The Other Side of the Story (27 page)

Authors: Marian Keyes

Tags: #Fiction

BOOK: The Other Side of the Story

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Second thing - and probably least important of the four - I got a new account at work. The call came the next day — at ten past one, just as I was about to go out to lunch. This was a sign of the way things would continue; some people are super-demanding even when they don't plan to be. The dyed-in-the-wool diva was Lesley Lattimore, an Irish It girl: in other words she went to lots of parties and spent plenty of money, none of it earned by her. Her dad, Larry 'Wads' Lattimore, had made a fortune from dodgy property developing and fleecing Irish tax-payers, but no one seemed to care. Especially not Lesley.

'I want someone to organize my thirtieth birthday party and I heard you did Davinia Westport's wedding.'

I didn't ask if she'd been to Davinia's wedding; I knew she hadn't. She was the daughter of an unconvicted criminal and Davinia was way too posh to touch her. But Wads clearly wanted to buy his only daughter a Davinia-style bash.

'What kind of event were you thinking of?'

'Two hundred plus. A princess theme. Think Gothic Barbie,' she said, so I did and suddenly I
needed
this job. 'When can you come to see me?'

'Today. Now.'

I grabbed some files, which had photos of some of the more imaginative parties I'd done and went along to Lesley's city-centre, river-view duplex. She had the supergroomed hair, the St Tropez tan, the clothes sheeny with newness, the all-over gloss that rich people have, like they've been dipped in lacquer. And of course Lesley had a tiny handbag — confirming my theory that the richer the person, the smaller their handbag. Like, what do they need? Their gold card, the keys to the Audi IT, a tiny mobile and a Juicy Tube. Me, my handbag is the size of an air-hostess's wheely case, full of work files, make-up, leaking pens, dry-cleaning tickets, half-eaten cereal bars, Solpadeine, diet Coke, Heat and of course my brick of a phone.

Lesley also had the attitude down pat — it shuttled between brusque and extremely rude, passing all points in between — and that, coupled with her gloss, managed to obscure her less-than-average good looks.

You'd be with her for a while before noticing that she was more than a little bit sharp around the nose and chin area. Indeed if she'd been going for a witch theme instead of a princess one she'd have really looked the part. Funny that Wads hadn't bought her a new chin. However, despite the chip on my shoulder I had to admit we shared a common vision.

'Why should I hire you?' she demanded, and I began to list the number of high-profile events I'd pulled together - weddings, conferences, awards ceremonies — then I hesitated, wobbled and played my ace. 'I have a wand,' I said. 'A silver star, backed by lilac fluff.'

'So have I!' she cried. 'You're hired!'

She ran off and got it, then circled it solemnly over my head and said, 'I grant you the honour of organizing Lesley's birthday party.'

Then she handed it to me and said, 'Say, "I grant you a castle with turrets.'"

Reluctantly I took the wand.

'Go on!' she said. 'I grant you a castle with turrets.'

'I grant you a castle with turrets,' I said.

'I grant you a medieval hall.'

'I grant you a medieval hall,' I repeated. I could see this becoming very wearing.

'I grant you a team of jousters.'

In between each 'grant' I had to circle the wand over her head and bring it down on each of her shoulders. The mortification was extreme, then she lost interest in the wand and I nearly cried with happiness. Especially as I was meant to be writing down her list of requirements.

And what a list! She wanted a silver empire-line 'gown' (her word) with pointy floor-length sleeves, a white ermine cape, a pointy princess hat and silver shoes (pointy, of course). She wanted pink drinks. She wanted silver chairs with curvy legs. She wanted pink food.

I wrote everything down, nodding, 'Uh-huh, good idea.' I didn't address any hard questions, like could the male guests be persuaded to drink the pink drinks or how the hell was anyone meant to dance to a band of lute minstrels. Now wasn't the time for me to start pulling holes in some of the more impractical parts of her vision. We were still in the warm glow of the honeymoon period and there was plenty of time for screaming matches in the coming weeks - where she'd scream at me and I'd smile mildly - oh,
plenty
of time. 'And when do you want to have it?'

'The thirty-first of May.' Two months away. To do this properly I'd have preferred two
years
, but the Lesleys of this world would never be so obliging.

