by Marian Keyes
The purchase of the boots went through without any drama – it was that kind of day – then we left. On the ground floor, as we cut through the cosmetic department, we were assailed by a perky girl who asked if I would like a make-over. I hurried on; I could see daylight. I was terrified of those women, although they usually blanked me.
‘Lily,’ Anton called, ‘do you want a make-over?’
Frantically I shook my head and mouthed, ‘NO!’
‘Come back,’ he coaxed. ‘Let’s see what she –’ he looked at her badge – ‘what Ruby has to say.’
Although I did not want to, I found myself sitting on the low-backed high stool having a cotton ball wiped over my face, while passers-by sniggered at me.
‘You have good skin,’ Ruby said.
‘She does, doesn’t she?’ Anton beamed. ‘That’s mostly down to me. I buy stuff for her.’
‘What brand do you usually use?’ Ruby asked me.
‘Jo Malone,’ Anton answered, ‘Prescriptives and Clinique. Although I don’t buy her the Clinique stuff, she gets it free from her mate Irina.’
‘I’m going to apply a light base,’ Ruby said.
‘Good,’ I said. Any base, light or heavy, was good. Sitting in the middle of Selfridges with a naked face was too bloody. Sod’s law said I would meet someone I knew. Gemma flashed into my head, even though Gemma lived in Dublin.
Ruby did her stuff, while Anton asked questions. ‘What’s that pink gear?’ ‘How do you get the eyeliner to go on so thin?’ And when she was finished I looked like me, only far, far nicer.
‘You’re beautiful, Babe,’ Anton told me, then to Ruby, ‘She’s going to be on Elevenses on Friday morning. She’ll probably wear this top. Have you anything to make her shoulders shiny?’
Ruby produced an iridescent compact and a big fat make-up brush and buffed up my shoulders.
‘We’ll have to take that,’ Anton said. ‘And the pink gear and the thin eyeliner, so Lily can do it herself at home.’ To me he said, ‘It’s an investment.’
I gave him a look. This was not an investment but, caught up in the mood, I did not care.
‘Anything else you’d like?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps the base,’ I said, in a little voice. ‘And I liked the lipstain.’
‘Both of them, so,’ Anton told Ruby. ‘And sure, fire in the mascara while you’re at it. After all her work,’ Anton murmured to me, as Ruby crouched down to retrieve products from drawers, ‘it would have been criminal not to buy something.’
Before she sealed the bag, Ruby threw in several free samples.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Anton said. ‘That’s so nice of you.’
‘Oh.’ Ruby seemed surprised by the extent of his gratitude. ‘Have a few more.’ She grabbed another handful and chucked them into the bag and I smiled to myself.
Anton was without guile and I loved how people loved him. He flirted non-stop, but never in a sleazy way.
Then Ruby handed over the glossy bag and we left the store.
I was high: high from shopping, high from looking good, high at my shiny dust-free newness.
‘I don’t want to go home.’
‘That’s good because you’re not going home. Zulema is on duty. We’re going out, you and me.’
He took me to a private members’ club in Soho, where he seemed to know everyone. But we sat in a secluded corner, in a padded-leather booth and everyone stayed away. Anton did not ask me what I wanted to drink; there was never any doubt that we would have champagne. I sat in my shiny new clothes and shiny new face and forgot, for a while, our destroyed house, sugar-coated floors and ever-present Gemma-generated dread.
I felt glamorous, beautiful and madly in love.
The groovy hairdresser in Soho volumized my hair beautifully, Anton did a wonderful job on my nails and my new clothes and boots were perfect.
I only discovered at the last minute that the reason I was on Elevenses was because they were doing a feature on mugging. They had zero interest in me or my books, they just wanted to know how bad my mugging had been.
‘Were you hospitalized?’ one of the ‘sympathetic’ interviewers asked in an exaggerated ‘caring’ tone.
‘No.’
‘No? Oh dear.’ She was so disappointed that I told her how I had feared I might miscarry, and that cheered her up.
