3
My mobile rang. It was Cody. Cody isn't his real name, of course. His real name is Aloysius, but when he started school none of his young chums could pronounce it. The best they could manage was, 'Wishy'.
'I need a nickname,' Cody told his parents. 'Something people can say.'
Mr Cooper (Aonghas) gave Mrs Cooper (Mary) a look. He'd been against calling the boy Aloysius right from the start. He knew all about the misery of being saddled with an unpronounceable name, but his more religious wife had insisted. Aloysius was a top-notch saint - at the age of nine he'd taken a vow of chastity, then died aged twenty-three while nursing plague victims and contracting the disease himself — it was an honour to be named after him.
'Right, pick a nickname. Anything you like, son,' Mr Cooper said magnanimously.
'The name I pick iiiiiisssss… Cody!'
A pause. 'Cody?'
'Cody.'
'Cody's a funny name, son. Would you not think of another? Paddy's a nice one. Or Butch, maybe.'
Cody/Aloysius shook his five-year-old head haughtily. 'Thrash me if you must, but my name is Cody.'
'Thrash you?' Mr Cooper said, aghast. He turned to Mrs Cooper. 'What stories have you been reading to the lad?'
Mrs Cooper coloured.
The Lives of the Saints
was good and educational. Was it her fault that they all met their ends being boiled in oil, or pierced with a quiverful of arrows or stoned to death?
Cody is the only person I ever met who thought they had a 'vocation'. He spent two years in a seminary, learning the rudiments of priesthood (especially how to thrash people) before, as he puts it, 'coming to my senses and realizing that I wasn't holy, I was just gay'.
'OK, Gemma,' Cody says to me, 'You're going to have to be brave.'
'Oh God,' I said, because if Cody tells you you're going to have to be brave, it means the news he has for you is really horrible.
Cody is a funny one. He's very honest, almost gratuitously so. If you say to Cody, 'Now tell me, and be honest, be really honest, I can take it, does my cellulite show through this dress?' he will give you an answer.
Now, obviously, no one asks that question if they expect the answer to be yes. People only ask because they're smugly convinced that after a month of body brushing, thrice-daily use of some French 'minceur' gear, and the wearing of anti-cellulite tights and an expensive, industrial-strength lycra skirt, the answer will be a big, fat NO.
But Cody would be the one person to tell you that he can see a hint of orange peel skin. I don't think he does it out of cruelty; instead he plays Devil's Advocate to protect his nearest and dearest from ridicule. It's almost as if he disapproves of hope and feels that erring on the side of optimism makes fools of us and hands the rest of the world the advantage.
'It's Lily,' he said. 'Lily Wright,' he repeated, when I said nothing. 'Her book. It's out. It's called
Mimi's Remedies
. The
Irish Times
are reviewing it on Saturday.'
'How do you know?'
'Met someone last night.' Cody knows all sorts of people. Journalists, politicians, nightclub owners. He works in the Department of Foreign Affairs and has a kind of Clark Kent thing going on: serious, ambitious and 'straight' in the daytime, until quitting time rolls around, when he whips out his poppers and minces for Ireland. He straddles many camps and he's privy to all kinds of advance info.
'Is it a nice review?' My lips weren't responding properly to my need to speak.
'I believe so.'
I'd heard ages ago that she'd bagged herself a publishing deal; I'd nearly gawked at the injustice.
I
was the one who was supposed to write a book; I'd talked about doing it often enough. And so what if my writing career thus far had consisted of me reading other people's books, firing them at the wall and declaring, 'Such shite! I could do better in my sleep.'
For a while, every time I passed a bookshop I went in and looked for Lily's book but I never saw it and so much time had elapsed — over a year - that I'd concluded it wasn't going to happen.
'Thanks for telling me.'
'Has Noel come home?'
'Not yet.'
Cody clicked. 'When God closes one door, he slams another in your face. Well… you know… call me if you need me.' As far as Cody went, this counted as deep concern and I was touched.
