‘You’ll change your mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll persuade you.’
‘Not me,’ I said, wondering what he’d do to convince me.
But nothing happened. I didn’t hear from him again, not a word for another eleven years. Plenty of time for me to reflect on my refusal.
Then, last summer, I got a phone call from Annette Babcock, the commissioning editor of Palladian, a publishing house that specialized in
celebrity autobiographies. I’d ghostwritten a couple of books for them in the recent past. (A sportswoman’s life story and the trials and tribulations of a woman who was once Miss Ireland and who’d had twenty-eight cosmetic surgery operations to keep her modelling career on track.)
It was the sort of work hacks often do on the side, what with most sportspeople or models – or indeed politicians – being borderline illiterate. The work was intensive, also soul-destroying, as you tried to transmute someone’s dull life and tedious anecdotes into readable prose, but the money could be good.
‘Can you come in?’ Annette said. ‘I’ve a job for you.’
When I was sitting in front of her, she said, ‘We’re doing Paddy de Courcy’s book.’
Jesus, I thought, Paddy de Courcy…
‘We think you’d be the right writer to do it. It’ll mean spending a lot of time with Paddy over the next month, but that’s no hardship, is it? Is it?’ she repeated, when I didn’t reply.
‘What! Sorry. Just thinking there…’ I cleared my throat. I had plenty of questions. First and foremost, why me?
‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Annette said snippily. Clearly she fancied him. ‘It’s not like he requested you. We’ve a panel of writers we use. We put a few names to him. He said he’d read
The Human Race.’
(The sportswoman’s story.) ‘He said he liked your work.’
‘Did he…?’
The thing was that I’d sort offorgotten about Paddy de Courcy. I mean, not entirely. It’d be bloody hard to, the way he was always on the news or had his handsome mug grinning out from the social pages. At times when I saw him I got a surprise little twist of something in my gut but most times I felt nothing at all.
‘Well?’ Annette asked. ‘You in?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘What?’
I was confused. Was this not risky for Paddy? I knew stuff about him that probably no other journalist knew. But maybe that was why he’d decided on me – because he wouldn’t have to fess up about putting Marnie in hospital and shock the bejaysus out of me. Maybe he knew he’d have to include it in the book but thought he could get me to do a nice sanitized version?
Or maybe I was overthinking this. Maybe Marnie was so far back in his distant past that he’d totally forgotten what he’d done? Maybe he really
had
liked my work on
The Human Race
? Maybe this really was just a job?
‘The money’s good,’ Annette said anxiously. She threw a figure at me and, in fairness, she was right. ‘I can try to get you another couple of grand.’
‘Yes, but…’
I was all mixed up. Why would I help Paddy? The thought of working with him, of letting him benefit from my writing skills made me feel disloyal and uncomfortable. Then my crusading spirit took over – maybe I could get justice for Marnie fifteen years after the event. I thought about it a bit longer and the conviction that something good could come of this got stronger.
‘Okay,’ I said to Annette. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘A little bit more enthusiasm, ifyou don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Personally I’d be creaming myselfat the thought of all that time with Paddy.’
I closed my eyes. Christ, did she
have
to?
‘Now listen to me, Grace. This is a highly confidential project, because of the danger of pre-publication injunctions from other politicians. Tell no one.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
The minute I got home I told Damien.
‘His
autobiography?’
Damien was deeply suspicious. ‘Why? He’s done nothing except shag models. He’s not the leader of a party. He hasn’t even been a minister.’
‘The world of celebrity autobiographies has changed.’ I shrugged. ‘You don’t need to have done anything, all you have to be is good-looking.’
Damien was watching me, his face still, his eyes bleak. ‘Why did you say you’d do it, Grace? After what he did to Marnie?’
‘That’s precisely why. I’m wondering ifI can get… I don’t know… something for Marnie. Even an apology…’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Damien said quietly. ‘Marnie’s married now, the mother of two children. She mightn’t want any of this made public. She mightn’t want anything to do with him.’
‘And then again she might.’
‘Perhaps you should talk to her before you go any further.’
‘I’ve already said I’ll do it.’
He shrugged. ‘You can change your mind. You haven’t signed anything?’
