But before she managed to relay any of that Ashling whispered, ‘I’ve never been so tired in my life. I’ve been on a fashion shoot all day.’
Clodagh paused, her exuberance dying on her lips, then she stirred with black rancour. Ashling was a lucky bitch. A lucky glamorous bitch. She was doing it on purpose, just to rub in how boring Clodagh’s life was.
‘I can’t really talk,’ Ashling apologized. ‘I’ve got to get ready, I’m due at Marcus’s five minutes ago.’
Clodagh was crushed. She’d have to sit in with her new hair and her new clothes and her new shoes and watch telly. So foolish did she feel that it was several seconds before she managed to say, ‘How’s it all going with him?’
Ashling was unaware of Clodagh’s bitter disappointment. Her mind was on Marcus as she wondered if she should tempt fate. ‘Great,’ she answered. ‘Fantastic, in fact.’
‘It sounds serious,’ Clodagh needled.
Again Ashling hesitated. ‘Maybe.’ Then added because she felt she should, ‘But it’s early days.’
It didn’t feel like early days, though. They saw each other at least three times a week and shared an easiness and intimacy that seemed to belong to a much longer relationship. And the sex had greatly improved… She barely gave her tarot cards a glance these days, and her little Buddha was sorely neglected.
‘Oh, Ted rang. He’s on next Saturday,’ Clodagh said.
Ashling paused, and tried to push down the eruption of dirty emotion. She did not want to encourage Clodagh to get too friendly with Ted.
‘So he is.’ She tried to sound casual. ‘He’s supporting Marcus.’
‘Call me during the week and we’ll fix on times and all that.’
‘Will do. Must go.’
As soon as she got to Marcus’s she knew something had happened. Instead of kissing her as he usually did, he was sullen and moody.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Sorry I’m late, I was working…’
‘Look at this.’ He tossed her the newspaper.
Anxiously she read. It transpired that Bicycle Billy had got a publishing deal. Described as ‘One of Ireland’s top comedians,’ he’d been given a two-book contract and a ‘six-figure advance’. A spokesperson for the publishing house described the novel as ‘Very dark, very grim, quite different to his stand-up.’
‘But you haven’t written a book,’ Ashling said, keen to soothe.
‘They describe him as one of Ireland’s top comedians.’
‘But you’re much better than him. You are,’ she insisted. ‘Everyone knows it.’
‘So how come it’s not in the paper?’
‘Because you haven’t written a book.’
‘Go on,’ he said coldly. ‘Rub it in.’
‘But…’ She was at a loss. She’d seen previous glimpses of insecurity, but nothing on this scale. She couldn’t understand it, but was desperate to fix it. ‘You’re the best,’ she repeated earnestly. ‘You must know that. Why else did Lisa want you to do the column? She didn’t even mention anyone else. Look at how people love you.’
He shrugged moodily, and Ashling knew she was getting through to him.
‘I’ve never seen such devotion at anyone else’s comedy gigs,’ she laboured on.
‘Was Lisa really worried that I wouldn’t do the column?’ he asked sulkily.
‘Out of her mind!’
He said nothing.
‘She said you’re about to go stellar.’
He took her hand and kissed her for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘Sorry. It’s not your fault. But comedy is a cut-throat business, you’re only as good as your last gig. Sometimes I get spooked.’
After the shoot Lisa was on a high. Her instinct – always reliable – was telling her that these pictures were rather special and likely to cause a stir.
She’d managed to keep phenomenally busy over the past month, and those bizarre bouts of depression that had dogged her early weeks in Dublin seemed to have abated. Any time the blackness began its insidious crawl, she thought up a new article for the magazine or someone else for them to interview or another product to plug. She didn’t have time to be depressed, and she’d experienced small pockets of satisfaction with how the magazine was coming together. They weren’t there yet in terms of advertising revenue, but she suspected that today’s pictures would round up the last few cosmetic houses that were still holding out. Jack would be pleased.
