by Marian Keyes
Dodie was even able to give me her address—Springhill Drive, which is not that far away, although it is a long way to make a small dog walk every day. I am not sure what to do now. I might have to “beard” her in her “den.” “Front” her “up.” But whatever happens I will keep you “in the loop.”
Your loving mother,
Mum
The Formula Twelve pitch was all I could think about but I hadn’t come up with a single idea. I had never experienced a block like it. I knew that if it came to it, I could do a pitch similar to Wendell’s—private plane to Rio, fancy hotels, half-day trip to the favelas—but my heart wouldn’t be in it. I had to come up with something. In the past I had always managed to pull the rabbit out of the hat. But, to my horror, still nothing came and I only had six days left…
…five days…
…four days…
…three days…
…two days…
…one day…
…no days…
The morning of the pitch to Ariella, I wore my only sober suit, the one I’d worn the first time I’d met Aidan, when he’d spilled coffee on me. It might help me be taken seriously. I almost died of shock when I saw the usually überchic Wendell.
She was wearing a yellow suit. Yellow. With feathers. She looked like Big Bird. She must be pitching some carnival-type theme. Quickly I looked over at Lois, who was wearing a sleeveless khaki gilet with loads of pockets, just like Professor Redfern’s. Her pitch must be going the explorer route.
At five to ten, Franklin gave us the nod and led Wendell and me to the boardroom. Coming from the opposite direction were Mary Jane and Lois. Wendell and Lois had storyboards tucked under their arms. I had none.
All five of us met at the door, where Franklin and Mary Jane fronted each other in a hostile face-off. Out on the floor, everyone craned their necks and stared; this highly confidential pitch was one of the worst-kept secrets of all time.
“Please enter,” said Shannon, Ariella’s PA. “Ariella is waiting inside. I will be guarding the door.” To keep us in, rather than anyone else out, I thought.
“Siddown, siddown,” Ariella said from the head of the table. “Now, amaze me.”
Wendell went first and what she proposed was no great surprise. She wanted to showcase the Brazilianness of Formula Twelve by flying twelve superselected beauty editors to Rio for Mardi Gras. “They’ll have a blast. We’ll fly them down in a private plane.” I knew it! Private plane! I knew it!
She revealed her first storyboard, which was a photograph of a small executive jet.
“This is similar to the plane we would fly them in,” she said. “Then we’re gonna put each editor in a suite in a five-star hotel in Rio—so many to choose from.”
Here she unveiled her second card—a photograph of the Rio Hilton. Her third card was a picture of a large hotel room. And so was her fourth. “This is an example of the type of hotel they would stay in. Then we’ll get them fitted out in fabulous carnival costumes.”
More cards were produced. Pictures of lithe tanned women in skimpy yellow bikinis and massive spangly, feathered headdresses.
“Let me guess,” Ariella said. “These are the type of costumes they’ll be wearing.”
Wendell’s smile never wavered. “Absolutely! This will be a trip they will never forget. The coverage will be beyond.”
I smiled encouragingly and felt it would be mean-spirited to mention that Rio was thousands of miles from the Amazon Basin and that there wouldn’t be a Mardi Gras for at least another six months.
Lois was next, and as I’d suspected, her pitch was a little po-faced. She proposed to take the beauty editors—twelve of them, just like Wendell—with Professor Redfern, to meet the indigenous people who invented Formula Twelve. “We fly to Rio, where we take a light aircraft to the jungle.” She unveiled her first visual: a photo of a plane. It looked very similar to Wendell’s plane. It was probably exactly the same; they probably downloaded them from the same executive jet site.
“After landing in the jungle”—a photo of thick jungle was thrust before us—“we will then trek for half a day. The editors can see the actual plants that are used to make up the product.” A picture of a plant was produced for our inspection.
“Trekking in a jungle?” Ariella said. “I’m so not loving the sound of that. What if they get bitten by an anaconda and we have a freaking lawsuit on our hands?”
“Leeches, I’ve got a thing about leeches,” Franklin said, almost to himself. “And bats. They get stuck in your hair.” He shuddered.
“We’ll have guides,” Lois said, speedily producing a picture of a half-naked, smiling, black-toothed man.
“Nice,” Franklin murmured.
“Everyone will be given appropriate clothing. Like this.” Lois pointed to her gilet. “It’ll be totally safe. This will be great, something very different. Those girls are so spoiled with glamour and luxury that they’re blasé about everything.”
I agreed with that.
“They’ll feel proud that they survived the jungle—we’ll make a big deal of it, we’ll tell them afterward that we weren’t sure they were tough enough—and they’ll appreciate having connected with another culture.”
It was good. Better in a way than Wendell’s, although Wendell’s was safer.
And then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and held up the little jar between my thumb and index finger.
“Formula Twelve.” I swiveled so that everyone could see the jar. “The most revolutionary advance in skin care since Crème de la Mer. How best to promote it? Well, I’ll tell you.” I stopped talking, looked each person in the eye, and announced. “We do…nothing.”
