The Other Side of the Story (43 page)

Gemma

You know, writing a book isn't as easy as it looks. First, my editor (I love saying that: 'my editor') made me rewrite loads of it, making Izzy 'warmer' and Emmet 'more human and less of a Mills & Boon caricature' — the cheek of her. Sorry, I mean, the cheek of 'my editor'. Then when I'd done that to 'my editor's' satisfaction - and it took ages, all of August and most of September — some copy-editor (not 'my editor') went through it and came back with eight million queries: What was a 'yoke'? Was Marmoset a real restaurant? Had I got permission to quote from 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone'? And to change it to Papa Was a Faithless Fuck?

Then
I had to proof-read it, scrutinizing each individual word to make sure it was spelt correctly, until the little black letters started linking arms and dancing jigs in front of my blurring eyes.

Mind you, with the advance they'd given me I wasn't complaining; I'd nearly collapsed and died when Jojo told me: sixty grand.
Sixty grand
. Sterling. I'd have happily sold the book for four pee because being published was reward itself; instead they wanted to give me one-and-a-half times my annual salary and, to add whatever the opposite of insult is to the opposite of injury, it was tax free. (In Ireland income from 'artistic endeavour' isn't taxable.)

My imagination, fevered at the best of times, went wild entirely at the thought of all that loot: I'd give up my job and travel around the world for a year. I'd replace my heartbreaking car. I'd go to Milan and buy up all of Prada.

Until I returned to earth and saw that this windfall was a result of my mother's misfortune. She was going to have to move house early in the new year; the advance money could make the difference between a hell-hole and a hovel.

Also I owed Susan big and when I asked her what she'd like she admitted she'd gone a bit mad buying furniture and stuff for her apartment in Seattle and would appreciate one of her store cards being paid off. (On account of Susan's dad being a stingy yoke, she had no control with money.) 'Pick a card,' she'd said. 'Any card.'

So I picked her Jennifer Convertibles one and promised to wipe out the two grand debt.

Promised
but not done because as yet, by the end of November, I hadn't actually seen any of the advance. It had been divided up into a third on signature—but they'd spent forever tinkering with the contract and I'd only signed it a month ago — a third on 'delivery' then a third on publication. I thought I'd 'delivered' at the end of June when they'd bought the book, but they saw it differently. I hadn't 'delivered' until they had a manuscript they were happy with and this had taken until two weeks ago. We'd finally agreed on a name. No one had liked my suggestion of 'Sugar Daddy'. Or 'Mars Attack'. 'Shockolat' was a runner for a while, then someone at Dalkin Emery suggested 'Chasing Rainbows' and suddenly everyone was happy. Except me, I thought it sounded a bit
nice
.

The day the cover arrived was a great one, though. A soft-focus watercolour, in blues and yellows, it was a smudgy image of a girl looking like she'd lost her purse. But it had my name on it. My name!

'Mam, look!'

Even she got excited. She was nothing like as pitiful and bewildered as she'd been in the first post-Dad months. Dad's desire for a permanent financial settlement had changed her — it made her angry, no bad thing.

The dreaded phone call about Colette being up the pole still hadn't come from Dad. But in the summer he'd sent us a letter confirming that the minute the year's separation was up, he'd be applying to the courts to sell the house. From then on, it was like we were living on borrowed time. And something else was different - from the day he'd left, Mam and I had regarded his absence as temporary, like our lives had just hit the pause button. But after we got this letter, I had to negotiate some changes; we couldn't go on as we were.

It wasn't easy — Mam produced rivers of tears and a selection of illnesses both fake and real - but then she seemed to come to terms with my need for space and by the end of the summer I got to sleep in my own flat three or four nights out of every seven. I saw her a lot more than most thirty-something women see their mothers, but it still felt like glorious freedom.

She studied the blurry girl on my book cover. 'Is she meant to be you?'

'No, only figuratively.'

'Only I was going to say her hair is the wrong colour. And she looks a bit all-at-sea.'

'Like her father has just left her mother?'

'Like she thinks she's left the gas on or can't remember the right word for something. Mummifying, say. She's thinking to herself, it's what they did to Egyptian kings when they died, before they put them in the pyramids. It begins with M, it's on the tip of my tongue, oh, what
is
it?'

