Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (34 page)

"How...how do you know?"
"Heard them say it." I flicked my eyes at the group next to us.
"Awesome. Write it down."
"Next question! Who directed Breakfast at Tiffany's?"
"Do you know?" I asked Mitch.
"No. Do you?"
"No." Annoyed, I said, "These questions are very hard."
"The girl on the gate was right," Mitch said sadly. "You do have a better chance if there's four of
you."
We sat in silence, the only people in the park not talking. But there was nothing to say. If I didn't
know it and Mitch didn't know it, what could we discuss? Shamelessly we eavesdropped on the
groups around us. "Blake Edwards," Mitch said quietly. "Who knew?"
A girl from the next team turned around and gave us a sharp look. She'd heard Mitch. She said
something to her teammates and they all checked us out, then drew into a tighter huddle, audibly
dropping their voices. Mitch and I looked abashed.
"That's a little unsporting of them," he said.
"I know. I mean, it's for charity."
Being unable to hear the other teams' answers was a serious handicap, but occasionally we knew
the answer.
"What is a patella?"
"A kitchen thing?" Mitch asked. "For scraping out cake mix?"
"You're thinking of a spatula. A patella is a kneecap," I said with glee. "When you've dislocated
one, it's easy to remember what it's called."
"What's the capital of Bhutan?"
Everyone else was muttering disgruntledly; they didn't even know where Bhutan was, let alone
its capital, but Mitch was thrilled. "Thimphu."
"Really?"

"Yeah."
"How do you know that?"
"Trish and I went there on our honeymoon."
Neither of us knew the answer to the following six questions, then Sparkly Suit asked, "Babe
Ruth was sold by the owner of the Boston Red Sox to finance a Broadway musical. What was the
name of that musical?"
Mitch lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly. "I'm a Yankees fan."
"It's okay," I whispered, in excitement. "I know. It's No, No, Nanette."
"How?"
"Aidan's a Red Sox fan."
No. I'd said something wrong there. Aidan was a Red Sox fan. The shock lifted me out of my
body. I felt almost as if I was looking down on myself, sitting in the park, like I'd parachuted into
the wrong life. What was I doing there? Who was the man I was with?
W      hile the scores were added up, the raffle was held. All the prizes had been donated by
local businesses. I won a bag of nails (assorted sizes) and a twenty-foot length of rope donated
by Hector's Hardware. Mitch won a free piercing (body part of his choice) from Tattoos and
Screws, the body-art salon on Eleventh and Third.
Then the quiz scores were read out. Team Eighteen (Mitch and me) did quite badly; we were
about fifth from bottom, but we didn't care. It had disposed of most of Sunday afternoon, that
was all that really mattered.
"Okay." Mitch got to his feet, slinging his ever-present kit bag over his shoulder. "Thanks for
that. I'll hit the gym. See you next week."
"Yes, see you then." I was glad to say good-bye. I wanted him out of the park before Ornesto
appeared.
And not a second too soon. Ornesto came springing over, full of the joys and with good reason:
his team had come in fourth and in the raffle he had won free dry cleaning for a year.
"Aw, he's gone! Hey, Anna, who was that maaaaan you were with? Who was that hunka burnin'
lurve?"

"He's nobody."
"Oh, he ain't nobody, he's definitely somebody."
"He's not. He's a widower. He's like Eugene."
"Oh, baby cakes, he is nothing like Eugene. I saw those shoulders. He works out?"
Reluctantly I shrugged, yes. "Please, Ornesto." I really didn't want Rachel or Jacqui or anyone
hearing about Mitch; they might think it was some sort of romance, which was so far from the
truth. "He lost his wife. We're just--"
"--comforting each other. I know." The way he said it sounded so sleazy.
The only comfort I got from Mitch was that he understood how I felt. Fury surged up my throat,
almost burning my tongue. I shrieked at Ornesto, but in a kind of whisper because we were in
public, "How dare you!"
My face was on fire and my eyes were bulging. He took a big, alarmed step back.
"I love Aidan," I whisper-shrieked. "I'm devastated without him. I couldn't even think of being
with another man. Ever."
61
C    andy Grrrl's new range of cleansers was called Clean and Serene and I had an inspired idea
for a press release--I'd do it in the form of the 12 steps. But I only knew the first one:
1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol; that our lives had become unmanageable.
I changed it to:
1. We admitted we were powerless over our oily T-zone; that our skin had become
unmanageable.

