The Real Liddy James (28 page)

Liddy smiled. “You all seem very happy,” she said, looking at the photograph again.

“We were,” said Storm. “I mean you couldn't call it a conventional upbringing. The three of us have different fathers, not one of whom stuck around, and we have four stepbrothers too. Dear Gordon, the stepboys' dad, died suddenly of a heart attack in the conservatory, and we were broke whenever Roberta was between husbands, but . . . it was okay.
Good shot, Matty!
”

Liddy gulped at the amount of trauma and tragedy this sentence encompassed, but Storm did not seem to notice. In the courtyard Matty pumped his arms and ran to the window.

“Will one of you play with me?”

“Not now,” said Storm. “But tomorrow I'm gonna whoop your ass!” She poured more hot water into Liddy's mug. “You look bloody awful to me, Liddy. Why don't you stay for dinner?” Without waiting for a reply, she pressed play on the stereo, walked over to the sink, and started peeling potatoes. “Tomorrow we'll find these boys a soccer camp, go shopping, and I'll show you the local sights,” she continued, and when Train came on she began dancing wildly to “Drive By” and Cal danced around too.

So this is how it feels to have a wife
, thought Liddy, gratefully sipping her tea. Storm was as kind a person as her brother, and it appeared they were to be friends (whether Liddy liked it or not).

And so Liddy James discovered what most parents do when on vacation. She became a chauffeur and cook and watcher of children's movies, and was asleep by nine o'clock every night. For “Liddy time” she would sit in the nearby Laundromat, reading dog-eared gossip magazines and watching the clothes go round and round in the dryer. Of course, she attempted a to-do list of self-improving activities—learn to conjugate Irish verbs! knit Celtic cable sweater! read
Ulysses
!—but she quickly abandoned it and decided that if she could dye her own hair with a drugstore kit and get rid of the cluster of stubborn plantar warts that nestled on her right heel, that would be enough. Then Storm opened up the garage and they found old surf gear and guitars and three bicycles. After a shaky and comical start where Liddy fell off her bike four times and was treated to a hearty rendition of a new song by Matty and Cal (with the rhyming scheme of “ass” hitting the “grass”), most nights she allowed them to chase her in the rain, laughing, up and down the driveway. The soft days turned into soft weeks, until, to her amazement, Liddy awoke one morning at the end of July to see that the sun was streaming through the window. The light made the room look shiny and new. She decided that she would agree to Storm's suggestion that they spend the day surfing on the beach at Brittas Bay, something she had been avoiding.

She had not been near surf, sand, or sea since Cal's conception.

She flipped pancakes and chivied everyone into their swim gear and soon they were lying on the wide sandy beach under
stripy umbrellas. At a little distance, a glamorous German Frau and her two deeply tanned teenage daughters sunbathed in small bikini tops. Matty sat nearby, his wetsuit rolled down over his skinny white torso, rigid in a state of amorous confusion. He did not know which one to pretend was his girlfriend.

Two teenage lifeguards in red shorts were grinding flags into the sand to demarcate the swimming area and telling anyone who passed them to beware of the riptides farther along. Cal was digging a big hole with a plastic spade and Storm, resplendent in one of Roberta's caftans, had decorated its perimeter with pebbles and driftwood. With great satisfaction Liddy glanced at her watch; all this by ten thirty in the morning.

Around them, the beach was filling with other families, staking their claim to an area with soggy towels and plastic buckets; Liddy made a mental note that they must always get there early to guarantee a superior position. Suddenly Storm's mobile phone rang and, startled, she scampered off toward the dunes to talk.

It had taken time, and a series of intense withdrawal symptoms—she kept sticking her hand in her pocket for her phantom phone—but Liddy had finally got used to its absence. Now she actually gave thanks that she could not be similarly disturbed. When she glanced over, Storm was walking back and forth, arms gesticulating like an animated stick figure. She pulled her baseball cap down over her nose and the aged wetsuit up over her top, and enjoyed the feeling of the sun baking her and the faint odor of burning rubber. She lay back and ran her fingers through the sand.

It was considered impolite, Liddy often thought, to tell the truth about the intangible, magical privileges of wealth. She never
lied about it to herself, however.
No sitting in a dingy
kitchen playing pass-the-parcel for her sons. No mandarin orange
and a Rubik's Cube for
their birthdays.
She had promised that her own offspring would never be impoverished in their memories, experiences, and opportunities—whatever it cost her. Whenever she heard someone opine that such children did not live “in the
real
world,” she would scoff and say, “You can't manufacture hardship.” She would never wish the frustrations and deprivations of her own experience on them.

But lying on the beach that day, as Matty and Cal splashed cheerfully in the waves, Liddy saw that they were all far, far from the things she had convinced herself were vital to their happiness. And yet they were happy.

“Liddy! Liddy!”

She sat up to see Storm, her face drawn and ashen, crouched in front of her.

“Something dreadful has happened!”

Liddy sat up to check that the boys were safe. They were.

“That was Roberta from Brazil! She's getting married to this bloke she's been traveling with! She's flying back in a fortnight and wants to have the ceremony in the house. She's e-mailing me instructions as we speak. I knew I shouldn't have got the Internet fixed!”

“The Internet's fixed?” said Matty, approaching.

