If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (16 page)

‘Oh, you know, after one date, practically mapping out our whole future. Ordered the meal for me. Nearly went off his head when I took a call on my mobile from another guy in my class. Invited me to his brother’s wedding. In eight months’ time. And now he’s camped outside my front door checking up on me. Stalker Walker, I should call him.’

‘Sounds perfectly all right to me,’ says Fiona, as we all turn to look at her. ‘Well, what’s wrong with a fella being attentive?’ This, I should point out, was in the days when we were humble freshers in college, not long before she met the lovely Tim Keating.

‘Fiona, the guy practically has me under surveillance,’ snaps Kate.

‘Well, I’m just saying. If you’re not interested, maybe you’d set me up. One man’s meat and all that.’

Kate rolls over again in her sleep, and now I instinctively know it’s time for the
pièce de
résistance
.

God, if I say so myself, I am really getting good at this.

Right, then. We’re back in Mum’s living room yet again, except now a few more years have passed, and Mum and I are plonked on the snot-green sofa flicking through interior design magazines, with me trying to talk her into ripping up the sludgy carpet and sanding the wooden floors underneath. Then stripping off the bloody woodchip that’s been there since I was a baby, and setting fire to the corduroy curtains. Or getting a TV makeover show to film the kip, so it can be the ‘before’ on one of those ‘pimp my crib’ shows. Or, as a last resort, just putting a bomb under the place, claiming on the insurance, then heading off to the Bahamas for a fortnight.

Just then, we hear a key in the front door, and Mum immediately flings the magazines away and throws herself back on the sofa, knuckles clenched and staring rigidly ahead, like she’s strapped into a 747 that’s about to take off.

‘That’s them!’ she stage whispers. ‘Her with the
new fella! Now I don’t want to jinx it by saying that this could be The One, but I really do have high hopes this time round. So act natural, for God’s sake, will you!’

Then Kate breezes in, all smiles, and looking even prettier and more relaxed than I ever remember, in tight boot-cut jeans that she never wears any more, with her hair all loose and windswept and casual.

‘OK, guys, here he is,’ she beams at us, glowing, then goes back out to the hall outside. ‘Come on in,’ we can hear her coaxing. ‘It’s OK, they won’t bite.’

‘This,’ she introduces proudly, dragging a very familiar face in by the hand, ‘is Paul.’

So far, so good. There’s even a little half-smile on Kate’s face as she turns over, happily settling down into a deeper slumber. I’m just about to take her back to her first few magical dates with Perfect Paul, having cleverly reminded her of the string of morons she dated in the lead-up to meeting him. All those years that she spent spinning like a hamster on the dating wheel until that happy day, not so long ago, when she was at the races with a gang of her friends, and he sidled up to her and gave her a tip for the three-thirty. If the horse loses, he promised, I’ll make it up to you by taking you out to afternoon tea.

Now Kate has the worst luck with horses of anyone I know, and is always joking that bookies have to write up tickets especially for her and whatever poor unfortunate nag she backs, who invariably is still limping towards the finishing post at ten o’clock that night. However, as fate would have it . . . that one time, she actually won. And then was silently raging, as it meant the afternoon tea offer with her big hunky beefcake stranger was off. But Perfect Paul, true to his name, still insisted he’d bring her out for tea the following day, leaving Kate like a basket case back at home, trying on at least fifteen different outfits before hitting on something suitably chaste for a daytime date, but yet that still hinted at underlying sexiness beneath. Oh, and making me walk around her taking Polaroids, as she doesn’t fully trust mirrors for three-hundred-and-sixty-degree accuracy. All this bother just to meet a fella for a bloody pot of tea, I remember thinking at the time, thinking how old ladyish it all sounded, and half-wondering if this mystery man would turn out to be gayer than Christmas in Bloomingdales.

But, as usual, when it comes to judging guys, my radar was one hundred per cent wide of the mark. He picked her up on the dot, and . . . wait for it . . . took her to Ashford Castle for the tea . . . In County Mayo. Oh, and did I mention that he flew her there in a helicopter belonging to one of his rich developer friends? Hard to top a first date like that, particularly as, for me and Fiona, first dates usually involved a few warm glasses of white wine in a pub while whoever we were with drank himself into a stupor. Then whoever was the last man standing had to somehow figure out where the nearest Eddie Rockets was on the way home. And that’s only if we were lucky, and he happened to be one of the romantic ones.

‘He’s just such a nice guy,’ Kate kept saying over and over again, when she first started seeing Paul. Now, in my experience, whenever a woman describes a fella as ‘nice’ it basically means she’ll break up with him after a week, then spend the next seven years dating alcoholics in leather trousers. But, in this case, I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d tried. Within two months, they were engaged, and before the year was out, they were married. A real whirlwind if ever there was one, but somehow the speed at which it all happened didn’t matter. Why would it? They were
perfect
for each other.

