If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (23 page)

Fiona used to give me a desperate time about this, and would regularly beg me to either buy a shoebox apartment somewhere and rent it out so I’d at least have something to show for myself, or else pay James rent so it was a more equal economic relationship and I wouldn’t be under any obligation to him. But did I listen to her? Like hell. With my bowels withering with embarrassment, I can even recall primly telling her that quite apart from the fact that I couldn’t afford to buy anywhere, not on a lowly assistant’s salary, and although technically it
might have been
James’s house, with his name on the deeds etc., we loved and trusted each other so much that it was only a matter of time before we got married and it would end up being half mine anyway.

I’d say God must have had a great laugh at that particular episode in the twenty-eight-year long-running sitcom of my life. In fact that clip would have made it into ‘Charlotte Grey: Classic Comedy Moments’, in the DVD extras of my short, rubbishy little life.

James is still beside me, still staring uselessly into space, shell-shocked, when Screechy bounds in, wearing a flowery dress Carmen Miranda would have baulked at, and demanding to know how she looks for her audition.

‘Jamie, tell me the truth, do I still look young enough to play the part of a giggling ingénue to a T? Or rather, a tee hee?’ Then she goes off into a peal of screechy laughter at her own gag.

‘Unless the show is
South Pacific
,’ I cut in over her, ‘tell her she looks like a fiesta
del
failure.’

James shakes his head at the sound of me, wincing, like he’s just been stung by a wasp. But, unbelievably for someone who’s insensitive enough to move into a dead girl’s bedroom with her ex-boyfriend, then parade around in her dressing gown, Screechy looks at him askance, and seems to pick up on his dark mood.

‘What’s up, Jamie honey? What’s in that letter? It looks like . . . something official. Parking fine? Jury duty?’

He doesn’t answer her at first, just slowly palms his eyes, then hops up, stubs out the cigarette, grabs his car keys, and in a single bound is over to the hall door, suddenly in a mad, tearing rush to get out of there. Then he turns around, like this is the first time he’s even noticed she’s in the room.

‘This? This is nothing, babe,’ he grins, shoving the letter from the bank into his jeans pocket. ‘Hey, you know what? I once had to shoot an adaptation of
Little Women
where three out of the four lead actresses all pulled out the week before principal photography. This, believe you me, is nothing.’

Minutes later, we’re in his car, he’s on the phone, and I’m listening in to every word, like a radio play.

‘We understand how regrettable this situation is, Mr Kane,’ the bank manager is saying, over the car’s Bluetooth sound system. A nasally, thin, weedy voice which immediately gives me a mental picture of some kind of rodent. ‘But sadly, we feel we’ve extended every courtesy to you, and now we’re left with no choice but to proceed with the course of action outlined to you by registered mail.’

Clearly uncomfortable with the word ‘repossession’, then.

‘Yes, but you have to understand that in my business things are in a perpetual state of highs and lows,’ says James, brimming over with misguided confidence, while I’m beside him, shrivelling up with mortification, glad I never owned a home in my whole life, so I never, ever,
ever
had to have a conversation like this. ‘I need for you to bear with me, that’s all. I can guarantee that in three months’ time, when finance is in place for my next TV project, all arrears will be paid in full. With interest. With penalties. With anything you want. Come on, you’ve been dealing with me for a long time, you know I’m good for it. Can’t you just be patient? Is that too much to ask for?’

‘From our viewpoint, Mr Kane, sadly the answer is yes. It is too much to ask for. We don’t make exceptions when mortgages are almost eleven months in arrears. Plus we feel that our patience has already been stretched to breaking point. It’s regrettable, but there you have it. I would strongly suggest that you call into the branch as a matter of urgency . . .’

The irony is, there’s me feeling like I could throw up at the thought of the house being repossessed, even though I never technically owned it, and am already dead, so it’s not like they can throw me into debtor’s prison or anything, but Mr Cool Hand James actually interrupts his bank manager to tell him that he’s another call coming through, and that he’ll call him back. I mean, I’ve heard of being overly self-assured but this is really taking the piss.