I closed my mobile and looked at Mam. Her eyes were bulging with anxiety. 'Was it your father?'
'No, Mam. Sorry, Mam.' We were halfway through Wednesday morning and the mood was very, very low. She'd been so pitiful when she'd woken up, then on our way down for breakfast as we passed the front door, she gave a huge gasp and said, 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the chain wasn't on.' She took a closer look. 'And neither was the mortice lock.'
She hurried into the kitchen and examined the back door. 'The back door wasn't double-locked, and the alarm wasn't on. And don't tell me the windows weren't secured!' Dad obviously had some sort of nocturnal routine when he sewed the house up tighter than Fort Knox.
'Why didn't you do it?' Mam asked. She wasn't accusatory; more puzzled.
'Because I didn't know about it.'
This gave rise to more puzzlement and after a pause she said, 'Well, you know now.'
I'd been all set to go to work but Mam was so lost and child-like that I rang Andrea to see how things were; she surprised me by saying that the gala dinner had been 'great fun', and the chiropractors had been wild crack, bending the hollyhock centrepieces in two and saying 'slipped disc' and suchlike. I think she got off with one of them.
She said I needn't come in, which was very decent of her because the post-conference mop-up is a big job - ferrying the delegates to the airport, returning the chairs, the lighting and the screens to the hire companies - although as the screens had never arrived, that was one less job — arguing with the hotel over the bill, etc.
In return for her decency I told her, briefly, what had really happened with Dad. 'Mid-life crisis,' she promised me. 'What car does he drive?'
'Nissan Sunny.'
'Right. Any minute now he'll trade it in for a red Mazda MX 5, then soon after he'll come to his senses.'
I went back and relayed the good news to Mam but all she said was, 'Insurance is higher on red cars, I read it somewhere. I want him to come home.'
She had her elbows on the table, which was still spread with the previous day's breakfast debris: bowls, buttery knives, teacups (Aaaaagh!). I hadn't bothered doing it when I'd been clearing up the broken crockery, probably because I thought it was Mam's area. She's very houseproud — at least under normal circumstances - but right now she didn't even seem to see the mess. I made a start on it, clattering side-plates on top of each other, but when I picked up Dad's porridge bowl, Mam cried, 'No,' took it from me and placed it on her lap.
Then, once again, she dialled Dad's work number. She'd been ringing him approximately every five minutes since eight-thirty, and it kept going to his voicemail. It was now ten-thirty.
'Can we go over to his work, Gemma? Please. I have to see him.'
Her naked desperation was
unbearable
. 'Let's wait until we can talk to him.' Because what if we turned up at his office and we were turned away? I couldn't risk that.
'Mam, would you mind if I popped out for ten minutes?'
'Where are you going?' Her voice thickened with tears. 'Don't leave me.'
'Just down to the shops. I promise I'll come right back. Can I get you anything? A pint of milk?'
'Why would we need milk? Doesn't the milkman bring the milk?'
A milkman. Another world.
I was looking for my coat until I remembered I'd left it with the chiropractors. I had to go as I was - yesterday's suit creased and covered in little sticky feathers.
'You'll come right back?' Mam called after me.
'Right back.'
I burned to the local shopping centre and was nearly out of the car before I'd finished parking. My heart was pounding. For the time being the drama with Dad had been relegated to second place. Lily's book was the cause of my dry mouth. I ran across the concourse, hoping that I wouldn't bump into anyone from work, and entered the bookshop on full alert, adrenalined to the max, feeling like an SAS man breaking into an enemy embassy. I flicked my eyes from left to right, expecting to be ambushed by big displays of Lily's book, then twirled around very fast to see if there was anything behind me. Nothing, so far. With my Super-Anxious Vision, I spotted the New Titles wall and in under a second I'd scanned every cover - the Six Million Dollar Man couldn't have done it faster - but there were none by Lily.
What if they didn't stock the book here? After all, this was just a small, local store. Already I knew I would have to go into town to a bigger bookshop and keep searching. I couldn't give up until I had a copy of Lily's book in my hand.