Anyway, I’m just about to take Kate back to that happy, loved-up glow she first had after meeting Paul: how she couldn’t eat or sleep or do anything really, except talk about him and leap six feet into the air whenever he called her mobile, which was an average of about sixteen times a day, when . . . oh shit, I do NOT believe it. The phone on her bedside table starts pealing, and suddenly Kate’s wide awake and hauling herself up on one elbow to answer it.

‘Hello? Oh hi, Mum,’ she says sleepily, rubbing her eyes. ‘No . . . just dozing. Yeah . . . that’s fine . . . whatever time suits you . . . no, I’ll just hop in the shower, and I’ll be right there . . . I’m glad you rang, I was having the strangest dreams, actually.’

Here we go, I think smugly. About her nightmare exes which were all a warm-up act to the happy day when she met Perfect Paul, and how, for the first time, she fully appreciates what a wonderful, loving guy she has, and how bloody lucky she is.

I am SO going to earn angelic brownie points for this one. In fact I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Kate races after him, pausing only to pack a little overnight bag, then puts up with all the brood mares in his family gaping at her, just so she can spend time with her perfect man, all loved-up. Now that she’s been gently reminded of exactly how miserable life was without him, that is. In fact, if I can keep up this campaign of post-hypnotic suggestion for the next few nights, it’ll be candlelit suppers for two for the next month at least, and then, who knows what great joyous news that might soon lead to?

‘. . . no, Mum, more like a nightmare,’ she’s saying. ‘I kept dreaming about the time you had that horrific sludgy brown carpet with the woodchip wallpaper and the manky curtains. Eughhh, I need a shower just thinking about it. In fact, scrap that; I need a Silkwood scrubdown.’

Oh bugger, bugger, bugger.

Honest to God, I’d have more luck getting a message through to Alcatraz.

So
now
what?

Chapter Eleven

JAMES

Big day. Big, big, big, big, day, and to think, I’d almost forgotten. The scary pitch meeting later on this morning to try and cajole money out of their number-one investor, so James can inject it into his rubbishy idea for a TV series. Please don’t get me wrong, after hearing just how badly Meridius Movies is doing, my intentions are nothing more than to sit innocently on the sidelines, witnessing exactly how James and Declan get on. I’ll be an impassive observer and nothing more. Perhaps throwing in the odd insightful comment if I think things aren’t going too well for them. Because, let’s be honest here, their project is complete and utter shite. Anyway, cross my heart, the plan is to help and do good, benevolently imparting wisdom and sage advice from the side of the hedge I now find myself on. Hopefully without giving James a heart attack in the process. He doesn’t deserve it, but there you go. That’s just the kind of considerate and compassionate angel that I am. So, as usual, all I have to do is really concentrate, focus on him and no one else, and next thing I find myself right by his side.

Oh bugger. And immediately I wish I didn’t. Mainly because he’s on the loo, and now I’m plonked on the side of the bath beside him. With no visible means of escape.

Feck it, anyway.

‘Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, sure I’ll drop back later . . .’ I say. Then he does that hilarious thing of looking sharply around, like there’s a tape recorder hidden behind the cistern or something. I try to get out, but of course, can’t open the door.

‘James? It’s me again. Now don’t panic, I’m not here to cause trouble today, I know how important this meeting is for you. Just think of me as a casual observer, that’s all. A bit like a UN weapons inspector. Damn all use to anyone, yet comforting just to know they’re there. But if you wouldn’t mind just getting the door for me, it’s just that I’m not great with physical stuff like door handles . . .’

His eyes shoot around, all panicky, and getting bulgier by the second. Then he starts doing deep soothing breaths, like in a yoga class. In for two, out for four, in for two, out for four.

‘I am having hallucinations caused by stress,’ he mumbles slowly, slowly, slowly, closing his eyes and gently rubbing his face, like the skin’s about to physically melt off it. ‘Exhaustion, strain and overwork, that’s all that’s wrong here . . .’

It’s actually funny. Him on the loo convinced he’s losing his reason, and me only trying to get out the door and away from him asap.

‘James, really it’s OK, I’m here to help, really. Now if you can just let me out . . .’

‘A long, long holiday,’ he murmurs, and I’m not messing, he’s actually rocking back and forth as he says it. Like an extra in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. ‘That’s what I need. Way too much has been going on, and no one needs a break like I do. Beach, sun, no phones, no emails, no pressure, no stress, no money worries, no meetings, and most of all NO Charlotte’s voice inside my head, telling me that she’s here, now, in the bathroom with me . . .’

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there’s a dull thumpety thump on the bathroom door, and now it’s my turn to nearly get a heart attack. Then . . . I do NOT believe this . . . an all-too-familiar screechy, breathy voice.

