Marian Keyes - Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married (41 page)

I blame it on the amount I'd had to drink. Combined with the trauma. Plus the fact that I hadn't had sex in a long, long time.

The sort of willpower, where you really like someone but keep away from them because you know that they're bad news, doesn't exist in real life. Not in my version of it anyway. My heart ruled my head.

My lust ruled my head.

"Maybe it's time I started," I said slowly.

"Started what?"

"Fun. Having it."

Purposefully--if a bit unsteadily--I stood up, holding his gaze, and made my way around the kitchen table to Daniel. While he sat staring uncertainly at me, I coaxed a piece of my hair seductively over one eye and then wan- tonly wriggled onto his lap and put my arms around his neck.

I moved my face closer to his.

God, he was gorgeous. Just look at that beautiful mouth, and any second now it would be kissing me. What I needed was some wild abandoned sex, lots of affection. And who better to do it than Daniel?

Of course I wasn't in love with him. I was in love with Gus. But I was a woman. And I had my needs.

"Lucy, what are you doing?" he asked.

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"What does it look like?" I tried to make my voice husky and sexy.

He didn't put his arms around me. I wriggled a bit closer to him.

"But you promised your dad." He looked worried.

"No I didn't. You did."

"Did I? Okay, I promised your dad."

"You lied," I said. More low, sultry tones. This seduction was great fun, I decided. And remarkably easy.

I was looking forward to this. I was going to enjoy myself like I hadn't enjoyed myself in months.

"Lucy, no," he said.

No? No? Was I hearing things?

He stood up and I sort of slid off his lap.

I landed on the floor, swaying slightly. Scorching humiliation hadn't arrived yet, as intoxication was blocking the road. But it was definitely on its way.

How excruciating. Daniel would make out with anyone. What was wrong with me? Surely I wasn't that revolting?

"Lucy, I'm flattered..."

Now, that annoyed me.

"Flattered!" I roared. "Fuck off, you patronizing fucker. You can give it but you can't take it. You flirt with me; then, when I call your bluff, you can't deliver the goods."

"Lucy, it's not that at all. But you're too upset and confused and I would be taking advantage..."

"I'll be the judge of that," I said.

"Lucy, I'm very attracted to you..."

"But you don't want to have sex with me," I finished for him.

"You're right, I don't want to have sex with you."

"God, how embarrassing," I whispered.

Then I rallied. lucy sullivan is getting married / 493

"Well, what were you playing at the other night?" I demanded. "That wasn't a pistol in your pocket--you certainly acted like a man on the make, then."

"Lucy, look at me," coaxed Daniel. "I want to tell you something."

I turned a face burning with shame to him.

"I'd like to make it clear that I don't want to have sex with you," he said. "But, when things are different and you're not so upset and your life isn't in such upheaval, I would like to make love to you."

Now that was funny.

I laughed and laughed.

"What have I said?" He looked confused.

"Oh Daniel, please. What a slimy, smooth-bastard thing to say. `I'd like to make love to you,' but not at the moment. Please give me a little credit--I know when I'm being rejected."

"You're not being rejected."

"Let me see if I've got this right. You'd like to make love to me," I cruelly mimicked him.

"That's right," he said quietly.

"But not right now. If that's not rejection, I don't know what is." I laughed again. He had hurt me and humiliated me and I wanted to do the same to him.

"Please, Lucy, listen to--"

"No!"

Then I either sobered up or calmed down.

"I'm very sorry about all of this, Daniel. I'm not in the fullness of my mental health. It's all been a terrible mistake."

"No, it hasn't..."

"And now I think it's time you left; you've a long journey home."

He looked sadly at me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Don't flatter yourself," I said grumpily. "I've been rejected by much more attractive men than you. As soon as the killer mortification wears off, I'll be fine."

He opened his mouth to begin a fresh stream of platitudes.

"Goodbye, Daniel," I said firmly.

He kissed me on the cheek. I stood as if made of stone.

"I'll phone you tomorrow," he said at the front door.

I shrugged.

Things would never be the same again.

God, I felt depressed.

