by Marian Keyes
“It’s okay,” he said. “I went crazy, too, when I found out. I got thrown out of Pottery Barn. Can you believe it? Pottery Barn? I said to the guys, ‘I’ve been thrown out of better places than this.’”
I waited for him to start yelping about what a bitch Janie was and how he and I could apply for custody of “little Jack,” but he didn’t. Apparently the situation with Janie had changed; overnight it had become very civilized and everyone was pals now.
“We went to see little Jack last night, me, Mom, and Dad, and he is such a cute little guy. Loves the Red Sox already. We’re going to see him again today. Why don’t you come?”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“How about this weekend?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay, Anna, you take your time. Take all the time you need. But he really is the cutest. And funny, you know? I said to Janie, ‘I’ll take a beer,’ and he said, ‘I’ll take a beer’ in exactly the same voice. Coulda been me! And he has this bear—”
“Sorry, Kevin, I’ve got to go. Bye.”
I hung up and Rachel said, “You might want to apologize to Angelo.”
Angelo! “Oh Christ.” I put my head in my hands. “I was mental, pure mental. He wouldn’t have sex with me.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. What kind of man did you take him for?”
“Just a man man. Speaking of which, has Joey gone back to Jacqui yet?”
“No. I don’t think he’s going to.”
“What!” I’d thought that he’d take a day or two to process the pregnancy news and then he’d be round at Jacqui’s begging her to take him back.
“Fuckhead,” I hissed.
87
All I can remember from that time was that my bones ached, every single one of them, worse than ever. Even my hands and feet hurt. I was silent and brooding, like a female Joey but without the stupid rocker clothes. I removed every photo of Aidan—the ones hanging on the walls, standing on frames on top of the telly, even the one in my wallet—and dispatched them to the dusty Siberia of Under the Bed. I wanted no reminders of him.
The only person I wanted to be with was Jacqui, who couldn’t stop crying.
“It’s just hormones,” she kept saying, between bouts of sobbing. “It’s not Joey. I’m absolutely fine about him. It’s just the hormones.”
When I wasn’t with Jacqui, I went shopping and spent money aggressively. I’d just been paid and I spent it all, including my rent money. I didn’t care. I shelled out a fortune on two charcoal suits, black high-heeled shoes, sheer hose, and a Chloé handbag. Way, way too much. Every time I signed for another purchase I thought of the two and a half grand that I’d paid Neris Hemming and I flinched. I should pursue her, try to get the money back—although there was bound to be something in the small print that said I couldn’t—but I didn’t want to have anything to do with her. I wanted to forget I’d ever heard of her. And there was no way I wanted to reschedule; I knew it was all nonsense. Talking to the dead? Don’t be so silly.
In the evenings, for some strange masochistic reason, I watched baseball on the telly. The World Series was on: the Red Sox playing the St. Louis Cardinals. The Red Sox hadn’t won since 1919—since the curse of Babe Ruth—but I knew with a cold unwavering certainty that this year they were going to end their losing streak. They were going to win because that asshole had been stupid enough to die and miss it.
The pundits, the newspapers, and the Red Sox fans were in an ecstasy of anxiety; they were so close but what if they didn’t win?
I never doubted that they would, and just as I had predicted, they did and I was the only person in the world who wasn’t surprised.
The jubilation of the fans was indescribable. All of those who had kept the faith during those barren decades were finally rewarded. I watched grown men weeping and I wept along with them. But that, I decided, would be the last time I cried.
“You stupid fucker,” I told him. “If you hadn’t died, you could have seen this.”
And that, I decided, would be the last time I spoke to Aidan.
88
The day I’d got Janie’s letter a massive e-mail had arrived from Helen. She had lied when she’d promised me that she wouldn’t go to the warehouse for the denooming. Why was I even surprised? Her e-mail brought me up to date with her crime story, but once I knew she was alive, I wasn’t interested in the details and I didn’t read it until almost two weeks after it had arrived.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Lucky to be alive
Sorry I lied to you. But curiosity too great.
Will now tell everything that happened but cannot remember every word with exact recall, so, as usual, will be parrot-phrasing. But not exaggerating, as I am always being accused of!
Here we go. At 10 P.M., went along to address on docks—as expected, was deserted warehouse. Stinky smell. Uneven floors. Mice. Went up stairs. No one on first, second, or third floor. But on fourth floor woman’s voice said: Come on in.
Thought it must be Tessie O’Grady. Especially as she’d have access to Racey’s bedroom to take those nudie photos.
But wasn’t. It was Detta! In tailored trousers, silky blouse, and gun! Ah, here!
She said: Sit down.
Pointed at a chair. Well, the chair, really. Lone wooden one under bare lightbulb with bloodstained flex wire coiled around legs.
Me: No. Look, I’m sorry I showed those photos to Harry.
Her (shaking head, like she couldn’t believe how thick I was): I sent you those photos.
