The Other Side of the Story (31 page)

12

The week of Lesley Lattimore's party was seven days of hell. When God created the world, I swear he didn't work as hard as I did that week.

On the first day…

Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. Tons to do, starting with a massive external lighting job to turn the whole castle into a twinkling jewel which could be seen from outer space.

Things were going OK until Lesley took a notion that she wanted the outside walls of the castle to be painted pink. So I asked the owner, Mr Evans-Black, and he told me to fuck off. Literally. And he wasn't that kind of man, he was very Anglo-Irish and proper. 'Fuck off, fuck off,' he shrieked. 'Just fuck off, you dirty, Irish philistines and leave my lovely castle alone.' He put his face into his palms and whimpered, 'Is it too late to back out of this?'

I went back and told Lesley it was no go. 'Silver, then,' she said. 'If he won't do pink. Go on, ask him.'

And you know what? I had to. Even though there was a chance it might kill him. I had to because it was my job.

When I returned with the news that silver was equally unacceptable, Lesley said airily, 'Fine, we'll find another castle.'

And it took a very long time and all of my diplomacy to convince her that actually, no, we wouldn't find another castle. Not only was it too late but word had spread…

On the second day…

Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. Life would have been so much easier if I could have stayed down there
but pas de chance
. Mam wouldn't OK it under any circs.

There was so much to do - the dress, the flowers, the music — the whole deal was very similar to a wedding. Right down to the hysterics. We had the fitting, in situ, of Lesley's pointy-sleeved dress, her pointy shoes and pointy hat. But as she twirled in front of the mirror she placed a finger to her mouth and said thoughtfully, 'Something's missing.'

'You look FABULOUS,' I yelped, feeling the jaws of hell opening. 'Nothing's missing.'

'But there is,' she said, swinging back and forth and behaving all little-girlie. Horrific, it was, especially as she was still watching herself in the mirror and clearly enjoying it. 'I know! I want a hairpiece, a huge fall of ringlets from the crown of my head all the way down my back.'

The designer and I shared a moment of despair, then the designer cleared her throat and dared to mention that the pointy hat would have to be the size of a bucket to stay on top of the 'fall' of ringlets. Lesley took this on board by turning to me and screeching, 'You sort it out! What am I paying you for?'

In my head I said, 'Leave it to me. I'll just fiddle about with the laws of physics. Have a word with that nice Mr Newton, maybe.'

She laughed softly and said, 'You hate me, Gemma, don't you? You think I'm a spoilt little bitch, go on, admit it, I know you do.'

But I just opened my eyes wide and said, 'Lesley, cop on, don't be mad. This is my
job
. If I took this sort of thing personally, I should be in a different business.'

Of course what I really wanted to say was, 'Yes, I hate you, I hate you, I FUCKING HATE YOU! I'm sorry I ever took this fucking job,
no
money is worth it, and you might as well know, no matter how pointy your hat or your sleeves or your shoes are, they'll never be as pointy as your NOSE. You know what we call you? HATCHET-FACE, that's what. Sometimes when you rush towards me, I think someone has flung an axe at me. Oh yes! And even though I'm sometimes jealous that your dad is so good to you, I'd still rather be me than you.'

But I never said it. I'm great. If anyone had badly broken a limb and needed a steel plate to hold it together, they could just have used a piece from the back of my neck, but I'm great.

To add to my stress, I was too busy to do any writing and I was having withdrawal symptoms. It was like when I was giving up smoking. I thought about it all the time and I was narky as anything.

Is this what it means to be a tormented artist?

On the third day…

Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The hairdresser to do Lesley's 'fall' had arrived and I was overseeing the installation of huge drops of pink silk from ceiling to floor when I heard someone boom, 'So this is the woman who's spending all my money.'

I turned around. Christ, it was Wads! And Mrs Wads, who was a too-much-money-meets-too-much-Librium trainwreck. Wads was fat and smiley — you could tell he prided himself on his bonhomie and his hail-fellow-well-met personal style. He was terrifying: I sensed his conviviality could dissolve in a moment and he'd be telling his 'boys' to take someone to a neglected cellar, tie him to a chair and 'teach him a lesson'.

