‘Dessert?’ Christine stood up and began clearing plates.
‘Yes.’
‘Augustina has made chocolate brownies for you.’
‘Don’t tell them!’ Augustina exploded. ‘That’s the surprise. I want to tell them!’
‘So tell them.’
‘Damien and Grace, I’ve made chocolate brownies in your honour. But you may not like them.’
‘I’m sure we’ll love them,’ I said.
‘Grace.’ She closed her eyes in a gesture she’d obviously learnt from Christine. ‘There’s no need to humour me. If you would let me finish…’
Jesus Christ! I waved my hand in a please-go-on gesture.
‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Augustina sounded like she was trying very hard to be patient, ‘is that you may not like them because the chocolate I’ve used is 85 per cent cocoa solids. It’s not to everyone’s taste.’
‘I like dark chocolate.’
‘But you probably think 70 per cent cocoa solids is a big deal. This is Fairtrade 85 per cent.’
‘Sounds great,’ Damien said. ‘Ethical
and
delicious.’
Augustina flicked her eyes back and forth from Damien to me, as if trying to decide if we were worthy. Finally she said, ‘Very well.’
Christine had finished clearing the dinner debris and was clattering out dessert bowls. ‘Richard,’ she called. ‘Richard! Come back in here.’
‘He’s on the phone. He’s shouting,’ Julius said.
‘Tell him to get in here. I need him here for this.’
Julius thundered off and reappeared shortly. ‘I don’t think he’s coming. Someone in Waikiki has fucked up.’
‘Oh man.’ Alex shook his head sorrowfully and his sieve fell off. ‘Someone will have to sit on the fucked-up step.’
Christine couldn’t decide whether to chastise Alex or insist that Richard get in here pronto. ‘Oh never mind!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
She took a deep breath and I found myself sitting up straighter and already preparing my gracious smile of acceptance.
‘Grace and Damien, as you know I’ve had a new baby.’ She nodded at the bassinet. ‘And he’ll need godparents. And we thought Brian and Sybilla would be the best people. They’re already Augustina’s godparents, and you don’t know this yet but Sybilla is expecting again, so Maximillian will be close in age to his new cousin.’
My gracious acceptance smile had frozen. Events had veered off in an unexpected direction. Damien and I weren’t going to be asked. It was to be Brian and Sybilla. Again.
My 85 per cent cocoa-solids brownie had appeared in front of me and automatically – the way I do whenever I see any kind of food – I put a piece in my mouth.
‘I’m sure you don’t mind,’ Christine was saying. ‘I’m sure it’s a relief. It’s just not your thing, is it? The church, renouncing Satan and all his works. And you don’t want kids of your own. But I just wanted to have a quiet word with you both before you heard that we’d asked Brian and Sybilla. It just seemed polite.’
The lump of brownie sat on my tongue, I couldn’t get any further with it. It’s not that I’d wanted to be Maximillian’s godmother, it made no difference whatsoever to me. But, unexpectedly, I had a huge upsurge of rage on behalf of Damien. Four children, four siblings, there should be four godparents.
Damien was great with children and far better with these kids than Richard, their own bloody father.
Augustina was watching me. ‘You’re not eating your brownie.’
‘… No.’
She was pleased. ‘Too bitter?’
‘Too bitter.’
Monday morning and it was a red-handbag day: impatience.
‘Get back.’ Jacinta waved her arms at us. ‘You’re flocking me.’
It was our weekly meeting to discuss upcoming ideas. All of Features – with the exception of Casey Kaplan, whose whereabouts were unknown – were clustered around Jacinta’s desk.
‘Back,’ she repeated. ‘I can’t breathe. Grace. Ideas. And I want good ones.’
‘… Right.’ Without nicotine I was slower, sleepier and the synapses in my head fired with less of a snap. Even after a full week I hadn’t bounced back. ‘How about domestic violence?’
‘What?’
Her screech was so shrill that heads turned as far away as Sport. ‘You needn’t think that just because you got Antonia Allen to admit she takes it up the bum that you can write your own remit!’ (Over the weekend, my story on Antonia Allen got syndicated around the world, bringing in much-appreciated revenue for the
Spokesman
. It was the only interview where Antonia referenced ‘My Gay Jain Pain.’ (Not my words.) Big Daddy was very pleased. He’d vacillated between lowering the tone and going for the splash and in the end had followed the money.