67 The following day I took official leave of my Ladbroke Grove residence, though, as I'd promised Daniel, I'd continue to pay rent to keep my room there. Charlotte and Karen waved goodbye, after Karen had forced me to leave a handful of post-dated checks for the rent.

"Goodbye. I may never see you again," I said, hoping to make her feel guilty.

"Oh don't, Lucy." Charlotte was nearly in tears. She was so sentimental.

"We'll contact you when the phone bill comes in," said Karen.

"My life is over," I said coldly. "But," I added. "If Gus calls, make bloody sure you give him my number."

I thought that we wanted the same things--I would devote my life to taking care of him and making him happy, and he would reciprocate by letting himself be taken care of and being happy.

But something had gone wrong, because I couldn't make him happy. He didn't even seem to want to be happy.

He was always crying and I couldn't understand why. I thought he should be glad to be rid of my mother, that he was much better off with me.

I didn't miss her and I couldn't see why he did.

I brimmed with love and concern for him and I was quite prepared to do anything for him, spend time with him, cosset him, cook for him, get him anything he wanted or needed. Except I didn't want to listen to him tell me how much he had loved her.

I wanted to take care of him only if he was going to be happy about it.

"Maybe she'll come back," he said over and over.

"Maybe," I muttered, thinking What's wrong with him?

Although, luckily, he never did anything practical to try and win her back. He made no great displays of passion, like standing outside Ken's yellow house and shouting neighbor-waking abuse at him in the middle of the night. Or daubing "Adulterer" in green fluorescent paint on

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Ken's front door. Or emptying the trash cans of the neighborhood in Ken's driveway, so that when he left in the morning for a hard day's dry cleaning, he would sink ankle-deep in rusty tin cans and potato peelings. Or picketing the dry cleaners with signs saying "This man stole my wife. Don't get your shirts cleaned here."

Although I couldn't understand his pain, I tried to lessen it. But all I knew to do was to force food and drink on him and treat him like a con- valescent invalid and point out the (few) amenities and diversions offered by our home. Like asking him in gentle tones if he would like to watch TV. Football? Or suggesting that he get some rest.

Bed and TV were about the extent of our recreational facilities.

He barely ate, no matter how hard I coaxed him. Neither did I. But while I knew that I'd be okay, I was afraid that he had started on his terminal decline.

Even before the end of the first week I was exhausted.

I had thought my love for him would give me limitless energy, that the more he asked of me the better I would feel, that the more I did for him, the more I would want to do for him.

I tried too hard to please and that burned up an awful lot of energy.

I eagerly watched him, anticipated his every need and did things for him even when he said that I didn't need to.

And then I was surprised to find that I was shattered.

The mere practicalities, alone, took their toll.

Like the fact that it took me at least an hour and a half to travel to work every morning. I had become spoiled by the thirty-minute journey from Ladbroke Grove, where I had numerous trains, buses and taxis to choose from.

I had forgotten what it was like to commute from the suburbs, where there was only one train at my disposal lucy sullivan is getting married / 497

and if I missed that there was a twenty-minute wait until the next one.

I had once been a master of the ancient art of commuting, but I had lived in the city for too long and had lost many of my skills. I had forgotten how to sniff the air and stare at the sky (and the electronic noticeboard) and feel that the train was leaving in about one minute and that I had no time to buy a paper. I was no longer able to sense the vibes of a packed platform and realize that three trains in a row had been canceled and, if I wanted any chance of getting on the next one, I should start kicking and squeezing my way to the front immediately.

I used to know such things instinctively. I used to commune with the trains, almost merging into one being with the Underground system, man and machines working synchronously, in perfect harmony.

But not anymore.

And even though I had always been late for work in the past, I could have been on time if I had wanted. Now I really had no choice. I was at the mercy of London Underground and their various delaying mechanisms, leaves on the track, bodies on the track, signal failures, someone leaving their cheese sandwiches on the train, causing a bomb scare.

I had to get up very early. And before the first week was over, I dis- covered that Dad had a little problem and it became obvious I would have to get up even earlier.

