Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (18 page)

Monday mornings were horrible. I knew they were horrible for everyone, everywhere, but they
were extra horrible for us because so much of our success or failure depended on what had
appeared in the weekend newspaper supplements. It was so obvious.
Sometimes, if they'd been let down by a beauty editor and hadn't got the coverage they'd
expected, girls threw up before the meeting.
As we took our places, Ariella ignored us. She was sitting at the head of the long table, flicking
through the glossy pages of a magazine. Then I saw what it was--we all saw at the same time:
this month's Femme. Shit. It wasn't on the newsstands yet. She'd got an early copy and none of
us knew what was in it.
But she was going to tell us. "Ladies! Come in, come closer. See what I'm seeing. I'm seeing
Clarins. I'm seeing Clinique. I'm seeing Lanc�me. I'm even seeing fucking Revlon. But I'm not
seeing..."
Who was it? It could have been any of us. But who should it have been?
"...Visage!"
Poor Wendell. We all lowered our eyes, ashamed but oh so glad it wasn't us.
"Wanna talk to me about that, Wendell?" Ariella asked. "About the most expensive campaign we
ever did? Where exactly did we fly those leechy beauty gals to? Couldja just remind me?"
"Tahiti." You could barely hear Wendell's voice.
"Tahiti? Tahiti! Even I haven't been to fucking Tahiti. And they couldn't give us a lousy four-by-
two? Whatcha do to her, Wendell? Throw up on her? Sleep with her boyfriend?"
"She was all set to give us a quarter page, but Tokyo Babe just brought out their new eye cream
and her editor overrode her because they advertise so heavily."
"Don't give me excuses. Bottom line: if someone else gets coverage, you have failed. You are a
failure. You have failed, Wendell, not just because you didn't work hard enough but because you
couldn't get them to like you enough. You're not a likable-enough person. Have you gained
weight?"
"No, I--"
"Well, SOMETHING'S wrong!"
Horrible but true. So much of the PR game depended on personal relationships. If a beauty editor
liked you, you had a better chance of your brand fighting its way to the top of the pile. But there
was precious little anyone could do if a major brand threatened to pull a twenty-thousand-dollar
ad if you didn't give them nice coverage.

After the main event--the humiliation of Wendell--we moved on to Any Other Business. This
was where Ariella pitted brand against brand. If one had done well, it was an opportunity to point
out the failings of another. She also enjoyed pitting Franklin against Mary Jane, the coordinator
of the other seven brands.
Then it was all over for another week.
As everyone trooped back out, several people murmured, "That wasn't too horrible. She was
okay today."
And the great thing about the MMM was that once it was over, the week could only get better.
27
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: On the mend
Got the plaster off my arm today. It doesn't look like my arm anymore, it's a puny, shrunken
little thing and so hairy, nearly as hairy as Lauryn's arms. My knee is pretty good (and not hairy).
Even my nails are growing. It's just my face now.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: My name is Anna
Today someone left an AA meetings list on my desk. Anonymously, as it were.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: New hair!
I begged Sailor for a low-maintenance cut but he told me we have to suffer for our beauty and
gave me a "directional" brushed-forward shaggy yoke. The only good thing is that it covers a lot
of my scar. But when I try to blow-dry it myself, it'll be such a disaster I'll have to start wearing
hats again. Obviously it was all a big conspiracy.
I love you.
Your girl, Anna

All week, I put in twelve or thirteen hours a day at work, and somehow enough time passed so
that it got to be Friday evening. But no sooner had I let myself in and put down my keys than I
saw, like a big guilt-making accusing thing, the flashing light on my answering machine. Bums.
How bad was it? How many messages? I kept my feet planted where I stood and leaned the top
half of my body over to look: three messages. I looked at Dogly's kindly face and said, "I bet
they're all from Leon."
He had me badgered with messages. Badgered. I'd had a couple of near misses at work, when
he'd withheld his number, but so far I'd manage to avoid talking to him. I'd have to ring him
back soon; it was only a matter of time before he arrived in person at the apartment--or far more
scary, set Dana on me. But I just couldn't bear to, not yet anyway.
Instead, I turned on the computer--and my heart lifted when I saw that there was a new e-mail. I
held my breath and waited, frozen with hope. But it was from Mum! That made twice in one
lifetime. What could be up?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mystery
As regards the woman and her dog, I am still keeping you "in the loop," as they say. There has
been plenty of "action." This morning I "lay in wait." She normally comes at ten past nine, so I
was ready for her. As soon as she appeared, I pretended to be putting out the bins which I thought
was a good "ruse," even though bin day is Monday and it is your father's job anyway.
"Nice morning for it," I said, meaning, "Nice morning for making your dog do his wees at an
innocent stranger's gate." Right away your woman pulls at the lead and says, "Hurry up, Zoe."
Now we have a clue. What a name for a dog! Then something terrible happened, the woman
gave me a "look"--our eyes met, and as you know, Anna, I am not a fanciful woman, but I knew
I was in the presence of evil.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. In a couple of weeks' time myself and your father are going away to "The Algarve" for a
fortnight. It will be nice. Not as nice as the Cipriani in Venice, of course (not that I'd know), but
quite nice. While we're gone, Helen will be staying with "Maggie" and "Garv," as you all insist
on calling them. This means it will be hard to keep "tabs" on the old woman, but seeing as she
gave me such a dirty look, this is probably no harm.
Across the room, the flashing light of the answering machine continued to accuse me. Go away,
go away, why do you torment me so? I wished I could delete the bloody messages without having
listened to them, but the machine wouldn't let me, so I hit play, then legged it to the bathroom,
hearing as I went, "Anna, it's Leon. I know this is hard for you, but it's hard for me, too. I need
to see you..."
To drown out his voice I ran the taps with such Niagaraesque force that I drenched the front of
my dress. I stepped back, counted to twenty-three, then cautiously turned the water toward off,
but I heard Leon say "...my pain, too..." and with a lightning-fast flick of my wrist, turned the

