Marian Keyes - Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married (19 page)

She murmured something else before gliding from the room. I think it might have been "threesome."

"My name is Meredia," Meredia roared after her.

"Stupid bitch," she muttered. "Now, where was I. Oh yes."

She cleared her throat.

"She's torn between two lovers." Meredia was passionate. "On the one hand there's Dick, dependable, reliable Dick, the father of her children. And on the other hand there's Roger, exciting, unpredictable, passionate..."

On and on she went until eventually it was lunchtime. Which of course was the time when I stopped work and left the office and went shopping for an hour.

The fact that I hadn't actually started work yet wasn't of any real import- ance.

I went out to get Daniel a card and a birthday present, which was always a bit of an ordeal.

I never knew what to get him.

What do you buy for the man who has everything? I wondered. I could get him a book, I thought--but he already had one.

I must remember to tell him that, he'd enjoy it.

I always ended up getting him something awful and unimaginative like socks or a tie or hankies.

And it was made worse by the fact that he always got me something lovely and thoughtful. For my last birthday he gave me a gift certificate for a day at a spa, which was total and absolute bliss. A guilt-free day, lying around by a pool, being massaged and pampered.

Anyhow, I got him a tie. I hadn't got him one of those for a couple of years, so I thought I might get away with it.

But I got him a nice card, a nice, funny, affectionate card and signed it "love, Lucy" and hoped that Karen wouldn't see it and accuse me of trying to steal her man.

The wrapping paper cost nearly as much as the tie. It must have been made out of spun gold.

I did the wrapping of the tie in the office but I had to go back out to the post office to mail the package. I could have put it through the office mail but I would have liked Daniel's present to reach him sometime this century and the two Neanderthals that worked in the mailroom couldn't necessarily guarantee that. It's not that they weren't nice--they were very nice, in fact, their congratulations on my bogus marriage had been sincere and effus- ive--but they didn't seem too bright, somehow. Ready, willing, but not overly able, would be the best way to describe them.

Eventually five o'clock rolled around and, like a bullet departing the barrel of a gun, I left for home.

31 I loved Monday evenings. I was still at that stage in my life when I thought that weekdays were for recovering from the weekend. I couldn't understand the rest of the world who seemed to be under the impression that it was the other way around.

Monday night was usually the only night in the week when Karen, Charlotte and I were all at home in the apartment, worn out from the rigors of the preceding weekend.

On Tuesday night Charlotte had her flamenco dancing class. (Or her flamingo dancing, as she thought it was. No one had the heart to correct her.) A couple of us were often to be found missing in action on Wednesday night. lucy sullivan is getting married / 227

And very often on Thursday night all of us would be out, in a warm-up session for the full-blown socializing that the weekend entailed, when we'd all be out, all the time. (My depression permitting, of course.)

Monday night was the night when we went to the supermarket and bought enough apples and grapes and low-fat yogurt to last us the week. It was the night that we ate steamed vegetables and said that we really must cut out the pizzas, that we would never drink again, at least not until the following Saturday night.

(By Tuesday we were back on the pasta and wine, by Wednesday the ice cream and chocolate cookies and a couple of pints at the local pub, by Thursday the drinking session after work and the Chinese takeout and there was never any restraint to speak of between Friday and Sunday. Until Monday rolled around and we bought apples and grapes and low- fat yogurt again.)

Charlotte was already in when I got home, unpacking groceries and throwing out vast tracts, acres, of very-past-their-use-by-date, uneaten, low- fat yogurts that were dancing jigs with each other in the fridge.

I put my bag down next to her bag, so that they could chat with each other.

"Show me, show me, what did you get? Anything good?" asked Char- lotte.

"Apples..."

"Oh. Me too."

"...and grapes..."

"Me too."

"...and low-fat yogurts..."

"Me too."

"So, no, sorry, nothing good."

"Oh dear, but it's just as well because I'm going to eat sensibly from now on." 228 / marian keyes

"Me too."

"And the less temptation the better."

"Exactly."

"Karen's gone up to the corner shop. Let's hope she doesn't buy anything good there."

"Mr. Papadopoulos's?"

"Yes."

"She won't."

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't anything good there to buy."

"I suppose you're right," said Charlotte. "Everything there looks a bit...well, dusty, doesn't it? Even things like the chocolate looks like it's been there since before the war."

"Yes," I agreed. "We're very lucky, really. Can you imagine what we'd look like if we lived near a nice store, that sold delicious things."

"Huge," agreed Charlotte. "We'd be enormous."

"In fact, if you think about it," I said, "it's really one of the amenities of the place. It should've been in the ad--`three-bedroom apartment, fully furnished, zone two, close to tubes and buses, miles from a shop that sells chocolate.'"

"Absolutely!" said Charlotte.

"Oh, here's Karen now."

