaking, so insignificant that no one had got round to doing anything about it yet.
I rang my mortgage people and asked whether, if I paid them some wedge, I could start living there again. I was sure they would tell me to hop it – you know what these bureaucrats are like – but they hadn’t even known that I’d moved out.
So, tentatively, feeling as though I was trespassing, I moved some clothes back into my wardrobe. Then I paid my electricity bill and the reconnection fee. Next, I paid my outstanding bin collection charges. I got my cable reconnected. Things gathering pace, I rang the credit card people and tidied up the situation with them. I even managed to get my Mother Superior bed back. I bought a new couch and chairs and retrieved my few remaining sticks of furniture from the giant storage place out past the airport.
I kept waiting for something to stop me, for someone to pop up with some legal impediment, but nothing happened. However, it took a long time for me to feel secure, to feel like the flat was mine, that I truly belonged here.
I arranged the cupcakes on a plate, cut the chocolate biscuit cake into slices and tore the cellophane off a box of teabags. Christ, did I ever think I’d see the day that I’d be having people over for tea!
My buzzer rang. They were here!
I opened my front door.
‘Hi, Helen.’
‘Wayne.’ We were still a little shy with each other. ‘Come in.’
Wayne gave me a polite kiss on my cheek.
I turned to the woman next to him. ‘Look at you, missus! Back in your size-six jeans already!’
‘Size ten,’ Zeezah said. ‘But I’m working on it.’ She shoved the swaddled bundle in her arms at me. ‘This is Aaminah. Isn’t she beautiful?’
I studied the baby. I pretended I was in awe of her beauty, but really I was trying to establish whether she looked like Wayne or John Joseph. Impossible to say; she just looked like a newborn baby, all scrunched up and weird.
‘She’s beautiful. Congratulations!’ Because that was what you said to people who’d just had a baby, right?
God, the shenanigans that had taken place in the last six months! As soon as the four Laddz gigs were over, Zeezah had left John Joseph for Wayne. Shortly after that, Wayne was discharged from St Teresa’s. (We’d overlapped by a couple of days; he’d been putting the finishing touches to his bird box while I’d been starting mine.)
Naturally the media had gone wild about the love triangle, so Wayne and Zeezah ‘fled’ the country (tabloid speak). Basically, they went to Dublin airport and caught an Aer Lingus flight to Heathrow, changed terminals and hung around for a few hours, like every other ordinary citizen, bought sunglasses at the Sunglasses Hut because they couldn’t think of what else to do, then took an Air Turkey flight to Istanbul, where they moved into a rented apartment.
While they were there Zeezah ‘reached out’ – oh, such a Shovel List phrase – to her old record label and some deal was done with John Joseph, whereby she was cut free from him. She’d started work on a new album and a big tour was planned for next year.
Five days ago Zeezah had had her baby in some fancy hospital in Istanbul – a natural birth, a three-hour labour, no epidural, no painkillers. You had to hand it to her. I supposed that further down the road a DNA test would have to be done, to establish who the ‘bio dad’ (Shovel List) was, but it was their business; they’d find their way through it.
Two days ago they’d flown to Cork to show Aaminah to the Diffney family and Wayne had called to ask if, while they were in Ireland, he and Zeezah and the baba could visit me. He seemed to think that I had been somehow instrumental in their happiness.
I was surprised and touched, even though it meant I’d have to borrow a teapot.
‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Come in. I’ll just …’ I paused. I could hardly believe I was about to utter these words. ‘… pop the kettle on.’
Wayne looked around at my sitting room and laughed. ‘I can see why you liked my house so much,’ he said.
‘What’s happened to it?’ I was a little wistful.
‘Sold. Had to get it redecorated first. The estate agent said it would never sell otherwise.’
So the number four Mercy Close that I’d known was gone for ever. Ah well, things change.
I poured the tea and handed round the cupcakes and we passed a pleasant hour. Zeezah was the same as ever, exuberant and full of guff. Wayne was quieter. Jay Parker had got it right when he’d said Wayne was slightly intense. But I liked him very much. There was a definite connection between us, as if our lives had intersected briefly in order for us to save each other.
‘So how are you feeling at the moment?’ I asked him. ‘Madzer-wise?’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘And you?’
‘Yes, good. It’s taken a while, but better than I’ve felt in ages. I think I’ll never be the same as I was before the first bout. I’ll never be as hardy or as hopeful. But that’s okay.’
‘Exactly. Waiting to be “better” is the wrong approach. It’s learning to live with it.’
‘Right! You put it very well. So what Sunny Ds are you on?’
He took a deep breath and we launched into an animated, enthusiastic chat about psychotropic medication, the benefits of different combinations and the bummer of side effects. It was fantastic to meet such a kindred spirit.
Zeezah rolled her eyes. ‘You are like … what’s the word? Trainspotters. You have a shared hobby.’
‘I find,’ Wayne said, ‘that as well as the meds, running helps.’