Afterwards I had phone messages from Viv, Baz and Jez saying how proud they were of me, and from Debs saying, ‘I know you’re short of money, but surely you didn’t have to wear rags.’ A reference to my fabulous new top. ‘Hahaha,’ she tinkled.
28
September saw both advances and reverses in our fortunes.
Anton and Mikey had spent much of the summer pulling together a big, glitzy deal – a hot edgy script, finance from three dependable sources and commitments from young, hot actress Chloe Drew and up-and-coming director Sureta Pavel. This was the deal that would make Eye-Kon; it was all gelling satisfactorily and contracts were ready to be signed when the script attracted sudden Hollywood interest. Before you could say ‘knife’ the script was withdrawn and the whole deal collapsed like a house of cards. It plunged Anton into a black depression.
Witnessing his despair was truly frightening because his default state was irrepressible optimism. But too many deals had gone wrong for him to bounce back this time. He talked about what a failure he was, how he had let me and Ema down, and he began making noises about seeking out an alternative career. ‘Bar-tending, perhaps,’ he said, prone in bed. ‘Or beekeeping.’
On the plus side, something about his dark, brooding despair affected the builders. Without us even having to chivvy them, they quietly installed three out of four of the new lintels and even began to replaster the main bedroom.
For a whole week Anton stayed away from work. ‘I’ve no stomach for it,’ he said. ‘It’s so hard to get good material, this was our big chance. I feel it’ll never come right for us.’
He spent a lot of time with Ema. He had somehow managed to shake Zulema for the week. I suspected – but did not ask – that he had had to pay her to stay away.
Anton stood at the door of my study and watched me typing. Several emotions fought on his face. ‘You work so hard,’ he said, then called, ‘Ema, where are you?’
Ema marched in, wearing a red and blue horizontal-striped all-in-one vest and shorts. Anton watched her tenderly.
‘You look like a Hungarian weightlifter,’ he said, then after further scrutiny, ‘circa 1953.’
I knew then he was getting better.
However, he never fully returned to his old self. He made countless references to how hard I worked, to the fact that any money coming in was generated by me and that if it wasn’t for me, we would have nothing.
It frightened me because even though at that precise time, all of our income was being produced by me, I had not considered that situation to be a permanent one. In fact, I was poised constantly for Anton, with all his ideas and energy, to suddenly start generating enough money to keep us safe. I did not enjoy the feeling that everything – from our home to our food – depended on me.
On the last day of September, my first royalty cheque for Mimi’s Remedies arrived. It was for such a ridiculously large sum – one hundred and fifty thousand pounds – that it seemed like a joke cheque. I wept with pride. From the dusty shelf I took down a Mimi’s Remedies, gazed at all the little words and marvelled at how they had resulted in this money, which was guaranteeing our home… The whole thing was a miracle, from the book’s unhappy genesis to unlikely success.
Anton took a photo of me holding the cheque, like a pools’ winner – then I kissed it goodbye because almost all of it was committed elsewhere. To the bank, the builders, the credit card people…
‘Only you and I could get a cheque for a hundred and fifty grand and two days later be left with almost nothing!’ I said to Anton.
‘But we’ve spent it on good stuff,’ he said. ‘Look at us – responsible adults. We’ve paid the firs
t instalment on the house to the bank, now they won’t repossess.’
I winced. I was the wrong person to appreciate repossession jokes.
‘Sorry.’ He noticed. ‘Youthful high spirits.’
‘And our next instalment is due –’
‘On the thirtieth of November, when you’ve signed your new contract with Dalkin Emery.’ He paused and I felt one of his declines coming on. Not today. Not when we had reason to be cheerful! ‘I hate that all the burden is on you,’ he said, miserably.
‘Don’t,’ I begged. ‘At least don’t hate it today. Take a day off.’
‘I’m depressed!’
Miranda England was on the phone.
‘Hormones,’ I said. ‘It happens when you’re pregnant.’
‘It’s not hormones. It’s fucking Amazon. I just went online – I don’t know why I do this to myself – and my latest book is only averaging three and a half stars. The previous one has five. And the reviews from readers are so fucking mean!’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ineffectually. ‘They really can be horrible.’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ she said gloomily. ‘I looked up Mimi’s Remedies. They love you. Nearly every review gives it five stars. They’d give it six if they could.’
