The Other Side of the Story

by Marian Keyes

  ‘And Anton will leave Lily and come back to me and revenge will be mine! No offence.’ I punched his shoulder to soften the blow. ‘Because you’ll be married to Lorna and we’ll all be friends. We’ll hire a gîte in the Dordogne and go on our summer holidays together.’

  ‘And I’ll always be fond of you.’

  ‘Exactly. And I’ll always be fond of you. Maybe you could be godfather to my and Anton’s first child. No, actually, scratch that. That’s going too far.’

  ‘How will I get Lorna back?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘She’ll see you and me together and realize what she’s passed up.’

  ‘Precisely! You learn fast, my little one.’

  ‘Thank you, grasshopper.’

  I looked at his alarm clock. ‘It’s ten past eleven, I’ve a few hours of my curfew left, let’s go out for a drink.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.

  I passed a hand over my forehead, ‘Oh, don’t.’

  ‘Why don’t I meet your mammy? Maybe I could take you both out for Sunday lunch or something brown-nosey like that. If I bonded with her maybe she’d be OK about you spending more time with me.’

  ‘No way. Every time I said I was working late she’d know I was getting the ride off you.’

  I waited for him to do something sulky, but he wasn’t dressed, so he couldn’t really stomp dramatically off. Anyway, he preferred to stomp off from someplace other than his own apartment. All in good time…

  Later in Renards, with several speedy drinks under our belts, Owen said, ‘Am I coming to this Gothic Barbie party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What? Ashamed of me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, although I wasn’t. I just didn’t know what got into me sometimes when I was with him. He couldn’t come because it was a work do; I wasn’t a guest at Lesley’s bash, I was a slave.

  I shoved my chair back so there was room for him to storm out. ‘Off you go.’

  Off he went and I sipped my wine and thought nice thoughts, when through the crowds I noticed a man down by the bar, looking directly at me and smiling warmly.

  But he wasn’t a comb-over lech, he was In The Zone – you know, the right age and nice-looking. The novelty of it nearly made me laugh out loud; I was being picked up. In an Irish nightclub!

  And he was coming over. She shoots, she scores!

  I knew him, though. I just couldn’t place him. He was frustratingly familiar, who the hell… oh, of course, it was Johnny the Scrip. Out and proud. I got a funny warm feeling in my stomach, but that could just have been the wine.

  ‘Who’s minding the shop?’ I called.

  ‘Who’s minding your mammy?’

  We wheezed with empathetic mirth.

  He nodded at my glass of wine and said, all high-spiritedly, ‘Now, Gemma, I’d love to buy you a drink, but should you be drinking while you’re on medication?’

  ‘It’s notmine, youthick. It’s memammies.’ I was a little more jarred than I’d realized.

  ‘I know,’ he winked.

  ‘I know you know,’ I winked back.

  ‘’Scuse me.’ Owen jostled his way back in, his little face like thunder, jogging Johnny’s elbow and slopping his pint.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Johnny passed me a your-young-friend-is-a-bit-pissed look and sloped away back to his friends. ‘Nice to see you, Gemma.’

  ‘Who the fuck is he?’ Owen scowled.

  ‘Just someone I fancy.’ Now, what was that all about? There was no need to say that – even if it was true.

  And it might be.

  Owen gave me a baleful look. ‘Gemma, I’m fond of you, but you’re more trouble than you’re worth.’

  ‘Me trouble?’ I did a mirthless, ‘Hah! And you’re the person who’s had more comebacks than Frank Sinatra.

  ‘Drunk,’ I listed off on my fingers. ‘Immature. Unreasonable.’ I paused. ‘And that’s just me. I’m not normally like this.’

  I stopped, my eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I dunno, Owen. Am I going mad here? I don’t like who I become when I’m with you.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Fuck off yourself,’ he said, taking my face in his hands with odd tenderness. He kissed me full on the mouth – he was such a lovely kisser – then he kissed my tears away.

  12

  The week of Lesley Lattimore’s party was seven days of hell. When God created the world, I swear he didn’t work as hard as I did that week.

