If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (28 page)
Read If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Online
Authors: Claudia Carroll
Tags: #Fiction, #General
‘Hang on, hang on,’ she says disbelievingly. ‘What about my family, in Dublin? How am I supposed to see Mum for starters, if we’re living three hours’ drive away? How’s she supposed to cope without me?’
‘So maybe I get a flat in Galway, and stay there on my own.’
He was way too quick to say that, which makes me suspect that he’s been thinking about this for a long time.
‘Why would you want to do that when your home is here? With me?’
‘I dunno, Kate, maybe because I hate the colour cream. Maybe I’m sick and tired of feeling like I’m dirtying up your spotless mansion. Maybe I’m fed up with how every single conversation I seem to have with you these days somehow turns into a screaming match. Maybe I just want some shagging peace.’
Kate just looks at him, like she’s been punched with a knockout blow.
‘But . . . but Paul, if you get an apartment in Galway, and I’m here in Dublin, then . . .’ She gulps, as if she’s somehow trying to find the courage to finish her sentence.
‘. . . then, what’s the point in being married?’
‘I honestly don’t think I know any more, Kate. You tell me.’
FIONA
I just had to get out of there. Away from Kate and Paul ripping each other apart, away from the rows and accusations and bitterness. It’s eating me up just watching them, and all I can think is . . . where will it all end? I’m such an emotional coward, I need to get as far away as possible from the pair of them and be around someone happy and positive and whose life is turning a corner for her . . . so that’d be Fi, then.
I should fill you in. Her date with Tim wound up earlyish, with him dropping her back home in a cab and promising that he’d call her. And yes, OK, I admit he did do a fair bit of talking about Ayesha and a possible reconciliation, but I’m putting that down to him being male and therefore an eejit in all matters of the heart, and therefore needing signs flagged in neon waved under his nose saying, ‘But your wife treated you appallingly! And now Fiona is back in your life! You loved her once and will learn to do so again, moron!’
Mortals. It scares me to think how they’d manage without angels like me watching over, guiding, steering, manipulating, etc. And do you think I’ll get as much as a word of thanks?
Saturday mornings, Fiona usually makes out all these ‘to do’ lists for herself, along the lines of:
7 a.m.: rise, breakfast on a slither of Ryvita covered with a thin glaze of low fat spread and some hot water with a tiny squeeze of lemon juice. Read papers from cover to cover, including the boring financial bits.
8 a.m.: spinning class at the gym.
You get the picture, virtue on a monument. Her
actual
morning, however, tends to be a bit more along the lines of:
10.30 a.m.: roll over for second sleep.
11.45 a.m.: eventually haul ass out of bed.
12 noon, stick on frying pan and stuff face with rashers, sausages, eggs, white pudding etc., etc., then maybe start to think about leaving the house.
So by the time I get to her, just after midday, she’s sitting at her desk, I guessed right, still in her dressing gown, putting away the last of a breakfast fit for a builder, eyes glued to the computer, reading her online horoscope for the day ahead.
‘I wish you could hear me, Fi,’ I say morosely, parking my bum on the desk beside her. ‘I’m sick with worry about Kate, and I’d so love to pick your brains about it.’
I’m now starting to
seriously
resent not being able to even have a proper chat with her. Funny the things you really miss about being alive: it’s a cliché to say it, but it really is the little things. Nattering to Fi on a lazy Saturday morning being one.
EastEnders
being another. Oh and Hob Nobs. Being able to talk to my mother whenever I feel like it.
Oh well. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck in this dimension now, so I might as well just get on with things. Made my bed, have to lie in it, and all that.
Lazily, Fi stretches, burps, then hops up, and, bringing her empty plate with her, heads into her tiny kitchen, where she dumps the plate on the table and pours herself out a fresh mug of tea. Then she’s straight back to her computer, with me at her shoulder, checking into her emails.
Another one from that vet fella. Jaysus, I’ll say this for him, he might not be the guy for Fiona, but if nothing else, he’s persistent.
