by Marian Keyes
“Where’s Gaz?” I asked.
“Out.”
I looked at Jacqui but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“The place looks lovely,” I said. “Beautiful candles. Ylang-ylang, I see, very sensual. And what are those flowers called?”
“Birds of paradise,” Joey mumbled.
“Gorgeous. Can I have one of these strawberries?”
Narky pause. “Go ahead.”
“Delicious! Ripe and juicy. Try one, Jacqui. Come here, let me feed one to you. What’s this scarf for, Joey? Is it a blindfold?”
He made some angry “I haven’t a clue” gesture.
“Lookit, I’m off,” I said.
“Stay,” Jacqui said. She looked at Joey. “We’re only playing poker.”
“Yeah, stay,” Joey said, about as halfheartedly as anyone could.
“Please stay,” Jacqui said. “Really, Anna, it’s great to see you out and about.”
“But…are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I should. Like, can you even play poker with just two people?”
“Well, there’s three of us now,” Joey said sourly.
“True for you. Although do you mind if we don’t play poker?” I asked. “I just don’t get it. You can’t really do it properly if you don’t smoke, it’s all in the squinting. Let’s play a proper game. Let’s play rummy.”
After a long silence, Joey said, “Rummy it is.”
We sat at the table and Joey flung seven cards at each of us. I bowed my head and stared hard. Then I asked, “Would it be okay if we turned on a light? It’s just I can’t see my cards.”
With short, jerky movements, Joey leaped up, hit a switch with venom, and threw himself back into his chair.
“Thank you,” I murmured. In the bright of the overhead light, all the flowers and candles and strawberries and chocolates suddenly looked a little shamefaced.
“I suppose you want the music off, too, so you can concentrate,” he said.
“No. I like Ravel’s Boléro, actually.”
I was sorry to be ruining the seduction scene but I hadn’t realized I’d be intruding. Jacqui had more or less said that Gaz would be there. And both her and Joey had insisted that I stay, even though neither of them had meant it.
I looked up from my—admittedly excellent—hand of cards and caught Joey openly watching Jacqui. He was like a cat with a fluff ball, he was mesmerized. She was harder to read; she wasn’t staring at him the way he was at her, but she wasn’t her usual outgoing self. And her mind certainly wasn’t on her cards because I kept winning. “Rummy!” I said gleefully, the first couple of times. Then it got embarrassing, then a little boring.
As an evening, it was not a success and it drew to an early close.
“At least poor Gaz can come home from wherever Joey banished him to,” I said as Jacqui and I waited for the elevator.
“We’re just friends,” she said defensively.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Great news
Two weeks off from Detta Big, thanks be to jaysus. She’s going to Marbella with “the girls” (collective age three thousand and seven if that crowd I saw her having lunch with are anything to go by). When Harry told me he said: And you needn’t think you’ll be going along with her for an all-expenses-paid fortnight in the sun.
Me: Like I’d want to go to that kippy kip.
Him (wounded): Why? What’s wrong with it?
Me: Full of knackery crims, wearing too much gold, bought with their ill-gotten gains. Costa del War Crime.
Him: I didn’t know the middle class thought that about Marbella. We thought yiz were jealous. Detta loves it.
Go figure. (Didn’t say it tho’.)
Him: But you needn’t think you’re off the hook. Keep an eye on Racey O’Grady. Make sure he stays in the country.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Photos!
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well and sorry about “bellyaching” in my last e-mail. Well, finally we have photos of the woman and Zoe the dog! Helen is a good girl and hid in the hedge and “fired off a roll.” She wanted to shout, “We’re onto you, missus,” but I told her not to. Stealth will be to our advantage. I will be taking the best pictures to mass next Sunday and will ask people if they recognize either the woman or Zoe. God help poor Zoe, it’s not her fault, dogs have no sense of right and wrong. Human beings have a conscience, that’s what separates us from the animals. Although Helen says the difference is that animals can’t wear high heels. Either way, I must admit the whole business has me baffled. Obviously the old woman has some sort of “grudge” against us.
Your loving mother,
Mum
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Racey O’Grady
Racey O’Grady lives in Dalkey, respectable neigborhood. Surprised. Thought all crime lords would live near one another so they could pop in and out of one another’s houses all day, borrowing cups of bullets and saying they had to nip down to shops for a minute, so would other person keep an eye on their hostage, and so on. Racey—vay keen on privacy—big house, own grounds, electronic gates, high walls, spikes on top.
I parked down road and not one person went in or out all day. Not even postman. Tediousity of it. Seriously worried that Racey might have gone to Marbella and that I’d have to go, too. Then at five o’clock the gates opened and out comes Racey. Looks well in flesh. Tanned, bright blue eyes, pep in step. Sadly, wearing very bad mushroom-colored shoes, open-necked shirt, and gold chain. Looked like football manager, but far, far better than Mr. Big.