Next, the alphabetical listing. The Ws were on the lower shelves, near the floor. Down I sprang Waters, Werther, Wogan… oh Christ, there it was. There was her name. Lily Wright. Done kind of curly and wacky. Like this:
Lily Wright
. And the title was the same:
Mimi's Remedies
.
My heart was banging and my hands were so sweaty they left a smear on the cover. I turned pages but my fingers would only fumble. I was looking for the little bit that tells about the author. And then I found it.
Lily Wright lives in London with her partner Anton and their baby girl Ema.
Sweet Jesus. Seeing it in this book made it more true than it had ever been before. It was
in print
.
Everyone - her publishers, her readers, the bookshop staff and the people who worked in the printworks - they all thought it was true. Anton was Lily's partner and they had a little girl. I felt out in the cold and excluded from the loop because I was the only person in the whole world who still thought Anton was rightfully mine. Everyone else
everywhere
thought Lily's claim to him was legitimate. The bitter injustice. She'd stolen him, but instead of treating her like the common criminal she was, everyone was slapping her on the back congratulating her, 'Well done, that's a lovely partner you've got there. Good girl yourself.' No mention of the fact that she was thinning on top, of course. Not even a hint that she'd look a damn sight better if she got herself a Burt Reynolds-style hair-follicle transplant - and that's not just me being bitchy, she often said it herself. But no, projecting only a positive spin, everything was lovely and hirsute. On the back cover there was a small black and white photo. I gazed at it, my mouth in a bitter-sweet twist. Look at her, all delicate and wide-eyed and blondey and ten-drilly, like a long-limbed, slender angel. And they say the camera never lies…
I almost felt that I shouldn't have to pay for the book — not only had the author stolen the man I'd loved the most, but she'd written a book about me. I got one of those well-nigh irresistible urges to croak at the assistant, 'This is all about me, you know,' but I managed not to.
Somehow I'd paid and I was outside the shop where I stood in the cold, skimming the pages for my name. At first glance I couldn't see it. I kept looking, then understood that she'd have had to change my name, in case I sued or something. I was probably 'Mimi'. I got as far as page seven before I came out of the trance I was in and saw that I could just as well be in Mam's in the warm, as standing here reading it.
As soon as I let myself back into the house, Mam stood framed in the kitchen doorway and choked, 'He has a girlfriend.'
While I'd been out, she'd finally managed to track Dad down and she was experiencing the news afresh.
'This has never happened to anyone I know. What did I do wrong?'
She walked into my arms, sagged against me and something hard banged off my hipbone — the porridge bowl, she had it in her dressing-gown pocket. She cried like a child, proper wa-wa-waaaas, with gulping, coughing and hiccups; my heart nearly broke. She was in such a terrible state I gave her the two emergency tablets and put her back to bed again. As soon as she was breathing peacefully I closed my fist around the tranquillizer prescription Dr Bailey had left — the first chance I got, I'd go to the chemist.
Then, in a riptide of fury, I rang Dad, who sounded surprised —
surprised
, no less — to hear from me.
'You come home tonight and explain yourself,' I said angrily.
'There's nothing to explain,' he tried. 'Colette says -'
'Fuck Colette, I don't give a fuck WHAT Colette says. You get over here and have some respect.'
'Language,' he said sulkily. 'All right. I'll be round at seven.'
I hung up the phone and the ground actually rocked beneath my feet. My father was having an affair.
My father had left my mother.
I settled myself on the bed beside Mam and began to read the book that was all about me.
Mid-afternoon, Mam opened one eye. 'What are you reading?' she mumbled.
'A book.'
'Ah.'
4
FROM
Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT What kind of woman steals the love of her life from her best friend, then writes a book and doesn't mention it?