I was pretty pleased, but to get any further, I needed all 12 steps. I tried Rachel and couldn't get
her, so reluctantly I asked Koo/Aroon at EarthSource. She opened her desk drawer and handed
over a little booklet. "They're right here on the front page!"
"I only need them for a press release," I said hastily.
"Sure," she said. But the minute I'd gone, she went over to one of her colleagues and their
excited whispers and hopeful glances alarmed me. Shite. That had been a stupid thing to do.
Really stupid. I'd opened up that whole can of worms again where they thought I was going to
admit I was an alcoholic.
Then Rachel rang back, and when I told her why I'd called, she said, "You're way out of line to
use the 12 steps to publicize makeup."
"Makeup remover," I said.
"Whatever."
She hung up. Back to the drawing board.
Impulsively I rang Jacqui. "How's the Narky Joey situation?" I asked.
"Oh, fine, fine. I can look at him, acknowledge that he does bear a resemblance to Jon Bon Jovi,
but it doesn't matter. I don't fancy him in the slightest."
"Thank God!" Suddenly I got a mad rush of fondness and really wanted to see her. "Would you
like to do something later?" I asked. "Watch a video or something?"
"Oh, I can't tonight."
I waited for her to tell me why she couldn't. When she didn't I said, "What are you doing?"
"Playing poker."
"Poker?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Gaz's apartment."
"Gaz's apartment? You mean Gaz and Joey's apartment?"
Grudgingly she conceded that yes, she supposed Joey did share an apartment with Gaz.

"Well, can I come?" I asked.
I mean, I thought she'd be delighted. She'd been badgering me for months to get out more.
T    he thing was, though, that Gaz wasn't there. Only Joey was in and he didn't look one bit
happy to see me. I mean, he never did. But this was a different sort of displeasure.
"Where's Gaz?" I asked.
"Out."
I looked at Jacqui but she wouldn't meet my eyes.
"The place looks lovely," I said. "Beautiful candles. Ylang-ylang, I see, very sensual. And what
are those flowers called?"
"Birds of paradise," Joey mumbled.
"Gorgeous. Can I have one of these strawberries?"
Narky pause. "Go ahead."
"Delicious! Ripe and juicy. Try one, Jacqui. Come here, let me feed one to you. What's this scarf
for, Joey? Is it a blindfold?"
He made some angry "I haven't a clue" gesture.
"Lookit, I'm off," I said.
"Stay," Jacqui said. She looked at Joey. "We're only playing poker."
"Yeah, stay," Joey said, about as halfheartedly as anyone could.
"Please stay," Jacqui said. "Really, Anna, it's great to see you out and about."
"But...are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Maybe I should. Like, can you even play poker with just two people?"
"Well, there's three of us now," Joey said sourly.

"True for you. Although do you mind if we don't play poker?" I asked. "I just don't get it. You
can't really do it properly if you don't smoke, it's all in the squinting. Let's play a proper game.
Let's play rummy."
After a long silence, Joey said, "Rummy it is."
We sat at the table and Joey flung seven cards at each of us. I bowed my head and stared hard.
Then I asked, "Would it be okay if we turned on a light? It's just I can't see my cards."
With short, jerky movements, Joey leaped up, hit a switch with venom, and threw himself back
into his chair.
"Thank you," I murmured. In the bright of the overhead light, all the flowers and candles and
strawberries and chocolates suddenly looked a little shamefaced.
"I suppose you want the music off, too, so you can concentrate," he said.
"No. I like Ravel's Bol�ro, actually."
I was sorry to be ruining the seduction scene but I hadn't realized I'd be intruding. Jacqui had
more or less said that Gaz would be there. And both her and Joey had insisted that I stay, even
though neither of them had meant it.
I looked up from my--admittedly excellent--hand of cards and caught Joey openly watching
Jacqui. He was like a cat with a fluff ball, he was mesmerized. She was harder to read; she
wasn't staring at him the way he was at her, but she wasn't her usual outgoing self. And her mind
certainly wasn't on her cards because I kept winning. "Rummy!" I said gleefully, the first couple
of times. Then it got embarrassing, then a little boring.
As an evening, it was not a success and it drew to an early close.
"At least poor Gaz can come home from wherever Joey banished him to," I said as Jacqui and I
waited for the elevator.
"We're just friends," she said defensively.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Great news
Two weeks off from Detta Big, thanks be to jaysus. She's going to Marbella with "the girls"
(collective age three thousand and seven if that crowd I saw her having lunch with are anything
to go by). When Harry told me he said: And you needn't think you'll be going along with her for
an all-expenses-paid fortnight in the sun.
Me: Like I'd want to go to that kippy kip.
Him (wounded): Why? What's wrong with it?