  On the first day…

  Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. Tons to do, starting with a massive external lighting job to turn the whole castle into a twinkling jewel which could be seen from outer space.

  Things were going OK until Lesley took a notion that she wanted the outside walls of the castle to be painted pink. So I asked the owner, Mr Evans-Black, and he told me to fuck off. Literally. And he wasn’t that kind of man, he was very Anglo-Irish and proper. Tuck off, fuck off,’ he shrieked. ‘Just fuck off, you dirty, Irish philistines and leave my lovely castle alone.’ He put his face into his palms and whimpered, ‘Is it too late to back out of this?’

  I went back and told Lesley it was no go. ‘Silver, then,’ she said. ‘If he won’t do pink. Go on, ask him.’

  And you know what? I had to. Even though there was a chance it might kill him. I had to because it was my job.

  When I returned with the news that silver was equally unacceptable, Lesley said airily, ‘Fine, we’ll find another castle.’

  And it took a very long time and all of my diplomacy to convince her that actually, no, we wouldn’t find another castle. Not only was it too late but word had spread…

  On the second day…

  Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. Life would have been so much easier if I could have stayed down there but pas de chance. Mam wouldn’t OK it under any circs.

  There was so much to do – the dress, the flowers, the music – the whole deal was very similar to a wedding. Right down to the hysterics. We had the fitting, in situ, of Lesley’s pointy-sleeved dress, her pointy shoes and pointy hat. But as she twirled in front of the mirror she placed a finger to her mouth and said thoughtfully, ‘Something’s missing.’

  ‘You look FABULOUS,’ I yelped, feeling the jaws of hell opening. ‘Nothing’s missing.’

  ‘But there is,’ she said, swinging back and forth and behaving all little-girlie. Horrific, it was, especially as she was still watching herself in the mirror and clearly enjoying it. ‘I know! I want a hairpiece, a huge fall of ringlets from the crown of my head all the way down my back.’

  The designer and I shared a moment of despair, then the designer cleared her throat and dared to mention that the pointy hat would have to be the size of a bucket to stay on top of the ‘fall’ of ringlets. Lesley took this on board by turning to me and screeching, ‘You sort it out! What am I paying you for?’

  In my head I said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll just fiddle about with the laws of physics. Have a word with that nice Mr Newton, maybe.’

  She laughed softly and said, ‘You hate me, Gemma, don’t you? You think I’m a spoilt little bitch, go on, admit it, I know you do.’

  But I just opened my eyes wide and said, ‘Lesley, cop on, don’t be mad. This is my job. If I took this sort of thing personally, I should be in a different business.’

  Of course what I really wanted to say was, ‘Yes, I hate you, I hate you, I FUCKING HATE YOU! I’m sorry I ever took this fucking job, no money is worth it, and you might as well know, no matter how pointy your hat or your sleeves or your shoes are, they’ll never be as pointy as your NOSE. You know what we call you? HATCHET-FACE, that’s what. Sometimes when you rush towards me, I think someone has flung an axe at me. Oh yes! And even though I’m sometimes jealous that your dad is so good to you, I’d still rather be me than you.’

  But I never said it. I’m great. If anyone had badly broken a limb and needed a stee
l plate to hold it together, they could just have used a piece from the back of my neck, but I’m great.

  To add to my stress, I was too busy to do any writing and I was having withdrawal symptoms. It was like when I was giving up smoking. I thought about it all the time and I was narky as anything.

  Is this what it means to be a tormented artist?

  On the third day…

  Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The hairdresser to do Lesley’s ‘fall’ had arrived and I was overseeing the installation of huge drops of pink silk from ceiling to floor when I heard someone boom, ‘So this is the woman who’s spending all my money.’

  I turned around. Christ, it was Wads! And Mrs Wads, who was a too-much-money-meets-too-much-Librium trainwreck.

  Wads was fat and smiley – you could tell he prided himself on his bonhomie and his hail-fellow-well-met personal style. He was terrifying: I sensed his conviviality could dissolve in a moment and he’d be telling his ‘boys’ to take someone to a neglected cellar, tie him to a chair and ‘teach him a lesson’.