Another day, another
douleur
More shocking news just in. Lily's book is out. Yes, Lily 'Every man for myself' Wright. Lily 'Bald Patch' Wright It's the maddest thing I've ever read, sort of like a children's book, except there's no pictures and the words are too big. It's about a witch called Mimi (yes, you heard me, a witch) who comes to a village, which might be in Ireland or might be in England or might be on the planet Mars, and she starts interfering in everyone's lives. Making up spells with instructions like, 'Include a handful of compassion, a sprinkling of intelligence and a generous helping of love.' Gag-making. And I'm not in it, you're not in it, even Anton doesn't seem to be in it. The only person I recognize is a spiteful girl with ringlets, who has got to be Cody.
It took me only four hours to read but I suppose millions of people will buy it and she'll be a millionaire and a big celebrity. Life is such a bastard.
As soon as I'd finished, I had to get Mam up because Dad was coming. She refused to get dressed - she's getting way too fond of that dressing-gown. And as for Dad's porridge bowl, she's holding on to it like she's waiting for the Forensics people to bag and label it as Exhibit A.
Then in comes Dad - using his own key which I thought was well out of order-and I got a real fright. Less than two days and already he looks different. Sharper, more defined around the edges, less blurry, and it struck me how very serious this whole business is when I saw that he was wearing new clothes. Well, I'd certainly never seen them before. A brown suede jacket -Christ in the marketplace! Rudimentary sideburns, much comb-over action going on with his hair, and, worst of all, trainers. Oh, mother of God, the trainers. Blinding white, and so chunky that it looked like they were wearing him, rather than the other way round.
'So what's going on?' I asked.
And without even sitting down, he announces that he's very sorry, but he's in love with Colette and she's in love with him.
It was the weirdest, most awful thing. What's wrong with this picture? Absolutely fecking everything.
'But what about us?' I said 'What about Mam?' I thought I had him there because all my life he's been devoted to us. But do you know what he said? He said, 'I'm sorry'
Which of course meant he wasn't. He just didn't care, which I didn't understand, because he'd always been so gentle and kind. It took a while to get what was happening, because this was my DAD, you know? Then - with another terrible fright - I saw that he was in that loved-up cocoon where all you can feel is your own happiness and you can't imagine that everyone else doesn't feel it too I never knew it happened to old people, to
parents.
Then Mam says in this tiny voice, 'Will you stay for dinner?' I
mean!
I am so sure. So I go, all narky, 'He can't, there aren't enough plates.' Then I tell him, all accusing, 'She broke most of them yesterday because she was so upset.'
But not a bother on him. He just said, 'I can't stay anyway.' Then he gives the front door a furtive look and something clicked into place and I yelled, 'She's outside! You've brought her with you.'
'Gemma,' he shouts, but I was already at the front door and yes, there was a woman sitting outside in the Nissan Sunny I thought I was going to gawk. There really was another woman and Dad
wasn't
in an overworked state of delusion.
You know how in books they always say that women who steal other people's men look 'hard', just so we'll have no sympathy with them. Well, Colette did, she really did look hard. She spotted me and gave a kind of don't-mess-with-me stare. Like a complete looper I ran over, pressed my face against the window on her side, pulled my bottom lip over my top one and bulged my eyes at her, then I called her the C word and, all creditto her, she didn't retreat even an inch, she just gazed coolly at me with roundy blue eyes.
Dad shows up behind me and goes, 'Gemma, let her alone, it's not her fault. Then he murmurs, 'Sorry, love,' and it wasn't me he was talking to. Deflated to fuck, I went back inside, and Susan, do you know what I was thinking? I was thinking. She has highlights, her hair is nicer than mine.
Dad stayed only about five more minutes, then just as he was leaving, he produced four of the prototype tiramisu bars from the pocket of his (I can hardly type this) brown suede jacket. For a minute I was almost touched - at least he was planning to keep us in chocolate - then he says, 'Let me know your impressions, especially if you think the coffee flavour is too strong.'
I threw a bar at him, which caught him on the sideburn and said, 'Do your own fucking market research,' but Mam held on to hers with a death-grip.
And next thing you know it's just me and Mam again, sitting in silence, our mouths agape.