From:
[email protected]Subject:
Tomorrow, Sunday . . . ?Dear Lexie,
OK, OK, I get the hint. So a Chinese meal doesn’t do it for you. Not a problem. Thing is, I still feel like such a heel for letting you down the other night, and I’m worried now that I’ll never get a chance to apologize to you in person. So here it comes, my final game plan. If, by a miracle, the sight of my profile picture doesn’t make you want to be physically sick, and if you think you could put up with me for a few hours, then I’d like to invite you to my local annual summer fair tomorrow afternoon, down here in Carlow. I’d be really happy to come and collect you wherever you’re based (I’m guessing Dublin?) and then, of course, drop you back whenever you’d like. A mad invite I know, but I promise you one thing: it’s always hilarious, one of the funniest days out of the year, in fact. I’m judging the under-twelves ‘best pet’ contest, so I can promise you VIP access to all the tents. Of course, this basically means you get to stand in your wellies in the front row for all the events, surrounded by kids carrying parrots in cages, fighting over whose has the best-groomed plumage. I kid you not, think Glastonbury, only with bands that aren’t on drugs, more mud and animals everywhere. If you’re reading this and wavering . . .
I look over to Fi, who’s taking a slurp of tea out of her mug.
She is wavering, the eejit!
‘OK, Fi, you know what? That’s quite enough of this shite. Honestly, who does he think you are? Felicity Kendal from
The Good Life
? The kind of woman who’ll conveniently forget about being left all alone in a restaurant, throw on a pair of wellies and then go haring off down to Carlow?’
She keeps reading on, though, so I do, too.
. . . then let me tell you a bit more about myself, so you’ll know you’re not about to sign up for an afternoon with a psychopath or an escaped convict.
1. I do have a sense of humour, honestly. OK, so everyone says that on their profile, but my mates really do tell me that I’m funny. And just while we’re on the subject, I think it’s a complete myth that women find men who can make them laugh sexy, because I’m always making girls laugh, and can’t get a date for the life of me. (You see? If nothing else, I’m honest about it!) Also, if it was true about women loving funny men, then Woody Allen wouldn’t have had to marry his adopted daughter, would he?
Fiona snorts aloud at this.
‘Stop right there,’ I say bossily to her. ‘All this from the gobshite who stood you up? If you agree to meet this tosser, then you’re only sending him a message that it’s absolutely OK for him to treat you like that. Come on, what about Tim? Remember? Lovely gorgeous Tim who’s now miraculously back in your life and newly single?’
She scrolls down, though, totally engrossed.
2. Once upon a time, men set great store by a woman who could cook. Me? I’d be over the moon just to meet a girl who can eat. My last date was with a non-fish-eating, wheat-intolerant vegetarian who was ‘off carbs’ for a year. Oh, and who didn’t drink alcohol, either.
‘I love my food,’ Fi mutters, so keenly interested that it’s starting to worry me. ‘Plus, show me a bottle of Pinot Grigio and I’m in heaven.’
‘Switch off the shagging computer, and put this thundering eejit out of your head!’ I’m yelling at her, now, pointlessly of course, she just keeps on reading. ‘Oh and, on a point of order, I should tell you there is no alcohol in heaven
at all
. Like permanent Good Friday up there.’
3. A lot of the guys I hang around with talk about their perfect woman. One mate is looking for a combination of Catherine Zeta Jones, Germaine Greer and Abi Titmuss. And he thinks he’ll meet her in Carlow by the way, where men outnumber women by about four to one. Another pal says his ideal mate is a half-Swedish, half-Japanese permanently twenty-five-year-old, five foot eight bisexual gymnast, with a penchant for wearing tastefully slutty cocktail dresses. Lexie, there are times when I despair. Particularly when I can sum up what I’m looking for in a life partner thus.
I’d like to find a Linda McCartney and not a Heather Mills.
‘So sweet!’ Fiona mumbles, impressed.
‘Oh stop being so gooey-eyed, this is probably a standard round robin email that he sends to every girl he stands up. Why he bothers I don’t know, but then they say serial killers can be exceptionally charming when you first meet them, too.’
Just then there’s a loud thumping on the front door. Fi jumps up, looking puzzled, like she’s not expecting anyone, then pads barefoot down the tiny hallway to the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she calls out, cautiously waiting for a reply before unlocking all the deadbolts and chain locks.
‘Ehh . . . hi . . . Fiona? I hope I’m not disturbing you, but do you think I could come in for a sec? It’s me, Tim.’
Oh thank God, thank God, thank God. This is so amazing! Perfect timing, too. He’ll bring her back to her senses and stop her from fantasizing over Vet Man and his bloody welly-fest in Carlow.
She unlocks the door, which I’m not joking, takes almost another ten minutes, then lets him in. Poor old Tim, he’s looking even greyer and more washed-out than he did last night, and that’s really saying something.
‘Sorry for barging in like this,’ he apologizes, following her into the kitchen, where she sticks on the kettle.
‘No, it’s no problem, none at all!’ she says over-brightly, pulling her dressing gown tightly round her, like she’s suddenly mortified to be found half-dressed and not wearing her contact lenses. ‘Coffee?’
