If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (24 page)

For a second, the eyes start to tear up, but then she quickly pulls herself right back together again.

‘Anyway,’ she snaps primly. ‘I would never be alone on Christmas Day. Sure, I’d be with my parents for starters.’

‘I’m sorry to tell you, but your parents have long since passed on, hon. And your brother and his family are all off skiing.’

‘What about my other friends?’

‘All with their own kids and grandkids today, I’m afraid. They’ve invited you over for Boxing Day, but let’s face it, Christmas is a time for family, and you chose not to have one, remember? Believe me, I don’t like being the bearer of bad news, but this is the life that you’ve chosen for yourself.’

God, there’s times I hate being an angel. The tough love you’re expected to dole out would nearly finish you off entirely. I sit down beside poor, shaken Fi and take her hand.

‘All that went wrong in your life is that you met your soulmate
young
. That’s all. And now he’s alone, and you’re alone, and you won’t even pick up the phone to call him. Yes, he made a mistake marrying Ayesha, but aren’t we all allowed mistakes? Jeez, you only have to look at the gobshite I spent five years with for proof of that. Don’t let pride lead you to this,’ I say, waving around me.

She looks up at me with red, swollen eyes.

‘Fiona Wilson, we all have a road not taken. Here’s a rare chance to do something about yours.’

Next thing, she’s wide awake, sitting bolt upright on the bed and sweating, actually sweating. She can’t see me now, but I’m right beside her, willing her to call Tim. There’s a radio on her bedside table, still switched on quietly in the background, and the ten o’clock news is just coming on. It’s early still.

‘Come on, come on, girl, you can do it,’ I whisper encouragingly. ‘Everything will be fine, I faithfully promise you. If it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is not to be taken in baby steps.’

She gets out of bed, throws on a cardigan, then does a bit of pacing. The will-I-won’t-I-call-him two-step.

She picks up the mobile, then puts it down at least three times before she starts muttering under her breath.

‘OK. If the phone rings out and he doesn’t answer, then this was a mental idea. Tim and I were never to be, and that’s the final proof. If it goes to his voicemail, then there’s a tiny chink of hope for us. But then if he actually answers . . . oh shite . . .’

She slumps back on to the bed, her resolve weakening, and I just know the one thing she needs more than anything else.

A sign.

I’m concentrating harder than I ever did in my whole life, sorry, I mean death, and then it happens.

The news finishes and the DJ on the radio butts in. He sounds young and nerdy, and I’d guess is about twelve.

‘OK, we’ve a very special request here for an oldie but a goldie, this is going out to all you kids at Loreto College, youse have mad taste so you do, but you asked for it, so here ya go . . . it’s Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols with “Pretty Vacant”.’

Dear Jesus. That was their song. Fiona and Tim’s song. Not the most romantic or smoochiest, but it was definitely their song. I dunno how it happened, I’m not even sure whether I was the one who made it happen, but by God it does the trick. She doesn’t miss a beat, just picks up the phone and calls.

It rings once . . . twice . . . three times . . .

‘Hello? Tim? Hi! Emm . . . you won’t believe who this is!’

And it’s that easy. Not that I’m eavesdropping or anything, but they chat for a good hour, laughing and messing and picking up exactly where they left off, like you can only do with people from the past that you really, really loved. I’m not sure what he says, but just before Fi hangs up, she says that yes, of course he can call her tomorrow, and no, that she hasn’t eaten in that particular restaurant, but would really love to this weekend.

Waves of euphoria wash over me as she clambers back into her bed and snuggles under. Worth dying just to see the look of pure bliss on her face. She’s just nodding off when her phone beeps as a message comes through. It’s another email from Mr Loves German Shepherds, saying that if she doesn’t like Chinese food, they could always eat somewhere else this weekend.

She doesn’t even bother scrolling down to the bottom of the email, just deletes it, switches off the light and drifts off to sleep.

The girl is learning. Finally.

