by Marian Keyes
“Neither of us has the killer instinct,” I said.
It was like I’d hit him. He recoiled. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said.
“No,” I said. “No. I hate all that, There’s no such thing as second-place stuff. And people with the killer instinct are usually a bit peculiar. They’re edgy, they can’t relax.”
“Yeah, have you noticed they eat too quickly?”
“They get married only when they ‘have a window’ between racquetball matches.”
“And they have a compulsive tic to exchange business cards every four minutes.”
“And they divorce people by e-mail.”
“No. Text message.”
“We don’t want to be like that, do we?”
But we still needed someplace to live.
“We’ve got to think harder,” I said.
“No, we’ve gotta think smah-tah. I’ve got a plan.”
He explained: the next time that same real-estate firm was having a viewing of a place that we could afford, we’d go prepared: with three months’ rent in cash in our pockets and a town car waiting outside. “We’ll make sure the guy sees plenty of us, me in particular. And when it looks like it’s getting near the time when he assembles everyone, I’ll pretend I’ve got a call on my cell and I’ll step outside to take it. Soon as I’m out, I’ll run down into the street, get in the car, and go to his office. Let’s hope he won’t notice I’m not there.”
“But when he gets back to his office, you’ll be there and I won’t have arrived yet,” I said. “Don’t we have to show up as a couple? Isn’t it against the rules not to?”
“They’re only his stupid rules, it’s not like we can be arrested for breaking them. Okay, I’m thinking, I’m thinking…right, got it!” He snapped his fingers. “When I get to his office, I’ll say the reason you’re not there is that you’re a nurse and you stopped to help a man who was having a cardiac arrest outside Macy’s. Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what I’ll say. We’ll guilt the guy into giving us the apartment.”
“I hope you’re not getting the killer instinct,” I said, in alarm.
“Just this once. Let’s see if it works.”
And, strangely, it did.
Although not exactly in the way we’d hoped. The realtor guy said to Aidan, “I know you cheated. I know you’re lying. But I like your balls. You can have the apartment.”
“I felt sullied.” Aidan squirmed, afterward. “Dirty, you know? ‘I like your balls.’ I’ve been dragged down to his level.”
“Yes, yes, that’s terrible,” I said. “But we’ve got an apartment! We got somewhere to live! Get over it.”
52
Neris Hemming’s office.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m finally through!” I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t stop talking. “I’m at work and I’ve been ringing for hours and kept getting your message, then the very second the clock hit nine o’clock, I got the engaged tone and it was engaged for, like, forever, and I’d got so used to hitting redial and hanging up that when you answered, I nearly hung up by accident—”
“Can I have your name, honey?”
“Anna Walsh.”
I knew it was crazy but I’d fantasized that when she heard my name she’d go, “Oh yeah, Anna Walsh,” then shuffle through some papers on her desk, containing messages from the dead and say, “Yes, there’s a message for you from a guy called Aidan Maddox. He said to say he’s sorry he died so unexpectedly like that, but he’s hovering around you all the time and can’t wait to talk to you.”
“A-N-N-A W-A-L-S-H.” Keys clicked as she inputted me.
“You’re not Neris, are you?”
“No, I’m her assistant, and I’m not even a little bit psychic. Number and e-mail, please.”
I called them out, she read them back to me, then she said, “Okay, we’ll be in touch.” But I didn’t want the call to end; I needed something.
“You see, my husband died.” Tears began to pour down my face and I ducked my head so that Lauryn wouldn’t see.
“Sure, honey, I know.”
“Do you really think Neris will be able to put me in contact with him?”
“Like I said, honey, we’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, but—”
“Great talking to you.”
She was gone—and here came Franklin, clapping his hands together, rounding up his girls for the Monday Morning Meeting, even though it was Tuesday.
I was still getting pretty good newspaper coverage. So it was a bit of a shock when Ariella said, from the head of the table, “What’s going on with you, Anna?”
Shit. I’d thought I was flying beneath the radar: being effective, but not so effective that I’d come to Ariella’s attention.
However, all those long hours I’d been putting in paid off and I was able to give a decent answer. “The biggest project I’m working on at the moment is Candy Grrrl going to Super Saturday in the Hamptons.”
Super Saturday was a high-profile, celebrity-ridden charity fund-raiser. It had started as a sample sale by designers like Donna Karan and had grown over the last decade to one of the events in the Hampton calendar. Members of the public (but it was the Hampton public, so it was very select, really) had to pay in—a lot, like several hundred dollars—but once you were in you got to buy designer clothes for next to nothing; there were giveaways, treatments, raffles, and a sensational goody bag when you left.
“Our stand is twice as big as it was last year, we’re giving away Candy Grrrl beach bags, and best of all, I’ve persuaded Candace to actually come and do makeovers. Getting her in person should be a huge draw.”
Off the top of her head, Ariella couldn’t find anything to criticize in that, so she turned on Wendell. “You’re doing Super Saturday, too, yeah? You got a world-famous makeup artist coming along?”
“Dr. De Groot will be attending,” Wendell said.