‘Me too.’ That was a lie, but I liked him so much I wanted to agree with everything he said. ‘And cake is great. And I’ve a lovely therapist. She has an Audi TT, a black one. I do Zumba on the Wii – Christ, it’s hard. And I’m doing the usual mad stuff – I had a week when I ate only red food.’
‘Any good?’
‘What do you think?’
He laughed. ‘Have you tried The Wonder of Now?’
‘Actually, I have. Complete shit!’
‘Completely. Laughter yoga?’
‘Yes! I was sweating with embarrassment. Sweating!’
‘My God, me too. Chinese medicine?’
‘Made no difference. You?’
‘None.’
A lovely time we had, oh a lovely time, but then Aaminah started crying and Zeezah said they’d better go.
‘You’re heading back to Istanbul?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Wayne said. ‘But we’ll stay in touch.’
And I knew we would.
Off they went, a happy little trio, and although Zeezah leaving John Joseph for Wayne was the most dramatic change in the past six months, it wasn’t the only one.
Frankie Delapp and Myrna bought a five-bedroomed family home in the respectable suburb of Stillorgan. Frankie is still presenting A C
up of Tea and a Chat and is looking a lot less fraught since the twins have started sleeping through the night.
Roger St Leger has had about fourteen different girlfriends since the gigs. Fourteen different lives destroyed, but who am I to judge anyone? He is who he is. We are who we are.
John Joseph hot-footed it off to Cairo as soon as the gigs were over and nothing much has been heard from him since. I presume he’s back at his old business of producing Middle Eastern artistes.
Cain and Daisy sold up and moved to Australia. I think they’ll be happy there. They already have the right hair.
Birdie Salaman has a new love, a man called Dennis. She said it was early days, but looking good.
Jay Parker made an absolute fortune from the Laddz gigs – not just from what remained of his cut of the door after he’d given me all that lolly, but from the merchandising. He was the only one who’d risked investing in it so the profits were entirely his and he reaped a life-changing, lottery-style sum.
I haven’t seen him since the day he showed up with the bin liner full of cash but we’ve had one phone conversation. He rang to tell me that he’d seen Bronagh and Blake and he’d given them enough money to bail them out of their financial hole.
Bronagh and I haven’t been in touch with each other. I think we both know we couldn’t be friends again – too much has happened for us to be able to go back – but it’s a good feeling to know that she and Blake are okay.
Docker pops up regularly in the news, fighting the good fight on behalf of whoever will have him. The latest bee in his bonnet is the disappearing Amazon rain forest, which seems risibly old hat to me. I suspect he’s run out of causes and is now on the second go-round.
I’ve heard nothing from Harry Gilliam and I’m happy to keep it that way.
Maurice McNice is still going strong.
My buzzer rang again. More guests.
I opened my door and Bruno Devlin stood there, accompanied by two young men.
‘Helen,’ Bruno said gravely, taking both my hands and kissing me on the cheek.
In the last six months Bruno has radically revised his look. No more neo-Nazi. Now he was working Brideshead Revisited meets James Joyce: neat, centre-parted hair, tweed trousers, a shirt, tie and V-necked sweater, a long dark overcoat, the type my mother would call a ‘topcoat’, with some ancient brown hardback in the pocket. (He’d bought the book in a charity shop for ten cents and sometimes he flung himself full-length on a couch, crossed his brogue-clad feet and pretended to read it.) He wore round spectacles with clear glass in them and a soft woollen scarf.
Still a fan of the mascara, though.
He introduced his two chums. ‘Master Robin Peabody and Master Zak Pollock.’
Solemnly, both boys, who were dressed almost identically to Bruno, shook hands with me.
‘May I offer you some tea?’ I asked.
‘Thank you but no,’ Master Zak Pollock said. ‘We don’t plan to encroach on your time. We very much appreciate this opportunity to visit your home. Bruno assures us it’s really rather handsome.’
‘Please, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Feel free to look around.’
Off they went. They seemed a little startled to discover how small my flat was, but they were very appreciative of my bed, my peacock curtains and my paint colour choices.
‘You have extraordinary taste, Miss Walsh,’ one of the clones said.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Bruno said gleefully, suddenly sounding like the fourteen-year-old boy he was. ‘Didn’t I tell you how brill it was? I mean … how exquisite.’
‘Truly exquisite,’ a clone agreed.
‘This really is very fine,’ the other clone said, standing before one of my horse oil paintings. ‘Superb brushmanship. The nobility of the beast is captured in all his truth.’
‘Grand!’ I said, clapping my hands together in the international signal for Piss Off Now. I’d had enough of this trio of gobshites. ‘Thank you for visiting. I’m simply longing for our next encounter.’
I hustled them towards the door. Just before I ousted them, Bruno said in an undertone, ‘If you ever move in with Dad, can I live here?’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. Bella had also put in a claim and I liked her better.
As they were leaving, my next lot of visitors were arriving: Bella, Iona and Vonnie. They’d come to decorate my Christmas tree. Like a crack-squad they set to it, distributing pine cones sprayed with pink glitter, hand-painted paper angels, silver ceramic stars they’d made themselves at some pottery workshop and twinkling lights.