It was then that shock really got a grip of me, none of it seemed real. I couldn't get anything hardwired into my system.
How had it all happened? But do you know what? In amongst all the other feelings I've still enough room to feel embarrassed. That's bad, isn't it? But, Christ, the thought of my father cavorting,
cavorting
with a woman my age. It's bad enough to think of your parents having sex with each other. But with different people.
Remember when your dad married Carol? And how the thought of them 'doing it' was too horrific so we decided they were just together for the companionship? If only I could convince myself that this is the case here!
And what's in it for hard-faced, highlighted Colette? My dad wears a vest. A
vest
, for God's sake.
Aaargh! Just had an image there of them 'at it.'
'After all I did for him,' Mam said 'And to leave me in my twilight years. What did I do wrong?'
You know what, I've always worried about having children because I felt I couldn't watch them endure their teenage heartbreak.s Not in my worst nightmares did I think I'd have to do it for my
mother.
You know what she's like - the perfect wife, always cooking wonderful meals, keeping the house perfect, never braining Dad when he was narky about bars of chocolate not selling as well as they should have. She kept her figure right into the menopause. Even her menopause was carried off with aplomb, not once was she stopped leaving a supermarket with an unpaid-for can of sardines in her handbag. (Why is it always cans of sardines?)
I'll tell you something, this has made me very bitter about men. What's the point? You give them your life, cook yourself blue in the face, starve yourself into osteoporosis and for what? For them to leave you just when you're commencing your final descent into old age, for a vest-loving woman who has highlights.
'He didn't deserve you,' I said.
But she looked annoyed and said, 'That's your
father
you're talking about.'
But what was I meant to say? Plenty more fish in the sea? You'll meet someone else? Like, Mam is sixty-two, she's soft and comfy and looks like someone's granny.
If you get a chance, call me at Mam's. She's terrified of being on her own, so I'm going to stay here for a little while, just until he comes to his senses and returns home.
Love Gemma
PS No, I don't mind about you not having a Valium and yes, a rum and Coke was a good substitute. You did the right thing.
Mam let me out to collect clean clothes from my flat, a fifteen-minute drive away. 'If you're not back in forty minutes, I'll be afraid,' she promised.
At times like this I hate being an only child. Mam had had two miscarriages - one before having me and one after - and no amount of rocking horses and pink tricycles made up for not having brothers or sisters.
As I drove my mind was on Colette and her highlights. The greatest shock was that she was almost the same age as me; did this mean Dad had been eyeing up my friends? He had no history of affairs or flirtations - until yesterday the thought would have been thigh-slappingly funny — but all of a sudden I was looking with fresh eyes. Thinking back, he'd always been nice to my friends, giving them chocolate whenever they called round, but that was almost the same as inviting them to partake of the fresh air in the house. And when I was in my late teens and early twenties he was the dad who used to come out at two in the morning with his coat on over his PJs to collect me and nine or ten others from a club in town. We were usually a bit the worse for wear and the highwater mark was the time Susan opened her window and gawked half a bottle of peach Schnapps down the outside of the car door. Dad didn't notice until the next morning when, jingling his car keys, he was leaving for golf only to find one of his doors caked in gunge. But instead of going on a mad rant like Mr Byers did the time Susan gawked into his flower bed (You tell that little brat to get round here and clear it up! She shouldn't be drinking, she's under age and she can't hold it!' etc., etc.), all Dad said was, 'Ah, sugar! That Susan,' and tramped back inside to get a basin of water and a J-cloth. At the time I thought Dad was simply being kind but now I was wondering if it implied something far more lecherous.
A revolting thought.
I got caught on several red lights, which ate into my time, but at least the code on the electronic gate was working. My flat is in a complex which aspires to be swinging and 'modrin' and among its many facilities are a (laughably poor) gym and an electronic gate which is meant to provide 'security'. Except that, on a regular basis, the code on the gate doesn't work and people either can't get out for work, or can't get back in for their dinner, depending on what time of the day it happens.