Karen marched in with a face like thunder and banged her shopping down on the kitchen table. She was clearly annoyed.

"What's up, Karen?" I asked.

"Look, who the hell put some pesetas in the change jar? I'm so embar- rassed. Mr. Papadopoulos thinks I tried to cheat him and you know what everyone says about Scottish people and money!" lucy sullivan is getting married / 229

"What do they say?" asked Charlotte. "Oh yes, that you're really cheap."

She stopped when she saw the expression on Karen's face.

"Who put them there?" Karen demanded. As previously noted, she could be very scary.

I toyed with the idea of lying and blaming, say, the guy whom Charlotte had brought home Friday night. He called on Sunday evening to speak to Charlotte, only to be told that there was no one of that name living here.

I thought about denying all knowledge.

"Er..."

And then thought better of it.

Karen would find out eventually. Karen would break me down. My guilty conscience would eat away at me until I confessed.

"Sorry, Karen, it was probably my fault...I didn't put them into the change jar as such, but it's my fault that they're in the house at all."

"But you haven't even been to Spain."

"I know, but Gus gave them to me and I didn't want to take them and I must have left them on the table and someone else must have put them in thinking that they were real money..."

"Oh well, if it was Gus, that's okay."

"Really?" chorused Charlotte and I, in surprise. Karen was rarely so compassionate and merciful.

"Yes, he's a sweetie. So cute. Crazy as a loon, of course, but in such a cute way...Elizabeth Ardent..." she chuckled to herself. "He makes me laugh."

Charlotte and I exchanged alarmed looks.

"But, don't you want to smack him?" I asked anxiously. "And make him go to Mr. Papadopoulos and ex 230 / marian keyes

plain that you're not a dishonest Scottish skinflint and..."

"No, no, no," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

I was touched by the change in Karen; she seemed so much less aggress- ive, so much nicer.

"No," she continued. "You'll do. You can go. You can go up to Mr. Papadopoulous and apologize."

"Er..."

"But you needn't go right now. Wait until you've had your dinner, but don't forget he closes at eight."

I stared at her, unable to figure out if she was serious or not. I had to be sure because I didn't want to go to all the trouble of feeling nervous, just to find out that I didn't need to.

"You are joking, aren't you?" I asked hopefully.

There was a tense little pause and then she said, "Okay, I'm joking. I'd better be nice to you now, what with you being Daniel's friend and all."

She gave me a charming, disarming, I'm-so-brazen-but-you-can't-help- liking-me-for-it grin, and I grinned back weakly.

I was all for bluntness. Well, actually that's a complete lie, I thought it was one of the most overrated things I had ever heard of. But Karen behaved as if being blunt was a great virtue, the kindest act she could do for you. Whereas I felt there were some things that didn't need to be said or shouldn't be said. And that sometimes people used "I'm just being honest" as an opportunity to be malicious. That they opened the nastiness floodgates, were viciously cruel, completely trashed a life and then absolved themselves with an innocent face and a plaintive, "But I was only being honest."

But I had no right to complain about these people-- lucy sullivan is getting married / 231

Karen may have been too fond of confrontation, but I was phobically frightened of it.

"Just make sure you keep telling him what a fabulous person I am," she said. "And tell him that millions of guys are in love with me."

"Er, okay," I agreed.

"I'm steaming some broccoli," said Charlotte, turning the conversation to matters domestic. "Would either of you like some?"

"Well, I'm steaming some carrots," I said, "so would either of you like some of them?"

We hammered out a tripartite agreement concerning the equable sharing out of our steamed vegetable assets.

"Oh, Lucy," said Karen casually. Too casually. I braced myself. "Daniel called."

"Oh, er, good...did he?"

Was that noncommittal enough for her?

"For me," she said triumphantly. "He called to talk to me."

"Great."

"Not you. Me."

"Great, Karen," I laughed. "So you two must be an item, then?"

"Certainly looks that way," she said smugly.

"Good for you."

"You'd better believe it."

We had our steamed vegetables, we watched the soaps and a harrowing documentary about natural childbirth that had us all squirming in our seats. Women with contorted faces, covered in sweat, panting and gasping and groaning.

And that was only me, Charlotte and Karen.

"Jesus," said Charlotte, staring at the screen transfixed, her face rigid with shock. "I'm never having a baby." 232 / marian keyes

"Me neither," I agreed fervently, suddenly aware of all the advantages of not having a boyfriend.

"But you can have an epidural," said Karen. "And then you wouldn't feel anything."

"But it doesn't always work," I reminded her.

"Really? How would you know?" she demanded.

"She's right," said Charlotte. "My sister-in-law said that it didn't work for her and that she was in absolute agony and that they could hear her screams three streets away."

Karen didn't look terribly convinced by Charlotte's bloodthirsty tale. The sheer force of Karen's will would ensure that her epidural would work; it wouldn't dare not to.