‘Just so you know?’ I say to him. ‘If you honestly think that treating the man who has the power to make you homeless, like someone you can just brush off the phone is a good idea, then . . . then . . .’

‘Jesus,’ he says, swerving the car at the sound of my voice. Just then the oh-so-urgent other call comes through on the speakers, and once again, I’m tuning into a radio play.

‘Ehh . . . hello? Is that James Kane?’ says a deep, baritone voice, putting me in mind of an opera singer who weighs in at about twenty stone.

‘Speaking. Is that . . . ?’

‘Thaddeus Byrne here. I hope this call isn’t interrupting you?’

Thaddeus Byrne . . . I immediately start racking my brains to drum up where I know that name from. Then it hits me. The ex-priest. Author of
Let He Without Sin
. The book which James paid through the nose to option, for his famous more-boring-than-watching-back-to-back-reruns-of-
Big-Brother
, non-existent, practically unfinanceable TV series.

‘Hey, Thaddeus, man, great to hear from you!’ smarms cackhead. ‘All good with you?’

‘Well . . . actually . . .’ comes the booming baritone, and call it angel’s intuition but I know, just know in my waters, that there’s trouble ahead. ‘I’ve just had a call from Declan at Meridius Movies,’ Thaddeus eventually says, or rather bellows. ‘About your meeting with Sir William Eames?’

‘Yeah, yeah?’ says James, and it’s only a measure of how important to the company Thaddeus is that he doesn’t come out with his usual, unbelievably rude catchphrase: ‘Whatever it is, gimme the last sentence first.’

‘Declan said that finance for bringing my book to the screen has effectively fallen through.’

A snorty, disparaging laugh from James. ‘Complete nonsense, Thaddeus, and you have my word as a gentleman on that.’

‘Your word as a
what
?’ I spit out, almost making him crash the car. Shite. I better shut up if I want to find out what this call is all about.

‘That’s not what your colleague at Meridius is saying. Also, he’s suggesting that we now look at a possible co-production to get this off the ground.’

‘That’s one hundred per cent right,’ says James with such conviction I’m almost forgetting that he’s the one who normally baulks at the very mention of a co-production. ‘Yeah, we’re actively looking into possibly putting something together with the BBC, and I’m confident that I’ll have news for you asap.’

‘James,’ says Thaddeus gently, but then as an ex-priest, I suppose he’s no stranger to treating people with extreme sensitivity. ‘I’ve just told your colleague, and I feel it’s only fair to tell you, too, that I’m deeply unhappy with this latest twist in, may I say, a catalogue of one delay and setback after another. It’s amateurish to say the least. Also, from where I’m standing, it’s starting to reek of unprofessional, unacceptable behaviour.’

OK, maybe not so hot on sensitivity, then.

‘Yes, but, Thaddeus, this is the way that the TV business works, delays are par for the course . . .’

‘You’ve had the rights to my book for almost two years now, and nothing’s happened. I could have sold them to a dozen other production companies, but I gave them to you because you faithfully promised that the project would be fast-tracked and hitting the screens while the book was still on the bestseller lists. You’re an experienced producer, James, so you hardly need me to point out to you that that hasn’t happened. You sat on the rights and did nothing.’

James is sweating now, actually sweating, which
never
happens.

‘Yes, but in our business, this is par for the course. We’re currently sounding out the
right
TV company to co-produce this astonishing project, and let me tell you something, you have no idea the money that will be injected into this. The production values I’m planning will be through the roof. Think shooting in sepia, think intercutting with Pathe newsreel footage from the fifties, think jangly piano music . . .’

Typical James Kane dazzle-them-with-shite talk.

But, by the sounds of it, he picked the wrong person to schmooze.

‘James,’ thunders the voice over the speakers, sounding more and more like James Earl Jones. ‘You don’t understand. I’ve been listening to this from you for two full years. Your time’s up.’