  ‘Mr Lattimore. A pleasure to meet you,’ I lied.

  ‘Tell me now, is there good money in this party organizing lark?’ he asked. I’d lay bets that if he met the Queen, he’d ask if there was good money in being a monarch.

  I tittered in terror. ‘I’m not really the person to ask.’

  ‘Who should I ask, then?’

  Oh God.

  ‘That pair? Francis and Frances?’ he asked. ‘The evil twins? They’re the ones who keep all the profit?’

  What could I say?

  ‘Yes, Mr Lattimore.’

  ‘Don’t bother with that Mister stuff, no need to stand on ceremony with me.’

  ‘If you’re sure, er, Wads.’

  Mrs Wads’s beLibriumed eyes flared briefly into startled life, a piquant little pause followed and Wads eventually spoke. ‘The name,’ he said with ominous calm, ‘is Larry.’

  Oh Jayzus, there go my kneecaps.

  On the fourth day…

  Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The wind machine to move the fabric about had arrived, the furniture was on its way, a new bucket-sized pointy hat was under construction, Andrea and Moses had come down to help me and things were starting to seem less dangerously out-of-control when Lesley had a sudden fit. ‘The bedrooms are too ordinary! We have to get them decorated.’

  I held her still, looked into her eyes and said through clenched jaws, ‘There. Is. No. Time.’

  Steadily she eyeballed me back. ‘Make. Time. I want those things that go over the bed, like mosquito nets but pretty. In silver.’

  I thought of Wads and my kneecaps.

  ‘Phone!’ I shrieked at Andrea, dangerously close to losing it. ‘Excuse me while I just buy up all the silver lamé in Ireland.’

  I had to call every dressmaker I knew: big firms, small firms, even sole operators. It was like the evacuation of Dunkirk.

  On the fifth day…

  Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The glasses arrived and half of them hadn’t survived the journey. Freak stations, trying to get more; they weren’t just any glasses, they were pink Italian crystal. But it was the silver lamé mosquito nets that were breaking my heart. Only a few lone operators would take the job at such short notice so I sewed those fuckers myself. I worked through the night. I couldn’t go home – I offered to send a car to Mam to bring her to the castle, but in the end, on my assurances that it would never happen again, she said she’d manage one night on her own.

  On the sixth day…

  The day of the party. I’d had no sleep, my fingers were covered in cuts, but I was keeping it together. I was Keeping. It. Together. Ear to the ground, finger on the pulse, that was me. Picking up on any imperfections including the two bullet-headed-thug types bursting out of too-tight suits. Bouncers. God, but they were rough-looking.

  I collared Moses. ‘That pair. Couldn’t we have got bouncers who didn’t look quite so psycho?’

  ‘Them? They’re Lesley’s brothers,’ and Moses dashed away to welcome the lute minstrels and give them their tights and curly toed slippers.

  And for the rest of the day and night, it was just a succession of people running up to me and saying, ‘Gemma, someone’s collapsed in the hall.’

  ‘Gemma, have you any condoms?’

  ‘Gemma, Wads wants a cup of tea but Evans-Black has barricaded himself into his room and won’t give up the kettle.’

  ‘Gemma, they’re booing the lute players. It’s getting quite ugly.’

  ‘Gemma, no one’s got any drugs.’

  ‘Gemma, Lesley’s brothers are beating the shit out of each other.’

  ‘Gemma, Mrs Wads is having sex with someone who isn’t Mr Wads.’

  ‘Gemma, the ladies’ loos are blocked and Evans-Black won’t give up his plunger.’

  ‘Gemma, Evans-Black is after calling the filth.’

  And on the seventh day…

  She lied to her mammy and said she had to go back for the clean-up operation when in fact Andrea and Moses were doing it. Instead she went to Owen’s and said, ‘I want to have sex with you, but I’ve no energy. Would you mind if I just lay there and you did all the work?’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  Which wasn’t true; she was quite inventive and energetic in the scratcher with Owen. All the same, he did what she asked, then he made her cheese on toast and she lay on the sofa and watched Billy Elliot.

