by Marian Keyes
Eugene from upstairs has met a “special” friend called Irene. She is warm and kind and sometimes they go to hear Ornesto singing.
Helen is working on a new case, it’s all very exciting. Nothing has been heard from Colin and Detta since they left for Marbella. Harry Big, however, was never arrested for trying to shoot Racey O’Grady and Racey didn’t finger him. Apparently, they’re both running their respective empires, just like they’ve always done, and it’s business as usual in Dublin crime.
Almost every Sunday I go to bingo with Mitch. It’s great fun, especially as the new Mitch—or is it the old Mitch?—has turned out to be highly competitive. He dances when he wins and sulks when he doesn’t and it’s very funny, especially the sulking.
Leon and Dana are expecting a baby. Dana complains that every symptom of pregnancy is “had-i-aaaasss,” and Leon is thrilled because he has more things than ever to worry about.
Supply has finally caught up with demand in the Labradoodle market, but all the fashionable people have moved on. The dog of the moment is a cocker spalsatian, a cross between a cocker spaniel and an Alsatian; you can’t get one for love or money.
There was a thing in the paper a few weeks ago about, of all people, Barb! She’d put the painting by Wolfgang, her husband (well, one of them), on the market and it caused a big fuss in the art world. Apparently, the painting was an exemplar of a short-lived but influential movement in the sixties called the “Asshole School.” The reason it was so short-lived was that all the protagonists killed themselves, or fell off balconies, or shot each other in drunken rows over women. Barb had been their muse, and the main reason for the suicides and drunken shootings. She says she had nothing to do with anyone falling off any balconies, however. She is currently being feted by the media and showered with money; interviewers are desperate to know how many people she was sleeping with at any given time, but all Barb wants to talk about is how disgraceful it is that no one can smoke anywhere anymore.
Mum and Dad are well. There has been no recurrence of the dog-poo situation. Dad got very excited when Desperate Housewives started, but quickly lapsed into disappointment. He says that Teri Hatcher is no Kim Cattrall.
Nell’s strange friend got put on different medication and is now not half as strange. In a dim light, she could pass for normal.
I meet Nicholas regularly. I brought him to Treakil’s “welcome to the world, baby girl” party and he worked the room, conversing on subjects as diverse as Fassbinder movies (Nicholas a movie buff? Who knew?) to the rumors that coded messages were being given to Al Qaeda via the shopping channel. Everyone declared that he was “adorable!” and the Real Men seem to have adopted him as a mascot.
The other day I came home after doing Pilates. It was a warm afternoon and I curled up on a corner of the couch, which was in a pool of sunshine. I started to feel sleepy, to drift, and the membrane between being awake and asleep was so barely there that when I passed into a dream I dreamed that I was awake. I dreamed I was on the couch, in my front room, just like I really was.
It was no surprise to suddenly find Aidan there beside me. It was such a great, great comfort to see him and to feel his presence.
He took my hands and I looked into his face, so familiar, so beloved.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Okay, better than I was. I met little Jack.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s a cutie, a total sweetheart. That’s what you were going to tell me, isn’t it? The day you died?”
“Yeah. Janie told me a few days before. I was so worried about you, how you were going to feel.”
“Well, I feel okay now. I really like Janie—and Howie, actually. And I see a lot of Kevin and your parents. I go to Boston to see them, or they come here.”
“It’s weird how stuff turns out, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
We sat in silence and I couldn’t think of anything more important to say than “I love you.”
“I love you, Anna, I’ll always love you.”
“I’ll always love you, too, baby.”
“I know. But it’s okay to love other people, too. And when you do I’ll be happy for you.”
“You won’t be jealous?”
“No. And you won’t have lost me. I’ll still be with you. But not in a creepy way.”
“Will you visit me again?”
“Not like this. But look for the signs.”
“What signs?”
“You’ll see them if you look for them.”
“I can’t imagine loving anyone except you.”
“But you will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m privy to that sort of info now.”
“Oh. So do you know who it is?”
He hesitated. “I shouldn’t really…”
“Oh, go on,” I cajoled. “What’s the point of you visiting from the dead if you don’t give me some juice?”
“I can’t give you his exact identity—”
“Meaner.”
“But I can tell you, you know him already.”
He kissed me on the lips, placed his hand on my head, like a benediction, and left. Then I woke up, and moving from sleeping to waking seemed like nothing at all. Deep, joy-filled calm sat inside me and around me and I could still feel the weight and warmth of his hand on my head.