Dr. De Groot was Visage’s skin-care scientist. He was the oddest-looking man I’d ever met—he was actually frightening—and he definitely took his work home. We reckoned he practiced chemical peels and Restylane injections on himself. Maybe even the odd bit of surgery in front of the bathroom mirror. He was shiny and stretched and frozen and lopsided. I know I was a fine one to talk with my mutilated face, but really, anyone who met him would never use Visage again.
“The Phantom of the Opera?” Ariella said. “Try to get him to wear a bag over his head.”
Wendell nodded efficiently. “Done.”
Ariella seemed to sag. There was no one to yell at; we were all too efficient today. “Go on.” She nodded at us all. “Beat it, get out of here, I’m busy.”
Back at my desk a message was waiting on my computer.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Neris Hemming
We have noted your request for a one-to-one reading with Neris Hemming. Due to her busy schedule, Ms. Hemming is fully booked for several months. When a vacancy becomes available her office will contact you to arrange a half-hour phone reading. The cost for Ms. Hemming’s time will be $2,500. We accept all major credit cards.
Cripes, it had gone up a lot since Mitch had talked to her. Not that it mattered, I was thrilled that they’d got back to me. If only I could talk to her now.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Several months?
How long is several months?
I mean, “several months” is far too vague, I need to start planning, I need to start counting down to when I’ll be talking to you.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Several months?
Between ten and twelve weeks, usually, but this is not a guarantee, simply an estimate. Please note this in any legal action.
What? People sued because they didn’t get to talk to Neris in the promi
sed time? But I knew how desperate I was, I could understand people losing their head if they were all set to talk to their loved one on a particular date and it fell through.
There was also an attachment full of exemption clauses. It was couched in convoluted legalese, but the gist was that if you didn’t get to hear what you wanted from Neris, no way could you hold her responsible, and although she could cancel for any reason she liked, if you weren’t there at your appointed slot, you’d forfeit your money.
There was also an e-mail from Helen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Tediarseity
Break in routine! Detta drove to Donnybrook in personality-free Beemer and went to vile dress shop. You know the type—small boutiques for rich old bats. Have “exotic” names like “Monique’s” and “Lucrezia’s” and only sixteen things in stock and snobby old assistants who say, “These stinky expensive items are just in from Italy—gooooooooorgeous, aren’t they?” And “This yellow would be lovely on you, Annette, really brings out your teeth.”
Didn’t go in, just hovered outside like homeless person because (a) place was too small and Detta would have spotted me, and (b) once you’re through doors of shop like that, if you try to leave without buying anything, they shoot you in the back with sniper’s rifle.
53
Friday, the ninth of July, my birthday; I was thirty-three. To add insult to injury, instead of enjoying a nice peaceful evening at home, crying my eyes out, I was being forced to endure “a great night out.”
Rachel wanted to make sure that my first birthday without Aidan was a lovely affair: a lovely restaurant and lovely presents with lovely people who loved me. It would be a bloody nightmare.
I’d begged her to reconsider. I’d reminded her how difficult I found any social event and one that had me at its epicenter would be close to unendurable, but she was immovable.
I was late getting home from work. I had ten minutes before Jacqui came to pick me up and I wasn’t remotely ready. I didn’t even have a clue where to start. Teeth, I decided. I’d brush my teeth. But when I picked up my toothbrush, a dreadful pain, like a streak of electricity zipping through me, shot up my arm, through my ribs, and down through the marrow of my legs. I still had the arthritis/rheumatism-style aches, but in the last few days they’d been joined by these shooting electric jolts. Once again the doctor said that this was “normal”; all part of the grieving process.
My bell rang. She was early. “Ah, fuck!” I flung my toothbrush hard into the sink.
Jacqui looked me over and said, “Oh, good, you’re ready.”
Actually, I was still in my work clothes (pink ballerina-style skirt, pink vest, fishnet cutoffs, and ballet slippers embroidered with flowers), but as my work clothes looked more like party clothes than most people’s party clothes, I decided I’d do.
As the cab moved through the Friday-night traffic, I thought: I’m on my way to meet you. You’ll be there tonight, you’ll have come straight from work to the restaurant. You’ll be wearing your blue suit and you’ll have taken off your tie, and when Jacqui and I walk in you’ll wink at me to show that you know I have to be mannerly and say hello to everyone else first, that you and me can’t immediately start slobbering over each other, but the wink will say it all, it’ll say, “Just you wait till I get you home…” “Hmm?”
Jacqui had just asked me something.
“A good sun cream,” she repeated. “Factor fifteen at least. Will you steal me one?”
“Sure, yes, whatever you’d like.”
Then I tried to climb back inside my head. We’ll politely speak to everyone there but you’ll do something small and intimate, something only I’ll know about—maybe you’ll pass by me and quickly circle your thumb over the palm of my hand or—
Jacqui had said something else and resentment flared momentarily. I loved being in my own head so much, it was getting harder and harder being with other people. I’d be thinking lovely happy thoughts, then they’d say something and drag me back to their version of reality, the one where Aidan was dead.
“Sorry. What?”
“We’re here,” she repeated.
“So we are,” I said, in surprise.