‘I’m sorry, Thaddeus,’ says James, nearly hitting a cyclist that’s meandered out in front of us. ‘
What
did you just say?’

‘That, as you’re well aware, my contract with you runs out at the end of this month. And I thought it only right that I should let you know I won’t be renewing it.’

Strike three takes place all of half an hour later. In the upstairs office at Meridius Movies, where poor, unknowing Declan is at his desk on the phone, when James bursts in, flames practically shooting out of his nostrils.

‘What the fuck did you think you were doing, telling Thaddeus Byrne that we couldn’t get finance for his TV series?’

‘I’ll ring you back,’ says Dec, tactfully ending his call, then hanging up.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘I heard you,’ says Dec, cooler, still in control. ‘The answer is, I dunno, maybe telling the truth? Affording one of the elder statesmen of literature in this country the courtesy of letting him know exactly where we stand on this project? Have you any problem with that?’

‘Emm . . . why don’t I go out and get us all some . . . emm . . . lattes?’ says Hannah from her corner desk. I’m so engrossed in the row that’s brewing that I never even noticed her quietly sitting there. James ignores her as she grabs her bag and slips out. Not even flirting, not even eyeing her up. He
must
be annoyed.

Good.

‘He’s withdrawn the rights, because of what you just said to him, Dec. Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, leaves us with precisely nothing. No product.
Nothing
on the table. Nothing in the pipeline. I don’t get you, why couldn’t you have kept your fucking mouth shut? I’d have strung Thaddeus along and probably had a co-production in place by the end of the week.’

‘Well, I don’t happen to think that it’s OK to string people along, as you put it,’ Declan bats back, keeping his voice steady and letting James do all the roaring. Bloody hell, Dec is certainly good in a row. Tough and firm. In fact, if it wasn’t for the still-living-with-his-mammy thing, I’d nearly start to find him attractive.

‘You’re nothing but a big-mouthed arsehole,’ James roars at him, ‘and I hold you personally responsible for us losing those rights.
Now
what are we going to do?’

‘James, you need to listen to me, because I’ll only say this once. Are you aware that I’ve been here all morning, in fact, pretty much all week, trying, pleading, begging anyone to come in and co-produce with us? And you want to know the answers I’m getting? No. Because no one in the town wants to work with you. That’s why. And to be brutally honest, I can see exactly where they’re coming from. You’re boorish, you’re difficult, you wouldn’t know a schedule if it walked up and introduced itself to you . . .’

‘That is such horseshit . . .’

‘. . . you lie so much, I sometimes wonder if it’s something pathological in you . . .’

‘. . . oh, piss off with yourself . . .’

‘. . . you seem to think scruples is a hairdresser’s on Leeson Street . . .’

‘. . . bollocks . . .’

‘. . . you don’t pay people properly, me included. You spend money you don’t even have . . .’

‘. . . complete crap . . .’

‘. . . you think you can manipulate everyone around you just by charming your way around them . . .’

‘. . . can I get a word in here, please?’

‘. . . you mistreat actors and actresses, bar the ones you want to shag . . .’

‘Don’t fucking talk to me like that, do you realize the day I’m having? And now I have to take this shit from you?’

‘Well,’ says Declan, drawing himself up to his full height with great, unyielding dignity. ‘Let me tell you something. Your day is about to get a whole lot worse.’

‘Jesus, what now?’

‘I quit.’

Chapter Fifteen

FIONA

. . . has started making faux calls. I know because I catch her at it, back at her house later on that evening, when school’s out for the day. You know, picking up her mobile, blocking her number (clearly, she’s not new to this lark), then ringing a certain other number, then hanging up after the phone’s rung only once or twice. Next thing, she’s putting the kettle on, then parading up and down the rug in front of her fireplace, rehearsing a speech out loud and doing the dance of the faux call.

It goes a bit like this.

