Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (26 page)

fecking leaf in the state, and every time he pressed the button and unleashed that whirry noise, I
got a funny, angry feeling in my teeth.
But as differences went, that wasn't so bad and even our worst row ever had been about
something really stupid: we'd been talking about holiday resorts and I said that I wasn't that keen
on outdoor showers. He'd asked why and I told him the story of how Claire had been having an
outdoor shower in a safari camp in Botswana and had caught a baboon watching her and having
a good old wank for himself.
"It wouldn't happen," Aidan said. "She's making it up."
"She's not," I said. "If Claire said it happened, then it happened. She's not like Helen."
(Actually I wasn't at all sure that that was the case. Claire wasn't above embroidering a story.)
"A baboon wouldn't react that way to a human woman," Aidan had insisted. "It would only
happen if he was watching a lady baboon."
"A lady baboon wouldn't take a shower."
"You know what I mean."
Then the whole thing deteriorated into a "Are you saying a baboon wouldn't fancy my sister?"
sort of thing, but again, we'd had a hard week at work and we were both cranky and would have
happily had a scrap about anything.
But, in all honesty, that was as bad as it ever got.
S   peaking of sisters, another e-mail arrived from Helen about her new job.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
Colin the bozo brought me a gun--heavy, exciting. Imagine, I've a gun!
I'd loads of questions for him. Most importantly...What's Mr. Big's real name? (Again,
please remember am parrot-phrasing.)
Colin: Harry Gilliam.
Me: Do you really think something's going on with Mrs. Big and this Racey O'Grady?
Colin: Yeah. Probably. And if it's true, Harry'll be very upset. He's mad about Detta. Detta
Big is a lady and Harry's always thought she was too good for him. Anyway, let's get going.

Me: Where?
Him: To a shooting club.
Me: For what?
Him: For you to learn how to shoot.
Me: How hard can it be? I just point the thing and pull the trigger.
Him: (all wearylike): Come on.
Went to funny bunker place in Dublin mountains, full of dirt-smeared, starry-eyed men who
looked like they ran their own militia in their back garden.
I wasn't bad. Hit target couple of times. (Pity wasn't my target, har har.) My shoulder, though,
was killing me. No one said shooting people hurts. Well, obviously hurts person who's shot! (Har
har.)
Piss: Don't worry. Know you're all freaked out about death at moment, but promise you (a)
Won't get shot (b) Won't shoot anyone.
The talk of guns had been alarming me, so her promise was a relief. Until I saw the final line.
Pissss: Except maybe some bad guys.
All the same it made me laugh. There was probably no point taking her too seriously--God only
knew how much of this was embellished. Or downright fantasy.
43
M      onday morning. Which meant the Monday Morning Meeting. And here came Franklin,
clapping his hands together, rounding up his girls.
Walking to the boardroom, Teenie linked her arm through mine. She looked almost normal
today; wearing a silver, Barbarella-style shift dress and long silver-and-gray sneakers that laced
right up to her knee. Only the silver-painted skateboarding elbow and knee guards were evidence
of proper kookiness.
"Step right up," she said. "Get your humiliation here!"
"Be degraded in front of your peers," I said.
"And undermined by your lessers."
Easy for us to laugh, we were doing okay.
I was getting good newspaper coverage. No great coups, but at the Monday Morning Meetings, I
always had a couple of things to show and tell after each weekend. Maybe the beauty editors felt

