The Other Side of the Story

by Marian Keyes

  Anyway, you’ll never guess what happened next…

  No, go on. Try. OK, brace yourself.

  On the eighth of January, a year to the day since he left, Dad came home. Just like that. I don’t think he was even aware it was the anniversary of his leaving, it was just another weird turn in the weirdness that was the whole episode. His return was as low key as his departure: he simply showed up at the front door with three shopping bags full of his stuff and asked Mam – at least he had the decency to ask – if he could come back.

  Mam responded by pulling herself up to her full height and saying, ‘Your floozie thrown you out then, has she? Well, you’d better make it up with her because there’s no welcome for you here.’

  Ah no, only joking. I wasn’t there at the time, so I don’t know exactly how quickly Mam hustled him into the house and set about cooking for him, but I’d put money on it being very, very fast.

  He was back and the status quo was restored before I could blink. By the time I came home from work that evening, he was settled in his chair, doing the crossword, Mam was in the kitchen cooking up a storm and I had a moment when I genuinely wondered if I’d just dreamt the entire past year.

  I ignored a nervous-smiling Dad and cornered Mam at the chopping board. ‘Why did you let him back straight away? You could at least have made him suffer for a while.’

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she said, going all weird and devout and unreachable. ‘I made my wedding vows before God and man.’

  Ah, vows. Them yokes; they’d made martyrs and eejits of generations of women. But what can you do? There’s no reasoning with that sort of lunacy.

  I wanted to ask her to reconsider – it was never too late to tell him to go and fuck himself. Self-respect could be hers. But what was the point? She was too old, too determined not to change. If it hadn’t happened at any stage over the past year, it was unlikely to happen now. I wanted her to strike a blow for women everywhere, but sometimes people can be very annoying and refuse to do the right thing – preferring to do what they want to do.

  And from a selfish point of view, his return was my get-out-of-jail card. Life could get back to normal.

  ‘Why did he come home?’

  I’d figured a Christmas trapped with Colette’s two little monsters had done for him. (I had no proof those children were monsters, maybe I was doing them a terrible injustice.)

  ‘Because he loves me and doesn’t love Her any more.’

  ‘Any explanation for why he spent the last year living with a thirty-six-year-old?’

  ‘Something to do with facing turning sixty and his brother dying.’

  Right. Late-onset mid-life crisis – nothing we hadn’t figured out for ourselves.

  ‘And you forgive him?’

  ‘He’s my husband. I took my marriage vows in a church.’ She said it in such a non-negotiable way, my hand itched for a stray hammer to beat some sense into her.

  Thank God I’m an atheist, is what I say.

  If something like this happened to me, I didn’t think the relationship would ever recover and I doubted I’d ever be able to forgive. As it was, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to stop despising Dad. I suppose it was Mam’s denial which made it possible for her. Thinking of herself as a dutiful wife, instead of a woman with feelings and rights, meant that Dad was able to slot right back into the life that she’d kept warm for him. It infuriated me beyond belief.

  ‘How do you know he’s not going to turn around in a month’s time and do it again?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s got whatever it was, out of his system.’

  ‘But he’s going to see your one Colette every day at work.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ The way she said it got me interested – she sounded kind of triumphant. ‘He’s taking early retirement. Do you think I’d let him go into that place where she is every day? No way, hose-ay, whatever that means. I told him to sack her or to leave himself. And I’d prefer it if she lost her job, but this will do instead.’

  Suddenly I had a great idea. ‘Come on,’ I urged, ‘let’s drive over to their work and laugh at her.’

  Briefly a light lit Mam’s eyes, then she said, ‘You go. I’ve to get your father’s tea on.’ Then she said half-heartedly, ‘We have to forgive her.’

  Pah! Too much was made of forgiveness. There was no way I was ever going to forgive Colette and I had no problem with that. A little bit of hatred never hurt anyone. Look at how I’d hated Lily for years and it had never done me any harm.

  Speaking of hatred, there was something I had to tell Dad.

  ‘I’m getting a book published.’

