If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (25 page)

‘I couldn’t help hearing, the babysitter was screaming down the phone at him. My cousin Tommy was roaring laughing at her, but I wasn’t, honestly. I don’t like bad words.’

‘Good girl, I’m glad to hear it. Now, where’s your mum?’

‘Like when you were here last night? I heard Auntie Melissa and Auntie Sue say bold words about you, and I didn’t like that, either. Not after the bag of jellied eels from the Sweet Factory you gave me. That was really nice. I don’t care what anyone else says, Auntie Kate, I think you’re lovely.’

Kate gives a deep, painful sigh.

‘Kirsten, pet, is your mum out for the night? It’s just that I need to leave a message for her.’

‘Oh, yeah. Mum and Dad are gone to some party down in Sheehan’s pub.’

‘OK, love, would you ask her to call me in the morning?’

‘Uncle Paul is with them, too. Did you want to talk to him?’

‘What did you say, love?’

‘Uncle Paul was here earlier with that girl from the band, the one with the yellowy hair, and they were laughing and messing in the kitchen. They were here all evening, the four of them, and Uncle Paul gave me money. Then they took mammy and daddy down to the pub with them. She’s nice, the lady with the yellowy hair, but I forget her name.’

Kate looks completely shell-shocked.

‘Her name is Julie, love.’

I stay with her for the night, not having the first clue what to do now. I can’t even plant a happy dream in her head, because she spends the entire night tossing and turning and not even sleeping a wink.

Chapter Seventeen

JAMES

. . . is scribbling out a list. I should know, I’m reading it over his shoulder. Five names, five contacts, five people who he’s now trying to ask for help in digging him out of the black hole he’s found himself in. All scrawled across a tatty bit of Meridius headed notepaper in his sloping, scary-looking, serial-killer handwriting. My thoughts are still with poor old Kate, but very early this morning she finally did nod off, and I figured it best to leave her and give the girl a bit of peace, for the moment at least. I’m dumbfounded, gutted, and still not able to quite believe that Paul, Perfect Paul, would lie so blatantly to Kate. It just can’t be true . . . can it? I so want to believe that maybe it’s all a big misunderstanding, that Kirsten, who innocently ratted him out on the phone, somehow got it all wrong. She’s only about eight after all . . . but until Kate actually gets to speak to Paul to clear this up, I’ll just have to wait and see.

No other option. For now, at least.

So, in a blind temper, I look in on James, and I’m glad I did: he’s like living, walking proof that sometimes bad things do occasionally happen to complete and utter bastards, and it goes a long way towards making me feel that there is actually some sort of justice in this world.

His begging list reads as follows:

He’s sitting on the couch at home, looking rough, dishevelled, red-eyed and hungover as a dog. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s beside him, which he keeps topping up his glass with. At nine in the morning. With a slightly shaky hand he picks up the phone and hits his first call. I want to shout something at him, but I can’t think what. Something suitably cutting . . . like, ‘This, James Kane, is the law of karma in action.’ Or maybe, ‘You see? Your downfall stemmed from treating everyone around you like a piece of shite, and look at you now. Poorer than Michael Jackson.’ Then again, on the other hand, maybe I’ll just limit myself to sitting on the sidelines like Madame Defarge, cackling at the proceedings while waving a pair of knitting needles in his face.

But, bloody soft eejit that I am, I take one look at his trembling hands and his ashen, wasted face and it stops me in my tracks. Then I look around the house and think, he’s this close, inches away, from losing it altogether. After everything that I’ve done to it, all my hard work and effort and energy and money and . . . OK, you know what? I have to stop myself right here, because in the mood I’m in right now, there’s a good chance I might just start pitying him, and I’m not allowed.

So, quite apart from the fact that he’s about to lose his business, not to mention Declan, the best thing that ever happened to Meridius Movies, where the hell is he going to go and live? This is a man who doesn’t do friends like the rest of us, so crashing out on some sympathetic mate’s sofa for the duration isn’t a runner. And I doubt very much that there’s any kind of plan B. Unless he’s planning to call his brother, to see if he can stay with him for the time being. Even thinking that sentence, I can hear the sound of barrels being scraped. To put it mildly, they never really got on, and anyway, the pair of them haven’t actually spoken since about three Christmases ago, and then it was only because they were having a row.

