Marian Keyes - Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married (45 page)

"Lucy," interrupted Gus urgently.

"Yes?" I said hopefully, looking forward to a bit of sympathy.

"I know what we'll do," he said with a brilliant smile.

"You do?" Great! I thought.

"You've a checkbook, right?" he said.

Checkbook, I thought? Checkbook? What's that got to do with how unfor- tunate I am?

"Well, I know the bartender," continued Gus, eyes shining. "And he'll cash your check if I vouch for you."

I swallowed. That wasn't what I'd wanted to hear.

"So write the check, Lucy, and we're in business." He beamed.

"But, Gus." Even though I shouldn't have, I felt like a spoilsport. "I don't have any money in my account; in fact I'm overdrawn over my overdraft limit."

"Oh, never mind that," said Gus. "It's only a bank, what can they do to you? Property is theft! Come on, Lucy, let's beat the system!"

"No," I said apologetically. "I really can't."

"Well, good riddance to you, Lucy, and the horse you 536 / marian keyes

rode in on; we might as well just go home," he said sulkily. "Bye, nice seeing you."

"Oh, all right," I sighed, reaching for my handbag and my checkbook, trying not to think of the terrifying phone call from my bank that was certain to follow.

Gus was right, I thought, it was only money. But I couldn't help feeling that I was always having to give and give and that, for a change, I wanted someone to give to me.

I wrote a check and Gus went to the bar with it. From the length of time he was gone and the expression on the bartender's face, he wasn't finding it too easy to cash.

He eventually came back, loaded down with drinks.

"Successful mission." He grinned, stashing a handful of notes into his pocket. I noticed that the fly of his jeans was held together with a safety pin.

"My change, Gus," I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

"What's wrong with you, Lucy?" he grumbled. "You've gotten very stingy and cheap."

"Really?" I was nauseous with inarticulated fury. "What's cheap and stingy about me? Haven't I bought you almost every drink this evening?"

"Well," he said, all indignant, "if you're going to be like that about it, just tell me what I owe you and I'll give it back to you when I get it."

"Fine," I said. "I will."

"Here's your change," he said, slamming a bundle of bills and coins down on the table.

That was the point where it was obvious that the evening was ruined, beyond redemption. Not that it had been a wild success before that. But at least before that, I still had hope that it would get better. lucy sullivan is getting married / 537

I knew it was a deeply insulting thing to do, but I picked up the bundle and began to count it.

I had written a check for fifty pounds and he had returned about thirty. A round of drinks for two--even a round including Gus--didn't cost twenty pounds.

"Where's the rest of my change?" I asked.

"Oh that?" He was annoyed, but tried not to show it. "I didn't think you'd mind, but I bought Vinnie--that's the bartender--a drink for facilit- ating us, I thought that was only fair and decent."

"And what about the rest?"

"While I was up there, Keith Kennedy came along and I felt that I should see him right too."

"See him right?"

"Buy him a drink, he's been awful good to me, Lucy."

"That still doesn't account for it all," I said, admiring my tenacity.

Gus laughed, but it sounded a bit high-pitched and forced.

"...And I, er, owed him some money," he finally admitted.

"You owed him money and you gave it to him out of my change?" I asked calmly.

"Er, yes. I didn't think you'd mind. You're like me, Lucy, a free spirit. You don't care about money."

On and on he went, and then he started to sing John Lennon's Imagine, except the only line he seemed to know was the one about imagining no possessions. He put on quite a show--stretching out his arms beseechingly and making meaningful faces at me. "Oh, Lucy, imagine no possessions, imagine no possessions, sing along! Imagine no poss-eh-SHUNS! Do, do, do, do, doooooooh-oooooooh!" 538 / marian keyes

He paused and waited for me to laugh. I didn't, so he kept singing.

In the past, I would have been touched and charmed by his singing. I would have laughed and told him that he was a terrible man and forgiven him.

But not this time.