‘No. I know. But I just feel I have to do this… It was such a big thing to happen to Marnie and me,’ I said. ‘I know you can’t understand because you weren’t there, but this feels like a chance, I don’t know, to… Oh I don’t know, Damien!’ I sighed heavily. ‘To undo something bad.’
My words fell into silence. How could I make him understand? The hook was in my flesh. Despite my suspicions and my fears of disloyalty, I had to do this.
‘Don’t look so sad,’ I pleaded.
Damien gave a rueful little laugh – he knew all about my teenage thing for Paddy.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay, okay. Ifyou really don’t want me to do it, just say it and I won’t.’
‘Grace…’
Then I felt ashamed. Damien would never make that sort of request, he wasn’t that kind of man. Shaking his head, he began to walk away.
‘The money’s good,’ I called after him.
‘Great.’ His voice floated back to me. ‘We’ll buy lots of things.’
Our first session, to discuss the structure of the book, was held at Paddy’s office. I’d forgotten what it was like to be within breathing distance of him. His size. Those eyes. That presence… charisma, whatever you want to call it. Such a perfect powerful physical presence. There was so much of him, concentrated into just one human being – like really strong coffee or dark dark chocolate – it was almost unbearable. He shook my hand and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘I’m delighted we’ll be working together.’
‘God, you’re such a politician,’ I complained. ‘Where am I sitting?’
‘Wherever you like. On the couch, ifyou want.’
‘Your casting couch?’
‘My
couch.’
I took a hard-backed chair, muttering under my breath that it was probably safest. Paddy sat behind his desk and I opened my yellow pad. Defiantly I said, ‘First things first. Will we be including the episode where you hospitalized my sister?’
‘Still the same Grace,’ Paddy said, but without rancour. ‘Always championing a cause. But I think it’s best ifwe draw a veil over that youthful episode.’
‘Oh I see.
That’s
why you asked for me?’ As I had suspected. ‘If you think I’m going to protect you, you can so forget it.’ I stood up to leave.
‘Not to protect me – sit down, Grace, would you? – to protect Marnie. You think she’d want that printed in a book?’
That’s what Damien had said…
‘Would she?’ he asked again.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t asked her.
Slowly I sat back down. But ifI wasn’t doing this project as Marnie’s champion, why was I here?
‘The money’s good,’ Paddy said, reading my thoughts. ‘Come on, Grace, we’ve both got a job to do. Let’s do it.’
The money
was
good. I’d recently bought a new car and the repayments were high.
I picked up my pen again and, to my surprise, we worked for three hours and made good steady progress. This was just a job, I realized, and it was going to be fine.
Our second session was five days later and once again the work was productive. We’d covered his childhood and had got as far as the death of his mother – when all of a sudden Paddy stopped talking and bowed his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were swimming with tears. Normally I would think, A man crying, how
funny
. But, perhaps because I’d known him back then, in the aftermath of his mother’s death, how lost and wild he’d been, I felt unexpectedly sad for him.
I passed him a Burger King napkin from my bag and roughly he wiped his eyes. Within moments he was himselfagain.
‘Well, that was embarrassing.’ He laughed. He looked at the napkin. ‘Hold the front page. Grace Gildee was kind.’
‘I
am
kind.’ I was defensive. ‘To those who deserve it.’
‘I know you are. You know, Grace’ – he gave me the full benefit of his blue gaze – ‘I came to Palladian because of you.’
What? Talk about an abrupt change of subject.
‘I’ve always followed your progress, I’ve always known which paper you were working for, I’ve always read your stuff.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because in all these years I’ve never stopped thinking about you.’
An involuntary thrill flamed from my toes to the roots of my hair.
‘I’ve thought about you every single day. You’re the only woman who could ever match me.’
I didn’t want to be, but I was flattered. I was excited. Just like that, I was right back in it.
The teenage me had been reactivated and I was dreamy and distracted and halfblind with lust for Paddy.
But that night I couldn’t sleep. There was no way round the truth: my attraction to Paddy was a bad, bad thing; dangerous and dirty.
It was a long time ago, maybe he’s changed
.
What about Damien?
What Damien and I had was rare and good.