water back up to torrential, counted to seven and a half, eased it down again, heard "...we can
help each other..." and immediately ratcheted the flood up as far as it would go. It was a little
like tuning a radio and picking up signals. Radio Leon.
Eventually he finished what he had to say and I tiptoed from the bathroom and hit delete.
"All messages deleted," the machine said.
"Thank you," I replied.
O     n Saturday night Rachel "invited" me over to her and Luke's--an offer I couldn't refuse.
Not unless I wanted a well-meaning lecture.
I had a pleasant-enough time until, a couple of hours in, I was overtaken by a panic that was
starting to seem terrifyingly familiar: I had to get away.
Rachel would only permit me to leave after she'd questioned me closely on my plans for Sunday,
but I had it all sewn up: Jacqui had arranged for me and her to go to a day spa called Cocoon.
She'd said it would be good for me.
And it was. Apart from the aromatherapist telling me I was the tensest person she'd ever worked
with and the pedicurist complaining that she wouldn't be able to paint my toenails until I'd
stopped twitching my foot.
Then it was Sunday night; I'd survived another weekend. But instead of being relieved, I was
seized with terrible desperation. Something had to happen soon.
28
I  t finally happened. Aidan finally showed up.
Two and a half weeks after I'd come back from Ireland, I was at work, sitting at my desk,
laboring at a quarterly spreadsheet, when he just walked in. The joy at seeing him was like the
warmth of the midday sun--I was thrilled.
"About time," I exclaimed.
He sat on a corner of the desk and his smile nearly split his face in two. He looked delighted and
shy simultaneously. "Happy to see me?" he asked.

"Jesus Christ, Aidan, I'm so happy! I can't believe this. I was afraid I'd never see you again." He
was wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing the first day we'd met. "But how did you
manage it?"
"What do you mean? I just walked in here."
"But, Aidan." Because I'd just remembered. "You're dead."
I woke with a jump. I was on the couch. Lights from the street lit the room with a purplish glow
and there was some racket outside: people shouting and the boomy bass line of a bridge-and-
tunnel limo, which pulsed below me until the traffic lights changed and it moved on.
I closed my eyes and went straight back into the same dream.
Aidan wasn't smiling any longer, he was upset and confused, and I asked him, "No one told you,
you were dead?"
"No."
"That's what I've been afraid of. And where have you been?"
"Hanging around. I saw you in Ireland and everything."
"You did? Why didn't you say anything?"
"You were with your family, I didn't want to butt in."
"But you're family now. You're my family."
T    he next time I woke it was 5 A.M. The morning beyond the blinds was already citrus bright
but the streets were silent. I needed to talk to Rachel. She was the only one who could help me.
"Sorry to wake you."
"I was awake anyway." She was probably lying but there was a chance she wasn't. Sometimes
she got up at the crack of dawn to go to an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting before work.
"Are you okay?" She tried hard to stifle a yawn.
"Can you meet me?"
"'Course. Now? Will I come over?"