Bloody hell.

He calls Simon Webb first, is told by an assistant that he’s not available, so James, in his politest, humblest phone voice leaves a message then hangs up. He puts a ‘?’ beside his name on the list, and moves on to his next target. Alex Mackey, or Her Ladyship as he jokingly refers to her. Well, half-joking, half-meaning it. Amazingly, considering it’s this early in the morning, she answers. I only get one side of the call, but it goes like this.

‘Alex? James here, glad I caught you, honey . . . oh you’re on your way to the gym? You’re kidding me, babe, with a body like yours? Women go to the gym so they can end up looking like you . . .’

He chats on, while I pause to gag. God knows why, this is the way he communicates with all women. I just forgot how nauseatingly, revoltingly sick-making all the forced flirtation is, that’s all. And that he can effortlessly switch into it in his half-pissed state just goes to show his level of desperation.

‘. . . is it really that long since I’ve seen you? The film festival in Belfast? You’re kidding me . . . my God, is it really three months since then? Yeah . . . yeah, I really enjoyed that night too, babe. We must hook up soon and do it again sometime . . .’

OK, now I’m starting to sniff something in the air, and I’m not even sure what it is.

‘. . . but I did call you afterwards, Alex, I did. You were in such a rush to get out of my room the next morning before anyone saw you, I didn’t know what to think . . . of course no one saw us . . . I’m positive . . . because, Alex, remember? On the last day of the festival, the hotel was crawling with journalists, and if they’d copped on that something happened between us, we’d have been tabloid fodder for weeks. Charlotte would have got wind of it, made my life hell till she cooled down . . .’

‘I KNEW it!’ I yell out loud. Can’t help myself. All of a sudden, I feel like this Berlin Wall of white-hot fury has just been torn down, and now there’s no stopping me. I remember him going to that film festival like it was yesterday: he called me from the hotel so many times I lost count, to tell me how boring it all was, how, apart from the screenings, there was bugger all to do, ‘no one to go out and play with’ as he put it. Even on the last day of it, he rang to say how much he missed me, wished I’d been there, and couldn’t wait to get back home.

While, all along, he’d spent the previous night with Alex.

‘You slept with her?’ I snarl into his face. ‘You actually slept with her? You know, I didn’t think that it was possible for you to slip any lower in my estimation, but congratulations, you just did. You lying, cheating, two-faced, hypocritical . . .’

He covers his ear with his hand, as if I’m just a background noise that he can block out, and keeps on talking.

Big, big mistake.

‘James, hang up the phone.’ I’m deliberately keeping my tone loud, clear and steady, like the way trained hostage-negotiators talk to kidnappers. He winces a bit, looks around, decides he’s imagining things, then goes right back to the full-on flirt-fest with Alex.

‘So listen, honey,’ he says, huskily, reaching for a Marlboro and lighting it up with his free hand, ‘I’m glad I caught you, because there’s something I wanted to run by you. An investment opportunity . . . no, not a movie, a TV series . . . ooh, it’s A list all the way, baby . . . guarantee you’d triple your money in next to no time . . . well, thing is, they’re queueing up and down the street to invest in this, but I thought I’d give you first refusal on account of us going back a long way . . . entry-level investment would be in the region of fifty thousand, but obviously, the more you put in, the more you’ll get back . . . oh. OK. Right then. Fine. Yeah, ’course I understand. Well, it’s your decision, Alex, but I have to tell you, you’re passing up a golden opportunity. Right, say no more. If you’re not interested, you’re not interested. Not a problem, babe. Just a shame that you’re passing up on this. A shame for you, I mean. Yeah, lunch on me next time I see you. I’ll get Hannah at the office to set it up. OK, take care.’

Then he slams down the phone and starts talking scarily slowly, as he does whenever he’s dangerously angry.

‘You dooozy, tight-fisted biiitch, Alex Mackey, what’s fiiifty poxy graaand to you, anyway?’

I’m standing right in front of him now, shaking with uncontrollable anger.

‘James, I know you can hear me, and for your own sake, you’d be well advised to listen to what I have to say.’