Me: Why?
Her: Because nothing short of pictures of me in bed with Racey would make Harry believe I was being unfaithful and giving away his secrets. Meeting Racey for lunch wasn’t enough—talk about denial! Mind you, your mammy made a right hames of that. There we were, sitting in the best seat in the house, and it turns out she can’t use her phone camera.
Me: You wanted to be photographed?
Her: Yessss (like snake). How many chances did me and Racey give you?
Me: Not that shagging many, actually. I spent about three centuries sitting in that hedge in your back garden. And why did you want me to show the photos to Harry?
Her: In the hope that he might kill himself. Or kill Racey and end up behind bars.
Me: But Racey’s your boyfriend!
Her (more you-thick-fool head-shaking): Racey’s not my boyfriend.
Me: Well, your colleague, then.
Her (shaking head again): It was all a setup. You thought you were being such a great little investigator but we picked you because we knew you’d never figure out what was really going on. The laugh we had at you sitting in the hedge with your binoculars and your bags of sweets. Was it boring enough for you? Did you enjoy mass every morning? And did you really think Tessie O’Grady would just open her gate to a stranger looking to use her loo? Do you know how many attempts have been made on that woman’s life?
Said nothing. Was mortifed. And confused. But think she was saying that I’d been given the job because I’m crap investigator. And who was “we”? As in “we picked you”? Obviously not Harry Big, but someone in Secret Cahoots with Detta, who’d recommended me to Harry?
On floor below a rat, or something equally stinky, scuttled.
Me (after while): So if Racey isn’t your boyfriend or your colleague, what is he?
All haughty, Detta said: Racey O’Grady is nothing to me. Now will you sit down.
Me: No.
Her: Why not?
Me: Because I’ve stitches in my arse. Also you might shoot me.
Her: That’s right, now—
Her mouth fell open. She was looking at top of stairs. I looked, too. Tessie O’Grady had just appeared, all smiles, in her cardigan and slippers. And gun.
Tessie (exclaiming happily): Girls! I haven’t been here in ages. Not since we wiped out the Foley family, one by one.
<
br /> She looked around fondly: Ahhh, happy times.
She focused on the chair: Don’t tell me it’s the same chair! Ah, it is! Isn’t that lovely?
Detta (frozen-faced): How did you know where to find me?
Tessie: Where else would you come? You’ve no imagination. Never had. Carry on, Detta. I believe you were telling Miss Weeny Bladder here that Racey O’Grady is nothing to you.
Detta: No, I just meant—
Tessie: I’ll tell you what you meant. You set him up. I’m quite cross with you, Detta. You wanted to send poor Harry bananas with jealousy and you used Racey. Harry could have killed Racey today.
Detta: Racey is fine. No harm came to him. I made sure it wouldn’t.
Tessie: And he’s quite upset. He thought when you two had relations, that it meant something.
Detta: Yeah, well, you killed my dad.
Tessie (tutting): Talk about holding a grudge.
Detta: Look, just go away and let me kill girlie here.
Me: Why do you want to kill me?
Detta: Because of Colin.
Me: Colin? What the—? Oh my God, is Colin your son?
Detta: Colin’s not my son. Colin is my boyfriend.
Me: Your BOYFRIEND? But he had sex with me!
Detta: That’s why I’m going to kill you.
I was thinking she must be badly deluded—Colin being her boyfriend? I don’t feckin’ think so!—when Tessie starts talking.
Detta, she said, I’m quite cross with you about something else, too. I’ve a friend in the bank, a lovely man, a lovely, lovely man, a member of Opus Dei and very good at making scale models of opera houses out of ice-pop sticks—extraordinary talent!—and he tells me that this afternoon, you emptied several of your accounts and moved the funds to a bank in Marbella. You’re off, aren’t you?
Detta (hanging head): Yes; sorry, Tessie, I am. I’ve lost interest, Tessie. I never thought I’d hear myself say it but this whole business…I don’t know…I’ve lost heart.
Tessie (helpfully): Well, you don’t have to work protection. You could try guns for a while. Or girls! You’d run a lovely establishment, you’ve good taste, you always had. You like the dear stuff.
Detta: Ah, it’s not just the work, Tessie. I can’t take the winters here anymore. I like the sun. And Colin wants to go straight. We’re thinking of opening a bar. Maybe one with a U2 theme, like with U2 memorabilia, guitars, playlists—
Tessie (going all Josef Mengele glinty): I know what a theme bar is, Detta, but where does that leave our arrangement?
Me: What arrangement?
Detta: Don’t tell her!
Tessie: Why not?
Detta: Because this isn’t some American film where everything is explained before the end.
Me: Tell me.
Tessie: I’m telling her, Detta.
Detta: You’re only doing it to spite me.