"No." I was desperate to get out of the apartment.
"How about Jenni's?" It was some twenty-four-hour coffee place. On account of her condition
Rachel knew lots of twenty-four-hour coffee places. "See you there in thirty minutes."
I pulled on some clothes and ran out the door; I couldn't wait in the apartment a moment longer.
In the taxi I saw him walking along Fourteenth Street, but this time I knew it wasn't him.
I arrived at Jenni's far too early, ordered a latte, and tried to eavesdrop on the intense
conversation which was taking place between a foursome of gaunt, good-looking men dressed in
black. Unfortunately I only caught the occasional word: "...getting high..."; "...let go with
love..."; "...a dash of teriyaki sauce, dude..."
Then Rachel arrived. "It's a while since I've been here," she commented, looking nervously at
the boys. "I'm getting introspection flashbacks." She sat down and ordered a green tea. "Anna,
are you okay? Has something happened?"
"I dreamed about Aidan last night."
"That's normal, one of the things that's meant to happen. Like seeing him everywhere. So what
did you dream?"
"I dreamed that he was dead."
Pause. "That's because he is, Anna."
"I know that."
Another pause. "You're not really acting like you do. Anna, I'm so sorry, but no amount of
pretending that everything is the same will change what happened."
"But I don't want him to be dead."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Of course you don't! He was your husband, the man--"
"Rachel, please don't say `was.' I hate all this past-tense stuff. And it's not about me, it's him I'm
worried about. I'm so afraid he'll freak out when he discovers what's happened. He'll be so
pissed off and scared and I can't help him. Rachel," I said, and suddenly I couldn't bear it,
"Aidan's going to hate being dead."
29
R    achel looked blank. Like she wasn't listening to me, then I realized she was in shock. Was I
that bad?

"We had so many plans," I said. "We weren't going to die until we were eighty. And he worried
about me; he wanted to take care of me, and if he can't he'll go mental. And, Rachel, he was so
strong and healthy, hardly ever sick. How's he going to handle having died?"
"Er...um, let's see." This had never happened before: Rachel always had a theory on emotional
ailments. "Anna, this is too big for me. You need professional help, someone who specializes in
this. A grief counselor. I've brought you a book about bereavement, which might help, but you
really need to see an expert--"
"Rachel, I just want to talk to him. That's all I want. I can't bear to think of him trapped
someplace awful and not being able to contact me. I mean, where is he? Where did he go?"
Her eyes got bigger and bigger as the dismay on her face worsened. "Anna, I really think--"
The men in black were leaving, and as they passed our table, one of them clocked Rachel and did
a double take.
He had a lean face, skin marked from old acne scars, tormented brown eyes, and long dark hair.
He wouldn't have looked out of place in the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
"Hey!" he said. "I've met you? The meetings in St. Marks Place? It's Rachel, right? I'm Angelo.
So how're you doing? Still conflicted?"
"No," Rachel said snippily, giving off such strong "this is so inappropriate" vibes you could
nearly see them zigzagging through the air.
"So? You gonna marry the guy?"
"Yes." More snippiness. But she couldn't resist sticking out her hand for him to admire her
engagement ring.
"Wow. Getting married. Well, congratulations. He is one lucky dude."
Then he looked at me. A look of deep compassion. "Oh, little girl," he said. "It's bad, hey?"
"Were you listening to our conversation?" Rachel's snippiness was back in force.
"No. But it's sorta"--he shrugged--"obvious." To me he said, "Just take it one day at a time."
"She's not an addict. She's my sister."
"No reason for her not to take it one day at a time."

I   went to work, thinking, Aidan is dead. Aidan has died. I hadn't actually realized it until now.
I mean, I knew he'd died but I'd never believed it was permanent.
I moved through the corridor like a ghost, and when Franklin called, "Morning, Anna, how're
you doing?" I felt like answering, "Good, except my husband died and we were married less than
a year. Yes, I know you know all about it, but I've just realized."
But there was no point saying anything, it was old news for everyone else; they'd long moved
on.
W       e'd been on our way out for dinner, just me and him, and what was unendurable was that
this was something we rarely did. Restaurants were for sociable nights out with other people, but
when it was just me and him, we were more likely to snuggle on the couch and ring for takeout.
If we'd stayed at home that night, he'd still be alive. In fact, we almost didn't go. He'd booked a
table at Tamarind but I'd asked him to cancel it because we'd eaten out just two nights earlier for
Valentine's Day. But it seemed to mean so much to him to go that I gave in.
So I was waiting on the street for him to pick me up when, alerted by honks, beeps, and shouted
expletives, I saw a yellow cab lurching across three lanes of traffic and heading in my direction.
Sure enough, there was Aidan, making a scared face and flashing seven fingers at me. Seven out
of ten. Nutter alert. Our personal scoring system for mental cabdrivers.
"Seven?" I mouthed. "Good work."
He laughed and that made me happy. He'd been a bit low for a day or two: a few nights earlier
he'd had a call--work--that had wrecked his buzz.
With a shudder, the cab stopped beside me, I hopped in, and before my door was even closed, we
screeched back into the heavy traffic. I was flung against Aidan and he managed to kiss me
before I was thrown back in the opposite direction. Eagerly, I said, "Seven out of ten? We
haven't had one of them in a while. Tell us."
He shook his head in admiration and said in an undertone, "It's good, this one, Anna, it's good
stuff. He saw Princess Diana in his local 7-Eleven, buying a bottle of Gatorade and twelve
doughnuts."
"What flavor?"