Chapter Sixteen

KATE

Six months hence. And she’s back sitting at Briar Rose’s kitchen table in Galway, which, as ever, resembles Grand Central Station with all the comings and goings. There’s hordes of kids running in and out, fighting with each other over who had the remote control last/one of them calling another one gay/that particular pre-teen saying their accuser doesn’t even know what gay means/ the first kid then subsequently changing their insult to, ‘Well, what would you know, anyway, sure you’re only an arsehole’. . . etc., etc. All three of her horrors-in-law are present and correct, so much so that you’d almost swear they were all part of some religious cult that are required to live under the same roof as each other, co-parent each other’s kids and all eat together at the same table.

Like Moonies. Or that weird religion that Tom Cruise is in.

But, this time, there’s one big difference. Briar Rose is prattling on about how her eldest, Robbie Junior, just got two As and a B plus in his last school report and how he’s clearly destined for academic greatness, while the other two horrors-in-law are drinking mugs of tea, buttering hot, fruity scones straight from the oven, and bragging about how gifted their kids are at rugby/breaking into cars/pilfering from supermarkets, whatever their respective talents are. Nothing unusual there, then. Except that, instead of squirming in her chair and making half-hearted attempts to contribute to the conversation, all the while wondering how the hell she can get out of there, Kate sits serenely in the middle of them, nodding politely at their competitive bragging and admirably restraining herself from throwing in the odd cutting comment, such as, ‘Oh, but Melissa, I always knew your Tommy was highly skilled at tackling other kids and hurling them to the ground in a rugby scrum, I think he must get it from you, ha ha ha.’

Then, just as Rose goes to the window to yell at some kid who’s whingeing that her sister won’t let her have a go on the Barbie bike, Kate looks down, and gently pats her tummy.

There it is, no mistake. A tiny little bulge, neat and perfect.

‘So, emmm . . . where are you having it, then?’ one of the horrors-in-law demands, mouth full of buttery scone.

‘Mount Carmel in Dublin,’ Kate smiles.

‘Never heard of it. Is that a proper hospital?’

‘Not really, it’s a nursing home.’

This, of course, then leads on to a heated and lengthy debate about the merits of the maternity hospital where the whole lot of them had all of their kids versus the newest addition to the family being born in some fancy nursing home up in Dublin. But Kate doesn’t seem to care or even look in the least stressed about it. She just nods, smiles graciously and keeps on rubbing her little bump, miles away, floating on a little cloud of bliss.

‘And what about names for the baby?’ demands Rose suspiciously. ‘Have you thought about that?’ Honest to God, the woman is probably the only person alive who can make such an innocuous question sound like an interrogation.

Kate beams at her, and I’m almost willing her to say something like, ‘Oh, for a boy we thought something distinctive like Plantagenet Winston Raphael, and for a girl, we’re going with my three all-time favourite recording artists, Britney Whitney Madonna.’ Just to shut them up. Just to put manners on them and see the looks on their faces. But, of course, this being Kate the ultra-conservative, she doesn’t.

‘Paul for a boy, after his dad, of course,’ she smiles, ‘and I think Charlotte for a little girl, after . . .’

Shite, now I’m tearing up. Oh my God, that’s so thoughtful, naming a new little niece after me!

Just then, the kitchen door bursts open and in comes Perfect Paul, all six feet two of hulking manhood, with one of his nephews sitting up on his shoulders and another one swinging out of his arm begging for pocket money. He makes a big deal of fishing in his pockets, letting on he’s broke, then producing ten euro each for the two of them to buy sweets with, leading to much crowing of, ‘Ah, Paul, you shouldn’t have, you’re far too good,’ from all the horrors-in-law. Then he’s straight over to Kate, kissing her and asking the others if they’ve taken good care of her while he’s been out.

‘Why don’t you have a lie-down, love,’ he says to her tenderly. ‘And I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa in bed?’ The others look a bit enviously at her, and Rose snipes something about how you’re treated like a goddess for your first pregnancy, but by your second, third and fourth, you’re expected to carry heavy groceries in from the car with a toddler screaming at you and a three-month-old strapped to your back.

‘Not my missus,’ says Paul proudly, helping her out of her chair and guiding her to the door, as if she’s lost the use of her limbs. ‘If she fancies me playing soothing whale noises to her while she’s having her bubble bath, then that’s what I’ll do. Now come on, Kate, bed rest for you and Junior. Then later on, when you’re up and about, I want to talk to you about exactly how you’d like the nursery decorated and what colour schemes you want. So I can get started on it as soon as we get home.’

