Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (44 page)

was proper private investigator doing stuff like talking way into O'Gradys' pad, when all along
they were making it easy for me. Low moments. War crime.
"See?" I told the screen. "They're all bastards."
89
W      earing the more expensive of my two charcoal suits, I returned to work.
"I'm good to go," I told Franklin.
He wanted to say, "You better be," but he couldn't; right now I was too valuable to upset.
He hustled me straight in to Ariella, who brought me up to speed on Formula Twelve: the
Devereaux execs wanted a day-by-day schedule of my whispering campaign--when could they
expect the brand to break; the jeweler needed to speak to me about my vision for the amber pot;
the marketing team wanted my input on label design...
"You've got a lot of work ahead of you."
"I'll set up meetings right away."
"There's just one thing...," Ariella said.
I turned and fixed her with an inquiring look, one that bordered on impatience.
"Your clothes," she said.
"We agreed charcoal," I said. "Charcoal or I walk."
"Not that. Your plan is a whispering campaign, right? Rumors of an amazing new product but no
details yet, right? Which means you've got to be a Candy Grrrl girl until Formula Twelve breaks.
Which means Candy Grrrl clothes."
Openly I glared at her; she was right.
She shrugged happily. "Hey, it was your freaking idea."
"For how long?" I asked.
"It's your campaign. How long until you build a buzz? Coupla months anyway."
"No hats," I said. "I'm not wearing hats."

"Yes, hats. You gotta do this the right way. Those beauty editors gotta think you're still a Candy
Grrrl. They find out they're being set up? It's all over."
"If you want hats, you pay me ten grand more. Another ten grand. Making twenty."
We locked looks: a standoff. Neither of us moved, then she said, "I'll think about it."
I swiveled on my heel; the money was mine.
I   would rather have chopped my hand off than made the call. But for as long as I didn't
apologize to Angelo, the shame would be with me.
"Angelo, it's Anna, Rachel's sis--"
"Hey, little girl, how're you doing?"
"I'm sorry."
"Forget it."
"No, Angelo, I'm so sorry, it was a terrible way to treat you. I'm so embarrassed, I could die."
"Hey, you were in shock, I've been there. There is nothing that you could ever do that I haven't
done. And worse. I swear to you."
"What? You've really called around to a total stranger's place, demanding sex."
"Sure I have. But anyway, I wasn't a total stranger to you."
"Thank you for not...you know, taking me up on my offer."
"Aw, come on! I'd have been a pretty poor excuse for a man if I had."
"Thank you for not saying that if things were different that you would have...you know...taken
me up on my offer."
"Bummer."
"What?"
"'Cause that's just what I was thinking."

A    t work, I began living a double life. To most people I was still a Candy Grrrl, wearing my
goofy clothes and purveying my goofy products. But I was also an undercover Formula Twelve
girl, who had intense meetings with Devereaux, thrashing out publicity plans and fine-tuning
packaging.
Any leftover time I had, I spent with Jacqui, reading baby books and saying what a prick Joey
was.
I never cried and I never got tired: a pilot light of bitterness fueled me.
I didn't reschedule with Neris Hemming, and abruptly, I stopped going to Leisl's.
The first Sunday, Mitch rang. "We missed you today, peanut."
"I think I'm going to give it a miss for a while."
"How'd it go with Neris Hemming?"
"Bad, and I don't want to talk about it."
Silence. "They say anger is good. Another phase in the grieving process."
"I'm not angry." Well, I was, but not for the reasons he thought. It had nothing to do with any
grieving process.
"So when am I going to see you?"
"I've got a lot on at work right now..."
"Sure! I totally understand. But let's stay in touch."
"Yes," I lied. "Let's."
Then Nicholas called and we had a similar conversation, and for months afterward, they both
rang regularly, but I never spoke to them and never returned their calls. I didn't want any
reminder of what an idiot I'd been, trying to talk to my dead husband. Eventually they stopped
ringing and I was relieved; that part of my life was over.
I'd closed up like a flower at night, a bitter little bud, sealed tight.
But I was far from being unprofessional--on the contrary, I was probably more professional than
I'd ever been before. People actually seemed slightly unnerved by me. And it appeared to be