I flicked through my post - six or seven leaflets advertising power yoga, a flyer for colonic irrigation - and checked my answering machine: nothing urgent; everyone finished their messages by saying, 'I'll try you on the mobile.' (Mobile indeed. My life would be easier if they just put wheels on it.) Then I flung toiletries, underwear and my mobile charger into a bag and tried to track down clean clothes for work. I found one crisply ironed shirt hanging on the wardrobe door, but I needed two. A rummage through the hangers produced another, then I saw that the reason it was unworn was because it had funny yellow stains under the arms that washing couldn't shift, so I never wore it any more. Well, it would have to do; I just wouldn't take my jacket off. Finally, I packed my pinstriped suit and four-inch heels. (I
never
wear flats. My shoes are so high that sometimes when I step out of them, people look around in confusion and ask, 'Where'd she go?' and I have to say, I'm down here.')
Before I left I gave my bed a wistful look; I'd be sleeping in my parents' spare room tonight and it just wouldn't be the same. I love my bed. Let me tell you about it…
A few of my favourite things.
Favourite thing No 1
My Bed A love story
My bed is a lovely bed. It is not just any old bed. It is a bed I assembled myself and by that I don't mean it came in a flat pack from Ikea. I bought an expensive mattress, in other words, not the cheapest one in the shop. I think it was only the third cheapest. Extravagance indeed!
Then the bedding. I have not one, but two duvets. One to cover me -obviously. But - you're going to like this - the second one goes
under
my sheet, so I lie on top of it. It's a trick my mother taught me and it's hard to convey the bliss of climbing in and being received by the fluffy, feathery envelope. The duvets seem to stroke me, murmuring,
You're OK now, we've got you, we've got you, let it go, it's all OK, you're safe now-
like the hero does to the girl at the end of the movie, after she's been on the run from rogue elements of the FBI, and she's finally managed to expose them without getting shot.
Sheets, duvet covers and pillow cases: cotton, of course, and they are white, white, white (apart from the coffee stains).
Unique feature: the headboard. Aka: the best bit. Cody's friend Claud made it for me (I paid him for it, it wasn't a present) and it's a headboard fit for a fifties movie star: big, padded and all curves and curlicues, upholstered in faded bronze silk with a scattering of tea-roses, it's a bit fairy tale, a bit Art Nouveau, in other words, a bit fabulous. People always remark on it. Indeed the first time Anton saw it he exclaimed, 'Look at your girlie bed!' then roared laughing, before rolling me onto it. Ah, happy days…
I gave my bed a final regretful look, wishing I didn't have to leave it. I consulted my ghost sisters, 'You go on over to Mam,' I said to the first one. 'You're the eldest.' But nothing doing, so I went myself.
When I got out of the car and came into the house, carrying my clean suit and shirts, Mam said, 'What do you need them for?'
'Work.'
'
Work
?' Like she'd never heard of such a thing.
'Yes, Mam, work.'
'When?'
'Tomorrow.'
'Don't go.'
'Mam, I have to go. I'll lose my job if I don't.'
'Take compassionate leave.'
'They only give it when someone dies.'
'I wish he had died.'
'Mam!'
'But I do. We'd get a ton of sympathy. And respect. And the neighbours would bring food.'
'Quiches,' I said. (Because they do.)
'And apple tarts. Marguerite Kelly makes a lovely funeral apple tart.' (Said with a certain amount of bitterness, you'll see why in a minute.) 'But instead of having the decency to die he's got a girlfriend and left me. And now you're talking about going to work. Take some of your holidays.'
'I've none left.'
'Sick leave, then. Dr Bailey will give you a note. I'll pay.'
'Mam, I
can't
! I was starting to panic.
'What could be so important?'
'Davinia Westport's wedding next Thursday.'
'Big deal,' she said.
One of the society weddings of the year, to be precise. The most important, complex, costly, terrifying job I'd ever worked on and the logistics had occupied me for months, both in my waking hours and in my dreams.