No one made any comment on my breast cancer story. Because it hadn’t been published. A surprise avalanche in an Argentinian ski resort meant my story got killed. Mrs Singer and her tragedy would never see the light of day because the report was no longer current. That’s how it is with journalism, it moves fast, too fast to let yourself get attached. One of the first things you learn is to get used to it. But I’d never learnt.)
‘I was thinking,’ I continued speaking as though Jacinta hadn’t just shrieked at me, ‘that over six weeks we could profile six different women from diverse backgrounds. We could do a campaign.’
‘What in the name of fuck has brought this on?’
‘It’s a realproble – ’
‘Is there a report?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a report to hang it on! No one cares about domestic violence! It’s Dee Rossini, isn’t it? You’ve fallen under her spell.’
‘I have not.’
Actually I might have. My profile on her, which I’d spent all of Friday afternoon lovingly crafting, had been luminescent; and on Saturday, when I’d been in Boots, I’d looked for the funny light-brown nail varnish but hadn’t found it. Yesterday, I’d even rung to enquire about Elena. (Dee had said tersely that she was ‘safe.’)
‘One in five Irish women will experience domestic violence at some stage in their lives,’ I said. So Dee had told me.
‘I don’t care,’ Jacinta said. ‘I don’t care if every single one of them experiences it – ’
‘ – us,’ I interrupted.
‘What?’
‘Every single one of
us
, not them. It’s
us
, Jacinta.’
‘It’s not fucking
us
! I don’t experience it, you don’t experience it, Joanne doesn’t experience it, do you Joanne? Lorraine, Tara and Clare, none of them experiences it! You ARE under Dee Rossini’s spell. But we’re not doing it!’
‘Grand,’ I muttered, dying, oh dying for a cigarette. A whole pack of twenty, one after the other after the other. The longing was so great that I got the I-wish-I-could-cry pain in my sinuses, a tight band of contained tears pushing out against my facebones. I didn’t listen to the others presenting their ideas and my hearing only returned when I heard Jacinta say, ‘We’re profiling Alicia Thornton.’
‘Who?’
Maybe there were two Alicia Thorntons.
‘Paddy de Courcy’s fiancée.’
‘But…
why?’
‘Because Big Daddy says so.’
‘But who is she?’ I asked. ‘What’s interesting about her?’
‘She’s the woman “who won Quicksilver’s heart”,’ Jacinta said.
‘But she’s dull and… she’s just an obedient political spouse. How’re you going to get two thousand words out of that?’
‘You’d better change your attitude pretty quick because you’re doing the interview.’
‘No!’ I took a moment to compose myself. ‘No way.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I mean no, I don’t want to do it.’ I pointed to TC. ‘Send him. Or Lorraine. Send Casey.’
‘You’re doing it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean, can’t?’
‘Jacinta.’ I’d no choice but to come clean. ‘I know… knew… Paddy de Courcy. In another life. My integrity is compromised. I’m the wrong person.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re doing it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she asked for you. Specifically for you. If you won’t do it, she’s taking it to another paper. You have to do it.’
She tried to twist away from under his grasp but he was so much stronger
.
‘I don’t want to do this.’ Her pyjama bottoms were yanked down to her knees, her thighs goosepimpling at the air, and he was shoving his way up into her despite her dry resistance. It hurt. Short brutal thrusts, each one accompanied by a grunt
.
‘Please – ‘
‘Shut. Up.’ Ground out between clenched teeth
.
Instantly she stopped struggling and let him batter his way in, the rim of the sink digging painfully into her back
.
The grunts got louder, the thrusts became more like stabs, then he was shuddering and groaning. He went slack, draping his body over hers, so that her face was buried in his chest. She could barely breathe. But she didn’t complain. She waited for him to do whatever he needed. After some time had passed, he pulled himself out and smiled tenderly at her. ‘Let’s get you back to bed,’ he said
.
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying.
On the in breath, ‘I’m.’ On the out breath, ‘Dying.’