Instantly, her clear, clean spirits clouded. Jack and Mai continued to behave like the perfect couple. They hadn’t had a public row in a month, and overnight, the sparks of sexual tension between Jack and Lisa had entirely vanished. At least they had on Jack’s part. Not that there had been much sexual tension, Lisa admitted, ever the realist. But there had been enough to give her hope. When she’d tried to reclaim lost ground with a spot of mild flirting, it provoked no response from Jack. He remained polite and professional and Lisa realized she had to let this thing with Mai run its course. And hopefully it would run its course – into the sand.
In the meantime she was on the lookout for a half-decent man. Tonight she was having drinks with Nick Searight, an artist famous more for his good looks than for the artistic merit of his canvasses. Lisa suspected he was more of a Milky Way man than a real one, but sex is sex is sex, and right now, it would have to do.
When Lisa reached home, Kathy was just letting herself out. Her hair was so frizzy it looked like it had been deep-fried.
‘Howya Lisa, all done, ironing and everything. Er, and thanks for the nail varnish.’ Kathy’s life didn’t have much call for yellow-glitter nail varnish, but Francine was bound to like it. ‘D’you want me to come next week as usual?’
‘Yes, please.’
It’d be filthy again by next Saturday, Kathy acknowledged as she walked home. Apple cores rotting under the bed, the bathroom splattered with all kind of gloop, the sink higgledy-piggledy with a week’s worth of dishes. Unbelievable really. For such a well-turned-out girl, Lisa kept a very dirty house.
In a house in a bleak, sea-facing corner of Ringsend, over the tin-foil cartons and remains of their Indian takeaway, Mai turned to Jack and finally said the unsayable.
‘You don’t care enough to fight with me any more.’
Jack fixed his still, sombre eyes on her, and waited a long time before delivering the undeniable truth. ‘But people who care about each other shouldn’t be constantly at each other’s throats.’
‘Bollocks,’ Mai said, spiritedly. ‘If you don’t fight, you don’t get to make up. All the door-slamming and shouting keeps the passion alive for us.’
Jack chose his next words very carefully. With unbearable gentleness, he suggested, ‘Or maybe it just disguises that there isn’t much there in the first place.’
Mai’s eyes filled with angry tears. ‘Fuck you, Jack… Fuck you.’ But her heart wasn’t in it.
He wrapped his arms around her and she sobbed a little against his chest, but found she couldn’t really get too worked up.
‘You bastard,’ she accused, breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, sadly.
‘Is it over?’ she finally asked.
He drew back to look at her. He nodded slightly. ‘You know it is.’
She sobbed a little more. ‘I suppose,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never had so many bust-ups with anyone.’ She made this sound like a good thing.
‘We’ve had more come-backs than Frank Sinatra,’ he agreed, even though he’d never enjoyed the rows.
They laughed shakily, their heads close together.
‘You’re a superb woman, Mai,’ he said, with tender, dark-eyed regard.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘You’ll make some nice girl very miserable. That Lisa, maybe.’
‘Lisa?’
‘The hard, shiny one? God,’ Mai lapsed into inappropriate giggles, ‘that makes her sound like an M&M. She should be well able for you. Or if not Lisa, the other one.’
‘Wh
at other one?’
‘The Latina babe.’
‘Oh, Mercedes. Apart from anything else, she’s married.’
‘Huh.’ Mai hid her upset behind gruffness. ‘You’re so contrary you’ll probably pick her. Drive me home, will you?’
‘Ah, stay a while.’
‘No, I’ve wasted enough time on you.’ She flashed him a watery consolation of a grin.
Without words, they drove through the night-time streets, Mai reducing her loss until it became something manageable. Jack was a special man: big and hard and clever and challenging. Initially she’d loved the game-playing. But she’d fallen badly for him and suspected that Jack would have run a mile if he’d known.