I should not have done it.
After she hung up, I went to Amazon and looked up Mimi’s Remedies and spent some happy minutes scrolling through page after page of glowing five-star praise for Mimi’s Remedies.
But pride comes before a fall because then – and this is where I should have stopped – I wondered if anyone had written anything about Crystal Clear. Although it was not due out until the end of October, early copies had gone on sale in the airports.
I typed in ‘Crystal Clear’ and was excited to discover that there were reviews already! Only three, but a start.
Then I saw the header from the first review and felt a little sick. ‘Piss Poor’ it said. ‘Piss Poor from a reader in Darlington.’
Of the star rating, she had given me one out of five. At least she had given me one, I thought, clutching at straws. Then I began to read.
The only reason I gave this book one star is because it’s not possible to give none.
Oh.
I pissed myself laughing at Mimi’s Remedies, but there is not one good laugh in this bag of shite. I bought it in the airport on the way to a week in the sun and I wish I’d saved my money and bought myself an extra Sex on the Beach instead.
Oh dear. Oh God. With a thumping heart, I rushed onto the next one, hoping it would be nicer. It was a two-star score.
Back on the SSRIs from a reader in Norfolk
I had been depressed and not left the house for almost six months when I read Mimi’s Remedies. It cheered me up so much I was able to go back to Weight Watchers. Imagine my delight when I discovered that Lily Wright had a new book out. I asked my neighbour to bring me one from the airport when she was visiting her mum in Jersey. I hoped I would feel well enough to start looking for a part-time job after reading it. But have you read It? It’s so depressing. It has set me back terribly. I have given two stars because even though I did not enjoy this book at all, I regard myself as a nice person.
The next one was also a two-star.
Extremely disappointed from an avid reader in the north-west.
I very much enjoyed Mimi’s Remedies even though it is not what I would normally read. (I am a great fan of Joanne Harris, Sebastian Faulks and Louis de Bernieres.) I must admit I was looking forward to reading Lily Wright’s new book, as I felt she showed a good deal of promise in Mimi’s Remedies, When I saw it in the airport (en route to an art appreciation weekend in Florence), I bought it However, my hopes were stillborn. Crystal Clear is not a good book and I’m at a loss as to what to compare it to. It is almost (although obviously not quite!) as bad as chick-lit. It deserves only one star but I have decided to give it two simply for not being chick-lit!
‘An-TON,’ I yelped. ‘ANTONNNN!’
Skidding – almost surfing – on sugar, he arrived at speed and I showed him the reviews.
What if everyone hates Crystal Clear?’ I said. ‘What if no one buys it? Dalkin Emery won’t give me a new contract and we’ll be buggered. It’s not like my new book is any good!’
‘Easy, now,’ he said. ‘Mimi’s Remedies got bad reviews too.’
‘But only from smelly old reviewers. Not from real people, not from readers!’
Now I understood why Tania had been so high-pitched and peculiar about the cover change. They were worried that readers would expect a second Mimi’s Remedies – as the three here had obviously done. Flooded with fear, my mouth tasted metallic.
This hellish mess could not be Gemma’s doing – unless she had written all three reviews herself – but I decided to blame her anyway.
‘Crystal Clear has to do fantastically well,’ I gabbled at Anton, ‘because if it doesn’t, Dalkin Emery won’t give me a new contract. And without a new contract, we won’t have enough money to pay the next instalment on this house.’
Losing this house! My scalp crawled with terror. I could not imagine anything worse.
Calmly, Anton began to intone, ‘Crystal Clear is a great book. Dalkin Emery are doing a massive campaign for it. It will be a great success. Dalkin Emery have talked about it being a Christmas number one. In a month’s time Jojo will go to them and they will offer you a new contract with a huge advance. Everything will be fine. Everything is fine.’
Part Three
* * *
Jojo
Since the day Olga and Richie busted Jojo and Mark having lunch in Antonio’s, Jojo was anxious about everyone at work knowing. But apart from Skanky Boy frequently calling her ‘Hojo’, then denying it, no one else treated her differently.