‘Jamie, sweetheart? Are you OK in there? You’re doing that thing of talking to yourself again, and you’re worrying me.’

More door thumping, getting insistent now.

‘Am I
hearing
things?’ I say, completely and utterly gobsmacked. ‘Or are you telling me that . . .’

‘Pressure can manifest in many strange and unusual ways,’ says James, eyes closed, still swaying. ‘But remember, I’m a tiger. I’m a tiger, I’m a tiger. I thrive on pressure. I eat nerves and shit success.’

‘Jamie?’ says Little Miss Screechy from outside. ‘Answer me, will you? You’re starting to give me a fright. This is like a repeat of yesterday evening all over again. And what are you going on about tigers for?’

I turn to look at him, and I’m only raging the bastard can’t see the expression of horror and disgust that must be carved in stone on my stunned face.

‘Are you honestly telling me that Sophie
stayed
here? She actually slept the night here? In our bed? In our room?’

I can barely stammer the words out, but, if I needed actual proof, James then hops off the loo, pulls up his trousers, flings open the bathroom door, and there she is, Screechy Voice herself. She’s wearing one of his white shirts and nothing else, bare legs immaculately fake-tanned and waxed, and toenails freshly pedicured, with all the blond confidence you’d normally only see in a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Bed sheets in total disarray and the T-shirt and jeans she had on yesterday strewn carelessly across the floor. Just in case I really needed it hammered home to my poor, disbelieving eyes.

Oh, for f*ck’s sake.

For a split second I actually think I’m going to be sick. Instead, I slump back down against the bathroom door, in total and utter shock. I mean, yes, I knew James was a complete cackhead, but I at least thought, out of respect for my memory, he’d cooled things off with his girlfriend. For form’s sake, if nothing else. But what happens? I take my watchful gaze off him for one bloody night and he moves Miss Screechy Voice in. After the row I witnessed between the two of them on the street last night. After seeing, with my own two eyes, him practically leaping into a taxi just to get away from her. She must have trailed after him, landed on the front doorstep, somehow inveigled her way around him and, true to form, he bloody well let her. Unbelievable, just unbelievable.

Did I say that I was going to try to help him at this big meeting? Because, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint and all that, but there’s just been a major change of plan.

About half an hour later, James is behind the wheel of his flashy little black Porsche. (Well, what else would you expect him to drive? Honest to God, their ad might as well say, ‘Buy a Porsche. The Choice of Wankers.’) I’m right beside him, in the passenger seat, not a word out of me, just staring furiously ahead, tight-lipped and still in shock. I never would have thought that ghosts could behave snottily, but there you go; it seems you never stop learning, even beyond the grave. James and Screechy Voice parted company back at the house,
our
house, in
our
front garden, with her waving him off, like she already lives there, insisting she’ll see him later on and that she’s so sure the meeting will go well that they can really celebrate in style tonight.

I just stood there looking at the two of them, still stunned, thinking that, after this, I honestly won’t be happy until I see James’s whole life go up in smoke.

It’s at times like this I really wish I had the use of my limbs, if only just to give her car tyres a right good kicking, and then to knee him in the goolies. And don’t tell me the pair of them haven’t asked for it.

Anyway, at ten fifty-nine on the dot (this, believe me, is not a meeting you’d want to be late for) we finally arrive, after about a forty-minute drive all the way to County Kildare, via countless twisty turny lanes. Pretty soon, the houses gradually turn into mansions and their gardens, sorry, their
grounds
, seem to be so vast that each one is about eight miles away from the nearest neigh-bours, separated by high fences with granite walls all around the perimeter. I know rich people are different to the rest of us, but it does make me wonder the lengths you’d have to go to if you were unfortunate enough to run out of milk late at night, and had to drive five miles to your nearest Spar, or else brave security gates, CCTV cameras and probably a horde of ravenous guard dogs at a neighbour’s house, just so you could borrow a carton of Avonmore from them.

Declan’s here ahead of us, and has pulled over beside a high electronic security gate with a very scary looking sign on it, threatening that this is private property and that trespassers WILL be prosecuted. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, there’s also a drawing of a security guard with a Dobermann on a lead, enough to make me want to run for the hills.

I should explain. My relations with Dobermanns are thus: I am terrified of them, and they somehow smell the fear and manage to make it all so, so much worse. Like the way a cat will always make a beeline for the one person in the room who’s allergic to them, Dobermanns somehow instinctively sense that I’m terrified, and I’m therefore, naturally, their first target. Our neighbour has one; a particularly scary looking monster with the highly inappropriate name of Mrs Fluffles, and every time the mutt is out in the front garden, cue hysterical, mortified phone calls from me to said neighbour pleading with her to bring in the savage, salivating beast just long enough for me to run to my car without being mauled and scarred for life. James, of course, finds my fear hilarious, and often goes over the fence purposely to pet Mrs Fluffles and make me feel like a total scaredycat/roaring eejit/pathetic coward in the process.

