by Marian Keyes
“I am putting my trust in you.” Ariella smiled, for the first time, with real warmth. “Don’t fuck it up.”
As Franklin walked me back to my desk, he said low and urgent, right into my ear, “You heard her. Don’t fuck it up.”
Dread took ahold of me.
Lauryn looked up with eager interest. “Did you get fired?”
“No.”
“Oh. So what did she want to see you for?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s in the file?”
“Nothing.”
God, I was doing a great job at stealth. Tonight you sleep in the unemployment line.
Already I was sorry to be one of the chosen ones.
I opened the Formula Twelve file and tried reading the information. Lots of it was scientific data about the biological qualities of the plants and the properties they contained and why they worked the way they did. It was highly technical, and much as I would have loved to just skim over it, I couldn’t, because if we got the account, it would be my job to reduce all this information to understandable, bite-size pieces for beauty editors’ consumption.
One of the sad things about my job was that I no longer believed any antiaging promises or miracle claims. Why would I? I wrote them.
The file contained a photo of Professor Redfern, who looked nice and explorery. Suntanned and wrinkled around the eyes and wearing a hat and one of those sleeveless khaki gilets that seem to be mandatory for explorer blokes. Beardy? But of course. Not unattractive, if you like that sort. Promotable? Possibly. Maybe we could present him as an Indiana Jones du jour.
Finally, there was a little jar of the magic cream itself. It was a nastyish mustard yellow with dark-colored flecks—a bit like “real” vanilla ice cream. Most face creams were either white or palest pink, but the mustard yellow wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it might make it seem more “authentic.”
I rubbed a thin layer over my face and a few minutes later my scar started to tingle. I rushed to the mirror and almost expected to see the puckered skin bubbling and expanding, like something in a scientific experiment gone very very wrong. But, no, nothing unusual was happening, my face looked the same as it always did.
Before I went to bed, I tried Jacqui one more time. I’d got used to her not answering, so I was very surprised when she did.
“Hay-lllloooo.” She sounded all breathy and gaspy.
“It’s me. What’s up with you and Narky Joey?”
“We’ve been in bed since Friday night. He’s just left.”
“So do you fancy him?”
“Anna, I’m mad about him.”
68
She insisted on regaling me with stories about how great the sex was. Sex, I thought, saying the word in my head. Having sex. Impossible to imagine. I was so dead, so numb.
The funny thing was that even though my libido was entirely kaput, one of my regrets was that Aidan and I hadn’t had more sex. I mean, we’d had plenty—well, a normal amount. Whatever that is. It’s hard to know exactly because most people are so paranoid that everyone else is at it morning, noon, and night that they lie about how often they do it, inflating the numbers, and obviously the people they lie to also feel the need to lie, so it’s very hard to get at the truth.
Anyway, Aidan and I used to have sex about twice or three times a week. In the beginning, though, it was more like twice or three times a day. I know that you can’t carry on like that indefinitely, ripping each other’s clothes off and having showers together and doing it in public places and generally going for it round the clock. You’d be knackered and you’d have no buttons left on your clothes and you might get arrested.
To my sorrow, we’d never done anything terribly adventurous; it had all been pretty vanilla. But maybe the kinky stuff doesn’t happen straightaway. Maybe you have to work your way through all the straightforward sex first and perhaps in ten years’ time we’d have moved out to the suburbs and been in the thick of a riotous, swinging, husband-swapping scene.
What was killing me were all the opportunities I had wasted—almost every morning of my life with him. Getting ready for work, he’d be parading around naked, his skin still damp from the shower, his mickey jiggling, and I’d be scooting past, looking for a deodorant or a hairbrush or something, and I’d half notice his tiny bottom and the hollow down the side of his thighs, and I’d think, God, he’s magnificent. But straightaway I’d think something like I still haven’t had my boots heeled, I’ll have to wear different shoes and that throws all my calculations out.
Mornings were a race against the clock; it didn’t stop Aidan grabbing at me as I zipped past, half dressed, but I nearly always batted him off and said, “Away, away, we haven’t time.”
Mostly he was a good sport about it, but one morning, shortly before he died, he said, quite sadly, “We never do it in the mornings anymore.”
“No one does,” I said. “Only weirdos, like company CEOs with trophy wives or mistresses. And the women only submit because the CEO gives them expensive jewelry. And the CEO only does it because he was born with too much testosterone, and if he doesn’t have sex, he’ll have to invade a country or something.”
“Yes, but…”
“Come on now,” I chivvied him. “We’re not living in a Joy of Sex video.”
“What happens in a Joy of Sex video?”
“You know. Spontaneity.” I whizzed up the zip on my skirt. “You’d be ready for work, like you are now, and I’d be having a bubble bath.”
“We don’t even have a bath.”