There’s a collective, ‘Oh, that’s so loooooovely,’ from the others as Kate beams serenely.

‘Suppose you’ll pay for a nanny, too?’ says one of them, on to her third scone by now.

‘Interviews start Monday. We’ve gone through three different agencies, just to be on the safe side.’

‘Jaysus,’ mutters Rose. ‘If I was getting a nanny, as long as they didn’t have a police record, I’d hire them on the spot.’

Just then the phone rings loudly, and suddenly Kate’s sitting bolt upright, wide awake. She looks disorientated for a minute, but then it’s not really surprising, she’s not a great one for crashing out on the sofa with the telly on.

No, Kate, ignore the phone, stay with the dream! You’ve no idea how important it is!

She doesn’t, though. Shit. And I wouldn’t mind but I was making great progress with this particular one. Ho hum, back to reality, then.

‘Hello? Paul?’ she says, sleepily answering the phone on the end table beside her.

But it’s not Paul. It’s Mum, to thank her for coming back from Galway early so she could be with her all day today.

‘Oh. Right. Emm . . . yeah . . . that’s OK,’ says Kate.

Am I imagining it, or does she sound disappointed that it’s not Paul calling her? Mum must ask her where he is, because Kate flicks the TV over to
Sky News
, realizes that it’s just gone eleven at night, and that he’s still not home. Then she clicks Mum on to speakerphone and starts tidying up her already spotless living room. Sorry, I mean drawing room. (She’s the one who insists we all call it by that grand title, not me.)

‘Shit, Mum, I must have nodded off. I thought he’d be well home by now.’

‘No need for the corner-boy language, love.’ Mum’s voice is filling the whole room now, bouncing off the walls nearly.

‘Oh, ehh, sorry. Can I call him, and then call you back?’

‘Of course, love. I was only ringing to say that Nuala’s only just rung me now, very late I know, but it wasn’t her fault, she was waiting in to hear back about the arrangements for the Mass . . .’

I’ll spare you all the nitty gritty details, as Mum’s a great one for giving you the preamble to a story, dated from about twelve hours ago. E.g., Question: ‘Hi, Mum, how did you get on at your book club tonight?’ Answer: ‘Well. I got up at eight this morning, then I had a quick shower, oh no, hang on, I’m telling it all wrong, I meant to say, then I
went
to have a quick shower but the immersion wasn’t on, so then, of course, I had to wait a good twenty minutes for the water to heat up . . .’ Then there usually follows a whole spiel about the minutiae of her day, and then, approximately three-quarters of an hour later, you finally get to the part where the Merry Widows all debated the merits of
The Kite Runner
versus the latest Maeve Binchy. In other words, you’d be well advised to allow a minimum of an hour and a half for even a lightning quick chat with her.

I think living alone must make you go a bit like that.

Anyway, to condense Mum’s speech: it seems that her pal Nuala, who has a brother home from the missions, has organized a Mass the last Sunday of the month for . . . well, for me, as it happens. Which sets me off thinking: a whole month? Have I really been dead that
long
?

‘Yes, of course I’ll tell Paul, but look, Mum, I really have to go now . . .’

‘So, don’t forget, now, it’ll be twelve o’clock Mass in Blackrock church . . .’

‘Yes, you said, so I’ll just go and ring Paul now . . .’

‘Yes, do, and tell him all his family are invited, too. Although they’ll hardly drive all the way from Galway, but, all the same, I’d like them to know that they are welcome.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Kate says curtly, plumping up cushions.

‘And then, maybe we should treat everyone to lunch afterwards?’

‘Whatever you say . . .’

‘Or else maybe have a brunch beforehand?’

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s better by far, so look, I’ll head off now . . .’

‘You just keep agreeing with me, so which option will we go with? Brunch before or lunch after?’

‘Emm, after, then,’ Kate almost shouts at the speakerphone from the other side of the room, where she’s blowing out scented candles.