paying off because just before Thanksgiving, the first tantalizing reference to Formula Twelve
appeared in the press: described as a "Quantum Leap in skin care."
90
A    nna, it's a miracle," Mrs. Maddox gushed. "I was dead. I was walking around, dead. And
this little boy...I know he's not Aidan, I know Aidan will never be back, but he's like a part of
Aidan."
Dianne had completely abandoned her Thanksgiving plans to take off on a women's retreat and
dance in her pelt and paint herself blue beneath a full moon. Instead it was business as usual--
turkey, best crystal, etc.--because "little Jack" was coming to visit.
"He's beautiful, just beautiful. Please say you'll come and meet him."
"No."
"But--"
"No."
"You used to be such a sweet girl."
"That was before I found out my dead husband had fathered a child with someone else."
"But it was before he met you! He didn't cheat on you!"
"Dianne, I have to go now."
R    achel and Luke are doing Thanksgiving," I told Jacqui. "You're invited too. But--"
"Yes, I know, Joey will be there. So obviously I won't be going."
I offered to boycott it also. "We can spend it together, just the two of us."
"No need. I've had another invitation."
"Where?"
"Um...Bermuda."

"Bermuda? Don't tell me it's Jessie Cheadle's place!"
Jessie Cheadle was one of her clients; he owned a record company.
"None other."
"How're you getting there? Don't tell me--he's sending a plane?"
She nodded, roaring with laughter at my jealousy. "And there'll be staff to unpack my LV
wheelie case and a butler to run rose-petal baths. And when I leave, they'll repack my case and
put tissue paper between every layer. Scented tissue paper. D'you mind me going?"
"I'm delighted for you. You're not crying so much now, had you noticed?"
"Yeah. It was just hormones." Then she added, "But he's still a prick. Look!" She pointed at
herself. "What's wrong with this picture?"
"Nothing." She looked fantastic, all aglow and sporting a neat little bump. Then I noticed.
"You've got a chest!"
"Yes! For the first time ever. It's great having knockers."
L    uke opened the door. He had a needle sticking out of his forehead, like he was a unicorn.
"Gaz," he explained. "Gaz and his acupuncture. Happy Thanksgiving. Come on in."
Sitting around the dinner table were Gaz, Joey, and Rachel's friends Judy and Fergal. Shake
wasn't present. He'd gone to Newport to spend Thanksgiving with Brooke Edison's family.
Apparently, Shake and Brooke were having amazing sex; he'd told Luke she was "filthy."
Everyone had acupuncture needles sticking out of their foreheads; they were straight out of Star
Trek, like an alien council of war. Gaz jumped up when he saw me, his needle at the ready. "To
stimulate your endorphins."
"Okay," I said. "Go on. But I remember the days when we used to wear paper hats at this sort of
thing."
Gaz inserted the needle and I took my place. Dinner was just about to be served; I'd chosen my
time carefully: I hadn't wanted to be late but I didn't want to do any of that sitting-around
predinner-chatting stuff either.
Rachel emerged from the kitchen with a massive nut roast and plonked it on the table.

Immediately Gaz lunged at it.
"Oi," Rachel said. "Wait a minute. We've to say grace."
"Oh yeah, sorry."
Rachel bowed her head (chinging her needle against a Kombucha bottle) and said a little piece
about how lucky they all were, not just to be getting a yummy dinner, but for all the excellent
things in their lives.
Everyone nodded in agreement, their needles flashing in the candlelight.
"It's also timely," Rachel said, "to remember those who are no longer with us." She picked up
her glass of sparkling apple juice and said, "To absent friends." She paused, like she was fighting
back tears, and said, "To Aidan."
"To Aidan." Everyone raised their glasses. Everyone but me. I sat back in my chair and folded
my arms.
"Anna, it's a toast to Aidan." Gaz was scandalized.
"I know. I don't care. He had a child with someone else."
"But..."
"She's angry with him for dying," Rachel explained.
"Aidan couldn't help that," Gaz said.
"Her anger is illogical, but not invalid."
At that point I really felt like I was in an episode of Star Trek.
"Aidan couldn't help dying," Gaz repeated.
"And Anna can't help how she feels."
"Oh, would the pair of you just shut up," I said. "Anyway, I don't hate Aidan for dying."
"So why do you hate him?" Rachel said.
"I just do. Come on, Gaz. Set the curtains on fire, or something."

