Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (45 page)

She flung open the dining-room door and paused at the threshold, breathing heavily, like a
rhinoceros. In her hand she held the twig-and-papyrus wedding invitation. Her eyes sought
Rachel's.
"You're not getting married in a church," she said thickly.
"No," Rachel said calmly. "Like it says on the invitation, Luke and I are having a blessing in a
Quaker hall."
"You made me think it was a church and I have to find out from my own sister--who
incidentally got a Lexus for her Christmas box; I get a trousers press, she gets a Lexus--that
you're not getting married in a church."
"I never said it was a church. You simply chose to assume it."
"And who'll be carrying out this so-called"--she almost spat the word--"blessing? Any chance
it might be a Catholic priest?"
"It's a friend of mine, a minister."
"What kind of minister?"
"A freelance one."
"And this would be one of your `recovery' friends?" Mum sneered. "Well, I've heard it all now.
Between that and the sugar-snap peas, no one at all belonging to me will come. Not that I want
them to be there."
Mum's fury set the tone for what remained of the Christmas period. What made her even more
angry was that she didn't have the option of bending Rachel's will to hers by threatening to
withdraw funding, because Luke and Rachel were paying most of the costs themselves.
"It's a joke," she raged impotently. "It's not a wedding, it's a travesty. A `blessing' no less! Well,
she can count me out. And there was me worried about the color of her dress. If she's not getting
married in a church, she can wear any color she shagging well likes."
But not everyone was upset by Rachel's not-getting-married-in-a-church news. Dad was secretly
thrilled because he thought that if it wasn't a "proper" wedding he wouldn't have to make a
speech. Rachel, too, was serene and unflappable.
"Aren't you upset?" I asked. "Do you mind getting married without Mum and Dad being there?"
"She'll be there. Do you honestly think she'd miss it? It would kill her."

I hunkered down and hid in soppy films and chocolate Kimberley biscuits and counted the days
until I got back to New York. I'd never been that keen on Christmas, it always seemed to involve
more fights than usual, but I was finding this one particularly tough.
Janie had sent me a Christmas card, which was a photo of "little Jack" in a Santa hat--she kept
writing and sending photos and saying we could meet whenever I wanted. The Maddoxes were
also badgering me to meet "little Jack" and I was still stonewalling them. I would never meet
him.
93
C    hopper's taken off," the man with the walkie-talkie said. "Blythe Crisp on board. ETA
twenty-seven after twelve."
To create the necessary air of drama around Formula Twelve, I was having Blythe Crisp
helicoptered from the roof of the Harper's building to a hundred-and-twenty-foot yacht, moored
in New York Harbor. (Hired for only four hours, unfortunately, and four very expensive hours at
that.)
Even though the weather was freezing--it was January 4--and the water was choppy, I thought
the yacht was a nice touch; it smacked a little of drug smuggling.
I got up and paced the cabin--just because I could. I had never before been on a yacht that was
big enough to pace in. In fact, I don't think I'd ever been on a yacht at all.
After some good, enjoyable pacing, I thought I could hear a helicopter. "Is that it?" I strained to
listen.
Walkie-talkie man checked his big, black, waterproof, nuclear-bomb-proof watch. "Right on
time."
"Stations, everyone," I said. "Don't let her get wet," I called after him. "Don't do anything to
annoy her."
Inside a minute, a bone-dry Blythe was click-clicking down the parquet hallway in high leather
boots, to where I was waiting in the main salon, champagne already poured. "Anna, my God,
what's all this about? The chopper, this...boat?"
"Confidentiality. I couldn't risk our conversation being overheard."
"Why? What's going on?"