The only way she’d felt in control was by keeping him in a state of perpetual insecurity. She’d never felt at ease except in the short period after he’d apologized for something and was behaving with abject devotion. But that was hard work – and had been getting harder. Since he wouldn’t fight with her any more, her only tool was her exotic mystique. And she was worn out being exotic and mysterious.
Too soon they were at her flat. Jack stopped his car outside, actually switched off the engine, instead of keeping it idling. But Mai wasn’t sticking around.
‘Bye,’ she gulped, swinging her legs out of the car.
‘I’ll call you,’ he promised.
‘Don’t.’
With an ache in his stomach, Jack watched her walk away from him, a tough little girl-woman, in her ludicrously high shoes. Scrunching her key into the front door, she let herself in.
She didn’t look back.
40
Coming back from lunch, as Lisa came out of the lift she passed Trix, who was clumping along to the ladies’ to apply yet another layer of make-up.
‘Howya,’ Trix said. ‘There’s some man waiting to see you.’
Some man, Lisa thought irritably. Couldn’t she have found out who he was, and what he wanted?
Natasha, her PA at Femme, would have insisted on knowing a caller’s grandmother’s maiden name before they were permitted an audience with Lisa.
And then it happened.
She turned to pass through the reception area into the office, and sitting on the couch was the last person in the world she expected to see.
Oliver.
She crashed into an invisible wall. Shock turned her inside-out and her ears buzzed with deafness. She’d last seen him on New Year’s Day – it was now the thirteenth of July. All their time apart concertinaed into less than a second.
‘Hey, babes.’ He looked up at her, very comfortable, very at ease.
She began to shake. Several thoughts hit at once. What was she wearing? Did she look good? Thin? Why did he have to come to her work? Did he realize what a small-time, two-bit operation she was heading up?
‘What are you doing here?’ she heard herself enquire.
She couldn’t stop staring, unable to figure out why he was both familiar and a stranger. Her body language was startled and gawky, frozen in the step she’d been taking when she saw him. Belatedly she pulled her legs together and pushed back her shoulders. It took effort.
‘We need to talk.’ He smiled and glinted; his teeth, his earring, his heavy, silver watch-strap. He shifted his ankle from where it was balanced on his opposite knee, and sat up straight. With every movement he bulged with grace.
‘About what?’ she mumbled.
Then he laughed. One of his great big belly-laughs that nearly blew out the windows. ‘About what?’ he exclaimed, grinning without humour. ‘What do you think?’
D-I-V-O-R-C-E…
‘I’m busy, Oliver.’
‘Still knocking yourself out, girl?’
‘I’m at work, Oliver. If you want to talk to me call me at home.’
‘Hey, a number would be nice.’
‘I’ll meet you after work.’ Might as well get this dealt with.
‘Good of you… I’m staying in the Clarence.’
‘That’s a bit flash.’
‘I’m on a shoot.’
For some reason that hurt. ‘So you didn’t really come to see me?’
‘Let’s just call it good timing.’
Trembling, Lisa attempted to work but it was almost impossible to concentrate: she’d forgotten the effect Oliver had on her.
‘Delivery for you!’
Lisa jumped as Trix flung a jiffy-bag on her desk. It was the photos from Saturday’s shoot and Lisa’s instinct had been spot on. They were amazing, but she could hardly focus. It was as though the edges of her vision were damp and grey. All she could think about was Oliver. They’d parted so acrimoniously, with such bitterness. He’d been so nasty. Said such terrible things.
‘Hey Ashling.’ She made a great effort to regain control. ‘Take this photo… no, this one…’ She selected the best picture, a reportage-style shot of Dani looking sulkily beautiful, flanked by Boo and Hairy Dave. ‘Get twenty copies from Niall and send them off to all the major houses. Sticker them, saying “Frieda Kiely Autumn collection. Colleen September issue”… That should cause a stir,’ she muttered, missing completely Ashling’s appalled expression.
Seconds later she became aware that Ashling was still loitering by her desk.
‘What?!’
‘Can we… I think… Boo and Hairy Dave – ’
‘Who?!’