L    ater on, Joey cornered me. "Hey, Anna."
"Hey," I muttered, looking at the floor. These days I did my best never to speak to him.
"How's Jacqui doing?"
I looked up and stared in cold astonishment. I would have curled my lip if I'd been able, but
when I try lifting one side of my mouth, both sides go up, so it looks like I'm being examined for
gingivitis. "How's Jacqui doing? If you want to know how Jacqui is doing, why don't you pick
up the phone and ask her yourself?"
He glared at me, a long, long one, but he was the first to look away; no one could outstare me
these days. "Fine, then," he said angrily, "I will."
He got his cell phone out of his pocket and started punching buttons like they'd personally
offended him.
"I hope you're not trying her home phone because she's in Bermuda, on Jessie Cheadle's estate."
He stopped punching numbers. "Jessie Cheadle's estate?"
"Yes. Why? You thought she'd be spending Thanksgiving sitting alone in her apartment? Just her
and her fatherless fetus?"
"What's her cell number?"
I closed my mouth. I didn't want to tell him.
"It's okay," he said. "I've got it at home. You can tell me now or I can get it myself later."
Defeated, I rattled it off.
Another series of button punching, possibly less aggressive this time, and he said, like he was
Alexander Graham Bell making the first-ever phone call, "It's ringing! It's ringing!" Then his
entire body slumped with anticlimax. "Voice mail."
"Leave a message, you moron. That's what it's there for."
"Nah." He snapped the phone shut. "She probably wouldn't want to speak to me anyway." He
gave me a coy look but I made my face stay expressionless. I didn't know if she would want to
speak to him (she probably would, I feared) and I didn't know just how much he'd had to drink
--if this sudden interest in Jacqui's welfare would disappear just as soon as Thanksgiving was
over and his hangover had kicked in.

T    he minute Jacqui got home I reported the entire episode verbatim and she put it down to the
goodwill and overindulgence of the season. Her exact words were, "Pissed fool."
91
A    nna, this new `quantum leap' skin care? What do you know about it? I coulda sworn you
said something last time we had lunch."
My phone was ringing off the hook: beauty journos, their curiosity piqued.
"What have you heard about it?" I asked.
"That it's like nothing we've ever seen before."
"Yes, I heard that, too."
All through December the buzz around Formula Twelve built. Amid the craziness of Christmas
drinks and parties and shopping, the whispers intensified. "I heard it was from the Brazilian rain
forest." "Is it true that Devereaux is doing it?" "They say it's a supercream, like Cr�me de la
Mer, to the power of ten."
The time had almost arrived. I'd decided that Harper's was the magazine we were going for and
I set up a lunch with their beauty editor, Blythe Crisp, for early in the new year. "A very special
lunch," I promised her.
"End of January," I told Devereaux. "That's when we break it."
T    he nurse moved the scanner over Jacqui's gel-covered bump, paused, and said, "Looks like
you're having a little girl."
"Cool!" Jacqui punched the air from her prone position, nearly braining the woman. "A girl!
Much better clothes. What'll we call her, Anna?"
"Joella? Jodi? Joanne? Jo?"

In a sappy voice Jacqui said, "So Narky Joey will know how much I stiiilll love him. Or better
still! How about Nark-Ann? Or Narketta? Or Narkella?"
"Narkella!" The thought of calling the little girl Narkella struck us as so funny that we collapsed
into convulsions; the more we laughed, the funnier it became, until we were clutching each other
and apologizing weakly to the nurse for our unseemly behavior. Every time we thought we'd
stopped, one of us would say, "Narkella, tidy your room," or "Narkella, eat up your carrots," and
we'd explode again. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a belly laugh like it and it felt
great, like two ten-pound weights had been lifted from my shoulders.
In the cab home, I said, "What if Rachel and Luke ask about the scan?"
"What do you--oh, you mean, they might tell Joey?"
"Mmm."
She thought about it, then said, almost impatiently, "I suppose he'll have to know at some stage
that he's having a girl. Yeah." She was becoming defiant now. "I don't care what he knows. Tell
them what you like. Tell them all about Narkella."
"Grand. Fine. I just didn't want to do the wrong thing..." I let a little time elapse, then said, "In
all fairness, though, Jacqui, no stupid names."
"How d'you mean?"
"Foofoo, Pom-pom, Jiggy, that sort of thing. Call your baby something normal."
"Like what?"
"I dunno. Normal. Jacqui. Rachel. Brigit. No Honey, Sugar, Treacle--"
"Treacle! That's so cute. We could spell it with a K. And an il. Treakil. Ikkil Treakil."
"Jacqui, no, that's terrible, please..."
92
W       here's that invitation?" Mum shrieked. "Where's that fecking invitation?"
In the dining room, over the remains of our Christmas dinner, I exchanged perplexed looks with
Rachel, Helen, and Dad. A moment ago Mum had been on the phone to Auntie Imelda, and now
she was screeching and flinging things about in the kitchen.