I looked again. Mam was right. That was exactly what she looked like.

'You'll have to show it to Owen,' she said slyly.

She knew about Owen: in fact she'd met him. And oddly enough, considering her suspicion of anything that interfered with my time with her — like my job — she approved of him. I told her not to bother because he wouldn't be around for long. Our string of encounters — I wasn't going to call me and Owen a relationship, that would be overstating the case — continued to have a ramshackle, rickety feel, like we could have a bust-up at any minute and never see each other again. And yet, we carried on, bickering enthusiastically, past the summer and into the autumn. And now here we were in November and we were still an item — an item that would be in the damaged-goods section were it for sale, but all the same.

'Owen.' I shrugged dismissively.

'Don't play it down for me,' she said. 'He's a younger man, he'll break your heart, but you're going to marry him.'

'Marry him. Are you insane?'

We made wary eye-contact, then Mam said, 'Please don't ask questions like that as — what's that they say? — a punch in the mouth often offends.'

I smiled at her. Sometimes I had hope, I really did.

'I keep telling you,' I said. 'Owen is a temporary measure, a bodge boyfriend, something that'll do until the professionals get here.'

But Mam was adamant he was my Mr Right. 'You're yourself with him.'

Yes, but I was the wrong self with him: not the nice Gemma.

All the same. He:

a) was very good in bed

b) er… um, was a good dancer

c) ah…

'I didn't get to my age without learning a thing or two about romance,' Mam went on.

I didn't say anything. It would have been too cruel.

'You girls talk about finding The One, but The One comes in all shapes and sizes. Often you don't realize that that's who you've met. I know a woman who met her The One when she was on a ship, following a man out to Australia. On the journey out she palled up with a lovely chap but she was so fixated on the man in Australia that she didn't realize the chap on the ship was her The One. She tried to get the first fellow to marry her, then came to her senses. Luckily the second chap was still interested. And I know another girl who…'

I tuned her out. Marry Owen? I didn't think so. How could I marry Owen when I was going to get back with Anton? Something that Owen knew all about and approved of. (He'd get back with Lorna, I'd get back with Anton, we'd all go on holidays to the Dordogne together. We often discussed it.)

On Mam went, getting almost animated, which was good because it meant I didn't have to talk to her and I could have a little think. I felt slightly uncomfortable because there was someone besides Owen I wanted to show the book jacket to: Johnny the Scrip. It only seemed fair because he knew all about the book; he'd been so encouraging about it, when I used to be a regular visitor.

I didn't see him so much any more and not just because Mam no longer needed so many tablets. No, around the time the flirting with Johnny was starting to blossom into something more meaningful, I'd had a little think. Fair-to-middling insane, as I was, I'd experienced a window of sanity and realized that Owen was my boyfriend. Despite our ups and downs, despite the fact that I'd never expected we'd last, for as long as it continued I was going to treat him right - like I was a grown-up or an unselfish person, or something.

Johnny must have been having similar thought processes because the next time I went to him after having had my little think, he asked, 'How's your non-boyfriend?'

I coloured. 'OK.'

'Still seeing him?'

'Yes.'

'Ah.' The word, as they say, spoke volumes. He didn't say that he wasn't going to step on someone else's toes, but it was clear that that was what he meant. He had more respect for himself. So by silent mutual agreement, we both retreated. Besides, the thing that had united us — our isolation from the rest of the world — was no longer a factor. I'd gone and got a life for myself and though I knew it was mad, I felt like I'd abandoned him.

Sometimes when I was out on the piss with Owen I'd see him and he'd smile but wouldn't come over. Once I thought I saw him with a girl. Well, he was with a lot of people but he was standing closer to her than any of the others. She was nice-looking, with a really cool, choppy haircut and I will admit to feeling jealous but that might have been because of her fabulous layers as much as anything. However, the next time I saw him he wasn't with her, so maybe I imagined the vibe.

Mostly, I was very good:
I respected our decision
. Once when I'd had a demanding week with Mam's prescriptions requiring several visits I even went to another chemist.