Liddy tried to look innocent. “Don't worry,” she said. “We'll leave. Move into a hotel—”

“What?”
shrieked Storm. “You can't leave, Liddy.” She grabbed Liddy's hands in hers. “You have to help me!”

Storm's head was darting around from side to side like a terrified meerkat. Liddy quickly said she would.

“I have to start calling people. She said some names to me, actors she used to work with at the Abbey Theatre. I thought they were dead!”

A thought occurred to Liddy. She paused to consider how she felt about it before saying it aloud. It turned out she was no longer tired and no longer confused.

“Will Sebastian come back?” she said. (She felt excited.)

“Not a hope,” said Storm, reassured of Liddy's friendship and her offer of organizational assistance. “He said last time he was never going to another of Roberta's weddings.”

If Liddy had any doubt about the witchy powers of Roberta “Daffodil” Stackallan, they were removed by the fact that the weather remained fine, and the morning of the wedding dawned exquisitely rose pink and fair.

Liddy stood by the window in her bedroom, cup of coffee in hand, happily watching the gentle mist rising over the fields. She listened to the birdsong; she was beginning to distinguish between the blackbird and the robin and the song thrush. She had come to love these brief moments of meditation during the days, moments where she was able to stop and stare. It was positively
mindful
she said to herself. Her life coach would be so proud.

She glanced over at Cal, still fast asleep on a blow-up mattress in the corner of the room—now that they spent significant time
together during the days he had abandoned the practice of sleeping on top of her legs at night—and took a moment to consult the handy day planner she had prepared and distributed to the relevant parties to ensure smooth running for the day ahead. Individual duties, detailed with color-coded stickers, were listed in half-hour increments. Liddy and Cal were starting at 8:30 a.m., meeting Seamus and his big ladder beside the nineteenth-century sundial at the foot of the stone steps that led up to the house. (After an evening spent researching pagan wedding rituals, Liddy had suggested it as the venue for the ceremony, in the absence of any nearby woodhenges.)

Underneath the day planner were two plastic folders; one contained a printout of important druidic principles and a glossary of terms, the other a police background check on Roberta's husband-to-be, a certain Harvey Browne, which Liddy had organized. Liddy had felt the details of his backstory were somewhat vague (there appeared to be a series of missing years in his forties). But as he was the same age as Roberta, appeared to be employed, and, most important it seemed, was neither a Romany sculptor named Jorge nor currently married to someone else, Storm was relieved, particularly as they wouldn't meet him until the ceremony. Roberta and Harvey had flown into the airport from Rio the previous morning, made one phone call to check on the progress, and, reassured, immediately booked into the nearest luxury hotel for extensive spa treatments. Whatever her choice in men, Liddy had to admire Roberta Stackallan's ruthless ability to delegate.

The now-familiar sound of a vehicle rattling down the track and a screech of brakes signaled the start of the day. The front
door burst open to reveal Storm, significantly more rumpled than usual.

“Where are you, Matty?”
she shouted, brandishing her day planner, but to Liddy's amazement, Matty appeared in the doorway fully dressed.

“And Will hasn't arrived!” screeched Storm, to no one in particular. “I can't bear it when people don't do what they say.”

Liddy shrugged sympathetically. This was not an accusation that could be leveled at her. She was also still in her meditative state.

“Chill, babe,” Matty said cheekily. “Bye, Mom.” He kissed Liddy, who felt a tuft of his baby beard on her cheek, before following Storm out the door. They headed up to the bungalow to start cooking.

Liddy lifted her arms above her head and stretched. She suddenly realized she was doing a yoga sun salutation. She stopped immediately.
Enough is enough.
She glanced down at her day planner:
7:30 a.m. shower, wash hair, bleach mustache.
Dutifully, she headed toward the bathroom.

By two o'clock, the sun was dappling through the arch of willow and white flowers Liddy and Cal had woven with the help of Seamus, who had proved unexpectedly creative at floral design. Liddy stood beneath it in an aged T-shirt, rolled-up jeans, and a white panama hat. Up at the bungalow Storm was finishing the buffet dinner and Matty was preparing the playlist for the party on his laptop.

Liddy looked over to see Cal sitting on the lawn brushing the large, scruffy dog.

“Hello?”

It was a man's voice, a deep, melodious Irish lilt she recognized. Liddy did not move. She paused to enjoy the moment, which was completely unexpected but completely thrilling.

Then she turned—

—but standing before her on the lawn was a younger, shorter, and more rotund version of Sebastian (as if Sebastian were reflected in a side mirror where objects appear closer than they really are), a burning cigarette stub hanging off his lower lip.

“Hi. I'm Will.” He looked at her with an expression in the sexually interested range.

“I'm Liddy,” she said, trying not to look too disappointed. “I'm a friend of Sebastian's.”

“Bugger!”
said Will. He took a final drag on his cigarette before hurling it into the ornamental fountain, ignored her outstretched palm, and opened his arms to embrace her, extravagantly kissing her on both cheeks. To her surprise, despite this uncomfortable invasion of her personal space, she immediately liked him.

“Good to see Seb's back in the saddle again! Where is he?”

“Alaska,” said Liddy, but she was saved from further explanation by the agitated arrival of Storm.

“
Will!
Thank goodness. Better bloody late than never. Liddy, show Will the day planner. What time is it?”