'Mr Lattimore. A pleasure to meet you,' I lied.

'Tell me now, is there good money in this party organizing lark?' he asked. I'd lay bets that if he met the Queen, he'd ask if there was good money in being a monarch.

I tittered in terror. 'I'm not really the person to ask.'

'Who should I ask, then?'

Oh God.

'That pair? Francis and Frances?' he asked. 'The evil twins? They're the ones who keep all the profit?'

What could I say?

'Yes, Mr Lattimore.'

'Don't bother with that Mister stuff, no need to stand on ceremony with me.'

'If you're sure, er, Wads.'

Mrs Wads's beLibriumed eyes flared briefly into startled life, a piquant little pause followed and Wads eventually spoke.' The name,' he said with ominous calm, 'is Larry.'

Oh Jayzus, there go my kneecaps.

On the fourth day
…

Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The wind machine to move the fabric about had arrived, the furniture was on its way, a new bucket-sized pointy hat was under construction, Andrea and Moses had come down to help me and things were starting to seem less dangerously out-of-control when Lesley had a sudden fit. 'The bedrooms are too ordinary! We have to get them decorated.'

I held her still, looked into her eyes and said through clenched jaws, 'There. Is. No. Time.'

Steadily she eyeballed me back. 'Make. Time. I want those things that go over the bed, like mosquito nets but pretty. In silver.'

I thought of Wads and my kneecaps.

'Phone!' I shrieked at Andrea, dangerously close to losing it. 'Excuse me while I just buy up all the silver lame in Ireland.'

I had to call every dressmaker I knew: big firms, small firms, even sole operators. It was like the evacuation of Dunkirk.

On the fifth day…

Up in the middle of the night to drive to Offaly. The glasses arrived and half of them hadn't survived the journey. Freak stations, trying to get more; they weren't just any glasses, they were pink Italian crystal. But it was the silver lame mosquito nets that were breaking my heart. Only a few lone operators would take the job at such short notice so I sewed those fuckers myself. I worked through the night. I couldn't go home - I offered to send a car to Mam to bring her to the castle, but in the end, on my assurances that it would never happen again, she said she'd manage one night on her own.

On the sixth day…

The day of the party. I'd had no sleep, my fingers were covered in cuts, but I was keeping it together. I was Keeping. It. Together. Ear to the ground, finger on the pulse, that was me. Picking up on any imperfections including the two bullet-headed-thug types bursting out of too-tight suits. Bouncers. God, but they were rough-looking.

I collared Moses. 'That pair. Couldn't we have got bouncers who didn't look quite so psycho?'

'Them? They're Lesley's brothers,' and Moses dashed away to welcome the lute minstrels and give them their tights and curly toed slippers.

And for the rest of the day and night, it was just a succession of people running up to me and saying, 'Gemma, someone's collapsed in the hall.'

'Gemma, have you any condoms?'

'Gemma, Wads wants a cup of tea but Evans-Black has barricaded himself into his room and won't give up the kettle.'

'Gemma, they're booing the lute players. It's getting quite ugly.'

'Gemma, no one's got any drugs.'

'Gemma, Lesley's brothers are beating the shit out of each other.'

'Gemma, Mrs Wads is having sex with someone who isn't Mr Wads.'

'Gemma, the ladies' loos are blocked and Evans-Black won't give up his plunger.'

'Gemma, Evans-Black is after calling the filth.'

And on the seventh day…

She lied to her mammy and said she had to go back for the clean-up operation when in fact Andrea and Moses were doing it. Instead she went to Owen's and said, 'I want to have sex with you, but I've no energy. Would you mind if I just lay there and you did all the work?'

'So what's new?'

Which wasn't true; she was quite inventive and energetic in the scratcher with Owen. All the same, he did what she asked, then he made her cheese on toast and she lay on the sofa and watched
Billy Elliot
.

13

Izzy sipped her wine and thought nice thoughts, when through the crowds she noticed a man down by the bar, looking directly at her and smiling warmly.

But he wasn't a comb-over lech, he was In The Zone - you know, the right age and nice-looking. The novelty of it nearly made her laugh out loud; she was being picked up. In an Irish nightclub!

