The Woman Who Stole My Life (41 page)

I cradle the baby in my arms and stare down into her tiny little face. ‘She’s got my eyes.’

‘She’s got
my
eyes,’ Ryan says.

‘Guys,’ Betsy says. ‘She’s four weeks old. It’s too soon for her to have anyone’s eyes. Anyway, she totally looks like Chad.’

Kilda makes a mewling noise, then another and it looks like she’s going to launch into full-blown crying.

‘Betsy,’ I say, anxiously.

‘I’ll take her,’ Chad says. He gathers the tiny bundle into his chest and immediately Kilda quietens.

Dad watches this with keen interest. ‘You’ve a good way with her, haven’t you, son?’ He sounds a tad suspicious. ‘We had our doubts about you. Weren’t sure you’d be father material, but all credit to you, gameball!’

‘Gameball,’ Mum agrees.

‘Thanks,’ Chad says.

‘No bother. Well!’ Dad smiles around at us, all crowded into the front room of the beach house. ‘This is a fitting
entrée
to the world for my first great-grandchild. ‘
Entrée
being a French word … Hold on –’ He pauses, then taps himself on the chest and emits a robust belch. ‘This fizzy stuff is giving me the gawks. Have you any Smithwicks?’

‘Jeffrey,’ I say. ‘Get Grandad some working-class ale. There are a few bottles in the kitchen.’

Jeffrey obediently gets to his feet and Mum says, ‘While you’re in there, could I have a cup of tea?’

‘Sure, anyone else want anything?’

‘Can I have some cake?’ Roland asks.

‘Noooooo!’ a chorus of voices calls out.

‘Don’t, love,’ Mum says to him. ‘You worked so hard to lose all that weight, you don’t want to start piling it on again.’

‘Oh, all right.’ A little glumly, he toes the rug with his pink and orange trainer.

‘Why don’t you have a coconut water?’ Jeffrey suggests.

‘Okay!’ And instantly Roland is back to being cheery again.

‘And maybe you’d tell us a story,’ Mum says. ‘Tell us about the time you met Michelle Obama. Chad would like that, him being American.’

‘And then,’ Ryan glances meaningfully at Zoe, ‘we’d better get going.’

‘Yes.’ Zoe giggles. ‘We’d better.’

Riding. Non-stop riding. Last year, when Ryan moved into Zoe’s house, something big had ignited between them. Even after he managed to win back his house and his business, they remained together.

Over at the door, Karen is staring out at the waves. ‘Doesn’t it ever get to you?’ she says. ‘All that … water?’

I laugh. ‘I love it.’

‘I couldn’t live here,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I’m not a rural person. Am I, Enda?’

‘You’re a city girl.’ Enda looks at her with solid admiration. ‘You’re
my
city girl.’

‘Christ, Enda.’ Karen’s look is scathing. ‘Whatever it is you’re drinking, go easy on it.’

Clark and Mathilde come thumping down the hallway and
into the room. ‘Hey!’ Clark yells. ‘What’s that funny swinging bed in the end bedroom?’

I colour slightly. ‘Just a bed.’

‘Do you and Uncle Mannix sleep in it?’

‘… No.’ I flick a look at Mannix.

‘No.’ Mannix clears his throat.

We’re telling the truth. We do very little sleeping in it.

Karen watches me and Mannix closely, then rolls her eyes. ‘I suppose we’d better get moving too. But before we go, Stella …’ She crosses the room to me and says, almost without moving her lips, ‘I need a word.’

She pulls me into a corner. ‘Look, I didn’t know if I should tell you or not but there was something in one of the British papers today. About –’

‘– Gilda and her book,’ I finish for her.

‘Oh, you know? You saw it? Are you okay about it?’

‘Well …’

Over the past year Mannix and I have had many discussions about how we might feel when Gilda’s book is published. ‘If we’re bitter,’ I’d concluded, ‘it would be like holding a hot coal in our hands – we’re the ones who’d get hurt.’

Today, when it finally happened, as I saw the photo of Gilda’s pretty smiling face and read the positive review of her book, my hands were shaking and my heart was beating way too fast. I showed the page to Mannix and I said, ‘Can we wish her well?’

‘Is that how you feel?’ he asked.

‘It’s the way I want to feel,’ I said.

‘Very worthy.’ Mannix gave a little laugh. ‘But also remember,’ he said, ‘that she really, really, really doesn’t matter.’

The last of our visitors leaves around seven o’clock. We wave the cars away up the boreen, up through the dunes and over the hill, until it’s just Mannix and me.

‘Where’s Shep gone?’ Mannix asks.

‘Running around in the field, the last I saw of him.’

‘Come on, we’ll all go for a walk.’

Mannix whistles for Shep and, after a moment, he comes bounding over the hill, his black tail waving behind him like a plume.

The three of us are alone on the beach. The evening sun casts a golden glow and the waves deposit a stick on the shiny sand, right at my feet. Shep barks and jumps with excitement.

‘A gift from the gods!’ I say. ‘I’ll throw it for Shep. The two of you, go ahead a little bit.’

Mannix and Shep walk on a few metres. I throw the stick and it accidentally hits Mannix.

‘Ow!’ he yelps.

I double over, laughing. ‘It was the breeze, blame the breeze.’

‘I forgive you.’ Mannix comes back and pulls me to him and Shep noses himself between the two of us.

This is my life now.

Thank you to Louise Moore, the best publisher in the world, for her unwavering faith in me and this book. Thank you to Celine Kelly for editing me with such verve and insight. Thank you to Clare Parkinson for the painstaking, meticulous copy-editing. Thank you to Anna Derkacz, Maxine Hitchcock, Tim Broughton, Nick Lowndes, Lee Motley, Liz Smith, Joe Yule, Katie Sheldrake and all the team at Michael Joseph. I feel very lucky to be working with such brilliant people.

Thank you to my legendary agent, Jonathan Lloyd, and everyone at Curtis Brown for believing in my books and taking such beautiful care of them.

Thank you to my friends who read the book as it was written and who advised and encouraged me: Bernice Barrington, Caron Freeborn, Ella Griffin, Gwen Hollingsworth, Cathy Kelly, Caitríona Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes, Mags McLoughlin, Ken Murphy, Hilly Reynolds, Anne Marie Scanlon and Rebecca Turner.

Special thanks to Kate Beaufoy, who held my hand every step of the way, and Shirley Baines and Jenny Boland, whose runaway enthusiasm let me know I was on the right path.

Thank you to Paul Rolles, who made a generous donation to Action Against Hunger to have his name included as a character.

In order to understand Guillain-Barré Syndrome, I read
Bed Number Ten
by Sue Baier and Mary Zimmeth Schomaker,
The Darkness Is Not Dark
by Regina R. Roth and
No Laughing Matter
by Joseph Heller and Speed Vogel.

Thank you to the wonderful Elena and Mihaela Manta at Pretty Nails, Pretty Face, who inspired me to write about a beauty salon – although I need hardly state that Pretty Nails, Pretty Face is nothing like Honey Day Spa!

Finally, thank you to my beloved husband and best friend, Tony, for all the encouragement, help, support and belief in me – there are no words to adequately express my gratitude.

Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2014

Copyright © Marian Keyes, 2014

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

ISBN: 978-0-718-17957-1