"Sit down, Blythe. Champagne? Gummi Bears?" I'd done my research; she loved Gummi Bears.
"Okay, I've got something for you but I want it in the March issue." The March issue was due to
come out at the end of January.
She shook her head. "Oh, Anna, you know I can't. It's too late, we've put March to bed. It's
about to go to the printers."
"Let me show you what this is about." I clapped my hands (I really enjoyed that bit, I felt like a
baddie in a James Bond movie) and a white-gloved waiter brought in a small heavy box on a tray
and presented it to her. (We'd rehearsed it several times earlier.)
Wide-eyed, Blythe took it, opened it up, stared into it for a long moment, and whispered, "Oh my
God, this is it. The supercream of supercreams. It's real."
All right, so it wasn't a cure for cancer, so it was only face cream, but it was still a proud
moment.
"I'll just go wake March up," she said.
After the chopper had whisked her back uptown, I rang Leonard Daly at Devereaux. "It's a go."
"Take the rest of the day off." A joke, of course. I had tons to do and now that Formula Twelve
was about to officially exist, I had to set up our office. I wanted to locate the Formula Twelve
camp of desks as far away from Lauryn as possible; she was not happy, not at all happy that I'd
landed another job. She was even less happy that I was taking Teenie with me. My other assistant
was a bright young spark called Hannah--I'd stolen her from Warpo and saved her from a life of
terrible clothes. Her gratitude would guarantee loyalty.
O     n January 29, the March issue of Harper's hit the stands and immediately work went
mental. I emerged, a beautiful Formula Twelve butterfly from my Candy Grrrl chrysalis, and
paraded around in my charcoal suits for all to see.
94
C    heck them out. They're Jolly Girls for sure," Jacqui muttered.
"Just because they've got short hair. You can't judge."
"But they've got quiffs, matching ones!"

It was our first night at Perfect Birth class, and of the eight couples, only five were male-female.
But Jacqui was worried that she was the only woman there who had been deserted by her baby's
father.
Mind you, Joey had been ringing her from time to time. Well, at Christmas, New Year's Eve, and
on his birthday, to be precise--times, as she so rightly said, when he was drunk and mawkish--
and left rambling, apologetic messages on her machine. Jacqui never picked up and never rang
back, but she denied that she was being strong.
"If he rang me in the cold light of day with nothing in his system other than Gatorade, I might
talk to him," she said. "But I'm not making an arse of myself by believing declarations of love
made when he's jarred out of his jocks. Could you imagine it if I took him at his drunken word
and rang him back?"
Sometimes we acted it out: I'd be Joey, leaving slurred messages on Jacqui's machine, while
Jacqui pretended to be a sappier version of herself, dabbing her eyes and saying, "Oh, he does
love me after all! I am so heppy, the heppiest girl alive. I shall ring him soonest."
Back to me, pretending to be Joey, waking up with a hangover and looking nervously at his
phone as Jacqui said, "Ring ring, ring ring."
"Hello," I'd say narkily, answering the imaginary phone.
"Joey!" Jacqui squealed. "It's me. I got your message. I knew you'd come round. How soon shall
we be merrhied?" For some reason in these scenarios she always pronounced married as
"merrhied" like we were in a period drama.
I'd throw down the invisible phone and break into a run and shout, "I want to join the witness
protection program," then we'd both shriek with laughter.
But at the Perfect Birth class, Jacqui wasn't laughing. She looked highly uncomfortable, and not
just because the whole thing was acutely Feathery Strokery. The facilitator was so good at yoga,
she could put the sole of her foot behind her ear. Her name was Quand-adora. "Which means
Spinner of Light," she said. But she didn't say in which language.
"Her own makey-uppy Feathery Strokery language," Jacqui said later. "Spinner of Shite, more
like."
Spinner of Light invited us all to sit cross-legged in a circle, sip ginger tea, and introduce
ourselves.
"I'm Dolores, Celia's birthing partner. I'm also Celia's sister."
"I'm Celia."
"I'm Ashley, this is my first baby."

"I'm Jurg, Ashley's husband and birthing partner."
When we got to the suspected Jolly Girls, Jacqui paid particular interest.
"I'm Ingrid," the pregnant one said, then the woman beside her said, "And I'm Krista, Ingrid's
birthing partner, and lover."
Jacqui nudged me with her pointy elbow.
"I'm Jacqui," Jacqui said. "My boyfriend broke up with me when he found out I was pregnant."
"And I'm Anna, I'm Jacqui's birthing partner. But not her lover. Um, not that it would matter if I
was."
"I'm sorry," Celia interrupted, looking anxious. "I didn't realize we would be sharing so much
information. Should I have said that I used a sperm donor?"
"Hey, so did we," Krista said. "It's no biggie."
"Share as much or as little as you feel comfortable sharing," Quand-adora said, the way her type
do. "Today we're going to focus on pain relief. How many of you plan to give birth in a birthing
pool?"
Lots of hands went up. Cripes! Seven of them were. Jacqui was the only one who wasn't.
"Gas and air are available in the birthing pools," Quand-adora said. "But over the next six weeks,
I'm going to share with you some wonderful techniques, so you won't need them. Jacqui, did
you have any thoughts on pain relief?"
"Um, yeah, the thing, you know, the epidural."
As Jacqui said later, it wasn't that they looked disapproving; it was more that they looked sad for
her.
"Oo-kaay," Quand-adora said. "How about you don't make your mind up right now? How about
staying open to whatever energy comes your way?"
"Ah...sure."
"The first thing you must remember is that the pain is your friend. The pain is bringing your
baby to you, without the pain there would be no baby. So everybody close your eyes, find your
center, and begin to visualize the pain as a friendly force, as `a great golden ball of energy.'"
I hadn't known I had a center, but I did my best, and after we'd visualized for a good twenty
minutes or so, I learned how to massage Jacqui's lower back to provide pain relief, just in case
the visualization wasn't working, then we were shown a technique to slow the labor down. We