All the same I went away already buzzing with ideas and everything suddenly seemed a lot
easier
. Bringing in new business always had a good effect — when time was stretching by without me getting the jobs, it was like being deprived of oxygen - but now I was breathing free and clear and it was obvious that this coming Friday night would be perfect for my close encounter with Owen. I could pretend to Mam it was a work do while being able to enjoy a leisurely hangover the following day. I was doing Mam no favours by lying, but I didn't care. After seeing the togetherness of Dad and Colette, I had to try to change things.

By the time I got back to my desk Lesley had left four messages — she'd had some 'great' ideas; the invitations should be delivered personally by a handsome prince; the guests should be given goodie bags on arrival - but she didn't want to pay for them. 'Ring Clinique,' she said. 'And Origins and Perscriptives'. Tell them we need free stuff.'

Then another message. 'And Decleor and Jo Malone.'

And one more. 'Get Lulu Guinness to design the bags.'

Third big thing: my date with Owen.

I rang him and said, 'It's coal scuttle Gemma. How about Friday night?'

I'd already decided that if he couldn't manage that, he could go and fuck himself. However he said, 'What time? Nine?'

I hesitated and he said, 'Ten?'

'No, I was thinking more of eight. It's just that for reasons I can't go into now, I don't get out very often at the moment so I need to wring as much enjoyment as I possibly can from the night.'

We can make it seven, if that's how it is.'

'No, I won't be finished work in time. Now, where will we meet and please don't say Kehoes. You're a young man about town, you know the hot new places, let's go to them.'

'All of them?'

'Like I said I don't get out very often.'

A thoughtful silence. 'We're only in Dublin, not Manhattan, there aren't that many hot new places.'

'I know, sorry.' I tried to explain. 'I want to go to one of those bars where I'm completely disoriented, especially when I go to the ladies'. I just want to feel I'm living a little, you know?'

'Then how about Crash? There are lots of mirrors and steps. People are always tripping and walking into themselves.'

Perfect. I'd been meaning to check it out for work anyway.

'Eight o'clock, Friday night in Crash. Don't be late,' I warned.

As I stumbled down the mirrored entrance steps of Crash and saw Owen, he wasn't as good-looking as I'd remembered when he'd been lying on my bedroom floor that horrible morning - I must have still been wearing beer goggles. Like, he wasn't
bad
, just not the criminally young boy-band cutie that I'd remembered.

But… 'I like your shirt,' I said. It was a picture of a Cadillac driving down a desert highway. Very cool. 'And I like your hair.' Shiny and sticky-up — obviously he'd put a bit of work into it.

'Thanks,' he said, paused, then added, 'I put special stuff in, to make a good impression. Too much information?'

'No.'

'Can I get you a drink?'

'I'll have a glass of white wine now.' I arranged myself on the couch. 'But every second drink will be a mineral water and before I came out I had a glass of milk to line my stomach so I won't be making a show of myself tonight like I did that other time. Too much information?'

'Er, no.' He went to the bar and the back of his shirt showed the same desert highway, this time with the Cadillac driving away. Then the Cadillac was zooming towards me again. 'Your drink.'

He lifted his glass. 'Cheers. To Gemma's big night out'

We clinked, sipped, replaced glasses on the table, then an awkward pause followed. 'So, ah, how's the coal scuttle working out?' Owen asked.

But it was too late, I'd already pounced. 'Owen, that was an awkward pause and for reasons I can't go into right now, I haven't got time to waste on awkward pauses. We've got to fast-track this thing. There's not enough time to get to know each other naturally; we must induce it. I know this sounds mad but could we try to fast-forward through the first three months or so, and get to the comfortable staying-in-and-watching-videos stage?'

He was looking at me a little warily but, to my gratification, said, 'I've seen you without your make-up?'

'Yes, that's the idea. And we don't have sex every night any more.' Then I began to blush: an out-of-control-forest-fire super-blush, as I realized that we hadn't had sex at all. Yet.

'Oh God.' I put my hands over my fiery cheeks. 'I'm sorry.'

I wanted to go home. I wasn't fit to be out and about and I was frightened by my crassness. This wasn't me, what was happening?

'I'm sorry,' I repeated. 'I'm not insane, just a bit… under pressure.'

