If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (26 page)

Which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be too difficult.

James does his pitch, somehow managing to make it sound like he’s actually doing Matthew a favour, by bringing him in on this mega-deal that will propel Matthew to even greater riches. But like a twobit conman, he seriously underestimates his mark. Matthew didn’t get to where he is in life without asking tough questions, and pretty soon, whether it’s through exhaustion or semi-drunkenness, James is confessing everything. Bit by bit, Matthew somehow manages to prise it all out of him. That the real reason for the first phone call he’s graced his brother with in years is that he’s having cash-flow problems. That the lease is up on Meridius’s office in a few weeks, and he doesn’t have the money to renew, and then, the
pièce de résistance
, that his house is about to be repossessed.

I can’t hear what exactly Matthew says, but judging from James’s curt response, I’m guessing it goes along the lines of, ‘Who exactly do you think you are, calling me up looking for handouts when I haven’t heard from you in over two years? What do you take me for, anyway, some kind of ATM machine . . . etc., etc., etc.’

Then comes the killer blow. I press my ear right up close to the phone, so I can hear it for myself, so it’s muffled, but there’s no mistake. The normally cool Matthew is raising his voice at James now, making it all the easier for me to tune in.

‘Fine, bro,’ James snaps. ‘I ask you for a bit of short-term help, and you can’t even see fit to dig out your own brother in his goddamned hour of need.’

‘I am trying to do you a favour,’ Matthew explains patiently. ‘You’re at rock bottom now. This is the best thing that could happen to you, because your hand’s forced. You’re hungry and you’re going under. Isn’t that when you artistic types do all your best work? When the wolf is at the door?’

‘Matthew, ten grand would see me out of this, come on, it’s not like you’re even going to miss it, now, is it?’

‘My company has already given to all our designated charities this year. Which, considering we’re in recession, we feel is more than generous.’

‘Hear me out, will you?’ James wails, sounding close to real hysteria now. ‘I mean, come on, we’re brothers, aren’t we? If you don’t help me, what am I going to do?’

A long pause.

‘You say you’ve a few weeks before the lease on the Meridius office expires?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ says James, gratefully grabbing at this lifeline. ‘Even if you could sort me out for the cash to cover that . . .’

‘I was about to do no such thing. All I was suggesting is that, when your house is repossessed, at least you can crash out on your office floor.’

Chapter Eighteen

FIONA

Well, thank God for one angelic success story, is all I can say. Though, I suppose in a way I can count what’s happening to James as a success of sorts. He asked for it, and yeah, he got what was coming to him, although you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. I then remind myself that James Kane
is
, in fact, my worst enemy. I hope for his sake that he’ll somehow unearth the life lesson that’s to be learned in there, and who knows? With me hissing in his ear every opportunity I get, there’s a chance that even a hopeless moron such as he is might, just might, make the correlation between how he’s behaved and how his whole world has turned upside down. As for Kate, poor, strung-out Kate, I haven’t decided how best I can help her now, and until she has a showdown with Paul, there’s damn all I can do for her. So I go to see Fiona, my golden project, if I do say so myself.

It’s a gorgeous, balmy, summery Friday evening and when I join her, she’s strutting down Wicklow Street in the heart of the city, checking out her reflection in just about every shop window she passes. She does this a fair bit, and it’s not out of vanity, more like insecurity. No need for that tonight, though, she’s really pulled out all the stops, and is looking jaw-droppingly amazing in a gorgeous, fuchsia-pink dress, cut to show off her neat, trim little figure. I’ve never seen it on her before, which means she must have gone shopping especially for tonight, when my back was turned.

Which is such a good sign. Balm to my wounds, in fact.

Her neck is craned checking, checking, checking out the name of every dinky little restaurant she passes, then eventually she lights on the one she’s looking for, Trentuno. It’s small, but cosy and romantic, with the doors thrown open to let in the cool evening air, and a gorgeous smell of garlicky sauces drifting out from the kitchen.

It’s packed full with Friday-evening revellers, but good old reliable Tim is there ahead of her, patiently waiting at a discreet table for two at the back, and I swear I think my heart is racing just as much as hers must be, at the sight of the two of them greeting each other. Not knowing whether to hug or not, then going for it, but a bit awkwardly, then accidentally banging their heads off each other, and both laughing nervously. They talk over each other, overlapping sentences at the same time, and it’s just so endearingly cute to see how red-faced and teenagery they are around each other.

It’s not that I
want
to earwig, it’s just that, given my own disastrous relationship history, it’s so refreshingly good to see actual soulmates come together. After what I’ve been through, there’s nothing more heartening than the sight of a good woman and the man who’s held a candle for her all along, and who adores the ground she walks on, getting it together. Finally, after all these years. I look on at the two of them proudly, delighted that at least here is a little bit of earthly happiness that I can take total credit for.