And he was coming over. She shoots, she scores!

She knew him, though. She just couldn't place him. He was frustratingly familiar, who the hell… oh, of course, it was Will the Scrip. Out and proud. She got a funny warm feeling in her stomach, but that could just have been the wine.

 'Who's minding the shop?' she called.

'Who's minding your mammy?'

They wheezed with empathetic mirth. He nodded at her glass of wine and said, all high-spiritedly, 'Now, Izzy, I'd love to buy you a drink, but should you be drinking while you're on medication?'

'It's notmine, youthick. It's memammies.' She was a little more jarred than she'd realized.

'I know,' he winked.

'I know you know,' she winked back.

Izzy
definitely
fancied him. Weird stuff was happening: the book had moved further and further away from where it had begun. The people had changed. The mother, father and 'me' had altered and become people in their own right. That's what they meant by the magic of writing and at times it could be extremely annoying. I had a lovely non-dotcom entrepreneur lined up for Izzy and she persisted with an attraction for the man in the chemist, which I hadn't factored in
at all
. The cheek of her.
Oh my Gott, vot hef I crrreatit?
(My impression of Doctor Frankenstein.)

I must admit that every time I wrote something nice about 'Will' I felt disloyal to Owen. How would he take it that the man in the chemist, and not he, had inspired my romantic hero? But would it matter? By the time the book was finished, Owen and I were bound to be toast. In fact every time we met I felt it could be the final time.

Meanwhile, the more I wrote about him in my book, the more the real Johnny the Scrip was coming into focus, like a Polaroid developing. There was a fine body hiding beneath his white coat. I'd noticed it on Friday night because he'd been wearing clothes. Like,
clothes. Nice
clothes — instead of the white coat which did him no favours.

Did he have a girl, I wondered. I knew he wasn't married because he'd made reference to it at some time, when we were both whinging about our miserable existences. But there was nothing to say that he didn't have a girlfriend — but would he ever get to see her? Probably not, unless she was one of those irritatingly loyal types who was 'standing by him' until his brother was better and this tough time had passed.

The week after Lesley's party I had to collect a prescription (anti-inflammatories, Mam had pulled a muscle in her hand, God only knows how — pressing the remote?) and for the first time ever I was shy about seeing Johnny. As I walked from the car, I felt him looking at me through the shopfront. Naturally I stumbled.

'Hi, Gemma.' He smiled and I smiled. There was just something very nice about him. Such a lovely manner. Mind you, he didn't look like he'd looked in Renards when he'd been sparkly and alive and a little bit bold. Cinderella syndrome: suddenly I understood that he was exhausted. For as long as I'd known him he'd been working twelve-hour days, six days a week and even though he was kind to his clientele, I wasn't seeing him at his best. If only he didn't have to work so hard…

I submitted my prescription and asked, 'How's your brother?'

'It'll be ages yet before he's back on his feet. Um, listen, I hope I didn't upset your boyfriend that night in Renards.'

I took a breath. 'He's not my boyfriend.'

'Er… right.'

I just didn't have a clue where to begin an explanation of the weirdness that was me and Owen, so jokily I said, 'Yes, I
am
in the habit of kissing men who aren't my boyfriend.'

'Great. I'm in with a chance so.' Did that sound like a man with a girlfriend to you?

'Oh, so you don't want to be my boyfriend?' It was meant to be arch and, you know,
good fun
, but first a red tide roared up his face, then up mine. Mortified and mute, we radiated heat at each other and my armpits were itchy.

'Christ,' I tried to save the day with my scintillating wit, 'we could roast marshmallows on the pair of us.'

He laughed redly, 'We're both a bit long in the tooth to be blushing like this.'

14

Once Lesley Lattimore's life-sapping bash was over, I could focus on my book, which was motoring along beautifully; I reckoned I was over three-quarters of the way through. I had other jobs on — but nothing like as demanding as Lesley's — and the only fly in the ointment, a very big one, was my mother. I suspected she'd never OK my novel being published, even though, as I kept saying to myself, it was the oldest story in the book.
And
the people were no longer anything like us.

