Marian Keyes - Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married (5 page)

noyed that her news hadn't sent me gasping and reeling. "You're to send them a Mass card."

"How did it happen?" I asked, hoping to cheer her up. "Did she catch her head in the combine harvester? Drown in the grain silo? Or was she savaged by a hen?"

"Not at all," she said, annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous, sure, hasn't she been living in Chicago this long time?"

"Oh, er...yes."

"No, t'was terribly sad," she said, dropping her voice a couple of decibels as a mark of respect and for the next fifteen minutes she gave me Maisie Patterson's medical history. The mysterious headaches that she got, the glasses she was prescribed to correct the headaches, the CAT scan she was given when the glasses didn't work, the X-rays, the medication, the spells in the hospital being prodded and poked by bewildered specialists, the eventual all-clear and, finally, the red Toyota that knocked her down, ran her over, ruptured her spleen and sent her somersaulting into the next world.

8 On Thursday morning the day started badly and got worse.

When I woke up feeling totally miserable, I wasn't to know that Megan's "prediction" was due to come "true" that day.

If I had known I might have found it easier to get up.

As it was, it was touch and go whether I'd manage to break free from my bed's loving, warm embrace. 52 / marian keyes

I always found it hard to get up in the mornings--one of the legacies of my teenage bout of depression, at least that's what I liked to say. It was probably just laziness, but calling it depression made me feel a lot less guilty. I could barely drag myself into the bathroom and once I was there I had my work cut out to force myself to have a shower.

My bedroom was freezing and I couldn't find clean underpants and I hadn't ironed anything so I had to wear the same clothes that I had worn to work the day before and that I'd just thrown on the floor the previous night and I couldn't find any clean underpants in Karen's or Charlotte's rooms either so I had to go to work wearing my bikini bottoms from my swimsuit.

And when I got to the tube station all the newspapers were sold out and I'd just missed a train. And while I was waiting I thought I'd try and buy a chocolate bar from the machine on the platform and for once the bloody thing worked and then I ate the candy bar in two seconds and immediately felt really guilty and then I started to worry that maybe I had an eating disorder if I was internalizing chocolate first thing in the morning.

I was miserable.

It was cold and wet and there seemed so little to look forward to and I wanted to be at home in my warm bed, eating potato chips, weighty piles of glossy magazines beside me.

Megan looked up from her newspaper when I dragged myself in, twenty minutes late.

"Didn't you get undressed last night?" she asked cheerfully.

"What do you mean?" I asked wearily.

"I mean did you sleep in your clothes?" she said. lucy sullivan is getting married / 53

"Oh shut up," I said. On days like that one, Megan's Australian plain speaking was just too much for me.

"And anyway," I said, "if you think I look bad on the outside, you'd want to see what I've got on as underpants."

Even if Megan had only had five minutes sleep, she still got up in time to iron her clothes. And if she didn't have any clean panties, she gave herself enough time to stop somewhere on the way to work and buy a pair. Not that Megan ever didn't have clean panties because she always did her washing long before her underwear drawer was empty. But that was Australians for you. Organized. Hardworking. Capable.

The day proceeded along normal lines. Every now and then I would fantasize about a Lockerbie-style disaster where a plane would fall from the sky and land on my office. Preferably on my desk, just to be on the safe side. Then I wouldn't have to come to work for ages. I might be dead, of course, but so what? I still wouldn't have to come to work.

The door to Mr. Simmonds's office would open regularly and he'd stomp out, bottom wobbling, and throw something on my desk or Meredia's desk or Megan's desk and shout, "There's forty-eight mistakes in that. You're getting better," or "Which one of you has bought shares in Liquid Paper" or something equally unkind.

He was never mean to Hetty, because he was afraid of her. Her poshness reminded him that he was a middleclass boy made average and that he wore suits of man-made fibers.

It was about ten to two, when I was slumped over my desk reading some article about how coffee is actually good for you again, and Meredia was snoring gently at 54 / marian keyes

her desk, a large bar of chocolate by her hand, that a small drama burst into the office, and lo and behold Megan's prediction proceeded to come true.

Kind of...

Megan lurched in, her face as white as a ghost, blood pouring from her mouth.

"Megan!" I shouted in alarm, jumping up from my desk. "What happened to you?"

"Eh? What?" said Meredia, jerking awake, all confused, the merest hint of a dribble exiting her mouth by the left side.