That got their attention: I’d lost it. Clearly, I’d totally lost it. Horror sat on Franklin’s face: he’d allowed me to keep my pitch secret until now. Ariella would kill him. Of course, Wendell and Lois were thrilled—half of the opposition dispatched without them having to do a thing. Just before Ariella got off her chair and bitch-slapped me, I opened my mouth again.
“Well, not quite nothing.” I twinkled. At least I tried; I’d been out of twinkling practice for a while.
“I’m thinking: a whispering campaign. Every time I have lunch with an editor, I drop hints that there’s a new skin-care product coming. Something off the map. But if they ask me questions, I clam up instantly, say that it’s top secret, beg them to say nothing about it to anyone…but that when they get it, they’ll be amazed.”
Everyone was watching me very carefully.
“These plants and roots that make up Formula Twelve are very rare and can’t be synthesized. Therefore the product will be rare. I plan to give one jar—one tiny jar—to, say, the beauty editor at Harper’s. The only beauty editor in the United States to get it. Literally. And I don’t mail it. I don’t even messenger it. I bring it, in person, to her. Not to her office but to some neutral venue. Almost like we’re doing something illegal.” Now I had them. “She gets it if she promises me a full page. And if she can’t do it, I go to someone else. Vogue, probably. And the jar should be made out of a semiprecious stone, like amber or tourmaline. I’m thinking this tiny, heavy thing that fits in the palm of my hand. Weighty, you know? Like a little bomb of superpowered stuff.”
Still no one spoke, but Ariella inclined her head in a tiny gesture of approval.
“And there’s more,” I said. “Read my lips. No. Celebrity. Endorsement.”
Franklin blanched. Celebrity endorsement was his life.
“Nobody gets this stuff for free. If Madonna wants it, Madonna pays for it—”
“Hey, not Madonna,” Franklin objected.
“Even Madonna.”
“This is crazy,” he muttered.
“And no advertising,” I said. “Formula Twelve should be a word-of-mouth phenomenon, so that people feel they’re in on a big secret. The buzz should build slowly so that by the time it finally goes on sale—in one outlet in the United States—Barneys? Bergdorf?—the wai
ting list is already full. There’s a waiting list to go on the waiting list. Women will be waiting outside the store before it’s even opened. Jars of Formula Twelve will be changing hands on the black market. Women will be frenzied, it’ll be like new-season Chloé bags, to the power of ten. The most elite thing in New York. Which means the most elite thing in the world. Money can’t buy it. Contacts can’t swing it. You just have to wait your turn—and people will wait because it’s worth waiting for.”
On the other hand, everyone might just decide, fuck that, I couldn’t be arsed, give me my usual order of La Prairie. It was a risk. There was no guarantee that New Yorkers would get whipped into a frenzy. If they felt they were being manipulated they would turn against the whole idea. However, now was not the time to mention this.
“Nine months later we do it all again with the serum, and six months after that the base. Then we’ve got the eye cream, the lip balm, the body repair, the body wash, and the exfoliator all to come.”
Ariella gave another of those almost invisible nods. This was the equivalent to her jumping on her desk, shrieking, “Go, Anna!!!”
“But that’s not all,” I said, striving for a wry tone.
Oh yes?
“I’ve got an added extra.” I paused, made them wait, then pointed to my scar. “As you may have noticed, I am the lucky owner of a badly scarred face.”
I let them have their embarrassed little chuckle.
“In the two short weeks since I’ve started using Formula Twelve, there’s been a huge improvement. I took a photo of my scar just before I started using Formula Twelve.” It was actually after the first night, but never mind. “The difference is already visible. I believe in this product. I genuinely do.” Well, I’d give it a go. “When I pitch to beauty editors, I will be visible proof that Formula Twelve is amazing.”
“Yes!” Ariella was hugely impressed with this proposal. “And if the results aren’t dramatic enough, we can always send you for a little plastic surgery.”
71
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Bitten arse!
Last night, got call from Colin. Said he had info that Detta Fear was in Racey’s posh Dalkey pad! Delighted. Fucking delighted. Might finally nail this shagging job. Drove over there fast! But Racey’s house still had electronic gate, high walls, spikes on top. How do other private investigators get in anywhere? Maybe they have handy little device to disable gate. Or they’d be mountaineers in spare time, so could loop rope around one of spikes on top of wall and they’d be in garden before you could say “into the void.”
All I have going for me is am brazen. Pressed gate intercom, waited. After while, woman’s voice, all crackly, says Hello?
I tried to sound desperate: Missus, I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’m supposed to be meeting my friend at the Druid’s Chair and I’m lost and desperate to go to the loo and I’ve tried two other houses along this road and they wouldn’t let me in and I was wondering if you’d do an act of Christian charity and let me use your bathroom. I can hardly drive the car I’m so bad…
I shut up—gate was opening! Walked up drive, like entering heaven. Front door opened, shining out rectangle of light. Inside all looked warm, inviting, and hopefully full of Detta and Racey in incriminating poses. Tiny woman at front door—approx three foot six, extremely old, easily hundred and seven. Curly white hair, glasses, shapeless tweed skirt, and lopsided chunky cardigan she must have knitted herself. Racey O’Grady’s housekeeper?