I was thinking all kinds of panicky things, like I'd have to publish under a pseudonym and pay some actress to pretend to be me. But then I wouldn't be able to gloat at Lily and show Anton what a great success I was.
I
wanted the honour and the glory. I wanted
Yeah
! to photograph me in my sumptuous home. I wanted people to say, 'Are you
the
Gemma Hogan?'

I went to Susan for advice. 'Just be honest with your mammy,' she said. 'It never hurts to ask.'

Now there she was wrong.

I broached it during an ad-break. 'Mam?'

'Hmmm?'

'I'm thinking of writing a book.'

What sort of book?'

'A novel'

'What about? Cromwell?'

'No…'

'A Jewish girl in Germany in 1938?'

'Listen… ah. Switch off the telly a minute and I'll tell you.'

TO: [email protected]

FROM:
Gemma [email protected]

SUBJECT: Breaking the news

Dear Susan,

I took your advice and told her. She called me a bitch. I couldn't believe it and nor could she. The worst she ever called anyone was 'Little madam' or 'Rip'. Even Colette hadn't been called a 'bitch'.

But when Mam heard my story-line, her mouth fell further and further open and her eyes became more and more bulgy. Her face had the look of someone who wanted to say plenty but the appalling shock had wiped out their voice, and then finally, in extremis, words were released from a no-go area in her soul.

'Well… you little -' big long dramatic pause, while the word was directed along narrow unfamiliar corridors, like backstage at a rock concert, then ushered upwards, upwards, upwards ('go, go, go!') towards the light - 'BITCH!'

It was as if she'd slapped me - and then I realized she actually had. A belt across the face from the palm of her hand. She caught me on the ear with her eternity ring and it really hurt.

'You want the whole world to know how I've been humiliated.'

I tried to explain that it wasn't about her and Dad, at least not any more and that it was the oldest story in the book. But she grabbed the bundle of pages that I'd printed out for her. 'Is this it?' she snarled. (Yes,
snarled
. My mam.) She tried to rip it in two, but it was too thick, so she broke it up into smaller pieces and then
really
went for it. Like,
savaged
it. I swear to God she was growling and I was afraid she was going to start biting it. Eating it, even.

'Now!' she declared, when every page was reduced to shreds and strips of paper were fluttering around the room like a snowstorm. 'No more book!

And I hadn't the heart to explain about how it's all backed up on the computer.

My ear is still killing me I really
am
a tormented artist.

Love

Gemma

It badly damaged things between me and Mam. I felt guilty and ashamed — but very resentful. Which made me feel even more ashamed. And still I wouldn't stop writing. If I really loved her, wouldn't I just knock it on the head? But — and you can call me selfish — I felt I'd given up a lot and there was a voice inside me going,
What about me
?

Meanwhile Mam, who had been improving, went back into suspicion overdrive and tried to monitor my every move. Something had to give — and it did.

It was an ordinary workday, I was running around like a blue-arsed fly, getting dressed, and she cornered me. 'What time will you be home tonight?'

'Late. Eleven. I'm having dinner at the new hotel on the quays. The one I want to hold the conference in.'

'Why?'

'
Bee-cause
,' I sighed, pulling up my tights, 'I have to try out the hotel food to see if it's OK for the conference. You can come with me if you don't believe me.'

'I'm not saying I don't believe you, I just don't want you to go.'

'Well that's tough, because I've no choice. I have to do my job.'

'Why?'

'I've a mortgage to pay.'

'Why don't you sell up that old flat and just live here?'

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! My worst fear, by eight million miles. Something snapped.

'I'll tell you why,' I said, far too loudly. 'What if Dad marries Colette and we have to move out of here? We'll be glad then to have my flat to live in.'

I regretted it immediately. Even her lips went white and I thought she was going to have another fake heart attack. She began fighting for breath and between gasps, said, 'That couldn't happen.'

She heaved and gasped a bit more then, to my great surprise, said, 'It
could
happen. It's been six months and not once has he picked up the phone. He has no interest in me.'

And you know what? The following day, with almost spooky timing, a letter arrived from Dad's solicitor, asking for a meeting to discuss a permanent financial settlement.