I didn't say a thing. I couldn't. I really couldn't. I was beyond anger. I felt too much like a fool. I was too ashamed of myself to be angry. I didn't deserve to be angry.

The whole evening had been an exercise in damage control, with me trying to hide from myself just how upset I was. Now the awfulness of it all was right out in the open.

Why did I feel as if this was constantly happening to me? I wondered. So I did a quick review of my life and realized it was because it was con- stantly happening to me.

It happened every day with my father. I had gotten myself into financial trouble so that I could give money to him. No wonder it felt so familiar.

Hadn't Gus always depended on me for money? He had never had a penny. I had been glad to give it to him in the beginning. I had thought I was helping him, that he needed me.

The knowledge made me feel sick. I was a fool, a bloody idiot. Everyone knew it, except me. I was a soft touch. Good old Lucy, she's so desperate for love and affection that she's prepared to buy it. She'll give you the shirt off her back because she thinks that you deserve it more than she does. You'll never go hungry with Lucy, even though she might. But so what? What does she matter?

Gus hadn't been the only boyfriend that I had taken care of financially. Most of them hadn't had jobs. And the ones who had jobs still managed to borrow money from me. lucy sullivan is getting married / 539

The rest of the evening, I felt as if I was outside my body, looking at me and Gus.

He got really drunk.

I should have gotten up and left but I couldn't. I was fascinated, repelled, appalled at what I was seeing, but I couldn't look away.

He burned my tights with his cigarette and didn't even notice. He slopped his beer on me and didn't notice that either. He slurred, he started stories and meandered and forgot about them. He talked to the man and woman at the next table and kept on talking to them even when it became obvious that he was annoying them.

The drunker he got, the more sober I became. I barely spoke and he either didn't notice or didn't care.

Had he always been like this? I wondered.

And the answer was, of course, yes.

He hadn't changed. But I had. I saw things differently. It barely mattered to him that I was there. I was merely a source of money.

Daniel had been right. As if I wasn't feeling bad enough, I had to admit that that smug pig had been right. He'd never let me forget it. Although maybe he would--he wasn't as smug as he used to be. He wasn't really smug at all. He was nice. At least he bought me an occasional drink. And an occasional dinner...

I sat with an empty glass in front of me for over an hour. Gus didn't no- tice.

He went to the men's room and was gone for twenty minutes and didn't explain or apologize when he eventually returned. There was nothing un- usual in such behavior. Nights out with Gus were always like that.

Somehow I was always surrounded by men who drank a lot and took advantage of me and I couldn't understand how it had happened. 540 / marian keyes

But I knew I'd had enough.

At closing time, Gus had an argument with one of the bartenders--a fairly regular occurrence. The bartender shouted "Have you no homes to go to?" in an effort to get everyone to leave and Gus decided that was a terrible thing for him to say because there had been an earthquake in China a few days previously. "What if a Chinese person heard you?" shouted Gus. To describe the rest of the incoherent drivel that came out of his mouth would be too tedious for words. Suffice it to say that the bartender physic- ally hustled him toward the door, as Gus struggled and shouted. To think I once admired that kind of behavior; that I'd thought Gus was a rebel.

We stood in the street as the door slammed behind us.

"Okay, Lucy, home we go," said Gus, swaying slightly and looking bleary.

"Home?" I asked politely.

"Yes," he said.

"Fine, Gus," I said smoothly.

He smiled the smile of a victorious man.

"And where are you living now?" I asked.

"Still in Camden," he said vaguely. "But why...?"

"Well, off to Camden we go," I said.

"No," said Gus in alarm.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because we can't," he said.

"Why can't we?"

"Because we just...can't."

"Well, you're not coming out to my father's house."

"But why not? I'd say your old man and I would get along just fine."

"I'm sure you would," I agreed. "That's what I'm afraid of." lucy sullivan is getting married / 541

Something was up, I'd known it all along. He probably had a girlfriend in Camden, one that he lived with, something like that.