Tessie: Spite you! You nearly got my son killed this afternoon! All right, Weeny Bladder. Detta promised me and Racey that Harry would soon be out of the picture—mind you, she never told us she was going to nearly get Racey killed in the process—and that she was setting up with Colin. The O’Grady family were going to show our support for the new setup, in return for a little renegotiation of boundaries in our favor. Now she’s shafting us.
Detta (annoyed): But what do you care? You must have more money than God!
Tessie: It wasn’t just the money. It was…(wistful pause)…it was a bit of fun. There hasn’t been any proper bloodletting in ages…recarving up Dublin, the thrill of the turf wars…I was looking forward to it…
Me: Will you be my mentor?
Tessie (studying me): You show a small amount of promise. If you’d shot the dogs that time they bit you, I’d be interested.
Me: I nearly did. I was going to. But I was trying to get the job done.
Tessie (making regretful face): I see your point. But the true psychopath wouldn’t care about the job.
Then came sound of footsteps belting up stairs.
Detta: Fuck!
She shot at me and missed by a mile.
Tessie: Behave yourself, Detta.
Then Tessie shot at her.
Took advantage of confusion, ran for stairs, legged it down a flight, and bumped into person coming other way. Colin. Come on, he said, all urgent like. Quickly. Get out!
Starts shoving me in front of him down stairs while hear at least two more shots upstairs.
Me (galloping down stairs): Detta’s trying to kill me.
Him (galloping after me): I know. She gets very jealous since she started the change. It was her who shot out your window.
Me: How did you know where to come tonight?
Him: This is where Detta always takes people to deal with them.
We burst out door, onto deserted street; Austrian-blinds mobile was idling curbside, Bozo behind wheel. Colin shoved me in back and said urgently to Bozo: Take her home.
Me (surprised): Aren’t you coming with me?
Him: No.
Me (even more surprised): Why not?
Him: Ahhhh, you see…I’m leaving.
Me (bad feeling in gut): Going where?
Him: Marbella.
Me: Are you going with Detta?
Him: Yeah. I’m going straight, we’re going to open a bar—
Me: Yes, yes, with a U2 theme, I heard. So do you love her?
Him: Ah, I do. She’s a great woman. A real lady.
Me: Oh. But you and me…?
Him: You and me, Helen, we’ll always have St. Vincent’s Hospital.
Then Bozo drives away.
So what do you think, Anna? Am mortified. Feel right fool. Thought Colin was mad about me but he was in Secret Cahoots with Detta—probably him who took the nudie photos. Thought I was proper private investigator doing stuff like talking way into O’Gradys’ pad, when all along they were making it easy for me. Low moments. War crime.
“See?” I told the screen. “They’re all bastards.”
89
Wearing the more expensive of my two charcoal suits, I returned to work.
“I’m good to go,” I told Franklin.
He wanted to say, “You better be,” but he couldn’t; right now I was too valuable to upset.
He hustled me straight in to Ariella, who brought me up to speed on Formula Twelve: the Devereaux execs wanted a day-by-day schedule of my whispering campaign—when could they expect the brand to break; the jeweler needed to speak to me about my vision for the amber pot; the marketing team wanted my input on label design…
“You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”
“I’ll set up meetings right away.”
“There’s just one thing…,” Ariella said.
I turned and fixed her with an inquiring look, one that bordered on impatience.
“Your clothes,” she said.
“We agreed charcoal,” I said. “Charcoal or I walk.”
“Not that. Your plan is a whispering campaign, right? Rumors of an amazing new product but no details yet, right? Which means you’ve got to be a Candy Grrrl girl until Formula Twelve breaks. Which means Candy Grrrl clothes.”
Openly I glared at her; she was right.
She shrugged happily. “Hey, it was your freaking idea.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“It’s your campaign. How long until you build a buzz? Coupla months anyway.”
“No hats,” I said. “I’m not wearing hats.”
“Yes, hats. You gotta do this the right way. Those beauty editors gotta think you’re still a Candy Grrrl. They find out they’re being set up? It’s all over.”
“If you want hats, you pay me ten grand more. Another ten grand. Making twenty.”
We locked looks: a standoff. Neither of us moved, then she said, “I’ll think about it.”
I swiveled on my heel; the money was mine.
I would rather have chopped my hand off than made the call. But for as long as I didn’t apol
ogize to Angelo, the shame would be with me.
“Angelo, it’s Anna, Rachel’s sis—”
“Hey, little girl, how’re you doing?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“No, Angelo, I’m so sorry, it was a terrible way to treat you. I’m so embarrassed, I could die.”
“Hey, you were in shock, I’ve been there. There is nothing that you could ever do that I haven’t done. And worse. I swear to you.”
“What? You’ve really called around to a total stranger’s place, demanding sex.”
“Sure I have. But anyway, I wasn’t a total stranger to you.”
“Thank you for not…you know, taking me up on my offer.”
“Aw, come on! I’d have been a pretty poor excuse for a man if I had.”