Instinctively I knew what had to be done: I would end my involvement in the project.
But when I met Paddy to tell him to find another writer, it was as ifhe’d been anticipating it. Before I got to open my mouth he closed his office door and said, ‘Don’t, Grace. Don’t abandon me.’
‘But – ’
‘Please. You’re the only one I trust to tell the truth. I need you.’
I couldn’t help it – he made me feel too important to him to resign.
That day’s work and our next session, two days later, were conducted in such a state of sexual tension that I couldn’t think straight. Our early progress had slowed to almost nothing, but I didn’t care. I was locked inside myself, in a process of constant negotiation. I just wanted one night. One night I had been owed from eleven years earlier. Or eighteen years earlier. It wouldn’t mean I didn’t love Damien.
At home Damien watched me and said nothing and I managed to convince myselfthat he hadn’t noticed anything. Until one evening at home after work when a new-age catalogue had come in the post and we were picking out the courses we’d most hate to do.
‘Tribal Drumming would be horrific,’ I said, laughing with cringy glee. ‘Imagine the types you’d get.’
‘For me,’ he said, ‘my very, very worst one would be… let’s see… Here we are! Release Your Locked Emotions Through Song. An entire weekend of it. Jesus!’
‘Now I know what to get you for your birthday.’
‘Grace, I’ll just say one thing.’
Alerted by his sudden change oftone, I looked at him. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Ifone of us cheated – Christ, I hate that word,’ he said. ‘We might survive it, but things would always be different. The trust would be gone. The innocence.’
‘I – ’ The obvious reply would be to ask what had prompted his statement. But I couldn’t go down that road. He hadn’t accused me of anything, that was what was important, and in fairness I hadn’t done anything. ‘Okay, Damien. I know that.’
‘Good, good… because I’d hate to think…’ He seemed about to say something else and I willed him not to. ‘Because I love you, you know?’
My usual response when he told me he loved me was to ask him ifhe was coming down with something. But this time I just said, ‘I know you do.’ Then swept along by a sudden deep rush of love and gratitude, I said, ‘I love you too.’
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to turn into
Hart to Hart.’
We both laughed, a little nervously.
The following day I had another meeting with Paddy. The sun was bursting from the sky and he was waiting outside for me, watching me whizz into the allocated parking space. I got it first time, one smooth confident swerve, my car landing exactly equidistant from the four white lines, a perfect bit of parking in my perfect car on this perfect day.
‘Nice work,’ Paddy said, not even pretending to hide his appreciation.
‘All down to the car.’ I laughed.
‘You love your car?’ he asked.
‘I
love
my car.’
In his office I sat at the desk to start work and Paddy said, ‘So what about you and Damien?’
‘What about us?’ I couldn’t help sounding defensive.
‘Still in love?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t think of breaking it off with him?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘So you could be my girl. We’d be fabulous together. Look.’ He scribbled a number on a piece of paper. ‘This is my private mobile number. My private private number. Only my personal trainer has it. Have a think about
what I said.’ He shrugged. ‘If you make any decisions, ring me any time, day or night.’
I was unable to speak. The nerve of him! And yet I was shamefully flattered. Unless he was just playing games…?
‘I’m completely serious,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t believe me, but I’m going to keep on saying it until you do – you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who can match me.’
I nearly puked. With longing and shame and shame and longing.
Three days later the news broke that Paddy was getting married and – I admit it – I felt like I’d been jolted with a stun gun. He owed me nothing, no promises had been made, but he’d behaved as if…
The dislocating shock was compounded by the discovery that his bride would be Leechy.
It was my ego, I told myself. That’s what it was. Wounded because I’d thought I was special to him.
He rang me.
‘Is it true?’ I asked.
‘Grace – ’
‘Is it true?’
‘Yes, but – ’
I disconnected.
He rang again. I switched my phone off.
Then I found out about Lola. While interviewing ‘Captain of Industry’, Marcia Fitzgibbon, for ‘My Favourite Insult’, she complained that her stylist was on drugs, screwing up work left, right and centre and insisting that Paddy de Courcy was her boyfriend. ‘If you could see this woman,’ Marcia told me. ‘I mean, her hair is
purple!’