He was carrying kit bag. I was convinced it was full of saws, pliers, and other torture tools, but he was just going to gym. Followed him (on foot) to Killiney Castle health club, where they wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t member, so I said, was thinking of becoming member and would they give me tour? Okay, they said, and when they showed me the gym there was Racey, his blue veiny legs going hell for leather on the StairMaster. Innocence itself. Ages later he left, I followed him back, sat in car for another hour, then thought, fuck this for a game of skittles, he’s obviously not going to Marbella this evening, I’m going home.
62
On the train, Mitch and I rocked shoulder to shoulder in silence. We were returning from Coney Island amusement park, where we’d partaken of the rides a little too grimly. But that was fine. We weren’t there to enjoy ourselves, simply to pass the time.
The train rounded a particularly sharp corner and we both nearly fell out of the seat. When we’d straightened up again, I suddenly asked, “What were you like before?”
“Before…?”
“Yes, what kind of person were you?”
“What am I like now?”
“Very quiet. You don’t say much.”
“I guess I talked more.” He thought about it. “Yeah, conversations, I had opinions, I liked to talk. A lot.” He sounded surprised. “Issues of the day, movies, whatever.”
“Did you smile?”
“I don’t smile now? Okay. Yeah, I smiled. And laughed. What were you like?”
“I don’t know. Happier. Sunnier. Hopeful. Not terrified. I liked being around people…”
We sighed and lapsed back into silence.
Eventually I spoke. “Do you think we’ll ever go back to being who we were?”
He thought about it. “I don’t want to. It would be like Trish had never happened.”
“I know what you mean, but, Mitch, are we going to be like this forever?”
“Like what?”
“Like…ghosts? Like we died, too, but someone forgot to tell us.”
“We’ll get better.” After a pause he added, “We’ll be better but different.”
“How do you know?”
He smiled. “Because I know.”
“Okay.”
“Did you notice I smiled just there?”
“Did you? Do it again.”
He arranged his face in an ultrabright smile. “How’s that?”
“A bit game-show host. Wheel of Fortune.”
“Practice. That’s all I need.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Latest update
No one at mass recognized the old woman in the photo. I am going to bring it to golf and bridge and if I still don’t get a “result” I am going to ring RTE and see if I can get it on Crimewatch. Or Crimeline. Or Crimetime. Or whatever they’re calling it these days. Crimewhine, there’s another one. Can you think of any more? Helen calls it Grass Up Your Neighbors. Mrs. Big is back from Marbella and Helen will be resuming sitting in the hedge from tomorrow morning.
Your loving mother,
Mum
63
All set for tonight?” Nicholas asked. “The full moon?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, bringing the phone very close to my face. I was at work, and although it was unlikely that anyone would guess that I was discussing recording my dead husband’s voice, I wasn’t taking any chances.
“You got your tape recorder?”
“Yep.” Specially purchased.
“And you know not to start until after sunset?”
“Yes. I know everything.” Nicholas had e-mailed me a vast quantity of information on electronic voice phenomenon. To my surprise some scientific studies seemed to take it seriously.
“Well, take this to the bank!”
“What?”
“Weather Channel says there’s an eighty percent chance of thunderstorms this afternoon. That’s going to totally up the chances of Aidan talking to you.”
“Really?” My insides clenched with almost unendurable excitement.
“Yes, really. Good luck. Call me.”
I was agitated and fidgety. I couldn’t work, all I could do was pace and stare out the window. Late afternoon, the sky abruptly became purple and swollen and the air hot and still.
Teenie looked up from her desk. “Looks like we’re going to have a thunderstorm.”
I was so overwhelmed, I had to sit down.
The sky got darker and darker and I willed it on, and when the first rumble of thunder rolled over Manhattan, I let out a sigh of relief. Seconds later the sky cracked with lightning and the heavens opened.
Listening to the hiss of torrential rain drenching the city, I was trembling with anticipation; even my lips were. When my phone rang, I could barely talk. “Candy Grrrl publicity. Anna Walsh speaking.”
It was Nicholas again. “Can you believe it?” he exclaimed.
“A full moon and a thunderstorm,” I said numbly. “What are the chances of the two happening together?”
“Actually higher than you might think,” he said. “You know how the full moon affects the tides…”
“Stop, stop! You’re killing it for me.”
“Sorry.”
The next phone call was from Mitch. “Good luck tonight.”
“Can you believe the two happening together?” I asked.
“No. It’s got to be a sign. Call me later if you want to talk.”
Every cab and car service in Manhattan had been commandeered and I got drenched running from the subway to my apartment; my bag on my head provided no protection whatsoever. Not that I cared; I was elated. I paced the floor, drying my hair with a towel and wondering what time could be officially considered “after sunset.”