Three paces to the right, then three to the left, then she grabs the fireplace with both hands and shouts out loud, ‘For Jaysus sake, he’s only a fella! With a receding hairline!’ This is then followed by four paces across the room to where her mobile is perched on the sofa, picking it up, clutching it to her bosom like a prop dagger in a Shakespeare play, then hurling it back on to the sofa and striding towards the kitchen to check and see if the kettle’s boiled in the meantime. She repeats this about three times, all the while saying, then self-editing, then abusing her speech.

‘“Emm . . . Tim! Hi! Long time no hear!” Shite. Too casual. Too bright and breezy for a guy whose marriage has just broken up. Also, why the hell am I sucking my stomach in? It’s the
phone
for God’s sake, it’s not like he can see me. OK, take two. Try telling the truth.’

She clears her throat then puts on this sexier, breathier voice.

‘“Ahem, ehem. Tim, Fiona here. Wilson, you roaring eejit. Before you pick yourself up off the ground in shock at my calling you after all this time, let me tell you the chain of events that led to this. You see, I had the most mental dream that you and Ayesha broke up and I just wanted to get in touch to commiserate . . .” (
Then back to her normal voice, thank God
.) NO!! Total crap
AND
a barefaced lie. I did a jig for pure joy when I heard that the beautiful rumour was true, that you’d finally seen the light about Miss Ayesha, she of the amber, tangerine and burnt-orange false-tan palette. OK, scrap that, take three.

‘“Ahem, ahem. Tim, you won’t believe this, but for absolutely no reason at all you were on my mind, so out of the blue, I decided to get in touch. But of course I only had your UK number. Then I called your mum to get your new Irish mobile number, just so you and I could have a long overdue catch-up chat. For no other reason, no ulterior motives whatsoever, cross my heart. Imagine my astonishment when she said you and Ayesha had split up . . .” (
The normal voice again
.) SHITE!! A Leaving Cert English student would phrase that better. And an amateur actress would make it sound more convincing. Right then, take four.’

Then, in sympathetic tones of condolence I haven’t heard since Dad’s funeral, off she goes again.

‘“Tim, Fiona here. I heard the news. About you and Ayesha, that is. And I just want to say . . . say . . .” (
Normal voice
.)
Oh, for God’s sake, say what? “Now that you’re back on the market again, how about we hook up?”’

She pours herself a cuppa, with hands trembling so much that it’s a minor miracle she doesn’t scald herself. She takes a sip, burns her mouth, curses, then goes back to where the mobile is looking at her accusingly from the sofa.

Cue take five.

‘“Look, Tim, I know you’ll think it’s a bit odd hearing from me after all these years, but the fact is, you’re newly single and the last guy I dated might as well have had three sixes carved into the back of his scalp. So . . . so . . .”’ Then she breaks off, and dives into a pack of chocolate digestives on the coffee table in front of her, then starts yelling at the telly.

‘THIS,’ she says, stuffing her face, ‘is all your bloody doing, Madam Charlotte. Putting these thoughts into my head. I was perfectly happy until you started messing round with my psyche.’

I sit beside her and put my feet up on the table.

‘But you have to admit I was right, though. Didn’t Tim’s mother confirm what I told you? He’s single, and if it wasn’t for me, you’d never have known. No need to thank me, love, that’s what we guardian angels are for. All in a day’s work.’

But she’s on her feet again, about to make one last faux call. She picks up the mobile, punches in all but the last digit of his number, then holds the phone against her mouth and starts muttering to herself again.

‘What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just go through with this? He has a bald patch, for God’s sake. And an ex-wife and two kids, baggage you’d need a container-load for; he should be down on his knees, thanking his lucky stars,
thrilled
to hear from me . . .’ She lets out a shuddery sigh so deep it practically comes from her shoes, then clicks off the phone.

‘Oh, make a bloody choice, Hamlet.’ I’m pleading to deaf ears, but just at that second, her mobile beep-beeps suddenly and sharply as a message comes through.