  He expressed great delight – as much to do with the fact that I was talking to him, probably – and when I showed him the proof copy, he declared, ‘That cover is marvellous. She’s locked out of her house, is she?’ He rubbed his finger over my name. ‘Would you look at that: Gemma Hogan, my little girl. Chasing Rainbows, now that’s a marvellous title. What’s it about?’

  ‘You leaving Mam and taking up with a girl only four years older than me.’

  He was deeply shocked and looked, open-mouthed, at Mam to see if I was having him on.

  ‘It’s no joke,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not.’ Mam looked extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he sounded panicked, ‘I’d better read the fecker.’ Six pages in he looked up, ashen-faced, ‘We’ll have to put a stop to this immediately. Immediately. This can’t get out.’

  ‘Too late, Dad. I’m under contract.’

  ‘We’ll see a solicitor.’

  ‘And I’ve spent loads of the advance.’

  ‘I’ll give you the money.’

  ‘I don’t want your money. I want my book to be published.’

  ‘But look at it.’ He smacked the pages with the back of his hand. ‘All that personal stuff. And I wouldn’t mind but plenty of it isn’t even true! If this comes out I’m going to be very embarrassed!’

  ‘Good,’ I said, putting my face too close to his. ‘It’s called living with the consequences of your actions.’

  ‘Gemma!’ Mam summoned me into the kitchen. ‘He’s said he’s sorry,’ she said. ‘And he means it. He was going through a crisis, in a way he couldn’t help what he did. You’re being very hard on him, in fact you can be very hard on everyone. Do you know what? I think you have anger issues.’

  ‘What would you know about anger issues?’

  ‘I watch Doctor Phil.’

  ‘Oh, right. Anyway, I don’t have anger issues, I just like people to be punished when they do wrong.’

  ‘Vengeance issues, then.’

  ‘Yes!’ I agreed. ‘I do. I’m sort of an emotional vigilante. I am Gemma the… what am I…? Destroyer? Not really, more’s the pity. Punisher? Gemma the Punisher? Not such a great ring to it. Avenger! I am Gemma the Avenger.’

  I darted around the kitchen, holding my fingers like a gun and singing The Avengers theme music.

  ‘Don’t make it sound like a good thing,’ Mam said. ‘Because it’s not.’

  ‘And that’s not The Avengers’s music,’ Dad yelled from the next room. ‘That’s The Professionals you’re singing.’

  I stood in the doorway, held up an imaginary handbag and scorned, ‘Woooooooooooh! Get him!’

  That very night, I removed all my belongings from my parents’ and officially moved back into my own flat. I’d wondered if I’d become institutionalized at Mam’s or if my new freedom might feel like when you finish exams and for ages you feel guilty for not studying, even though you no longer need to. But no, I wasn’t a bit afraid of resuming my old life.

  I rang Owen to report the good news. ‘We can see each other all the time now, if we want. Come over now, let’s try out our new life for size.’

  Half a Coronation Street later he arrived.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Guess what?’ He was smiling, but in a strange way.

&
nbsp; ‘What?’

  ‘Lorna rang me.’ Lorna was his twenty-four-year-old ex and the prickly feeling on my scalp told me what was coming next. ‘She wants us to get back together.’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘It happened exactly like you said it would: she saw us together on Saturday when we were in town shopping and she realized what she was missing. You’re brilliant!’

  ‘That’s me.’ My voice went annoyingly wobbly.

  ‘Christ, you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I choked, overwhelmed by ridiculous tears. ‘I’m really happy for you. We always knew it was going nowhere.’ But it had gone nowhere for nearly nine months.

  He was silent and when I looked up from my crying jag I saw why: he was crying too. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he said, wiping fat tears away from his face.

  ‘Oh stop being so melodramatic.’

  ‘OK.’ As if by magic, the tears disappeared and, really, he couldn’t hide his happiness and how keen he was to get going.

  ‘What about our holiday?’

  He looked blank.

  ‘In Antigua. Windsurfing while banjoed out of your head on free Pina Coladas? We’re meant to be going in three weeks.’