That was the wrong mantra. It should be: On the in breath, ‘All.’ On the out breath, ‘Is well.’ All is well. All is well. All is well. All is well. All is well. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dyingI’m dyingI’m dyingI’mdyingI’mdyingI’mdyingI’mdying.
But she wasn’t dying. She just wished she was.
The light chime of bells. Poppy’s voice saying, ‘Come back to the room.’
She opened her eyes. Eight other people, mostly women, were sitting in a circle, in the flickering candlelight.
‘Did you feel it?’ Poppy had told them to focus on their soul. ‘Did you feel a connection?’
Yes, the voices murmured, yes, yes.
‘Let’s go round the circle and share our experience.’
‘My soul is silver light.’
‘My soul is a golden ball.’
‘My soul is white and shimmery.’
‘Marnie?’
Her soul? It felt like a tomato which had been left at the bottom of
the fridge for four months. Black, reeking, rotting. One touch and it would collapse. It sat at her centre, infecting her entire being with filth.
She spoke. ‘My soul…’
‘Yes?’
‘… is like the sun.’
‘Beautiful imagery,’ murmured Poppy.
She tiptoed to the mosaic bowl and put in a carefully folded ten-pound note. She always left more than the others.
‘See you next week,’ Poppy whispered, cross-legged and long-limbed on the floor.
Yes, yes, and remember to smile.
She clicked quickly down the path, keen to reach her car. She got in and slammed the door. Possibly harder than was needed.
She’d had it with meditation.
Medi
cation,
though. That was a different matter.
‘No improvement?’ Dr Kay asked.
‘No. Worse if anything.’ She shouldn’t have gone to Dublin. Over the weekend, putting on a cheery show in front of her family had depleted her, leaving her lower than ever.
‘In that case, let’s increase your dose.’ Dr Kay consulted Marnie’s file. ‘You could go up another 75 mgs.’
‘I’d prefer… can I change brands?’ It was time to try a better one. ‘Can I have Prozac?’
‘Prozac?’ Dr Kay was surprised. ‘Prozac is a bit of a dinosaur. No one really prescribes it any more. Your current medication is from the same family but newer, more sophisticated. Fewer side-effects, more effective.’ She reached for her drug encyclopaedia. ‘I can show you.’
No, no, no. ‘Please, no, it’s okay.’ There was no way of enduring it while Dr Kay found Prozac in the book, showed her the contra-indications, then found the other drug. It would probably take less than a minute, but she didn’t have a minute in her. ‘Please. I’d like to try Prozac. I have a good feeling about it.’
‘But… how about… have you considered therapy?’
‘I’ve done therapy. Years of it.’ On and off. ‘I’ve learnt things but…
I still feel terrible. Please, Dr Kay…’ She knew only one thing: she could not leave until she’d got a prescription for Prozac.
She flicked a glance at the shut door, to remind Dr Kay of her waiting room, crowded with sick people, clamouring for entry. It was cruel but she was desperate. She couldn’t go on as she was. Please give me Prozac.
Dr Kay was staring doubtfully at her.
Please give me Prozac.
Then Dr Kay dropped her eyes. It was over. Marnie had locked herself so tight into waiting mode, she was surprised. Like when a tyrannical regime crumbles in one’s lifetime; the way she’d felt when the Taliban had been ousted from Afghanistan.
‘Okay. We’ll try you for a couple of months, see how you do on it.’ Dr Kay reached for her prescription pad. ‘Is there anything else, Marnie? Anything else you’re… concerned about?’
‘No. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
She left, gratefully holding the prescription.
Everyone knew. Prozac worked.
When she pushed open her front door, Nick zipped from the kitchen into the hall. He looked distraught. What was it?
Then she knew. ‘No bonus again?’
‘What?’
‘No bonus? You found out?’
‘No, not that.’ He gripped her arms. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I told you. The doctor.’
‘But it’s eight o’clock.’
‘I didn’t have an appointment. I had to wait. Where are the girls?’
‘In the playroom.’
They were watching
Beauty and the Beast
. Again. Daisy was sprawled the length of the sofa, her legs slung over the armrest; Verity was curled in a ball, sucking her thumb.
‘Hello, babies.’
‘Hi, Mum.’