Her: Come in, you poor pet.
Me (with real gratitude): Oh, thank you, missus.
Her: The facility is this way.
Pointed me toward downstairs cloakroom but I wanted to be upstairs where might catch Detta and Racey in the act.
Me: Missus, I’m sorry to sound so ungrateful, but I have a “condition.”
She stepped back.
Me: No, not like that, it’s not contagious. It’s a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder and I can only use toilets that no one else uses.
Her (looking doubtful): Well, there’s an en suite in one of the spare bedrooms that doesn’t get used much. Would that do? Come on, I’ll show you.
Me: There’s no need for you to come upstairs on your aged legs. I’m putting you to enough trouble. Just point me in the right direction.
Her: Okay, top of the stairs, go right, second door.
Then she called after me: And don’t confuse the wardrobe with the bathroom like Racey did one night when he had a few jars on him.
I went to bathroom, decided might as well make wees, seeing as was there. Then crept around and opened doors of other four bedrooms, camera at ready. Nobody in any of them. Where the hell were Racey and Detta?
The old woman was waiting at bottom of stairs: All done?
Me: All done.
Her: It’s a scourge, isn’t it? An unreliable bladder.
Me: It certainly is.
Her: But the incontinence pants are great. Would you like a biscuit?
Into kitchen, proper kitchen, blue Aga, rough wooden table, dried flowers hanging upside down. Top-class biscuits. Belgian. All fully chocolate coated (not just on one side), some even wrapped in goldy paper.
Me: These are top-notch biscuits.
Her: Sure, you have to have a little bit of luxury in your life, don’t you? What’s your name, pet?
Me: Helen.
Her: Helen what?
Me: Helen…er.
Had been just about to say “Walsh” when occurred it mightn’t be smartest idea.
Me: Keller.
It was first thing that came to mind: Helen Keller.
Her: Helen Keller? That has a kind of familiar ring to it. Have we met before?
Me: I don’t know.
Her: And I’m Tessie O’Grady.
Holy Jesus! Nearly choked. This was the famed Tessie O’Grady, the most dangerous woman in Dublin crime? And does that mean that Racey O’Grady lives with his mammy?
Quickly recovered meself. Doesn’t do to show your weakness.
Me: Thank you for letting me use your jacks, Tessie. You’re a Christian woman.
(The aged like if you call them Christian.)
Me: You’re like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, helping our Lord put out the burning bush before it had the whole Bible burned down.
Her: No bother at all. Take a biccie for the drive.
She consulted biscuit guide: Do you like orange creams?
Me: No. No one does.
Her: Mint creams?
Me: Fine.
She put two mint creams in my pocket and patted them, narrowly missing gun, then followed me down hall. As we passed half-open door, saw Racey and Detta! Sitting close together on couch in overbright sitting room drinking tea, eating biscuits (same high quality as ones in kitchen, from brief glance I got) and watching Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. War crime. (UK Gold does reruns.)
At door, thanked Tessie again, and as walked toward gate, she called after me, in surprisingly loud voice: Mind how you go, now. Suddenly got that feeling again. The one where if I was able to feel fear, fear would have been what I’d felt.
I looked back. Tessie was still standing in lit hall and something about way porch light glinted on her glasses made me think of Josef Mengele.
At bottom of drive, I went outside and gates began to close behind me. Waited until very last second, then slipped back in, threw down rucksack in spot where the two gates would close, to break electronic beam and keep gate open for my escape. Cunning.
Cut back across grass toward sitting room. Curtains drawn but didn’t meet fully in middle—lazy—so had good gawk in. Detta and Racey sitting shoulder to shoulder, still drinking tea and still watching Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. People have oddest tastes.
Took good few photos, then heard something behind me: growling.
I turned around. Dogs. Two. Stinky, big, black yokes with red eyes and war-crime breath. Like Claire
with hangover. Tessie must have whistled them off when she let me in, but now I was “gone,” they were back patrolling garden. Hate everyone and everything in life, but hate dogs more than most.
They growled softly and quick as flash, I growled back. There! Weren’t expecting that, stupid, smelly yokes.
You are dogs, I said, But I have a gun. Look.
Slowly took gun out of shoulder holster to give them closer look. A gun, I said. Very dangerous. You might have seen them on telly. I’ve had training in a bunker with funny militia men. I will shoot you and I will kill you. Understand? Now I’m going to back away slowly, with my gun trained on you and you will stay where you are, confused but obedient.
They did. I kept circling gun on them, and repeating: Gun. To kill you with. Gun. Highly dangerous.
Kept backing away, across endless fucking lawn, finally almost at gate. That’s when made my mistake: Started to run. So did dogs. Hey! They were thinking. So she was scared, after all. Let’s get her.