‘Jesus Christ!’ we both say together, clutching our chests in unison with the fright, like a pair of pantomime dames minus the garish costumes.

It’s an email which the two of us read together, side by side.

Blah, blah, blah.

She smiles, then wavers a bit as she’s reading it, and I can practically see her wondering whether she should give him a whirl or not.

Which clearly means it’s time for me to step in.

Honestly, these mortals haven’t the first clue what’s good for them. I don’t know what they’d do without me, I really don’t.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Fiona’s tucked up in bed and sound asleep, so in I go.

‘Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up, I’ve something to show you.’ OK, so maybe I neglected to tell her that it’s not necessarily something she’ll like, but like a parent with a bold child, I’m only doing this for her own good. After much tossing and turning, she eventually notices me sitting on the edge of her bed.

‘Charlotte! Oh my God, I’ve so much to tell you.’

‘You don’t need to, I already know.’

‘Know what?’

‘About your twenty-five failed attempts to call Tim, you big wussbag.’

‘Oh . . . emm . . . that.’

‘Have I let you down once? Ever since you started dreaming about me, have I fed you one single false bit of info?’

‘Emm . . . well . . . no . . . but . . .’

‘So what’s with all the faux calls? Honestly, you spend half your time moaning and whingeing about being single, then when I present you with a golden opportunity like this, you start acting like a twelve-year-old girl.’

‘Is that why you’ve come back to haunt me? Are my dreams going to be like some kind of war room till I agree to call him?’

‘Ehh . . . pretty much, yeah.’

‘Because I’m almost getting afraid to go asleep. This is like
Nightmare on Elm Street
.’

‘It’s for your own good, you know.’

‘You should have seen me trying to ring his mother last night. I had to have two full glasses of wine before I could even bring myself to do that.’

‘I’m actually raging I missed it. I could have done with seeing the look on your face when you found out what I’d been trying to drum into you all along was true, and that Tim is a free man again. But I was with Kate last night and haven’t figured out the art of bi-location yet.’

‘Besides,’ says Fi insistently, ‘the best I can ever hope for with Tim is that we become friends again. I mean, it’s years since we dated. So aren’t we jumping to conclusions to think that he’ll say, “Oh, great to hear from you out of the blue like this, Fi, what a daft mistake I made marrying Tangerine Head, please come back into my life, and let’s live happily ever after?”’

‘How will you know unless you call him? What are you, psychic?’

But she’s gone off on a tangent, acting out Tim’s dialogue in the phone-call-to-be.

‘“Oh, Fiona Wilson?”’ she says sarcastically, doing Tim. Or rather, trying to. ‘“Yeah, I remember you, ex-love of my life. And now that the word’s got out that I’m separated, you’re straight on to my mum to try and track me down . . . say, tell me this, Fi, are things really that tough for single women in Dublin that exes from years ago are back on the menu again? Who in the name of Jaysus do you think you and I are, anyway? Prince Charles and Camilla?”’

‘I understand you’re apprehensive,’ I say soothingly, ‘but to let him slip through your fingers once is a misfortune. Twice is just carelessness.’

‘Oh, that’s not fair, what about the vet guy? He asked me out to dinner, you know.’

‘The man who stood you up? And who would probably have no difficulty whatsoever doing it again? If you arrange to meet him, you’re a worse eejit than I took you for. Mark my words, he’ll leave you sitting pretty in a restaurant all over again because a kitten farted somewhere in Carlow and he just
has
to be there.’

‘What is this . . . do you get some kind of kick out of bullying me?’

‘No, that was an unexpected bonus. Now take my hand, we’ve work to do.’

She’s used to me by this stage, because she does as I ask without my having to arm-wrestle her, and away we go.