In fact, without her even asking, both Dan Swann and Jocelyn Forsyth assured Jojo that when the time came in November to decide on the new partner, she’d be getting their vote. Considering Mark was already in the bag, she only needed one more and wondered who she should lobby. Jim Sweetman? Why bother even trying? Things had been gnarly between them for months, since the day Cassie Avery came into the office. And he’d gotten into bed with Richie Gant a long time ago. But the smart girl didn’t hold grudges and Jojo saw nothing wrong with being nice to Jim. But not too nice because it was tacky to look needy, right?
Olga Fisher? Despite having busted her having lunch with Richie Gant, Jojo decided there was nothing to lose fighting back there either. So she bought her a video on the mating habits of Emperor Penguins and skipped any remarks about female solidarity. Olga was not one of those women.
And Nicholas and Cam in Edinburgh? Obviously, she’d met them lots but they’d never really bonded. They didn’t come to London often and when they did they stayed just long enough to let everyone know how much they hated the place. ‘Why,’ they always groused, ‘can’t these bloody meetings take place in Edinburgh?’
They were a tricky pair. Nicholas was a fierce, beardy forty-something and Cam a super-pale Celt with pastel blue eyes, mid-brown hair and a fine line in bitchy comments.
Jojo tried corralling them one Friday after a meeting. ‘Hey, Nicholas, I –’
‘I hate this London place,’ Nicholas moaned. ‘Full of traffic –’
‘– and English people,’ he and Cam chanted together.
‘C’mon, Cam, let’s get the flock out of here.’
‘Yes, but –’ Jojo said, anxious to talk to them.
Nicholas turned a furious glare on her and Cam fixed her with his baby blues. ‘We have a flight to catch.’
‘Hey, sorry, I… Yeah, safe trip.’
Before their next visit to the London office, Jojo emailed them to suggest a lunch – nothing doing. Unless there were compelling reasons not to, Nicholas said, they liked to catch the three-thirty shuttle back to Edinburgh. Obviously Jojo didn’t count as a compelling reason.
Damn, she thought. This pair were as hard to nail down as mercury and sh
e could see only one other option. A little extreme, maybe, but it looked like the only way to have a proper conversation would be to go visit them.
Hey, not such a problem. She’d heard Edinburgh was beautiful and maybe Mark could also discover a reason to visit…
But it was hard to get a window. Cam went on holiday for three whole weeks in September, then Jojo had to attend the Frankfurt book fair, then Nicholas disappeared for a fortnight. They finally agreed to a meeting at the end of October, less than four weeks before Jocelyn left. Jojo was not happy about leaving it so late, but could be late was good. She’d be in their minds at the time of the vote.
She flew with Mark to Edinburgh obscenely early one Friday morning; she was seeing the guys in the a.m., Mark was meeting with them in the afternoon, then… weekend at leisure in a nice hotel. Yay!
On the plane she asked Mark, ‘Any advice?’
‘Whatever you do, don’t patronize them. They’re a little… shall we say… touchy about their satellite status. Especially because they do an astonishing amount of business. Scotland seems to have a disproportionate number of saleable writers. Think R-E-S-P-E-C-T.’
‘Gotcha.’
Mark went to check into the hotel and Jojo got a cab to Lipman Haigh’s Edinburgh HQ which was in a four-storeyed, grey-stone house in an ancient-looking crescent. Jojo loved it. Nicholas and Cam greeted her with polite, though not effusive, welcomes. But she was beaming. She was really happy to be here; it was all so old.
She was introduced to the seven other members of staff and showed around the offices, the mini-boardroom, even the kitchenette. ‘This is where Nicholas and I microwave our lunchtime pot noodles.’
‘Aye,’ Nicholas growled, ‘or our lean cuisines.’
Jojo didn’t know if she should laugh. Safer not to, she thought.
Back in Nicholas’s office, he said, ‘But you’ve not come all this way just to admire our premises. What can we do for you, Jojo?’
Pretending this was just a social call felt dishonest; she was happier at the idea of it all being upfront.