Me: Full of knackery crims, wearing too much gold, bought with their ill-gotten gains. Costa
del War Crime.
Him: I didn't know the middle class thought that about Marbella. We thought yiz were
jealous. Detta loves it.
Go figure. (Didn't say it tho'.)
Him: But you needn't think you're off the hook. Keep an eye on Racey O'Grady. Make sure
he stays in the country.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Photos!
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well and sorry about "bellyaching" in my last e-mail. Well, finally we
have photos of the woman and Zoe the dog! Helen is a good girl and hid in the hedge and "fired
off a roll." She wanted to shout, "We're onto you, missus," but I told her not to. Stealth will be to
our advantage. I will be taking the best pictures to mass next Sunday and will ask people if they
recognize either the woman or Zoe. God help poor Zoe, it's not her fault, dogs have no sense of
right and wrong. Human beings have a conscience, that's what separates us from the animals.
Although Helen says the difference is that animals can't wear high heels. Either way, I must
admit the whole business has me baffled. Obviously the old woman has some sort of "grudge"
against us.
Your loving mother,
Mum
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Racey O'Grady
Racey O'Grady lives in Dalkey, respectable neigborhood. Surprised. Thought all crime lords
would live near one another so they could pop in and out of one another's houses all day,
borrowing cups of bullets and saying they had to nip down to shops for a minute, so would other
person keep an eye on their hostage, and so on. Racey--vay keen on privacy--big house, own
grounds, electronic gates, high walls, spikes on top.
I parked down road and not one person went in or out all day. Not even postman. Tediousity
of it. Seriously worried that Racey might have gone to Marbella and that I'd have to go, too.
Then at five o'clock the gates opened and out comes Racey. Looks well in flesh. Tanned, bright
blue eyes, pep in step. Sadly, wearing very bad mushroom-colored shoes, open-necked shirt, and
gold chain. Looked like football manager, but far, far better than Mr. Big.
He was carrying kit bag. I was convinced it was full of saws, pliers, and other torture tools,
but he was just going to gym. Followed him (on foot) to Killiney Castle health club, where they
wouldn't let me in because I wasn't member, so I said, was thinking of becoming member and
would they give me tour? Okay, they said, and when they showed me the gym there was Racey,
his blue veiny legs going hell for leather on the StairMaster. Innocence itself. Ages later he left, I
followed him back, sat in car for another hour, then thought, fuck this for a game of skittles, he's
obviously not going to Marbella this evening, I'm going home.

62
O     n the train, Mitch and I rocked shoulder to shoulder in silence. We were returning from
Coney Island amusement park, where we'd partaken of the rides a little too grimly. But that was
fine. We weren't there to enjoy ourselves, simply to pass the time.
The train rounded a particularly sharp corner and we both nearly fell out of the seat. When we'd
straightened up again, I suddenly asked, "What were you like before?"
"Before...?"
"Yes, what kind of person were you?"
"What am I like now?"
"Very quiet. You don't say much."
"I guess I talked more." He thought about it. "Yeah, conversations, I had opinions, I liked to talk.
A lot." He sounded surprised. "Issues of the day, movies, whatever."
"Did you smile?"
"I don't smile now? Okay. Yeah, I smiled. And laughed. What were you like?"
"I don't know. Happier. Sunnier. Hopeful. Not terrified. I liked being around people..."
We sighed and lapsed back into silence.
Eventually I spoke. "Do you think we'll ever go back to being who we were?"
He thought about it. "I don't want to. It would be like Trish had never happened."
"I know what you mean, but, Mitch, are we going to be like this forever?"
"Like what?"
"Like...ghosts? Like we died, too, but someone forgot to tell us."
"We'll get better." After a pause he added, "We'll be better but different."
"How do you know?"
He smiled. "Because I know."

"Okay."
"Did you notice I smiled just there?"
"Did you? Do it again."
He arranged his face in an ultrabright smile. "How's that?"
"A bit game-show host. Wheel of Fortune."
"Practice. That's all I need."
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Latest update
No one at mass recognized the old woman in the photo. I am going to bring it to golf and bridge
and if I still don't get a "result" I am going to ring RTE and see if I can get it on Crimewatch. Or
Crimeline. Or Crimetime. Or whatever they're calling it these days. Crimewhine, there's another
one. Can you think of any more? Helen calls it Grass Up Your Neighbors. Mrs. Big is back from
Marbella and Helen will be resuming sitting in the hedge from tomorrow morning.
Your loving mother,
Mum
63
A     ll set for tonight?" Nicholas asked. "The full moon?"
"Yes," I said quietly, bringing the phone very close to my face. I was at work, and although it
was unlikely that anyone would guess that I was discussing recording my dead husband's voice, I
wasn't taking any chances.
"You got your tape recorder?"
"Yep." Specially purchased.
"And you know not to start until after sunset?"
"Yes. I know everything." Nicholas had e-mailed me a vast quantity of information on electronic
voice phenomenon. To my surprise some scientific studies seemed to take it seriously.
"Well, take this to the bank!"
"What?"