The conversation begins awkwardly.

‘You haven’t changed a day.’ Tim smiles at her as the waiter delivers the wine list.

‘Except I got rid of the jam-jar glasses.’

‘I
liked
the jam-jar glasses. They made you look cute.’

‘Come off it, they made me look like Deirdre from
Coronation Street
.’

He smiles again, as the waiter drops off the wine list.

‘What would you like to drink? Red or white?’

‘Wet and alcoholic will do me grand, thanks,’ says Fi.

‘No, you
definitely
haven’t changed. That was always your standard answer to that question.’

‘Emm, neither have you,’ says Fi politely, but she’s actually lying through her teeth, as Tim now looks so completely different from the mad messer we knew all those years ago, that you’d pretty much be hard-pressed to pick him out of a police line-up.

A long pause, while they both take stock of each other.

Go on, get some alcohol into you, guys, that’ll jump-start things a bit!

Tim takes the cue, thankfully orders a bottle of Chianti, and they both ease back into their chairs.

Another bleeding long-drawn-out pause.

‘So,’ Fi eventually says tentatively. ‘Emm . . . how are things since, emm . . . well, you know, since . . .’

‘Since Ayesha and I split up, you mean?’ he finishes the sentence for her.

‘Emm, well, yeah.’

‘Fiona, all I can say is that I hope neither you nor anyone else I know ever has to go through what I’m going through right now.’

‘I’m really sorry, it must be awful. But you know I’m here for you.’

Good. This is good stuff. Now he’ll open up to her about the miserable years he spent with Ayesha, and then, who knows? After the Chianti kicks in, maybe that will lead to him musing about how different his life would have been had he and Fi stayed together, which in turn might lead to them getting back together again, etc., etc.

If I say so myself, this is one angelic project I can be
seriously
proud of.

‘I think I’m still completely raw about the whole thing,’ Tim says, just as the wine arrives. ‘The hardest part is not being able to see the kids every day.’

‘That must be terrible. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through,’ says Fi, sitting forward in her chair, with me willing her to take his hand.

Companionably, of course.

‘So, how are things with you?’ he asks politely, but I’m guessing that he can’t get off the subject quick enough.

Fi does what we all do on dates: lies stoutly about her life, over-exaggerating the fabulousness of it by about eighty per cent.

‘Seeing anyone?’ says Tim casually.

No she’s not, no she’s not, no she’s not . . .

‘Oh, you know, I’m out there, dating, but no one special,’ she says, airily.

Perfect answer. Makes it sound like she’s hordes of fellas after her, and that it’s just a matter of picking the most eligible one, nothing more.

‘Mind you, these days I use the word “boyfriend” to be synonymous with “it’ll all end in tears”.’

But then she had to go and blow it.

Fi, stop using comedy to hide heartache, that’s my department!

‘Fair play to you,’ he smiles. ‘I really admire anyone who can brave the whole dating, clubbing, pubbing scene. Would you like to settle down, though? Be married, have a family, I mean?’

‘One day,’ she answers, doing a great Mona Lisa smile.

Oh, this couldn’t be going better!

‘Fiona, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Did you ever take a good, long, third-person audit of your life and wonder exactly how you got to where you are now?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is . . . did you ever stop and say to yourself, hang on a sec, my life was supposed to turn out completely differently?’

Oh, yes, here we go, and far sooner than I would have predicted! Cue Tim confessing the horrible mistake he made by marrying Ayesha, queen of the spray-tan, when his true soulmate was under his nose the whole time. I’m sitting right in between them, hands cupped around my chin, like I’m watching the most romantic soap opera unfold right before my very eyes.

‘Go on,’ says Fi, the eyes full of . . . I’m not quite sure what. Apprehension? Hope?

Yeah, go on, you’ve a wider audience than you might be aware of, sitting here with bated breath, waiting to see what you’re going to say!

He takes a long sip of wine and looks into the middle distance, carefully formulating the next sentence in his head.

‘I’m nearly thirty,’ he eventually says. ‘And I’m supposed to be happily married, living with my beautiful wife and two gorgeous daughters in our family home that we paid a fortune for. And instead, I’m stuck in a shoebox apartment down in the IFSC, with a bedroom so tiny that if I sit up I can actually touch all four walls. I’m paying rent I can’t afford on top of a huge mortgage on the home that I
should
be living in, which Ayesha’s new man just ups and moves himself into, without a second thought. Did I tell you that she’s seeing someone? And the other day, Sorcha, that’s my youngest, actually called him Dad. I felt like someone had ripped my heart out through my gut. I wanted to kill him, actually kill him. I’m not messing, Fiona, I’d do time for the bastard, and no jury in the land would convict me, either.’