sorry for me with my scarred face and my dead husband. Mind you, I wasn't milking it because
something like that could very much count against you: I could be seen as tainting Candy Grrrl
with my bad luck and my ruined face. Normally when the MMM is over, there's a feeling that
the week can only get better. But not today. Today was day zero for Eye Eye Captain. Today was
the day that one hundred and fifty Eye Eye Captain kits would be assembled and packaged,
ready to be couriered out to all the magazines and newspapers the following day. The timing was
crucial: they couldn't be sent today, they couldn't be sent the day after tomorrow; it had to be
tomorrow. Why? Because Lauryn was trying out a new guerrilla-style tactic. Instead of doing
what we'd normally do with a launch--giving all the beauty editors plenty of advance notice--
we were trying the opposite. She'd carefully calibrated the timing to ensure that Eye Eye Captain
would arrive on every important beauty editor's desk just before their copy had to go to press.
The idea was to dazzle them so completely with something fresh and new, to make them think
that they had a jump on a new product, that they'd bump something else and give us the slot
instead. Admittedly a high-risk game but one Lauryn insisted that we had to try.
It could work because the concept was novel--a one-stop eye-care kit. Three different products,
each of which worked in tandem to enhance the efficacy of the others (or so they said). There
was Pack Your Bags (a cooling gel to zap puffiness and undereye bags), Light Up Your Life (a
light-deflecting concealer pen to banish dark circles), and Iron Out the Kinks (a whipped-mousse
wrinkle killer).
Just one tiny little problem: the trio of products hadn't arrived from the manufacturers in
Indianapolis. They were on their way. Oh, they were definitely coming. They'd be with us by
eleven. But eleven came and passed. Lauryn made a hysterical phone call and got a guarantee
that the driver was in Pennsylvania and would definitely be with us by one. One became two,
became three, became four. Apparently the lorry driver had got lost coming into Manhattan.
"Fucking hayseed," Lauryn screamed. "This is fucking crazy." Then she slammed down the
phone and looked at me. Somehow this was all my fault. We'd gone to the wire on this because
I'd had the temerity to be in a car accident and had missed work for two months.
It was after five by the time the big cardboard boxes were being hefted into the boardroom. No
one was meeting anyone else's eyes because we were all thinking the same thing: Who was
going to stay late--very late--and do it?
Brooke was going to a benefit, saving something or other: whales, Venice, three-legged
elephants. Teenie had school (and it wasn't her job anyway) and there was more chance of
Lauryn eating a three-course meal.
It had to be me. Just me.
Everyone was so used to me working late that they didn't even ask if I'd any plans, but as it
happened, I was meant to be seeing Rachel. I'd given her the slip over the weekend, citing
pressures of work. And now I really had to work--the girl who'd cried overtime.
"Does anyone mind if I make a quick call? Just to cancel my sister?"

I sounded so sarcastic that startled looks were exchanged. Now and again unexpected spurts of
anger, so red-hot they almost scalded me, were shooting up through me and carrying rage-soaked
words out of my mouth.
"Er, no, go right ahead," Lauryn said.
T    eenie helped me slit the boxes open and pile the products along the boardroom table, and
Brooke, in all fairness to her, had already put a hundred and fifty press releases into a hundred
and fifty padded envelopes, even though she'd been out for most of the afternoon because her
aunt Genevieve (she wasn't her real aunt, just one of her mother's extremely rich friends) was in
town and had hosted a lunch for her in a private dining room at the Pierre.
And then everyone was gone. The building was quiet, nothing but the hum of computers. I took a
look at all the stuff on the boardroom table and was stabbed with self-pity.
I bet you're really pissed off with the way they're treating me.
I began by lining the inside of all the padded envelopes with sheets of silver lam�. This took until
after eight; I was slower than I'd normally be because of my nails. Then I became a human
conveyer belt. At one end of the table I stuck a printed label on the padded envelope, then I
moved on to pick a Pack Your Bags from one pile, a Light Up Your Life from the next, an Iron
Out the Kinks from the third, let them tumble into the padded envelope, picked up a handful of
tiny silver stars, scattered them in on top, sealed the envelope, chucked it in the corner, and
returned to the start.
I kind of got a rhythm going. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-pick-
pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-
pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw.
It was very soothing and I had been crying for a long time before I noticed. Mind you, I wasn't
crying so much as leaking. Tears ran down my face without any input from me--no heaving, no
gulping, no shoulder shaking; it was very peaceful. I cried the entire way through the job, and
although my tears blurred the ink on Femme's address label, no other harm was done.
By the time I finished, it was midnight. But all one hundred and fifty packages were waiting to
be couriered in the morning.

M      y taxi driver home was good and mad. He had a massive mustache and long curly hair,
which he went on and on about. He said he was like Samson: he carried his strength in his hair
and all his "women" tried to make him cut it off because "they want me to be weak." On the
mad-taxi-driver scale, he was easily a seven out of ten, possibly even seven and a half, and I felt
he'd been specially sent by Aidan: it was late at night, I'd been working for sixteen hours
straight, and he wanted to cheer me up.
44
A    nother e-mail arrived from Helen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
First day of surveillance on Detta Big. Stuck in hedge in her back garden in big detached house
in Stillorgan, binoculars trained on her bedroom.
She's about fifty, roundy bum, big knockers, leathery cleavage. Shoulder-length blondy curly
hair, heated-rollers end product.
Wearing high heels and cream knitted (boucl�?) skirt and jumper. Couldn't see lumps or
bumps in her arse area, even with zoom at max. She must wear slip and steel-reinforced girdle.
Looks like aging newsreader, maybe.
At ten to ten, she put on coat. We were going out. Bypassed car, big silver Beemer (car
lacking in personality), and walked to local church. She was going to mass! I sat at back, just
grateful not to be in hedge.
Afterward, she went to newsagent, bought Herald, Take a Break, twenty Benson & Hedges,
and packet of mints (Extra Strong). Then went home again and I resumed vigil in hedge. She put
kettle on, made tea, sat in front of telly, smoking and staring into space. One o'clock, she got up,
and I thought, Please let's be going out. But she was just making bowl of soup and toast, then
went back to sitting in front of telly, smoking and staring into space. About four o'clock, she got
up and I thought, Aye, aye, here we go. But she wasn't going out--she was doing the hoovering.
Really going for it. Maddest thing you ever heard?
After hoovering frenzy, Detta went back to kitchen, put kettle on, made tea, and sat smoking
and staring into space. God, hope tomorrow's going to be bit more exciting.
And an e-mail from Mum.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Organized crime