I read it, then handed it to Mam, who stared at it for a long, long time before speaking. 'Does this mean he's going to sell my house from under me?'

'I don't know.' I was very nervous but I didn't want to lie. 'Maybe. Or maybe he'll let you have it, if you give up any further claims.'

'To what?'

'His income, his pension.'

'And what am I to live on? Fresh air?'

'I'll look after you.'

'You shouldn't have to.' She stared out of the window and she didn't look quite so bewildered and beaten. 'I ran his home all his life,' she mused. 'I was his cook, cleaning woman, concubine, the mother of his child. Have I no rights?'

'I don't know. We'll have to get a solicitor.' Something I should have done ages ago, but I'd hoped it would never come to this.

Another silence. 'That book of yours? What kind of light did it show your father in?'

'Bad.' Correct answer.

'I'm sorry now I tore it up.'

'How sorry?' Proceed with caution.

'You couldn't write it again, could you?'

TO: [email protected]

FROM:
Gemma [email protected]

SUBJECT: She said yes!

She says she wants Dad named and shamed, that everyone knows about her situation anyway and that she might even go on
Trisha
and name and shame Dad there too. And guess what? I've finished my book! I thought I had a good bit still to go but it all came together very quickly at the end. I stayed up till six in the morning writing it. OK, the ending is a bit fairy-tale and I might laugh at it in someone else's book but, like everything in life, it's different when it's your own.

Love

Gemma

I rang Dad to find out what his permanent financial settlement comprised. It was as I'd feared: he wanted to sell the house so he'd have money to buy a new one to house Colette and her brats. Mam and I hired a family lawyer, Breda Sweeney, and went to see her.

'Dad wants to sell the house. Can he do that?'

'Not without your consent.'

'Which he won't get,' Mam said.

I expressed pleased surprise because I'd always suspected the law, in these kinds of cases, was skewed against women. This actually seemed quite protective…

Not so fast. Breda was still talking. 'But when you've been separated for a year, he can go to court and plead his case.'

'Which is?'

'That he's got two families to support now and that a lot of equity is tied up in the erstwhile family home. What usually happens is that the judge will make an order for the house to be sold and the proceeds to be shared.'

Fear seized me and Mam asked — whispered, kind of— 'Does that mean I'll lose my home?'

'You'll have money to buy a new one. Not necessarily fifty per cent of the proceeds, the judge will decide on that, but you'll have something.'

'But it's my
home
. I've lived there for thirty-five years. What about the garden?' She was moving towards hysteria. She wasn't the only one. House prices in Ireland were so high that even if she got half of the proceeds, I knew Mam would never be able to buy anything remotely similar to live in.

This thing just got worse and worse. Mam was sixty-two, a woman in her twilight years and she was about to be uprooted from the home she'd lived in for over half her life and condemned to live in a starter home halfway to Cork.

'But Dad will have to continue to support her?' I asked.

'Not necessarily. By law Maureen is entitled to be given as much as can be given to maintain her lifestyle without impoverishing him.' Breda made a gesture of impotence. 'There's only so much money to go round.'

'I'm running low on tranquillizers,' Mam said, when we got home. 'I don't want to run out of them. Not now, not with this news. Will you go to the chemist?'

'Oh. OK.' I found I felt funny about going. I hadn't seen Johnny for a couple of weeks, not since our bout of flirting, when I'd tripped on the way in and conducted a conversation of high innuendo.

Why was I reluctant to see him? I asked myself. After all, he was lovely. It was because I knew what I was doing was wrong.

Owen — for good or ill — was my boyfriend and it wasn't fair on him to flirt with Johnny. Not unless I was planning to do something about it: like break it off with Owen and boldly go into the chemist looking to have more than my prescription filled. And was I going to do that?

It was one thing to spend a lot of my time with Owen fantasizing out loud about Anton, but Johnny was different. He was real. He was near.

He was interested.

I knew I had an opportunity with him and although it gave me the stomach-churnies (the good ones), I was afraid. I didn't know why, all I knew was. that I wasn't afraid with Owen.