When the storm had started, day had turned to night, but I worried that just because it looked dark out there, it didn’t necessarily mean it was “after sunset.” The sun might have been scared off by the thunder and lightning but mightn’t have actually set.
I wasn’t sure how much sense that made but the instructions Nicholas had sent were very specific—the recording must not start until “after sunset”—and I couldn’t afford to cut any corners because it would be another four weeks until the next full moon.
Waiting to talk to Aidan was killing me but I forced myself to hold out until after ten; under normal nonstormy circumstances, the sun would have definitely set by then.
I put the tape recorder up in the bedroom because it was far quieter than the front room, which faced onto the street. The rumbles of thunder had stopped but the rain was still tumbling from the sky.
To make sure everything was working fine, I said “testing, one, two” a couple of times. I felt like a roadie but it had to be done, and at least I didn’t say it in a stupid roadie way (“Dezdin, wan, jew”), then I took a deep breath and spoke into the mike. “Aidan, please talk to me. I’m…um…going to leave for a while, and when I come back, I’m really hoping to hear a message from you.”
Then I tiptoed out and sat in the front room, jiggling my foot, watching the clock. I’d give it an hour.
When the time was up, I tiptoed back in; the tape had come to an end. I rewound it, then hit play, all the time praying, Please Aidan, please Aidan, please have left a message, please Aidan, please.
I jumped when I heard my own voice at the start, but after that came nothing. My ears were straining to hear anything, anything at all. But all there was, was the hiss of silence.
Suddenly a high-pitched shriek came from the tape; faint but definitely audible. I recoiled with fright. Oh my God, oh my God, was that Aidan? Why had he screamed?
My heart was thumping as fast as an express train. I put my ear close to the speaker; there were other sounds, too. A muzzy jumble, but undeniably the sound of a voice. I caught a word that might have been men then a ghostly oooooooh.
I couldn’t believe it. It was happening, it was really happening, and was I ready for it? Blood was pounding in my ears, my palms were drenched, and the follicles of my scalp were tingling. Aidan had contacted me. All I had to do was listen hard enough to hear what he had to say. Thank you, sweetheart, oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice sounded more high-pitched than Aidan’s; I’d been told that this could happen and that I should slow the tape down in order to hear better. However, that made it harder to pick out anything meaningful, so I put it back to normal speed, every one of my muscles tensed, desperate to hear something that made sense. I was still only getting a sound or a word here and there, when out of nowhere I caught an entire sentence. There was no doubt as to what it was. I heard each word with crystal clarity.
It was, “Ab-so-lut-lee soooaaak-ing WET!”
It was Ornesto. Upstairs. Singing “It’s Raining Men.”
As soon as I knew what it was, all the other muzzy indistinct sounds instantly fell into place.
“Hall-ell-ooooooooooooooh-ya! It’s raining men! La la la la la LA.”
For a moment I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I’d never been in such a situation before and there was no precedent.
I sat in the dark room for I couldn’t tell you how long, then I went through to the living room and automatically switched on the telly.
64
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Neris Hemming
I contacted you on July 6 so that I could speak to my husband, Aidan, who died. You confirmed that I would have an appointment with Neris Hemming in ten to twelve weeks. It has been over five weeks and I was wondering if it would be possible to have my appointment moved to an earlier date? Or even if you could tell me what date it’ll be on, it would probably make things a little easier to bear.
Thank you in advance for your help,
Anna Walsh
Impulsively I dashed off a P.S.
I am sorry to badger you, I know Neris is very very busy but I’m in agony here.
A day later I received this reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Neris Hemming
It is not possible to move your appoint
ment to an earlier date. At the moment it is not possible to confirm your appointment date. You will be contacted approximately two weeks before the date. Thank you for your interest in Neris Hemming.
Mute with frustration, I stared at the screen. I wanted to scream but it wouldn’t do any good.
Let’s do something on Saturday night,” Jacqui suggested.
“What? No two-personed poker matches lined up?”
“Stop.” She giggled.
“You just giggled.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Jacqui, you did.”
She thought about it. “Shit. Anyway, let’s do something on Saturday night.”
“Can’t. I’m doing Super Saturday in the Hamptons.”
“Oh! You lucky, lucky bitch.”
That’s what everyone said when they heard I was going.
“The dirt-cheap designer clothes!” Jacqui said. “The freebies! The parties afterward!”
But I was working at it. Working. And it was very different when you were working.
65
In the Friday-afternoon haze, Teenie and I sat on the Long Island Expressway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The car was crammed with boxes and boxes of product—in the trunk, on the floor, on our laps. We had to bring it all ourselves because if we trusted it to couriers there was a very real chance that it wouldn’t arrive on time. (Or if we sent it the day before, there was a very real chance it would get nicked.) But we weren’t complaining: at least we hadn’t been made to go on the jitney like last year.