There was a moment when the evening hovered on a knife-edge then Owen looked relieved at my apology and even began to laugh. 'After the last time we met, I know what you're like — you're
wild
?

I smiled weakly, not exactly happy with being Kooky Girl, but on the other hand if he already thought I was bonkers, I wouldn't have to work so hard at acting normal.

'Let the games begin,' he said. 'Tell me all about you, Gemma.'

Though it had been my idea, I felt embarrassed. 'I'm thirty-two, an only child, I'm an events organizer which is very stressful but I don't always hate it, I live in Clonskeagh… what have I forgotten?'

'Car?'

'Toyota MR2. Yes, I thought you'd like that. Now your go.'

'Honda Civic coupe VTi, with all the trimmings, two years old, but in great nick.'

'Good for you. Other info?'

'Leather seats, walnut dash —'

'You're such a boy.' I was pleased. 'I meant details of the rest of your life.'

'I'm twenty-eight, I'm a middle child and Monday to Friday I sell my soul to the Edachi Electronic Corporation.'

'Doing what?'

'Marketing.' A little wearily. 'Trying to make people buy stuff.'

'Do you have lots of disgusting flatmates?'

'No, I live —' giveaway swallow — 'on my own.'

'Right, I'm going to the loo.'

'Good luck.'

When I came back, I was impressed. 'Very cunning how the loos were hidden behind the wash-hand basins and mirrors. It took me ages to find them. You chose well. Now let's move on to relationship history. Two and a half years ago, my best friend stole the love of my life from me, they're still together and have a child, I've never forgiven either of them and I've never met anyone else, you might think I sound bitter, but that's only because I am. And you?'

'Jesus!' He looked a bit shocked at my onslaught. God, I'd done it again — but he answered, 'Er, I was going out with someone. A girl.'

I nodded encouragingly.

'And we broke up.'

'When? How long were you going out?'

'Um…'

I nodded again.

'We'd been together nearly two years. We broke up just before —' another giveaway swallow — 'Christmas.'

'Less than four months ago? After two years?'

'I'm fine about it.'

'Don't be silly. Of course you're not'

And while he insisted he was, I was thinking, But this is excellent! He'll want
nothing
from me.

Over the next three hours and two more disorienting bars I grilled Owen and learned:

1) He did tai chi

2) He had a 'thing' about prawns — he wasn't allergic, he just didn't like them

3) One of his feet was half a size bigger than the other

4) His ideal holiday destination would be Jamaica

5) He thought the original 'Do you love someone enough to give them your last Rolo?' was far more charming and humane than the current one where the boy tries to get the Rolo out of his girlfriend's mouth to give it to the better-looking girl who'd just showed up.

He matched me question for question. What are you most afraid of?' he asked.

'Growing old and dying alone,' I said and a little tear escaped. 'No, no.' I waved away his concern. 'It's just the wine. What are
you
most afraid of?'

He thought. 'Being locked in the boot of a ten-year-old Nissan Micra with Uri Geller.'

'Excellent answer! Let's go dancing.'

Hours later, back at his quite-neat-for-a-boy apartment, we wrestled enjoyably in a state of undress on his bed. Of course I thought about Anton, the last man I'd slept with; after him I'd thought I'd never sleep with anyone ever again. Mind you this couldn't have been more different. Not just in emotional intensity but even physically — Anton was lanky and lean and Owen much more compact. All the same, I wasn't complaining. Before taking things any further I caught Owen's wrist and made him look at me, pausing the tiny, delicious bites on my neck, and said urgendy, 'Owen, I don't normally hop into bed with someone on the first night.'

'I know.' His hair was wild and he was short of breath. 'It's just that for reasons you can't go into right now, this counts as three months in. Don't worry. Just enjoy it.'

He pulled me to him, pressing his excellent hard-on against me and I did just that.

He awoke as I was climbing into my pants. 'Where are you going?'

'I have to go home.'

He leant and looked at his alarm clock. 'It's half past three, why are you leaving? Jesus, you're not married?'

'No.'

'Have you kids?'

'No.'

'Is it the coal scuttle?'

'No.' A bubble of laughter escaped.

'Wait till the morning. Don't go.'

'Have to. Will you call me a taxi?'

'You're a taxi.'