"Oh dear," I said faintly. "Oh dear. Can we watch something else?"

At about nine-forty the short-term fix of the steamed vegetables wore off and real hunger kicked in.

Who would crack first?

The tension built and built until finally Charlotte said casually, "Does anyone feel like coming for a walk?"

Karen and I breathed surreptitious sighs of gratitude.

"What kind of walk?" I asked carefully.

I wasn't signing up for anything that didn't involve food, but Charlotte didn't let me down.

"A walk to the chip shop," she said shamefacedly.

"Charlotte!" chorused Karen and I in outrage. "For shame. What about all our good intentions?"

"But I'm hungry," she said in a little voice.

"Eat a carrot," said Karen.

"I'd rather eat nothing than eat a carrot," admitted Charlotte.

I knew how she felt. I'd have preferred to eat a piece of the mantelpiece than eat a carrot.

"Well," I sighed. "If you're really starving, I'll come with you." I was delighted. I was dying for chips.

"And," sighed Karen, as if it was a real hardship, "just to make you feel better you may as well buy me a bag of chips too."

"You mustn't if it's just to make me feel less guilty," said Charlotte sweetly. "Just because I've no willpower doesn't mean you have to break your diet."

"It's no trouble," protested Karen.

"No honestly," insisted Charlotte. "There's really no need for you to have any. I can live with my guilt."

"Just shut up and buy me chips!" shouted Karen.

"Large or small?"

"Large!"

32 Gus was taking me out on Tuesday after work. He had said so on Sunday night.

But spirits had been very high on Sunday night, particularly in Gus's blood-to-alcohol ratio, the ten-minute walk from the pizza place to my flat took over half an hour because he was so skittish and playful and I was a little bit concerned that he might have got the arrangements confused for Tuesday night. I was afraid he might get the place wrong or the time wrong or even the day wrong.

Trying to finalize the details had turned into a bit of a confused night- mare. When he walked me home on Sunday 234 / marian keyes

night, he politely shook my hand and said, "Lucy, I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, Gus," I corrected gently. "You won't see me tomorrow. Tomorrow's Monday. You're meeting me on Tuesday."

"No, Lucy," he corrected back, just as gently. "When I go home tonight I'll make some, er...certain pharmaceutical arrangements and when I wake up it'll be Tuesday. So to all intents and purposes, Lucy Sullivan, I'll see you tomorrow. At least I'll see you on my tomorrow."

"Oh, I see," I said doubtfully. "Where will I meet you?"

"I'll pick you up from work, Lucy. I'll rescue you from the administration mines, from down Credit Control pit."

"Good."

"Remind me again," he said, holding my upper arms and pulling me to him, "it's Fifty-four Cavendish Crescent and you're liberated at five-thirty?"

He gave me a sweet, slightly unfocused grin.

"No, Gus, it's not Cavendish Crescent, it's Newcastle Square, and it's number Six," I told him.

In fact I had told him several times and even written it down for him, but it had been a long day and he had had an awful lot to drink.

"Oh really?" asked Gus. "I wonder why I thought it was Cavendish Crescent?"

"No idea, Gus," I said briskly. I was not going to indulge in conjecture about what went on in 54 Cavendish Crescent, if indeed such a place exis- ted--I was busy, hanging on by my fingertips to control the conversation, trying to ensure that Gus knew where, when and how to meet me.

"Where's the piece of paper I gave you with the address on it?" I asked, aware that I sounded like a mother or a schoolteacher, but if it had to be done, then it had to be done.

"I don't know," he said, letting go of my arms and lucy sullivan is getting married / 235

feeling around in his pockets and patting his jacket. "Oh no, Lucy, I think I've lost it."

I wrote it out for him again.

"Try and remember," I smiled nervously, handing him the piece of paper. "It's Six Newcastle Square, at five o'clock."

"Five o'clock? I thought you said five-thirty."

"No, Gus, five o'clock."

"Sorry, Lucy, I can never remember anything. I'd forget my own name--in fact I often do. Many's the conversation I've had where I've had to say to the other person, `Sorry, I didn't catch my name.' I've a head like a...like a, you know, one of those round things, lots of holes in it?"

"Sieve." Anxiety made me abrupt.

"Oh Lucy, don't be angry." He laughed softly. "It was only a little joke."

"Okay."

"I think I've got it right finally," he promised, giving me a slow smile that made my stomach flip. "It's five o'clock at Fifty-six Newcastle Cres- cent..."

"...No, Gus..."

"...No, no, no, sorry, Cavendish Square..."

It wasn't his fault, I thought, trying to calm myself. In a way it was very sweet. And anyone would be confused and mixed up if they had drunk as much as Gus had.