Dear Anna,
We're in a bad way. Helen no longer cares about our "domestic" issue (i.e., the dog poo). She is
too caught up in her new job. She is "lording" it over us because she is associating with known
criminals. If I'd thought, after all we sacrificed for your education, that this is how my youngest
daughter would end up, I'd never have sent any of you to school at all. Sharper than a serpent's
tooth it is to have a thankless child. She says the one she's surveilling, the wife of the "crime
lord," has lovely clothes for an elderly person. Could that be true? And that her house is really
clean? And that she does her cleaning herself. Could that really be the case or is Helen just trying
to "upset" me?
I tried using her camera but it is a "digital" one and neither myself nor your father could
figure it out. How are we to catch the old woman in the act? She was back again on Monday, up
to her old tricks. If you are talking to Helen, would you try persuading her to help out. I know
you are "bereaved," but she might listen to you.
Your loving mother,
Mum
45
T    he flash of red caught me by surprise. Blood. My period. The first one since the accident.
I'd barely noticed it not happening every month; I hadn't worried because in the recesses of my
mind, I'd known it was because of the shock and terribleness. I hadn't, for one second, suspected
I might be pregnant, but now, with an uprush of grief, I thought: I'll never have your baby.
We shouldn't have waited. We should have gone for it straightaway. But how were we to know?
We'd even talked about it. One morning shortly after we'd got married, I was getting dressed and
Aidan was lying in bed, bare-chested, his hands behind his head. "Anna," he said, "something
weird's happening."
"What? Aliens landing on next door's roof?"
"No, listen. Since I was three years old, the Boston Red Sox have been the love of my life. Now
they're not anymore. Now it's you, obviously. I still care about them; I guess I still love them,
but I'm not in love with them anymore." All this was delivered in bed, in a somber, soul-
searching, ceiling-staring kind of way. "In all that time I never wanted to have kids. Now I do.
With you. I'd like a miniature version of you."
"And I'd like a miniature version of you. But, Aidan, lest we forget, I have a mad family; a rogue
insane gene could pop its head up at any time."

"Good, good, should be fun. And we've got Dogly to think about. Dogly needs a kid around the
place." He sat up on his elbow and announced, "I'm serious."
"About Dogly?"
"No, about us having a baby. As soon as possible. What do you think?"
I thought I'd love it. "But not just yet. Soon. Soonish. Like, in a couple of years. When we've
someplace proper to live."
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: This can't go on
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well. I don't know if it will make you feel better or worse to know that
things are very bad for us here, too. There was more dog number twos parked at our gate this
morning. It is like living under siege. Luckily your father didn't stand in it this time, but the
milkman did and he was extremely annoyed and our "relationship" with him is awkward enough
since that time we all "cut out dairy" because of that stupid diet Helen put us on that lasted five
minutes until she realized that ice cream is dairy. It was hard enough to persuade him to come
back that time.
Your loving mother,
Mum
46
A     ll week, I was on tenterhooks waiting for the Mitch bloke to call with Neris Hemming's
number, but the days passed and I heard nothing. So I made a plan: if he hadn't rung by Sunday
I'd go back to that place. That made me feel less panicky and powerless. Then I'd remember that
it was the Fourth of July weekend, what if he'd gone away? And I'd feel panicky and powerless
all over again.
It had been a bad week at work. I'd been ferociously narky, and although my dislocated knee was
officially better, I'd become very clumsy, as though one side of my body were heavier than the
other. I kept bumping into things; I'd knocked a cup of coffee into Lauryn's desk drawer and I'd
made a whiteboard topple over at a briefing session and caught Franklin in the goolies. I'd only
grazed them, but he still made a terrible song and dance about it.
But these accidents were nothing compared to the Eye Eye Captain disaster: because I'd cried all
over the Femme address label and made it too blurry to be read, their package had been returned
to us by the couriers on Tuesday afternoon, and we'd missed the print slot. Lauryn was still thin-
lipped with fury. Every morning when I got out of the elevator, I'd barely set one shoe on the