  ‘Right, sorry, wasn’t thinking. You go. Bring your mammy. I can see her up on the windsurfer, she’ll be great.’

  Just before he got into his car, he yelled, in frothy high spirits, ‘We’ll all go out soon, me and Lorna and you and Anton. We’ll plan the route for our holiday in the Dordogne!’

  ‘And don’t forget to call your first child after me,’ I managed.

  ‘Consider it done. Even if he’s a boy.’

  Then he gunned the car away, beeping and waving like he was in a wedding cavalcade.

  Jojo

  January

  Jojo returned to London, full of hope for the new year. She’d had a happy holiday in New York with her family but knew that her next year’s Christmas would be different. Not in NYC. More likely to be sharing space with accident-prone Sophie and dipso Sam, in Mark’s and her new home, wherever that might be.

  On her first day back, Manoj came in and dumped a box on her desk. ‘Proof copies of Gemma Hogan’s Chasing Rainbows.’

  Dalkin Emery believed in recycling; the jacket was an old Kathleen Perry one, which Jojo had rejected almost a year ago for being too drippy and which had resurfaced in the autumn in a new guise – as Chasing Rainbows’s jacket. It was a pastel watercolour of a woman and even though it was just vague, blurry lines, every time Jojo saw it, it looked to her like the woman badly needed to use the bathroom but was miles from one.

  It was a cute little package, though. She gathered up ten copies and took them to Jim Sweetman, to send to his movie contacts. ‘Do your magic.’

  The partnership vote was due on Monday, the twenty-third of January – three weeks away. The first week passed without incident. Then the second week. The countdown for week three was underway – Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday was gone – then on Thursday morning the email arrived.

  TO: Jojo.harvev@LIPMAN HAIGH.co

  FROM: Mark.avery@LIPMAN HAIGH.co

  SUBJECT: News. Possibly bad

  I need to talk to you. My office asap?

  M xxx

  What now?

  Mark was sitting behind his desk, looking super-serious. ‘I wanted to tell you in advance of tomorrow’s meeting, Richie Gant has come up with something.’

  What?’ Instantly Jojo was nervous as fuck. Skanky Boy was full of surprises, none of them nice.

  ‘He’s made friends with some of the marketing people from Lawson Global.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A multi-national. They own soft drinks, cosmetics, sportswear… and it looks like they’re interested in paying for mentions in some of Lipman Haigh’s authors’ books.’

  She opened her mouth, she could barely speak. ‘You mean, corporate sponsorship?’

  ‘Not actual sponsorship of a title, not like Coca-Cola’s Horse Whisperer, just mentions of a particular brand in the text.’

  ‘Corporate sponsorship,’ Jojo repeated. ‘Exactly what you and I discussed, like, a year ago. We thought it sucked. I still think it sucks.’

  ‘With the right fit, it doesn’t have to be offensive.’

  She gave him a long, perplexed look. ‘This isn’t happening. Mark, you’re way off here. You told me it was a cruddy idea.’

  ‘Jojo, it’s business, possibly very lucrative.’

  He let this hang and the implication was clear. Leaving Cassie and setting up a second home with Jojo was going to cost them.

  Whatever. Angrily, she said, ‘When I floated the idea, why come you didn’t tell me to go for it?’

  ‘Because we were just joking and it was obvious you despised it. If you really thought it a good idea, you wouldn’t have needed encouragement, you’d have gone ahead and done it.’

  Maybe that was true but, if anything, it fanned her rage. ‘So what happened? Gant came to you with the concept and you told him, good job, fella, go for it?’

  ‘No. The first I knew about it was this morning. He’s already made the contacts and pulled together some proposals.’

  ‘Bet none of them are for my authors,’ she said bitterly. ‘So how come Gant came up with the same idea as me?’

  ‘Possibly because the two of you think alike?’

  Jojo shuddered. ‘I’m nothing like that… greasy creep. And you know what, Mark? I’m disappointed in you.’