  13

  Izzy sipped her wine and thought nice thoughts, when through the crowds she noticed a man down by the bar, looking directly at her and smiling warmly.

  But he wasn’t a comb-over lech, he was In The Zone – you know, the right age and nice-looking. The novelty of it nearly made her laugh out loud; she was being picked up. In an Irish nightclub!

  And he was coming over. She shoots, she scores!

  She knew him, though. She just couldn’t place him. He was frustratingly familiar, who the hell… h, of course, it was Will the Scrip. Out and proud. She got a funny warm feeling in her stomach, but that could just have been the wine.

  ‘Who’s minding the shop?’ she called.

  ‘Who’s minding your mammy?’

  They wheezed with empathetic mirth.

  He nodded at her glass of wine and said, all high-spiritedly, ‘Now, Izzy, I’d love to buy you a drink, but should you be drinking while you’re on medication?’

  ‘It’s notmine, youthick. It’s memammies.’ She was a little more jarred than she’d realized.

  ‘Ι know,’ he winked.

  ‘Ι know you know,’ she winked back.

  Izzy definitely fancied him. Weird stuff was happening: the book had moved further and further away from where it had begun. The people had changed. The mother, father and ‘me’ had altered and become people in their own right. That’s what they meant by the magic of writing and at times it could be extremely annoying. I had a lovely non-dotcom entrepreneur lined up for Izzy and she persisted with an attraction for the man in the chemist, which I hadn’t factored in at all. The cheek of her. Oh my Gott, vot hef I crrreatit? (My impression of Doctor Frankenstein.)

  I must admit that every time I wrote something nice about ‘Will’ I felt disloyal to Owen. How would he take it that the man in the chemist, and not he, had inspired my romantic hero? But would it matter? By the time the book was finished, Owen and I were bound to be toast. In fact every time we met I felt it could be the final time.

  Meanwhile, the more I wrote about him in my book, the more the real Johnny the Scrip was coming into focus, like a Polaroid developing. There was a fine body hiding beneath his white coat. I’d noticed it on Friday night because he’d been wearing clothes. Like, clothes. Nice clothes – instead of the white coat which did him no favours.

  Did he have a girl, I wondered. I knew he wasn’t married because he’d made reference to it at some time, when we were both whinging about our miserable existences. But there was nothing to
say that he didn’t have a girlfriend – but would he ever get to see her? Probably not, unless she was one of those irritatingly loyal types who was ‘standing by him’ until his brother was better and this tough time had passed.

  The week after Lesley’s party I had to collect a prescription (anti-inflammatories, Mam had pulled a muscle in her hand, God only knows how – pressing the remote?) and for the first time ever I was shy about seeing Johnny. As I walked from the car, I felt him looking at me through the shopfront. Naturally I stumbled.

  ‘Hi, Gemma.’ He smiled and I smiled. There was just something very nice about him. Such a lovely manner. Mind you, he didn’t look like he’d looked in Renards when he’d been sparkly and alive and a little bit bold. Cinderella syndrome: suddenly I understood that he was exhausted. For as long as I’d known him he’d been working twelve-hour days, six days a week and even though he was kind to his clientele, I wasn’t seeing him at his best. If only he didn’t have to work so hard…

  I submitted my prescription and asked, ‘How’s your brother?’

  ‘It’ll be ages yet before he’s back on his feet. Um, listen, I hope I didn’t upset your boyfriend that night in Renards.’

  I took a breath. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Er… right.’

  I just didn’t have a clue where to begin an explanation of the weirdness that was me and Owen, so jokily I said, ‘Yes, I am in the habit of kissing men who aren’t my boyfriend.’

  ‘Great. I’m in with a chance so.’ Did that sound like a man with a girlfriend to you?

  ‘Oh, so you don’t want to be my boyfriend?’ It was meant to be arch and, you know, good fun, but first a red tide roared up his face, then up mine. Mortified and mute, we radiated heat at each other and my armpits were itchy.

  ‘Christ,’ I tried to save the day with my scintillating wit, ‘we could roast marshmallows on the pair of us.’

  He laughed redly, ‘We’re both a bit long in the tooth to be blushing like this.’