‘Love one. Look, if I said I just happened to be in the area, you know I’d be lying,’ he says, standing behind her as she pulls down mugs and a jar of Nescafé from the cupboard above her head.
Good, good stuff, Tim, now come on, this is no time for shyness or game-playing. Tell her, I dunno, that you’ve been thinking about her all night, that you couldn’t wait to see her again . . . you’re a guy! Go to it . . . romance her!
‘You’re welcome to call anytime,’ Fiona smiles, spooning coffee into the mugs.
‘It’s just that . . . oh Christ, you mightn’t be able to get your head around what I have to tell you. Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No, go ahead.’
He plonks himself down at her little table, with the remains of her big greasy fry-up still sitting on a plate in front of him.
‘Can I get you some brekkie?’ says Fi, whipping the plate away, embarrassed.
‘It’s good of you to ask, but I think food might just make me sick.’
Ooh, nerves, this can only be good.
‘Why’s that?’ Fi asks, concerned.
‘You won’t believe this. I can scarcely believe it myself,’ he says shakily, and I just know that there’s something coming. Some big declaration. Something that’ll change the whole course of Fi’s life. Call it angel’s intuition, but if you ask me, it’s nothing less than fate that he called here this morning. It’s destiny, in fact. I’d stake my life on it.
Sorry, I keep forgetting.
A long, Pinteresque pause. The only background noise is the kettle boiling and then the clink clank of Fi stirring coffee round the mugs.
Hmm . . . wonder if he’ll ask her to get back together right here and right now? Which leads me to wonder whether he’ll pounce on her right here, right now . . . which leads me to wonder if Fi’s had a leg wax, and whether or not she has the good sheets on the bed upstairs . . . which leads me to wonder what I’ll do with myself if things start getting hot and heavy round here, I mean, I can hardly hang around, can I? Too voyeuristic by far, no thanks . . . oh, I know what I’ll do, I’ll go and see Mum, it’s been a while . . .
‘So, what’s up?’ says Fi, gingerly sitting down opposite him, and passing him over the hot mug of coffee. She keeps fidgeting with her glasses, whipping them off, then wiping them off on her dressing gown, which is a nervous habit with her. She must sense that there’s something coming, she
must.
He runs his hands through his hair. Antsy body language of his which, bizarrely, I remember with astonishing clarity from all those years ago.
Another long pause, the longest this side of a Samuel Beckett play.
Oh, for God’s sake, come on, Tim, faint heart never won fair lady!
‘Look,’ Tim says after what feels like about half an hour. ‘It’s easier if I just say it straight out.’
‘Go on.’
Yes, go on, the suspense is driving me mental!
A long sigh. ‘The thing is . . . and I’m not proud of this . . . I just had a huge fight with Ayesha’s jockstrap of a boyfriend, Rick the Prick, and now the bastard is threatening me with assault charges,’ he manages to get out, twisting and turning in his chair, ejector-seat jumpy.
‘What the
fuck
?’ Fiona and I say at exactly the same time.
‘OK, OK, let me put it into context for you. This morning, I went around to Ayesha’s house, that’s MY house, to pick up the twins, as arranged. So, OK, I was maybe half an hour early, no big deal, right?’
‘No, no, ’course not,’ Fi and I say, again, together. ‘So jockstrap opens the door, MY hall door, in his bloody Leinster rugby shirt, and coolly tells me that I’m early and the kids have gone to the supermarket with Ayesha. Fine by me, I said, I’ll just come in and wait for them. Not a good idea, the smarmy git smirks at me. Seeing as how you don’t live here any more, he says. I swear, he was nearly goading me, just to see how far he could push his luck.’
‘So what happened?’ Fi asks, her eyes like saucers.
‘I lost it, I totally lost it. Honestly, I frightened myself with the blind rage I went into. Told him this was my home, which I’m paying the mortgage on, and who the hell did he think he was anyway, barring me from going inside?’
‘So then what?’
‘So then the arsehole starts getting all technical, saying that Ayesha’s dad actually helped out with the down-payment on the house, so therefore it’s only half mine. I’m roaring into the git’s face at this stage, and I’m aware that I’m making a show of myself in front of the neighbours, but I’m so far gone with fury that I don’t even care. So I shout at him and ask how he can call himself a man, yet live in a house that I pay the mortgage on as well as all the bills. How do you live with yourself knowing another man is supporting you, is the point I was trying to make, but the bastard twisted it and said . . . and said . . .’