"It's nothing," said Megan, but she looked a bit wobbly and sat on my desk. Blood was pouring down her chin and onto her shirt.

"I've got to ring an ambulance," said Megan.

"Jesus, no you don't," I said panicking, giving her a handful of tissues, which were soaked red in an instant. "I'll do it. You'd better lie down. Meredia, get up off your fat ass and help her to lie down!"

"No, it's not for me, you fool," said Megan irritably, shaking Meredia off her. "It's for the bloke who fell off his bike and landed on me."

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed. "Is he badly hurt?"

"No," said Megan shortly, "But he bloody well will be by the time I've finished with him. He'll need a body bag, not an ambulance."

Before I could do it, she had picked up the phone and, through a mouthful of blood, called the emergency services and asked for an ambu- lance.

"Where is he?" asked Meredia.

"Out front, lying on the road, holding up the traffic," said Megan.

She was in a very bad mood. lucy sullivan is getting married / 55

"Is someone looking after him?" asked Meredia, an acquisitive gleam appearing in her eyes.

"Loads of people," barked Megan. "You Brits love a good accident, don't you?"

"Well, I'd better check on him anyway," said Meredia, lumbering toward the door. "He may be in shock so I'll cover him with my shawl."

"No need," complained Megan, blood bubbling as she spoke. "Someone's already put a coat over him."

But Meredia was gone. She had heard opportunity knocking. Although she had a pretty (if extremely fat) face, she had little success with men. The only men who actively pursued her were the odd ones who had a definite "thing" for obese women. And as Meredia said, with dignity, "Who wants a man who just wants you for your body?"

But the alternative was nearly as bad, I thought. She liked meeting men when they were vulnerable, either emotionally or physically, taking care of them, making herself indispensable, giving them all the support a weak person might need.

The only fly in the ointment was that the moment they were well enough to move, that's exactly what they did. Headed for the hills and away from Meredia's loving embrace as fast as their recently healed legs could carry them.

"Well, I'd better clean up this mess," said Megan, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "You're going to need stitches."

"No, I'm not," said Megan scornfully. "This is nothing. Have you ever seen what a combine harvester can do to a man's arm...?"

"Oh stop being so...so...Australian!" I exclaimed. 56 / marian keyes

"You need stitches. You need to go to the hospital. I'll come with you."

If she thought I was going to miss the chance to have an afternoon off work, then she had another think coming.

"No, you bloody well won't come with me," she said tartly. "What do you think I am? Some kind of kid?"

Just then the office door opened and in came Hetty back from lunch. She looked suitably appalled at the showing of Apocalypse Now that was taking place on Megan's face.

Two seconds later, Mr. Simmonds arrived, also back from lunch. A sep- arate lunch from Hetty's lunch, he seemed peculiarly keen to emphasize. Apparently they had just bumped into each other at the front door--not that anyone cared.

He too looked appalled. He was obviously upset about Megan's blood being spilled, but I think he was more upset about where Megan's blood was being spilled. On the desks and files and phones and letters and docu- ments of his precious little empire.

He said that of course Megan must go to the hospital, and that of course I must go with her and when Meredia returned to say that the ambulance had arrived he said that she could go too. He said that Hetty had better stay behind because he wanted someone to hold the fort.

As I joyfully turned off my computer and got my coat, it suddenly struck me that whatever it was Mr. Simmonds wanted Hetty to hold, it certainly wasn't his fort.

9 When we got to the ambulance, there was no room for Meredia. Undeterred, she said she'd get a taxi and see us there. As we drove away from the curb, I felt a bit like a pop star--it must have been the tinted windows and the small crowd of onlookers staring after us.

They were reluctant to leave, wringing the last few drops of excitement from the accident before they started to drift back to their lives, disappointed that the drama was over, and even more disappointed that someone hadn't died.

"He looked okay, didn't he?" said one bystander to another.

"Yes," came the bitter reply.

We spent four hours sitting on hard chairs in a crowded, manic, overworked emergency room. People with injuries far worse than Megan's or Shane's (the cyclist--by now we were all fairly intimate) sat waiting also, stoically holding in their laps whatever limbs they had severed and managed to retrieve. Trolleys with dying people on them were rushed past us regularly. No one seemed able to tell us what was happening or when Megan or Shane would be seen. The coffee machine wasn't working. The place was freezing.