But occasionally I still made an excuse to see him — come on, I'm not Gandhi. He was like a tub of strawberry cheesecake Haagen Dazs — off-limits but it didn't mean that I didn't sometimes get overtaken by an emotional version of the hunger I get when I'm premenstrual. The same kind of Unstoppable Force feelings that had me wrenching open the freezer door and eating the entire tub, compelled me to manufacture an excuse to see Johnny, drive over to his chemist and buy a jar of zinc tablets (say). But I always came away dissatisfied. He was polite, chatty even, but there was no longer any frisson — and that was because he was a decent man with a healthy dose of self-respect. But I suppose no one's perfect.

'Mam.' I interrupted her story about someone else who'd missed her The One when he'd been right under her nose, dancing around in his pelt. 'Do you need anything from the chemist?'

She thought about it. 'No.'

'Should you think about getting your anti-depressant dose increased?'

'Actually, I was thinking I might try coming down a couple of milligrams.'

'Oh. OK.' Fuck it, I'd go anyway.

Echinacea, I decided. That was a reasonable thing to buy, especially at this time of year. At the chemist Johnny greeted me with a smile. Mind you, he did that to everyone, even the old men with all-over-body psoriasis.

'Name your poison,' he said.

'Echinacea.'

'Coming down with a cold?'

'Er, no. Just precautionary.'

'Sensible thinking. Well, we have quite a choice.'

Shite
.

He went into details about dosage, liquid or capsule, with or without vitamin C, until I was sorry I hadn't asked for something more straightforward.

'Busy at the moment?' I asked, trying to get him to turn around and talk to me.

'Oh yes. The six weeks coming up to Christmas is the worst time.'

'Me too. How's your brother doing?'

'Recovering nicely. Or should I say, recovering unpleasantly. He's doing a lot of physiotherapy on his banjoed leg and he's not enjoying it.'

I made a couple of 'ah, well' style noises, then went, 'Oh!' like I'd just remembered something and pulled the cover from my bag. 'I thought you might like to see it.'

'What's this? The cover of your book!' He lit up. He looked genuinely happy for me. 'Congratulations!'

He studied the cover for ages, while I studied him. You know, he really was very nice-looking, his intelligent eyes, his lovely shiny hair. Mind you, it would be a disgrace if his hair
wasn't
shiny with him having access to all those hair products…

'It's really good,' he said finally. 'It's only smudgy lines but they've managed to make her look bereft. Very effective. I'm looking forward to reading it.'

I got a twinge of something peculiar, which I didn't understand at the time.

'But the title?' he questioned. 'I thought we'd agreed on "Shockolat"?'

'Shockolat' had been his suggestion.

'I loved "Shockolat",' I said, 'But the marketing people didn't.'

'Well, we don't always get what we want.'

Was I imagining it, or was there a deeper meaning to what he'd just said? And the way he'd looked at me while he'd said it? Had I just experienced a leakage of the old frisson?

I suspected I had, then the guilts kicked in and, flustered, I took my leave.

'Your echinacea,' he called after me.

Back in August, after Dalkin Emery's publicity department sent a page from
Book News
which mentioned my book deal (I wondered if Lily had seen it) I paid for it to be sent every week, just in case there was anything else about me. Although I went through each issue in minute detail I found nothing, but some time in November I came across a mention about Lily. It was part of a piece about how Christmas books weren't selling well.

Retailers are reporting 'extremely lacklustre' sales of Lily Wright's
Crystal Clear
. Wright, author of publishing sensation,
Mimi's Remedies
, was expected to storm the hardback charts this Christmas but has not even made it into the top ten. The title, originally priced at £18.99, had been discounted widely, retailing for £11.99
in Waterstones and appearing as low as £8.99 in some outlets. Dick Barton-King, Dalkin Emery's Head of Sales, was quoted, 'We always knew
Crystal Clear
was a gift-purchase, not a self-purchase. We expect strong sales in the two weeks before Christmas.'

Around the same time I saw a review of
Crystal Clear
in the paper - I read reviews now. It said that
Mimi's Remedies
had been delightful but this was a hectoring, charmless book which would disappoint her present fans and wouldn't win her any new ones. How awful for her.