He’d really been here. I was certain of it.
I sat without moving, my blood flowing as slow as molasses, and felt the miracle of my breath, moving in and out, in and out, in the circle of life.
And then I saw it: a butterfly.
Just like in all the bereavement books I’d read.
Look for the signs, Aidan had said.
This one was beautiful; blue and yellow and white, decked out in lacy patterns, and I took it all back about butterflies only being moths in expensive embroidered jackets.
It flitted around the room, landing on our wedding photo (I’d restored all pictures of Aidan to their rightful places), my framed X-rays, the Red Sox banner, everything that had meaning for Aidan and me. Cocooned on the couch, mesmerized as a stoned person, I watched the show.
It touched down on the remote control and fluttered its wings very fast so that it looked like it was guffawing. Then, with a touch I could barely feel, it landed on my face; on my eyebrows; my cheeks; beside my mouth. It was kissing me.
Eventually it moved to the window and sat on the glass, waiting. Time to go. For now.
I opened the window and the noise rushed in; there was a great, big world out there. For five or six seconds, the butterfly hovered on the sill and then off it flew, small and brave and living its life.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have been written without the help of countless generous, helpful people. Sincere thanks to…
My extraordinary editor, Alison Callahan, and the fantastic team at William Morrow for their unconditional support, vision, and enthusiasm.
Emma Parry, my wonderful agent.
Caitriona Keyes and Anne Marie Scanlon for vital support, New York information, and, most of all, the Feathery Stroker™ rant.
Nicki Finkel, Kirsty Lewis, Nicole McElroy, Jamie Nedwick, Kim Pappas, Aimee Tusa, and especially Shoshana Gillis for letting me in on the wonderful world of cosmetics PR.
Gwen Hollingsworth, Danielle Koza, and Mags Ledwith.
Patrick Kilkelly and Alison Callahan for the Red Sox info.
Conor Ferguson and Keelin Shanley for their scuba-diving story and Malcolm Douglas and Kate Thompson for technical scuba information. Any mistakes are mine.
Nadine Morrison for information on labradoodles. (Yes, they’re real.)
Jenny Boland, Ailish Connelly, Susan Dillon, Caron Freeborn, Gai Griffin, Ljiljana Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes, Suzanne Power, and Louise Voss for reading the manuscript at various stages and providing invaluable feedback and encouragement.
Eibhín Butler, Siobhán Coogan, Steph
anie Ponder, Suzanne Benson and Patricia Keating for handy anecdotes on everything from blind dates to labor pains.
Kate Osborne, who paid for “Jacqui Staniforth” to be a character in this book, at a fund-raising auction for the Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture.
Special thanks to Eileen Prendergast for many, many things, including accompanying me to the air-guitar championships.
If I’ve forgotten anyone, I’m (a) mortified and (b) truly sorry.
As always, thanks to my beloved Tony for everything. Above and beyond.
About the Author
MARIAN KEYES began writing in 1993 and is the author of seven previous novels: Watermelon, Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married, Rachel’s Holiday, Last Chance Saloon, Angels, Sushi for Beginners, and The Other Side of the Story. She is also the author of two books of nonfiction: Under the Duvet and Cracks in My Foundation, She lives in Ireland with her husband and their two imaginary dogs.
www.MarianKeyesBooks.com
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ALSO BY
Marian Keyes
The Other Side of the Story
Sushi for Beginners
Angels
Last Chance Saloon
Rachel’s Holiday
Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married
Watermelon
Cracks in My Foundation (stories and essays)
Under the Duvet (essays)
Credits
Jacket design by Honi Werner
Jacket photograph of woman by Johner/Getty Images
Copyright
Grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint the lyrics from “Goldfinger,” music by John Barry, lyrics by Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley, © 1964 United Artists Music Ltd., © renewed EMI UNART Catalog Inc. All rights controlled by EMI UNART Catalog Inc. (publishing) and Alfred Publishing Co., Inc. (print). All rights reserved. Used by permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ANYBODY OUT THERE? Copyright © 2006 by Marian Keyes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader April 2006 ISBN 0-06-117474-2
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Keyes, Marian.
Anybody out there? / by Marian Keyes.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-073130-4 (acid-free paper)
ISBN-10: 0-06-073130-3 (acid-free paper)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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