‘Oh yes, and I didn’t invite James Kane to the Mass, by the way. I never told you, love, but when I went to the house to collect some of Charlotte’s things, he was acting most peculiarly. Of course, maybe I’m rushing to judge the lad, and he’s completely distraught about what happened, he certainly insisted to me that he was, but then, as you know, I never really had much time for him . . .’

‘I know, Mum, I know, look I really have to go . . .’

‘Oh. Rightie-oh. Did you want to get off the phone, then, love?’

‘Mum! I’ll ring you back, OK?’

It takes another few minutes to sign off on the chat, and then Kate immediately hits the speed dial and rings Paul’s number.

She’s left the speakerphone on, so I can hear both sides of it.

And I wish I hadn’t.

‘Kate, hi,’ he answers the phone flatly. It’s noisy in the background, like he’s out and about.

‘Paul, where are you? It’s eleven at night! I’ve been worried sick about you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry about that, I meant to ring you. I’m still with Robbie and the developers. I’ve been with them all day, and I just didn’t have time to call. We went for a business dinner and I couldn’t get out of it. Sorry, but it’s been well worth it. Times are tough and they just wanted us to have a meal together to try and thrash out a few more ideas.’

‘And you never thought to ring me and let me know? I’ve been out of my mind here.’

‘It’s work, Kate. WORK.’

‘I’m just saying, would it have killed you to even text me to say you wouldn’t be home tonight? I cooked dinner for you, you know. Your favourite, too, fillet steak and chips. I wanted to . . . well, I wanted to make it up to you for the awful row last night. I’m sorry for acting the way I did, Paul, I really am. It’s hard for me to be around your family, and I just could have done with a bit of moral support from you, that’s all.’

I look at her, delighted. She’s making such an effort. I’m not saying it’s all thanks to me and the subliminal mind-games I’ve been playing with her, but . . . well, let’s be honest, it is
mostly
down to me.

There’s a pause filled with laughing and chatting and busy, buzzy restaurant noises. I think Kate must be waiting for Paul to tell her that he’s sorry, too, for not going near her all night last night, and for abandoning her to the horrors-in-law.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he just says that Mike, the senior partner in the development company, has just ordered another bottle of Château Margaux, and that he’ll stay down in Galway tonight, but will call her first thing in the morning. The phone clicks as he hangs up, and Kate slumps down on the sofa, looking seriously pissed off.

She stays there for a minute or two then mumbles under her breath, ‘Oh shit, the Mass.’ So she redials Paul’s mobile number, but this time he doesn’t answer. Probably can’t hear it ringing, with all the restaurant noise in the background. So she leaves a voicemail message, thinks for a minute, then whips out her mobile, scrolls down through her address book until she finds the number she wants. I’m reading it over her shoulder, and I nearly pass out when I see who she’s about to call.

Briar Rose herself.

You see? I think smugly. The power of suggestion. Not that Kate will ever be bosom buddies with any of her horrors-in-law, but they are family and . . . won’t things be so much better when they can all get along? Particularly when a certain happy event takes place, it’ll be lovely for Kate to have the love and support of her sisters-in-law, who are all mums, and who’ve all been there before.

OK, so maybe love and support is a bit of an exaggeration, but you see what I’m getting at. I mean, everyone knows that Jackie Kennedy didn’t really see eye to eye with all the rah rah rah Kennedys whenever she had to go and visit them at Cape Cod, but she still managed to make it work with her usual grace and elegance, didn’t she? Same thing.

Kate punches in the number and it rings through.

‘Hello?’ A little girl’s voice. Which is odd, to say the least.

‘Ehh . . . that’s not Rose, is it?’ says Kate, puzzled.

‘No, it’s Kirsten. Is that you, Auntie Kate?’

‘Yes, it is, pet. What are you doing up so late?’

‘I’m not supposed to be, so don’t tell my mammy, will you? The babysitter is on her mobile to her boyfriend, and she said we could watch DVDs if we kept our mouths shut while she’s on the phone.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘But, Auntie Kate?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘I think she’s having a fight with her boyfriend. I heard her saying bold words.’

‘And where’s your mummy tonight?’

‘She said fecker about four times, and that the boyfriend was a total pisshead.’

‘They’re very naughty words, Kirsten, and you shouldn’t repeat them.’