OK, so maybe not what I was hoping he’d come out with, but, hey, the night is young.

‘He’s called Rick, so I’ve christened him Rick the Prick.’

And . . . clearly, on top of that, Tim has a lot of anger issues to resolve, but then, isn’t that perfectly natural, given what he’s been through?

‘He calls himself a golfing coach, which as far as I can see involves him sitting around on my sofa all day watching DVDs of the Ryder Cup, then arsing off at weekends to play with his mates. Wanker. Doesn’t pay a bean towards bills, so basically I’m supporting him. I mean, what kind of a guy does that? Just walks into another man’s shoes and expects his lifestyle to be completely subsidized by him? I could strangle him, I really could.’

‘That’s just terrible,’ says Fi, nodding her head sympathetically.

‘She was having an affair with him for about a year before we broke up, you know,’ Tim goes on, white-faced with bitterness now. ‘But of course, the husband is always the last to know. I don’t know how, but I kind of smelled something was up for a while, and you know how I finally found out?’

‘Emm . . . no.’

‘Last October bank-holiday weekend, she told me she was going to the K Club with the girls for a hen weekend, so I said fine. Then I was in our bedroom and I noticed her packing all this new underwear she’d bought. Really sexy stuff, basques and thongs, all kinds of things that she never wears. At least, not for me. At least, not any more. I got suspicious, but, eejit that I was, I trusted her and gave her the benefit of the doubt. Next day, Heather, my oldest, got a really bad tummy bug, high fever, the works, so I called Ayesha’s mobile I don’t know how many times, but it was always switched off, which in itself was odd. Then I tried ringing the hotel to let her know what was going on, and that I was taking Heather to the hospital. There was a “Do Not Disturb” on her bedroom phone, so I figured she left it on by accident, and I asked to talk to her best friend, who I’d been told was on the hen weekend, too. ’Course, the receptionist had no such person staying there, which really got me suspicious. Eventually, hours later, I finally managed to get through to Ayesha’s room, and Rick the Prick answers the phone, cool as you like. And that’s how I found out that my marriage was over. Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m in Temple Street Children’s Hospital trying to take care of a sick little child who just wants her mum, while she’s off shagging someone else in a five-star hotel.’

‘Tim, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.’

Poor Fiona looks devastated for him.

‘It’s nothing compared to what happened next. When we separated, I thought the best thing for the kids was to stay on in the family home, so I moved out and let her have the house.’

‘Which was really decent of you . . . well, considering.’

‘The kids come first, in the middle of all of this hell, that’s the one thing I kept coming back to. So I move into the shoebox flat – where, by the way, I can actually hear conversations in full swing from the couple living next door, not raised voices, mind you, just normal, ordinary conversations – and I figured, at least my girls are OK and I can see them whenever I like. I thought, OK, I may be at rock bottom, with my whole life in shreds, but I do have something to live for. My kids. Who are still at home, so if nothing else, at least the disruption to their little lives is minimal.’

Fiona’s nodding away approvingly.

‘Then I get a solicitor’s letter summoning me to the family courts.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Do you think I’d joke about something like this?’

‘Oh, sorry, no, no, of course not.’

‘I almost threw up when I got the letter. She was actually taking me to court, so the times that I got to see my own kids could be laid down by some bloody eighty-year-old judge who hasn’t a clue what I’ve been put through.’

‘So what was the outcome? What did the judge say?’

‘That I can see them one evening a week and for, big swinging deal, a full day at weekends. We have to go back to court regularly for progress reports, and get this, it’ll take about another two years before I’ll actually be able to take them for overnight access. When I’d been used to seeing them all the time, the way any normal dad does. Now I’m reduced to picking them up and dropping them back at court-appointed times, while Rick the Prick gets to see them every night of the week. I’m lying awake in my shoebox apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much more of this hell I can take, while that freeloader is tucking my kids into bed in my home, with my wife beside him. I can’t tell you how that feels, Fiona, but I’ll say this. If ever I was close to suicide, these last few months were it.’

The waiter interrupts to take their order, and they both regroup a bit. Me included.

OK, so maybe Tim has a long way to go to heal and maybe get his head around seeing someone new, but at least we’re kind of, sort of, on the right track here. Aren’t we?

Fiona tops up their wine glasses.

‘Tim, I really don’t know what to say. What you’re going through is . . . painful beyond words, but . . . well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

He looks at her, and for a minute I think he might actually start getting teary.

‘You were always such a good friend,’ he says. ‘I know we haven’t been as close in recent years, since I got married, but you know . . . kids and all.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I mean, all your priorities shift when you have a family, and it’s easy to lose touch with people from your past . . .’

‘Sure, I understand . . .’

‘You’ll have kids of your own one day, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.’