But I didn't care. I wouldn't have touched him with a ten-foot pole. I couldn't see how I had ever fancied him. He looked like a little gnome, a little, drunk leprechaun. With his stupid sheepskin jacket and his filthy brown sweater.

The spell was broken. Everything about him revolted me. He even smelled funny. Disgusting, like a carpet the morning after a really rowdy party.

"Save your excuses," I said. "Don't tell me why you won't take me to your apartment. Why you never did, in fact. Save your ridiculous stories."

"What ridiculous stories?" he asked. He had difficulty saying "ridicu- lous."

"Let's see," I said. "You'll probably tell me that you're taking care of a cow for your brother and that it has nowhere to stay except in your bedroom and that it's shy and afraid of strangers."

"Would I?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Well, you might be right, that sounds like me, so it does. You're an exceptional woman, Lucy Sullivan."

"Oh, I'm not," I smiled. "Not anymore."

That confused his already alcohol-addled head.

"So you see," he said, "we have to go back to your place."

"I'm going," I said. "You're not."

"But..." he said.

"Goodbye," I sang.

"No, wait, Lucy," he said in alarm.

I turned and smiled benignly on him. "Yes?"

"How am I going to get home?" he asked.

"Do I look like I can foretell the future?" I asked innocently.

"But Lucy, I don't have any money."

I put my face up to his and smiled.

He smiled back.

"Frankly, my dear," I beamed, "I don't give a damn."

I had always wanted to say that.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--in language that you'll understand"--I paused for impact and put my face right into his--"FUCK OFF, GUS!"

There was a little pause while I took another deep breath. "Extort money from someone else, you drunken little bastard. I'm no longer open for business."

And I swung off down the road, leaving Gus staring after me.

A few seconds later I realized I was walking the wrong direction for the tube station and had to slink back the way I had come. Luckily the little swine wasn't still there to see me.

75 I was exhilarated with anger.

I went to Uxbridge, but only to pick up my things. The other passengers on the train looked at me oddly and kept their distance. I kept remembering how mean I'd been to Gus and a triumphant voice in my head reminded me that you've got to be cruel to be cruel.

With bitter amusement, I wondered what my father had managed to destroy in my absence. The drunken fool had probably burned the house down. And, if he had, I just hoped that he'd managed to burn himself with it. lucy sullivan is getting married / 543

I thought of what a conflagration there'd be, and in spite of everything, I laughed. More funny looks from the other passengers. It would take about a week to put him out. He'd burn so brightly he'd probably be visible from outer space, just like the Great Wall of China. Maybe they could harness him up to an electricity generator and he could power the whole of London for a couple of days.

I hated him.

I had seen how badly I had let Gus treat me and it was an exact copy of the way my father treated me. I only knew how to love drunk, irresponsible, penniless men. Because that's what my father had taught me.

But I didn't feel as if I loved him anymore. I'd had enough. He could take care of himself from now on. And I wouldn't give him any more money--either of them. Gus and Dad had merged into one in the melting pot of my anger. Dad had never stroked Megan's hair, but, nevertheless, I was furious with him for doing it. Gus hadn't cried all over me when I was a little girl and told me that the world was a terrible place, but that was still no reason to forgive him for it.

I was actually grateful to both Dad and Gus for being so horrible to me. For pushing me into a place where I didn't care about them anymore. What if I'd never found out? If they'd been just a bit nicer, it could have gone on forever. With me forgiving them again and again and again.

Memories of other relationships rushed back, ones that I thought I'd forgotten. Other men, other humiliations, other situations where I'd made it my life's work to take care of a difficult, selfish person.

With the unfamiliar anger, another strange emotion had surfaced. This new one was called Self-Preservation.

"Why?" I asked in surprise. I couldn't think of anyone less lucky than me.

"Because you're all straightened out now," she said.

"Am I?"