‘The homeless men. In the photo,’ Ashling elaborated when it became clear Lisa had no idea who she was talking about. ‘Can we give them something?’
‘Like?’
‘A present or… something. For being in the photo and making it so good.’
Under normal circumstances Lisa would just have told Ashling to fuck off and get a grip, but she was too distracted.
‘Ask Jack,’ she snapped. ‘I’m busy.’
Clutching the photograph, Ashling nervously knocked on Jack Devine’s door. When he bellowed, ‘Come in,’ she reluctantly entered and cringingly explained her mission. ‘They did it without a word of complaint and they didn’t ask for anything and I just thought we should show some sort of appreciation…’
‘Fine,’ Jack interrupted.
‘Really?’ she asked cautiously. She’d been expecting him to mock her request.
‘Absolutely. They make the picture. What d’you think they’d like?’
‘Somewhere to live,’ she semi-joked.
‘I haven’t got the budget,’ Jack replied. He sounded quite regretful. ‘Any other ideas?’
She thought about it. ‘Money, probably.’
‘Thirty quid each? It’s all I can stretch to, I’m afraid.’
‘Er, fantastic’ It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d hoped for. At least Boo and Dave would get a couple of hot meals out of it.
‘Here,’ Jack signed a petty cash slip. ‘Give that to Bernard.’
‘Thank you.’
He let his dark eyes rest on her face for two or three long seconds. ‘You’re welcome.’
At seven o’clock, as arranged, Lisa went to the bar at the Clarence. Oliver rose when he saw her.
‘What d’you want to drink? White wine?’
White wine was her drink, at least it had been when they’d been together. He’d remembered.
‘No,’ she said, hoping to wound. ‘A cosmopolitan.’
‘I might have known.’
She watched him, big and bulky, loud and forthright, cheerfully joking with the bar staff. How come he always occupied more space than he actually filled? Her head tightened and lifted – he was so familiar she almost didn’t know him.
Returning with her drink, he got straight to the point. ‘Have you got a solicitor, babes?’
‘Weeell…’
‘We both need a solicitor,’ he explained patiently.
‘For the divorce?’ She tried to sound blasé but it was the first time the word had ever been actually uttered as a real likelihood.
‘’s right.’ He was brisk, businesslike. ‘Now, you know the deal –’
She didn’t, actually.
‘Our marriage has irretrievably broken down, but that’s not enough to get divorced. We need to give a reason. If we were already separated for two years we could just do it. But until then, one of us has to sue the other. For desertion, unreasonable behaviour or adultery.’
‘Adultery!’ Lisa bristled. She’d been totally faithful while they’d been together. ‘I never…’
‘And neither did I.’ Oliver was equally emphatic. ‘As for desertion –’
‘Yeah, you left me.’ She was keen to blame.
‘You gave me no choice, babes. But you could sue me for that. Only thing is we have to be separated for two years before you can use desertion as grounds, and we want to get this sorted soon?’ He threw her a questioning look and waited for her to concur.
‘Yeah,’ she said snippily. ‘Sooner the better.’
‘So that leaves us unreasonable behaviour. We need five examples.’
‘Unreasonable behaviour? What’s that?’ She was almost laughing, forgetting briefly that this had anything to do with her. ‘Like doing the hoovering at three in the morning.’
‘Or working every weekend and bank holiday.’ His tone was bitter. ‘Or pretending you want to get pregnant and continuing to take the Pill.’
‘Whatever.’ Her expression was hostile.
‘We have a choice. I can sue you or you can sue me.’
‘So you admit you were unreasonable too?’
He sighed heavily. ‘It’s only a formality, Lees, it’s not about allocating blame. The person who gets sued doesn’t get punished in any way. So which is it to be? You sue me?’
‘You decide, seeing as you know so much about it all,’ Lisa said unpleasantly.
He gave her a long look, as if trying to make sense of her, then he shifted. ‘If that’s what you want. Now, costs. We each pay our own solicitor but we split the court costs between us, yes?’