When they’d finished making my tree more beautiful than I ever could if I lived for a hundred lifetimes, I forced some cupcakes on them but they didn’t stay long. Boundaries. We were all about the boundaries now.
And now came my last visitor of the evening, carrying two pizzas and a tub of ice cream. He put them in the kitchen, then he said, ‘I have a surprise for you.’ Artie handed me a memory stick.
‘What’s this?’
‘Politi Tromsø.’
A Norwegian crime series that I’d been obsessed with during the autumn. I’d been devastated when it ended. ‘But I’ve already seen it. You know I have.’ I’d talked of little else.
‘Not season two you haven’t.’
‘Season two isn’t on until April.’
‘I got a copy of it.’
‘How?’ I stared at him in wonder.
‘Ah … illegally. From China.’
‘Oh my God. I can’t believe it. You’re fantastic! Can we watch it? Like, now? Can we have our pizza and our ice cream and Politi Tromsø season two right now?’
He laughed. ‘Of course.’
‘You do the technology stuff and I’ll do the grub.’ I dashed into the kitchen and started flinging pizza slices on to plates. In the living room my phone rang.
‘Will I answer it?’ Artie called. ‘It’s caller unknown.’
‘Ah, sure go on.’ I was feeling reckless.
After a short conversation with someone, Artie came into the kitchen. ‘Did you buy some tombola tickets today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’ve won a prize.’
‘Oh my God! What did I get?’
‘A tin of kidney beans.’
‘Are you serious?’ Suddenly my eyes were wet with happiness.
This day just couldn’t get any better.
Acknowledgements
The Mystery of Mercy Close would never have been written if it wasn’t for Annemarie Scanlon, who’s spent years championing Wayne Diffney and telling me he needed his own book. Thank you, AM!
I want to express extreme gratitude to Louise Moore, the best editor in the world, for her vision, energy, loyalty and patience. Thank you to Celine Kelly for editing me with such sensitivity, intuition and intelligence and Clare Parkinson for copy-editing with such scrupulous attention to detail. A million thank yous to the wonder that is Liz Smith, for supporting Mercy Close with such devotion, hard work and brilliance. It’s an immeasurably better book because of all your input. Thank you to the entire workforce at Michael Joseph for publishing and selling my work so lovingly and diligently; I’m truly grateful.
For his steadfastness and for representing me with such gusto, I’d like to thank my agent, the truly magnificent Jonathan Lloyd. I’d also like to thank everyone at Curtis Brown, for the unflagging enthusiasm with which they promote my work. I’m very lucky to have you all.
Thank you to the people who read Mercy Close as it was being written and kept me going with their enthusiasm, encouragement, suggestions and questions: Jenny Boland, Suzie Dillon, Caron Freeborn, Gwen Hollingsworth, Ella Griffin, Cathy Kelly, Caitriona Keyes, Ljiljana Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes, Shirley Baines and Kate Thompson. Thank you to Kitten Turley for inspiring Bella’s questionnaire. I can never fully express my gratitude to all of you, and if I’ve forgotten anyone, I’m very sorry!
Several private detectives helped me research Helen’s job. They were unbelievably
generous with their time and information and let me in on a whole world of trade secrets. Because of the nature of the work they do, they have all asked for anonymity. Suffice it to say, I’m very, very grateful to them and any mistakes are mine.
Thank you to AK. She knows why.
This book was written in fits and starts, under unusual circumstances. For his constancy, courage, patience and enthusiasm, for taking care of me, for doing research, for laughing at the funny bits, for being a sounding board and, most of all, for having faith in me when I had none myself, I’d like to thank Tony. This book would not have been written without him, it’s as simple as that.
Marian Keyes is one of the most successful Irish novelists of all time. Though she was brought up in a home where a lot of storytelling went on, it never occurred to her that she could write. Instead, she studied law and accountancy, and finally started writing short stories in 1993 ‘out of the blue’. Though she had no intention of ever writing a novel (‘It would take too long’) she sent her short stories to a publisher, with a letter saying she’d started work on a novel. The publisher replied, asking to see it, and once her panic had subsided she began to write what subsequently became her first book, Watermelon.
It was published in Ireland in 1995, where it was an immediate, runaway success. Its chatty, conversational style and whimsical Irish humour appealed to all age groups, and this appeal spread to Britain when Watermelon was picked as a Fresh Talent book. Other countries followed (most notably the US in 1997), and Marian is now published in thirty-three languages.
To date, the woman who said she’d never write a novel has published eleven of them: Watermelon, Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married, Rachel’s Holiday, Last Chance Saloon, Sushi for Beginners, Angels, The Other Side of the Story, Anybody Out There, This Charming Man and The Brightest Star in the Sky, all bestsellers around the world.
Anybody Out There won the British Book Award for popular fiction and the inaugural Melissa Nathan Prize for comedy romance. This Charming Man won the Irish Book Award for popular fiction and was the biggest-selling novel of 2009.
The books deal variously with modern ailments including addiction, depression, domestic violence, the glass ceiling and serious illness, but are always written with compassion, humour and hope.