"Yes, I wish my dad was an alcoholic, I wish I hated my mother."

This bizarre conversation with Charlotte took place the day after I had left my dad's and returned to my apartment in Ladbroke Grove. It was nearly enough to make me consider moving back in with Dad.

"If only I could be like you," Charlotte went on. "But my father can hold his drink and I love my mother.... It's not fair," she added bitterly.

"Charlotte, please tell me what you're talking about."

"Men, of course." She was surprised. "Boys, lads, fellas, the ones with the love truncheons."

"But what about them?"

"You're going to meet Mr. Right and live happily ever after."

"Am I?" That was nice to hear, but I wondered where she was getting her information from.

"Yes." She waved a book at me. "I read it here. It's one of your crazy books. About people like you, how you

544 lucy sullivan is getting married / 545

always pick men just like your dad--you know, ones that drink a lot and don't want any responsibility and all that."

I felt a twist of pain, but I let her go on.

"It's not your fault," she said, consulting her book. "You see, the child--that's you, Lucy--senses that the parent--that's your dad, Lucy--is unhappy. And because--well, I don't really know why--because children aren't too wise yet, I suppose, the child thinks it's her fault. That it's up to her to make him feel better. See?"

"I suppose so." She had a point. I had so many memories of Dad crying, and I never knew why. But I remembered the overwhelming need to know that it wasn't my fault. And the fear that he'd never be happy again. I would have done anything to help him feel better.

Charlotte continued blithely to slot my round life into the round hole of her theory.

"And as the child--that's you again, Lucy--grows older, she is attracted to situations where the feelings of childhood are...what the fuck's this? Re...re...rep...?"

"Replicated," I supplied helpfully.

"Wow, Lucy, how did you know?" She was impressed.

But of course I knew. I had read that book many times. Well, at least once. And I was fully conversant with all the theories in it. It was just that I had never thought they applied to me before now.

"It means `copied,' doesn't it, Lucy?"

"It does, Charlotte."

"Okay, so you sensed that your dad was an alkie, and you tried to make him better. But you couldn't. Not that it was your fault, Lucy," she added hurriedly. "I mean, you were only a little girl and what could you do? Hide the bottles?"

Hide the bottles.

I heard a bell ring, it was a long way away, more than 546 / marian keyes

twenty years. And suddenly I remembered a day when I was very young, maybe four or five, and that's what Chris said to me. "Come on, Lucy, we'll hide the bottles. If we hide the bottles then they'll have nothing to fight about."

A wave of heartbreak washed over me, for the little girl who hid a bottle of whiskey that was almost as big as herself in the dog's basket. But Char- lotte kept chattering, so I had to file it away for later.

"So the child--that's still you, Lucy--grows into adulthood and meets all kinds of men. But the ones she's attracted to are the ones with the same problems as the child's parent--that's still your dad. See?"

"I see."

"The grown-up child feels comfortable and familiar with a man who drinks to excess or is irresponsible with money or who routinely uses viol- ence..." she read aloud.

"My father was never violent." I was nearly in tears.

"Now, now, Lucy." Charlotte calmly wagged her finger at me. "These are only examples. It means that if the father always ate his dinner wearing a gorilla suit, then the child feels comfortable and familiar with boyfriends who wear fur coats or have hairy backs. See?"

"No."

She sighed with exaggerated patience.

"It means that you met men who were always drunk and didn't have jobs and sometimes were Irish and they reminded you of your dad. But you weren't able to make your dad happy, so you felt like you'd been given a second chance and you thought `Oh good, I can fix this one, even if I wasn't able to fix my dad.' See?"

"Maybe." It was so painful I nearly asked her to stop.

"Definitely," said Charlotte firmly. "Not that you did it on purpose, Lucy. I'm not saying that it was your fault. It was your conscience that did it." lucy sullivan is getting married / 547

"Do you mean my subconscious?"

She consulted the book. "Oh yes, your subconscience. I wonder what the difference is?"