She opens her eyes . . . and discovers that we’re right back where we started, in her house, this time in the living room, though. Except that it’s changed completely. Instead of looking fresh and new and all Ikea’d the way it usually does, now it’s tired and mangy with damp patches on the walls. Not a touch I’m particularly proud of, but needs must. In the corner beside the fireplace, there’s the saddest-looking Christmas tree you ever saw, covered in faded tinsel, with the tinfoil starting to peel off the edges. The TV’s on in the corner, some Christmas Day compilation show, while Fiona sits on the sofa, with an opened selection box in front of her.

Then she notices what she’s wearing.

OK, OK, so I may have overdone it just the teeeeeeniest bit here, but you know, sometimes we angels just have to lay things on with a trowel. Fiona’s wearing a granny cardigan that looks like it should only ever be worn either for jam-making at the Irish Country Women’s Association or else saying novenas in, a sensible tweed skirt, and flat, comfy brogues, the kind you only get in Marks & Spencer.

‘What is this, national dress-up-as-your-granny day? Or am I on my way to a fancy-dress party, by any chance, and I decided to come as Barbara Bush Senior?’ Fi asks, hopping up to the mirror above the fireplace to get a better look at herself. ‘Oh sweet Baby Jesus and the orphans, what have you done to me? You’ve just turned me into the poster girl for liver spots. I do love you, Charlotte, but just so you know? Right now I’m loving you like a cold sore.’

She’s actually aged well, but at seventy-odd years of age is showing signs of wear and tear. Her hair is in a neat Marcel wave and she’s wearing those massive bifocal glasses that cover most of her face.

‘I look like my granny,’ she stammers. ‘Christ, I even smell like her,’ she says, sniffing at her wrists. ‘Yardley’s Lily of the Valley. The choice of pensioners. Charlotte, not to put it too mildly, HATING this! Can you just, like, beam us out of here, please? Or at least splash some cold water on my face to wake me out of this nightmare?’

‘Not just yet,’ I say, firmly. ‘Look, look around you.’

Suddenly the TV catches her eye. The King’s Christmas Day speech is just coming on.

‘The . . . King?’ she mutters, staring at it.

‘We now go live to Sandringham,’ says the announcer, ‘where King William will address the nation.’

‘King William?’ she splutters in disbelief, then grabs the remote and starts flicking channels. The news is on Channel Four, with a feature about President Clinton’s Christmas visit to the victims of global warming in Alaska.

President Chelsea Clinton.

‘What . . . ? What the fuck is going on . . . ?’ says Fiona. Then she notices a Christmas card on top of the TV, which she grabs. The outside greeting screams, ‘Happy Holidays and Have a Great 2050!’

‘Twenty bloody fifty?’ stutters poor, bewildered Fi, before she rips the card open.

‘Dear Miss Wilson, have a terrific Christmas and a magical New Year. We miss you so much here at Loreto, things really aren’t the same without you! But we hope you’re having a long and happy retirement, and that you’ll call in to see us very soon.’

‘So, I’m like . . . seventy?’

‘Yes, you are. Ahead of all of us, you know.’ Well, except me.

‘But . . .’ she hesitates, looking all around her as the horrible reality starts to dawn on her. ‘Charlotte . . . hang on a sec . . . it’s Christmas Day, right?’

‘December twenty-fifth.’

‘And . . . I’m here, still living in the same house . . .’

‘Correct.’

‘Still single . . . because that card calls me Miss Wilson . . .’

‘Yes, love, you never married.’

‘And . . . I’m alone.
ALONE
. On Christmas Day.’

‘Well, what did you expect? This is the life you’ve chosen, Fi. Doesn’t exactly look like a barrel of laughs, now, does it?’

‘You’re right,’ she says, slowly slumping on to the sofa, moving like an old, old lady.

‘Charlotte, just look at me. I’m pathetic and sad and lonely and I HATE this so much I can’t tell you. I know it’s only a dream, and in case you’re wondering why I’ve this constipated look on my face, it’s because I’m actively willing myself to wake up and snap out of this torture. For God’s sake, who have you turned into anyway? The ghost of relationships future?’