At work I worried all day long about him, because it soon became clear that he couldn't be left on his own for any length of time. Taking care of Dad was like taking care of a child. Like a child, he had no fear, no sense of the consequences of his actions. He thought it was no big deal to go out leaving the front door open. Not just un 498 / marian keyes

locked, but swinging open. Not that we had much to steal, but nevertheless, it was a bit worrisome.

As soon as work finished I rushed home. Anything could have happened. Almost every day there was a crisis of some kind. I lost count of the times he'd fallen asleep, either leaving the bath running, or the gas on. Or with a pot bubbling and burning, forgotten, or with a cigarette slowly burning its way through the cushion he was sitting on.

I often came home from work, exhausted, to find hot water leaking through the kitchen ceiling. Or to the smell of burning and a blackened, burned-out pot on the stove while Dad lay slumped asleep in his chair.

There were no more nights out on the town for me. I had thought I wouldn't mind and I was ashamed to find I did.

And the early nights didn't mean that I got plenty of sleep, because Dad usually woke me in the middle of the night and I had to get up to help him.

Dad wet his bed the first night I was home.

The heartbreak that I felt very nearly pushed me over the edge to insanity.

"I can't bear it, I can't bear it," I thought desperately. "Please, God, help me to live through this pain." To see my father so stripped of his dignity was almost more than I could handle.

He woke me up at about three in the morning to tell me. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he said, looking mortified. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I hushed, "stop saying sorry."

I had a quick look at his bed and realized that there was no way he could sleep there. lucy sullivan is getting married / 499

"Why don't you go and sleep in the boys' room and I'll, you know, tidy, er, up your bed," I suggested.

"I will so," he said.

"Do," I urged.

"And you're not mad at me?" he asked meekly.

"Mad?" I exclaimed. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"You'll come and say good night to me?"

"Of course I will."

So he got into Chris's single bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, his slack old person's chin rough with white stubble. I smoothed down his wispy gray hair and kissed him on the forehead and I was filled with a fierce pride, a sense of how well I took care of him. No one would ever look after anyone as well as I would look after Dad.

When he went back to sleep I pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped them up to take to the laundromat. Then I got a basin of hot, soapy water and scrubbed and rinsed the mattress.

The only thing that worried me about the whole episode was that the next morning, when Dad woke up in Chris's bed, he was confused and frightened. He didn't know how he'd got there because he couldn't remem- ber anything of the night before.

When he wet his bed on the first night I was there, I thought it was because he was so upset, and that it was an isolated event.

But it wasn't.

It happened nearly every night. Sometimes more than once.

Sometimes in Chris's bed, too.

When that happened, I got him to move to Peter's bed. 500 / marian keyes

Luckily--because there was nowhere else for him to move to except mine--he managed not to wet Peter's bed.

He always woke me up to tell me and at first I got up and comforted and relocated him.

After the first few nights I was so exhausted that I decided to leave my nocturnal cleaning-up until the morning, before I left for work.

I didn't, couldn't leave it until the evening, and it was out of the question to ask Dad to help.

Instead, I reset my clock to half an hour earlier than the horribly early time it was already set for, so I could clean up whatever needed to be cleaned up each morning.

When he woke me to tell me that he had wet his bed, I just told him to move to another one and tried to go back to sleep.

But it was so difficult, because he was racked with guilt every time it happened and wanted to talk about how sorry he was and to make sure that I wasn't angry with him. Sometimes he would ramble on for hours, crying and saying he was a failure and that he'd try to make sure it never happened again. And because I was so tired I found it hard not to get im- patient with him. And that would upset him and I'd feel destroyed with guilt, which meant I got even less sleep, which made me more impatient the next time....

And, always, like little whispers in the corner of my head, was the memory of what my mother had said about him being an alcoholic. I watched everything he drank. And it seemed to be an awful lot. More than I remembered from when we were young. But then I wasn't sure if I was overreacting to what she had said, so I tried to put it out of my mind.

Maybe he was drinking a lot, but so what? His wife had just left him, so why shouldn't he?