had to get on all fours, our bottoms in the air, panting like dogs on a hot day. Everyone had to do
it, even the nonpregnant people. It was quite fun, actually, especially the panting. Although
having my face right up against another woman's--Celia's, as I remember--nether regions was
rather disconcerting.
Jacqui and I were panting goodo, then we exchanged looks and stuck our tongues out and panted
a little harder.
"Do you know something?" she whispered. "That bastard doesn't know what he's missing."
95
A    s soon as January clicked over into February, the anniversary of Aidan's death began to
loom, like a big shadow. As the days passed, the shadow darkened. My stomach churned and I
had moments of real panic, a genuine expectation that something terrible might happen.
On the sixteenth of February I went to work as normal, but with superreal recall, I relived every
second of the same day the previous year. No one at work knew what day it was; they'd long
forgotten, and I didn't bother to tell them.
But by midafternoon I'd had enough. I invented an interview, left work, went home, and
commenced a vigil, counting down the minutes and seconds to the exact time of Aidan's death.
I'd wondered if, at the moment of impact from the other cab, I'd feel it again; a kind of psychic
action replay. But the time came and went and nothing happened and that didn't feel right. I'd
expected something. It was too huge, too massive, too terrible, to just feel nothing.
The seconds ticked away and I remembered us waiting in the wrecked car, the arrival of the
ambulance, the race to the hospital, Aidan being rushed into the operating room...
Closer and closer I got to the time he died and I have to admit that I was desperately--crazily--
hoping, that when the clock reached the exact second he'd left his body, a portal would open
between his world and mine and that he might appear to me, maybe even speak. But nothing
happened. No burst of energy in the room, no sudden heat, no rushing wind. Nothing.
Straight-backed, I sat staring at nothing and wondered: Now what happens?
The phone rang, that's what. People who'd remembered what day it was, checking that I was
okay.
Mum rang from Ireland and made sympathetic noises. "How are you sleeping these days?" she
asked.
"Not so good. I never get more than a couple of unbroken hours."

"God love you. Well, I've good news. Me, your father, and Helen are coming to New York on the
first of March."
"So soon? That's more than two weeks before the wedding." Oh God.
"We thought we'd have a little holiday while we were at it."
Mum and Dad loved New York. Dad was still mourning the end of Sex and the City; he said it
was "a marvelous show," and Mum's favorite joke of all time was "Can you tell me the way to
Forty-second Street or should I just go fuck myself?"
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
"We'll farm ourselves out. We'll spend the first week with you, then we'll see if we've made any
new friends who'll put us up."
"With me! But my apartment is tiny."
"It's not that small."
That wasn't what she'd said the first time she'd seen it. She'd said it was like Floor 7 1/2 in
Being John Malkovich.
"And we'll hardly be there. We'll be out all day shopping." In Daffy's and Conway's and all the
other manky discount stores that Jacqui and I wouldn't go to if you put a gun to our heads.
"But where will you all sleep?" I asked.
"Me and Dad will sleep in your bed. And Helen can sleep on the couch."
"But what about me? Where will I sleep?"
"Aren't you just after telling me that you hardly sleep at all? So it doesn't matter, does it? Have
you an armchair or something?"
"Yes. But--"
"Ha-ha, I'm only having you on! As if we'd stay in your place; there isn't room to swing a
mouse, never mind a cat. It's like that Floor Seven and a Half in Seeing Joe Mankivick. We're
staying in the Gramercy Lodge."
"The Gramercy Lodge? But didn't Dad get food poisoning the last time you stayed there?"
"He did, I suppose. But they know us there. And it's handy."
"Handy for what? Catching food poisoning?"