“Never mind. I’d be pointing my toes in the air and soaping my shins all luxuriously and you’d lean over the side to kiss me good-bye…”
“…oh, I get it. You’d pull me by the tie…”
“…exactly! Into the bath…”
“…wow. Wild…”
“Not wild. You’d go apeshit. You’d shout, ‘For God’s sake, this is my Hugo Boss suit. What in the name of fuck am I going to wear to work now?’” As I spoke, I was rummaging furiously through a drawer looking for a bra. I found it.
“Look.” Aidan pointed down at his crotch. He seemed to be indicating activity in that region. I ignored it and continued. “You’d say, ‘We’d better get all this water mopped up before Mr. Downstairs comes up to humble us for destroying his bathroom ceiling.’”
Aidan was still looking at his crotch. I followed his eyes to the tent-pole shape in his trousers. He made a “shucks, honey,” gesture and I said, “We’ve got to go to work.”
“No.” He unsnapped the bra I’d just put on.
“No!” I tried to put the bra back on.
“But you’re beautiful.” Gently he bit the back of my neck, “And I want you so baaaad. Feel.” He took my hand, and through the cloth I felt his erection, bent and springy and striving to be upright. Under my touch it noticeably thickened and straightened.
Suddenly this was starting to seem like quite a nice idea but I made a last attempt to put him off. “I’m wearing my tangerine knickers.”
They were like boy’s jocks. I loved them; Aidan didn’t.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Just get them off. Like now.” He wrestled me onto the bed, hiked up my skirt, hooked his index fingers into the waistband of my tangerine jocks, whizzed them right down to my ankles, and unhooked them over my feet.
Leaning over me, he pulled his tie undone, unzipped his fly, and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you.” He tugged down his Calvins and his fully erect penis sprang out. I pushed him back on the bed, the bottom buttons of his shirt undone, his pants down to his knees, his skin pale against the navy of the suit and his shock of dark pubic hair.
His erection curved upward and he reached for me.
I slid myself down onto him, suddenly very turned on and, holding on to the headboard, began rocking up and down. My button was rubbing against the shaft and my breasts were swinging in his face. He nipped my nipples between sharp teeth, his hands tight on my hips, moving me up and
down his shaft, faster and faster.
The headboard was squeaking in time with his noises. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Then: “Oh, fuck, no!” With a final “AHHH!” and a shiver, he reared up into me, pulling me down to him. He gasped and shuddered and bucked, and when he could speak again, he said, “Sorry, baby.”
I shrugged. “You know what to do.”
He rolled me over, slid a pillow under my bum, pushed my thighs apart, and I rose to meet him.
69
I swear to God, I thought I could see an improvement in my scar the very next morning. I couldn’t be sure, but I took a photo of it just to be on the safe side. If Formula Twelve could effect a visible improvement after one go, what would it be like after fourteen? It might come in very handy for my pitch.
I couldn’t decide which way to go with it, but obviously I didn’t want to overlap with Wendell or Lois.
I could guess what Wendell would propose because I knew her style: Wendell threw money at things. Every beauty editor in New York would be off to Brazil on a private plane if Wendell had anything to do with it.
Lois was a lesser-known quantity. Because the brand she currently worked on was a bit of a Feathery Stroker one, she might stay with that approach and go on about the natural ingredients and that sort of thing.
So, if the Brazilianness and the Naturalness aspects of Formula Twelve were already annexed, where did that leave me?
Nothing was coming. No starbursts of inspiration. It was all I thought about; it filled my head right up and left very little room for me to think about anything else. But something would come. Something would have to.
What do you think? I asked Aidan. Any ideas? Divine inspiration? Now that you’re dead, any chance it could come in handy?
But no voice answered in my head. I stared at the little yellow jar and wondered.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Result!
After fuck knows how many weeks since started tailing her, finally got picture of Detta Big at Racey O’Grady’s house. Took loads of shots of Detta talking into gate intercom, driving in, parking, getting out of the car, ringing front doorbell, going inside…
Printed them off at high speed! Then rang Colin and told him to collect me. I never meet Harry anywhere except Corky’s, but am not allowed to make own way there. Have to suffer mortification of Austrian-blindsmobile and local kids mocking.
As usual Harry down the back drinking milk. I put envelope of photos in front of him.
Me: There’s your proof. Now give me my money and let me off this boring job.
Harry opened envelope, shuffled through pics, then said: You’re still on the job.
Me: Why?
Him: I like having you around the place.
Me: Do you?
Could have sworn he hated me.
Him (wearily): No. I don’t know why I said that.
Me: I’m sick of this job. I want out.
Him: Well, you can’t. I want you in.
Me: And I want out.
Him: You’re very fond of your mother, aren’t you?
Me (surprised): No, I’m not.
Where did he get that mad idea from?
Me: Are you threatening me?
Him: Yes.
Me: Well, you’ll have to try a bit harder than threatening my mother.
Him: So who are you fond of?
Me: No one.
Him: You’ve got to be fond of someone.
Me: I’m not, I’m telling you. My sister Rachel says there’s something wrong with me, like I’ve a bit missing.