  He became very calm. Scary calm. ‘I’m running a business. It’s my job to explore the idea of bringing in more money. I have principles but being too high-minded doesn’t work in a commercial arena. And yes, I did think it was a crass idea but I reserve the right to change my mind. Especially when it’s presented as a fait accompli.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Jojo said. ‘Loud and clear.’

  She powered out and he made no attempt to follow her, then she stood on the street and smoked with so much fury a passing man said, ‘What did that poor cigarette ever do to you?’

  How had Richie Gant made those contacts, Jojo brooded. If she worked for a multi-national and that slimy little fuck showed up for an appointment, she’d get security to throw him out. In fact, when he lay on the street afterwards, she’d kick him in the kidneys. They really hurt. And the balls, obviously. And the head – but then her boots would be covered in the oily stuff he put in his hair… Eewww.

  Greater than her anger with Richie was anger for herself. She shouldn’t have listened to Mark, she should have capitalized on her idea. But this wasn’t just about hurt pride, it could have profound practical implications: the partnership decision was next Monday, less than a week away. You had to hand it to the guy, she thought, sucking down another three-second drag –he’d picked the perfect moment, throwing this proposal in so the partners would be making their decision whipped into a frenzy at the thought of all those corporate millions.

  But there was the small consolation that she still thought it was a gross idea. And in her heart of hearts, she hoped that instead of being blinded with greed, the partners might agree with her.

  Friday morning meeting

  Everyone already knew about Richie’s new corporate connections, so at least Jojo didn’t have to endure everyone going ‘Ooohhh’ approvingly, like he’d just pulled a cruddy old silk hanky out of a cruddy old silk hat.

  But it wasn’t over yet. Ever the showman, Richie gave possible scenarios. He stretched out an arm and said, ‘Olga!’

  ‘You, madam,’ Jojo said, not quietly enough.

  He turned to her, ‘Jojo, don’t you worry. I’ll do my best with your authors. See if we can’t earn them a little sponsorship money.’

  ‘No need,’ Jojo said crisply. ‘My authors earn enough from writing books.’

  ‘Up to them,’ Richie shrugged, ‘if they want to turn down free money. Just seems like a funny thing to advise them, that’s all. Glad you’re not my agent!’

  ‘Not as g
lad as I am, dog-breath.’ Although she only said ‘dog-breath’ in her own head. Ever the professional.

  Richie turned his attention back to Olga. ‘Let’s take Annelise Palmer.’ One of Olga’s biggest earners, a writer of racy bonk-busters. ‘She’d be a good match with one of the expensive champagnes in Lawson Global’s portfolio. If Annelise was game – and I know that old bird, I bet she would,’ he chuckled with such audience confidence that Jojo had to sit on her hands in case they hit him without her say-so, ‘that could net her up to a million quid. You’d get your ten per cent and if we ask nicely they’ll throw in a couple of crates of champers just for you.’

  Jojo nearly imploded with impotence. Suck it up – a million quid for an author kinda overshadowed a video on the mating habits of Emperor Penguins.

  ‘Have they actually proposed this?’ Mark challenged. ‘Have they actually mentioned this kind of money for individual authors?’

  ‘Mentioned? You mean promised. For real,’ Richie nodded seriously. ‘Believe me, this is going to happen.’

  The entire room went into shock. Even the ever-restless molecules of air seemed to pause their perpetual circling. A million smackers just for mentioning champagne!

  Jojo watched everyone’s expression change – they were looking at Richie like he was an alchemist. And they were already spending the loot. A new Merc. A holiday home in Umbria. A retirement spent on the QE2. Enough cash to leave your wife and set up a comfortable, worry-free home with your girlfriend. Even Aurora French and Lobelia Hall, people who hated Gant and who would never see much, if any, of this promised money were at it. Shoes and handbags lit up Aurora’s eyes and the gleam of a week in Vegas playing the high-roller’s tables was in Lobelia’s. Jojo had to do something.

  ‘So Olga could ring them right now,’ she said, ‘and tell them that Annelise is on for it, and to bike us over the million big ones in used fivers.’ She pulled her handbag onto the table, produced her mobile phone and held it out for Olga. ‘Let’s make that call.’