Charming, sensitive man, isn’t he?

Anyway, there’s a wall around the property about fif-teen feet high, with the name of the place discreetly written on a brass plaque embedded into the security gate.

Four Knots Stud.

Yeah, right. Fort Knox, more like.

A second after spotting us, Declan hops out of his car and indicates to James that he’ll press the intercom to buzz both of them in. Stressing just how important this meeting is to them, Declan has for once ditched the rock daddy gear and is wearing an actual suit. James just waves imperiously at him, shades pushed up into his hair, looking like an Eastern European pimp. And I still haven’t opened my gob, on the principle that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, and I really,
really
want to pick my moment here. A minute later, the steel gates slowly swing open and we’re away . . . down a gravelled driveway so long that you can’t even see the house from it. Honestly, there are five-star country hotels that pale in comparison, and at one stage I even spot someone driving around in a golf buggy. On and on we go, past rolling, manicured meadows on each side of us, and eventually, after what feels like about three-quarters of an hour, we eventually pull up at a house that looks just like Scarlett O’Hara’s in
Gone With the Wind
. There’s even an actual peacock on the lawn outside, strutting around for pure show and nothing else. All I can think is, my mother, who loves nothing more than having a good nose around other people’s gardens, would have a field day gawping around here. Particularly as there’s not a garden gnome or a boxed hedge in sight, her two personal pet peeves.

We park behind Declan, hop out, and clamber up the dozen or so stone steps that lead up to what has to be the most imposing front door this side of the pearly gates. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Firsthand experience and all that. Poor old Declan is laden down with files and folders and a briefcase, and you can practically feel the nerves hopping off him, while my gobshite ex-boyfriend actually has the bare-faced cheek to look relaxed and cool. Like he’s a guest arriving for a few rounds of golf before drinks and a cosy dinner with the host. After a discreet length of time, the door is opened by a real live butler, a dead ringer for Michael Caine in
Batman
. He’s far too polite and posh to ask for names, he just does a little half-bow and says, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Sir William is expecting you. If you’d care to come this way, please.’

And we’re off again, trailing through a marble-floored hall the approximate size of the Natural History Museum, completely covered in paintings that I know by looking at them must be old masters. One I even recognize from the cover of a history book I had in third year. To the left is what looks like a giant library, and I’m half-expecting us to be led in there and for the famous Sir William to swirl around in a big leather armchair, like the baddie in a James Bond movie, stroking a white Persian cat and coming out with lines like, ‘Not so fast, Mr Bond.’

But we’re not. Instead we’re ushered through some frighteningly chic French double doors and out on to a beautiful sun-soaked terrace, with a water feature that would put the one in Versailles to shame tinkling elegantly away in the background. In the far distance, I can just about make out someone galloping on a horse that looks about ready for the Grand National and that’s probably won countless other major races already, given how vastly, bottomlessly wealthy our host is. And dadaaaaaa, there he is, the man himself, the mighty Sir William, wearing a dressing gown and with a pair of binoculars around his neck, studying the horse that’s just a tiny speck on the horizon. Small, red-faced and portly with it; out of shape, even for an Irish person.

‘Ah, there’s the lads now,’ he says, spotting us and shaking hands warmly. One of those big firm, knuckle-cracking handshakes. ‘How are you all, great to see you, yeah, lovely day for it. If I’d known youse were going to be on time, I’d have put clothes on, ha ha.’

OK, I should probably fill you in a bit.

The oligarch we now see before us, he with a finger in just about every pie going in the world of Irish business, was actually born into far humbler surroundings than the palazzo we’re in now. Sir William actually started out life as plain old Billy Eames, and grew up selling fruit and vegetables from a barrow on Moore Street with his granny, supporting about sixteen younger brothers and sisters along the way, all of whom had either scurvy, typhoid or polio. They lived in a two-up, two-down corporation house in the inner city, and had to sleep seven to a bed under piles of coats to keep warm in the winter. Oh yeah, and hide behind the few meagre sticks of furniture they had whenever the landlord called to collect the rent money. I’m sure it wasn’t a bit like that in reality, but you know how urban myths are: once they sprout wings, it’s as good as biography. In fact, to listen to the stories of Billy’s . . . sorry, I mean Sir William’s, early life, you’d nearly confuse his formative years with that
Monty Python
sketch about the Yorkshire men who compete with each other to see who actually grew up in the harshest poverty. It’s all documented, and I’m sure exaggerated way out of all proportion, in his self-mythologizing autobiography
It’s A Long Way From Robbing Penny
Apples
.