"...No, no, no, don't be angry with me, Lucy, Fifty-six Newcastle Square, at five o'clock."

"Six."

Confusion passed over his harassed face.

"You just said five o'clock!" he complained. "But it's no problem, Lucy--isn't it a woman's prerogative to change her mind?--so change it if you must."

"No, Gus, I haven't changed my mind. I meant five o'clock, at number Six."

"Okay, I have it now, I think," he smiled. "Five 236 / marian keyes

o'clock at number Six. Five o'clock at number Six. Five o'clock at number Six."

"I'll see you then, Gus."

"Not six o'clock at number five?" he asked.

"No!" I said in alarm. "Oh I see, you're only joking..."

He raised a hand in farewell to me and said, parrotlike, "Five o'clock at number Six, five o'clock at number Six, sorry, Lucy, but I can't stop to say goodbye to you because I'll forget five o'clock at number Six, five o'clock at number Six, but I'll see you then, five o'clo..."

And off he went up the road still saying "...at number Six, five o'clock at number Six..."

I stood in the gateway, staring up the dark road after him. I was disap- pointed that he hadn't tried to kiss me. Never mind, I told myself. It was far more important that he remembered where he was supposed to be meeting me on Tuesday. Assuming he made it to the correct building on the right day at the appointed time, there would be plenty of time for kissing then.

"...five o'clock at number Six, five o'clock at number Six..." floated back to me on the cold night air, as he marched in time to his mantra.

I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from delight and went inside.

So the anxiety I was feeling on Tuesday morning was as much fear that he wouldn't turn up at all, as pleasurable anticipation.

Nevertheless, I put on a very nice pair of underwear, because it was al- ways better to be prepared. I tried on my green little thing that looked like a jacket with a nipped-in waist but was really a very short flared dress and then I pulled on my boots. I admired myself in the mirror. Not bad, at all, I thought. lucy sullivan is getting married / 237

Then a little thrill of panic ran through me--what if he didn't turn up? Oh, why couldn't I have gotten his phone number from him, I thought in anguish. I should have asked for it, but I was afraid if I did that I'd seem too eager.

And I knew I would arouse the suspicions of everyone at work by wearing something to the office where you could see my butt if I lifted my arms. They were like that at work--you couldn't even comb your hair without a rumor starting that you liked someone, you couldn't get your bangs trimmed without everyone concluding that you had some new guy. There were three hundred employees spread across five floors of office space and they all had a keen interest in the affairs of their co-workers. It said a lot about how interesting they found their workloads.

It was like working in a goldfish bowl. Nothing happened that didn't cause some comment. Even speculation about the fillings of people's sandwiches could take up the best part of an afternoon. ("She never used to eat egg salad sandwiches, it was always ham. And she's had egg salad twice this week. I'd say she's pregnant.")

Caroline, the receptionist, was the source of most of the gossip. She missed nothing and, if there was nothing to miss, she just made it up. She was always stopping people and saying things like "Ooh, that Jackie from accounts is looking a bit pale today. Romantic trouble, eh?" And before you knew it the entire building would be buzzing with the rumor that Jackie was getting divorced. And all because she had got up too late that morning to apply her foundation before coming to work.

So I could hardly bear to think of the utter humiliation of spending the day avoiding doing my office chores half-naked, and then no man turning up at five o'clock to account for it.

I could have brought my going-out clothes into the of 238 / marian keyes

fice in a separate bag and changed after work, but that would probably have created even more of a scandal. ("Did you see that Lucy Sullivan? Coming in with an overnight bag? On a Tuesday?")

As it was, there was utter mayhem in the office when I unwrapped myself from my horrible brown winter coat and revealed myself in all my short- skirted glory.

"Jeez," declared Megan, "you're looking a bit breezy today!"

"Who is he?" demanded Meredia.

"Er," I blushed. I tried to pretend that I didn't know what they were talking about, but it was no good. I was a hopeless liar.

"I, er, met a guy this weekend."

Meredia and Megan threw each other triumphant looks. Smug, "I knew this was going to happen" kind of looks.

"Well, we can see that," said Meredia scornfully. "And you're meeting him this evening..."

"Yes." Well, I certainly hoped that I would be.

"So tell us about him."

I hesitated for a moment. I was still supposed to be mad at the two of them, but the desire to talk about Gus was overwhelming.

"Okay." I smiled, giving in. I pulled up a chair to Megan's desk, settling in for a long one, and off I went with Gus's r�sum�. "Well, his name is Gus and he's twenty-four..."

Megan and Meredia listened intently and oohed and aahed appreciatively and squirmed with delight when they heard about the nice things Gus had said to me.

"...And he said he'd like to give you one of those little vacuum cleaner things for the couch?" asked Meredia, impressed.

"Yes, isn't that so sweet?"

"Christ," muttered Megan, throwing her eyes to