"Just think." I closed my eyes in bliss. "We could be at work now." 58 / marian keyes

"Yes," sighed Megan, bits of dried blood flaking away from her face as she spoke. "What a stroke of luck, eh?"

"God." I smiled. "I was so miserable earlier. I wish I'd known what a treat I had in store for me."

"I hope I'll be seen soon," said Shane, looking anxious and confused. "Because they're waiting for those documents in WC1. They said they were urgent. Has anyone seen my radio?"

Shane was a bike messenger and had been en route to a delivery when he veered off his path and landed on Megan.

He kept kind of dozing off to sleep and then jerking awake and going on about his delivery in WC1. Megan and I exchanged long-suffering looks when he launched into it for about the tenth time, while Meredia smiled at him like he was a sweet little child and it gradually dawned on us that maybe he wasn't a moron and that perhaps he was concussed.

Apart from these regular bursts from Shane, conversation was desultory.

"Well, look on the bright side." I smiled at Megan, referring to her mu- tilated mouth. "You got the big split that you were promised by the fortune- teller. But I bet you weren't expecting it to be a split lip."

At that, Meredia jerked up straight like she'd been shot in the back and grabbed my wrist, digging her nails into me.

"My God," she hissed, staring straight ahead, a peculiar light in her eyes. Mad, actually, that was the word I needed. A mad light in her eyes. "She's right!" she said, still talking in the hissy voice, still staring into the middle distance. "My God, she's right!"

"I've got a name," I said, annoyed at her histrionics. And my wrist hurt.

"Hey, you're right," said Megan, starting to laugh. lucy sullivan is getting married / 59

"Ouch!" she complained, as her laughter started her face bleeding again. "What a blast," she went on, laughing in earnest, blood pouring in Nia- graesque fashion down the side of her face. "Yeah, I got my big split, all right. Just like she said. I can't see what good has come out of it, though."

"Maybe all will become clear with time," said Meredia, in a mysterious voice and giving Shane pseudo-covert looks and winking meaningfully at Megan and then jerking her head in Shane's direction again.

"If you know what I mean..." continued Meredia, with heavy emphasis.

"Yeah, maybe," laughed Megan lightheartedly.

I wasn't sure if Meredia had Shane in mind for herself or Megan, but past experience told me that Meredia wanted him for her own. That situ- ation had her hallmark stamped all over it.

Although, by rights, he really should have been Megan's. Didn't she break his fall? And she handled the whole trauma so bravely that she de- served a treat.

"So now it's just you and Hetty, Lucy," said Megan. "Soon it'll be your turn for your fortune to come true."

"Do the words `cold day' and `in hell' mean anything to you?" I asked, laughing.

"Oooh, you doubting Thomas," admonished Meredia. "But you have to admit that it is peculiar."

"No, I don't," I said. "Don't be so silly! You can adjust any facts to fit into any predictions if you try hard enough."

"Such cynicism in one so young," said Meredia, shaking her head sadly.

"Has anyone seen my radio?" croaked Shane, coming to again. "I've got to talk to my controller."

"Shush, lovie, it's fine," said Meredia comfortingly, as she forced his head down onto her shoulder. 60 / marian keyes

He mumbled some kind of protest, but it didn't do him any good.

"Just you wait," Meredia said threateningly to me, talking over Shane's confused head. "You'll see. It'll all come true. And then you'll be sorry."

I smiled longsufferingly at Megan, expecting her to smile longsufferingly back but to my great alarm, she didn't. She was too busy nodding agreement with Meredia.

Golly, I thought, my stomach tightening with shock, could her brain have been affected by the accident? I mean, Megan was possibly the most cynical person that I'd ever met, including myself--and I prided myself on having the highest standards of cynicism. I had my days when I was sure I could out-cynic some of the best cynics currently operating on the circuit.

Megan, like me, was so cynical that she didn't even like Daniel. "He doesn't fool me with his nice manners and his good looks," she had said after she first met him.

So what had happened to her?

Surely she didn't think that the predictions for herself and Meredia had come true? And worse again, surely she didn't think that because of that, that the predictions for Hetty and me would come true?

Eventually, when the nurses had run out of heart-attack victims and other nearly dead people to deal with, they stitched up Megan's face and said that Shane wasn't concussed, that he was just diligent.

We were all finally allowed to leave.

"Where do you live?" Meredia asked Shane, as we stood in the hospital carpark.

"Greenwich," he said warily.

That was in south London. Very south London.