I didn't have the energy to explain.

"And that's why you always fell in love with crazy drunks like Gus and Malachy and...who was the one that fell out of the window?"

"Nick."

"That's right, Nick. How is he, by the way?"

"Still in the wheelchair, as far as I know."

"Oh, that's terrible." She spoke in suddenly hushed tones. "Is he crippled?"

"No, Charlotte." I was brisk. "He's completely better, but he says the wheelchair is much handier for getting around, seeing as he's drunk the whole time."

"That's okay." Charlotte sighed with relief. "I was worried his willy was kaput along with the rest of him."

It wouldn't have made any difference if Nick had lost the use of his gen- itals. Most of the time I'd been with him he'd been too drunk to even get it up. If his wallet hadn't been stolen early one Saturday evening, I don't think we'd ever have consummated the relationship.

Charlotte continued.

"And now that you know why you always pick the wrong men you won't do it anymore." She beamed at me. "You'll tell all the drunk spongers like Gus to get lost and you'll meet the right man and live happily ever after!"

I couldn't return her dazzling smile.

"Just because I know why I pick the wrong men doesn't mean that I'll stop doing it, you know." I laughed in exasperation.

"Nonsense!" she declared.

"I might become mean and bitter and hate men who drink." 548 / marian keyes

"No, Lucy, you will allow yourself to be loved by a man worthy of you," she quoted. "Chapter Ten."

"But first I'll have to relearn the habits of a lifetime."--Let's not forget that I had read the book too. "Chapter Twelve."

My ingratitude upset her.

"Why are you being so difficult?" she said. "You don't know how lucky you are. I'd give anything to have a dysfunctional family."

"Believe me, Charlotte, you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would." She was firm.

"For God's sake, why?" I was becoming more and more upset.

"Because if there's nothing wrong with me and my family, how can I explain why all my relationships are disasters? I've nothing or no one to blame, except me."

She stared at me again, with resentful envy.

"You don't think my father's a bully, do you?" she asked hopefully.

"No," I said. "I don't know him well, but he seems to be a very nice man."

"You don't think he's weak and ineffectual and a poor leader, inviting disrespect?" she asked, reading aloud from the book.

"On the contrary," I said. "He seems to command a lot of respect."

"Would you say he's a control freak?" She begged. "A melagomaniac?"

"It's megalomaniac, and no, he isn't.

"Sorry," I added.

She was annoyed.

"Well, Lucy, I know it's not really your fault, but you invented all these things..."

"Invented what?" I demanded, poised to be annoyed. lucy sullivan is getting married / 549

"Okay, well, not invented them exactly," she backtracked. "But I wouldn't know about them if it weren't for you. You've put ideas in my head," she added sulkily.

"In that case I should get a medal," I muttered.

"That's mean," she said, her eyes bright with tears.

"Sorry," I said. Poor Charlotte. How awful to be just bright enough to know how stupid you are.

But she never stayed down for long.

"Tell me again how you told Gus to fuck off," she demanded excitedly.

So, not for the first--or last--time, I told her.

"And how did you feel?" she exclaimed. "Powerful? Victorious? I'd love to be able to do that with that pig Simon."

"Have you spoken to him lately?"

"I had sex with him on Tuesday night."

"Yes, but have you spoken to him recently?"

"No, not really."

That made her laugh.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're back, Lucy," she sighed. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

"And now that you're back we can have lovely talks about Frood..."

"Who? Oh, Freud."

"Wha...? Say it again, how does it go?"

"Like `fried,' but in an Australian accent. Froyd."

"Froyd," she murmured. "Yes, I was reading about Froyd...Now, Froyd says that..."

"Charlotte, what are you doing?"

"Practicing for the party on Saturday." She was suddenly bitter. "I'm sick to death of men thinking that just because I've got big tits, I'm stupid. I'll show them. I'll go on and on about Frood, I mean, Froyd. Although they