He’s about to dial another number, then freezes, listens, checks the amount of Jack Daniel’s he’s actually drunk, then decides he’s still a bit pissed, and that’s all that’s wrong with him. That’s why he’s hearing things. So he pulls on his cigarette and starts rubbing his temples. Ignoring me. He looks around for a bit, is satisfied that it
was
all in his head, then keeps on dialling.

Take more than that to shut me up, though.

‘Call me the voice of your conscience if you like, James, but can’t you see what’s going on here? You’ve spent your entire life treating not just women but everyone around you like complete and utter shite, and now it’s come back to haunt you. Chickens coming home to roost, and all that. For God’s sake, will you put the phone down, and for once in your life just listen to what I have to say? Or do I have to bitch-slap some sense into you?’

He’s still rubbing his temples, like I’m some irritating, whiskey-fuelled internal, semi-drunken monologue that won’t go away, when someone answers the phone.

‘Hey, Shane, man, how are you? James Kane here . . . long time, no see . . . look, can you talk for a sec? There’s something I need to run by you, an investment opportunity . . . yeah . . . come on, man, we go back a long way and you were the first person I thought of calling . . . no, no, just hear me out . . . but, Shane . . . you were paid back every penny last time you invested with Meridius . . . well, it’s hardly my fault if you didn’t make back as much as you thought . . . come on, all investment is a risk, you know that . . . so, you’ve no interest in what I have to say to you, is that what you’re telling me? Fine, Shane. Absolutely. Your loss, mate, not mine.’

‘Another one turned their back on you,’ I almost sneer at him.

I know, I know, I’m a horrible person, but right now I feel elated, vindicated, completely over the moon that this sad excuse for a human being, who ruined my life, is now, finally, getting his comeuppance.

‘Don’t you see, James,’ I say, standing over him and trying to steady my voice, ‘what’s happening here? The universe is trying to teach you a valuable lesson: treat people badly, shaft them, lie to them, cheat on them, and it can only come back to bite you in the arse. Surely even someone as insensitive and plain buck-stupid as you can realize what’s happening? It’s your punishment for treating me the way you did. Call it divine retribution, call it what you like, but you’re finally getting your just desserts, and here I am, with a front-row seat, cheering on your downfall. My God, if there was a gold medal for pure evil, I’d be the one handing it out to you. Maybe that’s why you can hear me, and no one else can. So I can act as Greek chorus to your final ruination. And believe me, I intend to make a full three-act opera with intervals and all out of this. Because it couldn’t happen to a more deserving person.’

He’s still blocking me out, hand over one ear, and is on to the next call, though. Joe McKinney. He doesn’t get him, though: Joe’s assistant answers, takes a message, then hangs up. Meanwhile, I’ve worked myself up into a right state, so I’m now railing at him, like all the combined furies of hell, all rolled into one.

‘What really gets me,’ I splutter and spit, ‘is that after all the time we spent together, after everything I did for you: always putting your interests first, never for one second doubting that you loved me, and that we’d be together for the rest of our lives . . . all the while you were just stringing me along. And I couldn’t even see it. Everyone around me could, except me. But I paid the highest price possible for being such a blind gobshite, and now you’re doing the same. And it’s what you deserve. Dear Jesus, if hell ever needs an ambassador, you’d be it.’

‘For fuck’s sake, who is saying that?’ he witters, looking a bit scared now.

‘Who do you think?’

A long pause as he looks at the whiskey bottle, then does a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan of the living room, checking, looking, panicking.

‘Charlotte?’

‘Who else?’

‘I’ve had too much to drink, that’s all that’s wrong here,’ he mutters.

‘Oh, you arsehole, don’t you understand? You NEED to listen to me! Why do you think I’m even bothering to be here, when I’ve far better things I could be getting on with?’

But just then, another call is answered. This time, it’s his older brother Matthew. Hedge-fund manager and filthy rich with all the trappings. The five-bedroomed house on millionaires’ row in Malahide (close to the sea, close to the airport, dontcha know), the trophy wife and the two perfect, gifted kids, and the holiday home close to a golf course in the fashionable part of the Algarve. Although he’s not as much of a charmer as James, he’s a far, far more honourable, decent, gentlemanly character.