Him: And she’s the shrink, is she?
Me: Yes. (I know she’s not proper shrink, just acts like one.)
Him: Well, she’d know. Fuck.
Harry put head in hands. Sign that he was thinking. He looked up: I need better proof than this. I need proof of them together, if you get me?
Me: Do you mean them riding each other?
Him (wincing): In my day women used to have some decorum. I’ll double what I’m paying you. How does that sound?
Me (desperate): It’s not about the money. Look, Harry, this job has got to get more exciting. I’m losing the will to live.
Him: Stop calling me Harry. Show a little respect.
Me: Actually, Harry, I was thinking about the whole Mr. Big thing. I’ve been trying lateral thinking. Instead of focusing on size, we could try other things.
Him: Like what?
Me: How does Mr. Fear grab you?
Him (nodding slowly): I like it.
Me: Will we try it for a while, see if it catches on?
Him: Okay.
He tells Colin: D’you get that? We’re going to run with Mr. Fear for a while. Put the word out to the lads.
Because I want to get off this job, I said: Harry, you have photographic proof of your wife with another crime lord. Why would they be meeting if they weren’t up to something dodgy?
Him: Lots of reasons. Racey’s mammy, Tessie O’Grady, was great friends with Detta’s da, Chinner Skinner. Detta could just be being friendly, like.
Me: So Detta and Racey are old friends! Why am I surveilling old friends?
I’m thinking, he’s cracked. Cracked and mad. And insane, to boot.
Him: No, they’re not old friends. Their ma and da were old friends.
Me: But still a perfectly innocent reason for them to meet up.
Him (shaking head): No. Because then there was a bit of bad blood over an arms shipment from the Middle East and Chinner Skinner got rubbed out.
Colin: Along with most of the crème de la crème of Dublin crime.
Harry (looked at Colin really meanly): If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.
He turned back to me: Yeh, most of Dublin’s brightest stars—Bennie the Blade. Rasher McRazor. The Boneman. Ironing-board Jim—all taken out in the space of a fortnight.
He sighed: The best of the best. But the biggest shock was Chinner Skinner. No one fucked with the Chinner but word was that Tessie O’Grady took him out. No one’s ever been able to prove it like, but only Tessie O’Grady would have the balls to do it.
Me: How long ago was this?
Him: Donkeys. Twelve. Fifteen?
He looked at Colin.
Colin: Fourteen years this summer.
Me: So Detta and Racey are old friends who became enemies who might be friends again?
Fuck’s sake.
Piss: Didn’t entirely mean it when said I wasn’t fond of anyone. Quite fond of you.
Pissssss: Not just saying that because your husband died.
70
I couldn’t come up with a pitch for Formula Twelve. For the first time ever, all my inspiration had deserted me.
Franklin asked how it was coming along.
“Good,” I said.
“So tell me.”
“I’d rather not,” I said. “If that’s okay. It’s not fully there yet and I don’t want you to see it half-assed.”
With sudden anger, he said, “Are you fucking with me?”
“No, Franklin, I swear. Trust me, I won’t let you down.”
“Because I took a risk on you with Ariella.”
“I know. I appreciate it. I’m good for this.”
But I wasn’t.
By Sunday I’d still drawn a blank, so at Leisl’s I jokingly asked the gang for help.
“If anyone comes through for any of you today, will you ask them what I should do for my pitch.”
“What’ve you done so far?” Nicholas asked.
“Nothing. I’ve come up with nothing.”
“Isn’t that telling you something?” Nicholas asked.
“Telling me what?”
“To do nothing.”
“And get sacked? I don’t think so.”
“How do you get the goose out of the bottle?”
“What goose?”
“It’s a Buddhist thing. There’s a goose trapped in a bottle—how do you get it out?
”
“How did it get in, in the first place?” Mitch asked.
Nicholas laughed. “That doesn’t matter. So how do you get it out?”
“Break the bottle,” Mitch said.
Nicholas shrugged. “That’s one way.” He looked at me. “Any other suggestions?”
“Smoke him out,” Barb said. “Heh, heh, heh.”
“I give up,” I said. “Tell me.”
“This isn’t a riddle. There isn’t a straight answer.”
“What? So the goose stays in the bottle?”
“Not necessarily. If you wait. Wait long enough and the goose will be thin enough to slip out of the bottle. Or if he gets fed, he’ll grow and break the bottle himself. But all you have to do is nothing.”
“Little one, you are wise beyond your years,” Barb said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was hoping for more practical advice.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: “Result!”
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well. Well, we have finally “nailed” the old woman. I brought the photos to golf and no one knew her but we “hit pay dirt” at bridge. Dodie McDevitt identified her. Funnily enough it was Zoe the dog she recognized first. She said, “That’s Zoe O’Shea, as sure as eggs.” When she said “Zoe” I thought I might topple off my chair. “Yes!” I said. “Zoe, Zoe! Who owns her?” “Nan O’Shea,” says she.