Flanked by Jacqui, like I was a prisoner on a one-day release, I walked into La Vie en Seine, where a crowd awaited: Rachel, Luke, Joey, Gaz, Shake, Teenie, Leon, Dana, Dana’s sister Natalie, Aidan’s old roommate Marty, Nell, but not Nell’s strange friend, thank Christ. They were standing around, drinking champagne from flutes, and when they saw me they pretended they weren’t mortified and a little cheer went up and someone said, overjovially, “Here’s the birthday girl.” Someone else handed me a flute, which I tried to down in one go, but those yokes are so narrow that I had to tilt my head right back and the glass stuck to my face and left a perfect circle on my cheeks and across my nose.
Everyone was smiling and looking at me—people were always either supercheery or supersolicitous, no one could be normal—and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. This was worse, far worse, than I’d anticipated. I felt I was standing in the middle of the world while everyone and everything retreated farther and farther.
“Let’s take our places,” Rachel said.
At the table, the insides of my jaws hurting from holding a smile, I picked up another glass of champagne—I wasn’t sure it was mine, but I couldn’t stop myself—and drank down as much of it as I could without it suctioning onto my face again. Up until now I’d stayed away from heavy drinking because I was afraid I might like it too much. It looked as if I’d been right.
As I wiped sticky champagne dregs from my chin, I realized a waiter was standing patiently beside me, waiting to hand me a menu. “Oh God, sorry, thank you,” I murmured, thinking: Act normal, act normal.
Jacqui was telling me how hard it was to get hold of a Labradoodle, they were in very short supply and were being sold on the black market, some had even been kidnapped from their owners and sold. I was trying to pay attention but Joey was diagonally opposite her and he was singing “Uptown Girl,” changing the real words for snide ones about Jacqui. “Wannabe girl, she only hangs around with the rich and famous, she wishes she lived in Trump To-wer, so her and Donald co-ould be best buddies…”
He was being very unpleasant—nothing unusual there—but he was really putting an extraordinary amount of work into it. Normally, Joey couldn’t ever be coaxed to sing. Then I understood—oh my God…he fancied Jacqui.
When had that started?
Jacqui was adept at ignoring him but my nerve endings were so raw that I had to say, “Joey, could you stop?”
“Wha—? Oh, sorry, man.”
I was getting away with a lot: everyone had to be nice to me. There was no telling how long it might last, so I might as well make the most of it.
“It’s the voice, yeah?” Joey said. “Tone-deaf, always was. People get asked, what special power they’d like? They always say they’d like to be invisible. Me, I wish I could sing.”
At the next table my attention was caught by a young, beautiful woman. She was very New York—sleek and coordinated with shiny, blown-out hair. She was smiling and talking animatedly to the dull-looking man with her, her manicured hands flashing to emphasize what she was saying. I watched her shirtfront rise and fall as she took a breath. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Breathing. Staying alive. And one day she wouldn’t breathe anymore. One day something would happen and her chest wouldn’t rise and fall. She’d be dead. I thought of all that life stuff going on beneath the skin, her heart pumping and her lungs lifting and her blood flowing and what makes it happen and what makes it stop…
Slowly I realized that everyone was staring at me.
“Are you okay, Anna?” Rachel asked.
“Um…”
“It’s just that you were staring at that woman.”
&
nbsp; Oh my God, I was out of control. What should I say? “Yes…wondering if she’s had Botox.”
Everyone turned to look.
“’Course she has.”
Then I felt wretched. Not just because I was sure the woman hadn’t had Botox—she was so animated—but because I wasn’t fit to be let out.
Gaz squeezed my shoulder. “Have a proper drink.” And I decided I would. Something strong.
When my martini arrived, Gaz said encouragingly, “You’re okay, there. You’re doing great.”
“D’you know something, Gaz.” I gulped from the glass and heat flooded my system. “I don’t think I am. I have this…sensation…that I’m looking at the world through the wrong end of a telescope. Have you ever felt like that? No, don’t answer it, because you’re so nice, you’ll just say that you have. Can I tell you how it feels? A lot of the time, like not just tonight, although it’s very bad tonight, it feels like my lens on the world has been interfered with, so that everyone looks much further away, do you know what I mean?” I took another deep gulp of my martini. “The only time I feel half normal is when I’m at work, but that’s because it’s not the real me, it’s because I’m acting a role. Can I tell you what I was thinking when I was looking at that beautiful woman. I was thinking that one day we’ll all be dead, Gaz. Her, me, Rachel there, Luke, you, Gaz—yes, you, too. I’m not singling you out, Gaz, please don’t think that, you know how fond of you I am, I’m only saying that you’ll be dead one day. And it mightn’t be in forty years’ time or whatever you’re counting on. Gaz, you could go like that.” I tried to snap my fingers, but couldn’t manage it. Could I be drunk already? “I don’t mean to be morbid, Gaz, saying you could drop dead any minute, it’s the truth. I mean, look at Aidan, he’s dead and he was younger than you, Gaz, by a couple of years. If he can die, so can any of us, including you. Not that I mean to be morbid, Gaz.”
