Further Under the Duvet (5 page)

So off Himself and myself went to France (any excuse) and showed up at a massive film studio in a Parisian suburb. They’d said we could come at any time of the day but we didn’t want to presume we were invited for lunch, so we calculated that the optimum arrival time would be around
4 p.m. This is the hour when workers of the world unite, by downing their tools and having a KitKat Chunky and a can of Lilt (or local equivalent).

But when we arrived, filming was still underway so, through cables and monitors and tons of people, we picked our way onto the set – and all of a sudden I nearly keeled over with shock. The actress playing Katherine looked
exactly
as I had imagined her when I wrote her: very beautiful in a pure, innocent sort of way. It was the spookiest feeling – for a moment it felt as if I had conjured her up, that she was only real because I’d imagined her. And the actress playing Tara was ‘my’ Tara, she totally embodied her spirit. As for the man playing the book’s egomaniac actor, Lorcan Larkin, he’d had his name changed to Leo (not too many French Lorcans, I suppose) and his long red hair was now short and dark. But swaggering about in a long leather coat and cowboy boots, he managed to be both sexy and repellent, just as I’d always visualized him.

I stood in the shadows, watching the scene, and I had a second shock – I knew this! The dialogue was exactly as I had written it. (But in French.) This might seem like a total no-brainer but actually, very often, all a film adaptation has in common with the source book is the title.

The spirit of my book had been captured exactly – even the smaller characters were perfect. It was all very moving and, to my mortification, I began to cry. Luckily not in a big, shoulder-shaking extravaganza of emotion – I didn’t make a complete gom of myself – just in an eye-filling, discreet-sniffy kind of way. Bad enough, though.

Then the director yelled, ‘Coupe!’ (no, really, she did, it was gorgeous – so
French
) and the glad-handing began. When
we’d bonjoured ourselves blue in the face, the long-awaited moment finally arrived: we were offered ‘refreshments’. Himself and myself exchanged a flicker. Easy now. No dribbling. No running. Act nonchalant. But to our phenomenal surprise, all there was to eat were sweets. French sweets, which meant, of course, that they were superior to any other sweets, but nothing like the gourmet’s smorgasbord we’d fantasized about.

Some time later, in the back of the taxi as we drove away, Himself said, ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand.’

‘The food?’ I said. ‘I know!’

‘Not the food. I just don’t understand how none of the girls got their kit off.’ Then he thought about it further. ‘You know what? None of them were even smoking!’

He was right and I was seized by a sudden, dreadful suspicion – no lovely food, no nudity, no Gauloises – had all of this been a big elaborate hoax? A reality TV con-job?

After several seconds of stricken silence, Himself said, like a drowning man clutching an armband, ‘Tara’s lipstick was very red, though.’

Yes, I agreed, Tara’s lipstick had been very red. Extremely red. Possibly the reddest lipstick I’d ever seen.

And, at that, we cheered up and started talking about what we’d have for our dinner.

First published in
Cara,
February 2004
.

Au Secours, J’ai Trente Ans
is now available on DVD.

You know on some crappy cable channel, there are shows where a load of swizzers stand on a stage and ‘deliver’ messages from the dead to the poor schmucks in the audience? The swizzers spend a lot of time with their hand cupped around their ear as they ‘listen’ to the other-worldly voices and they call everyone ‘my love’ especially when they make people cry. (Example: ‘He forgives you, my love, so you must forgive yourself.’)

Yes, well, I admit to a certain fascination with them. One half of me is watching with my lip curled scornfully, and the other half is thinking: but what if it’s true?

Then one day, I read a review in a respected broadsheet of a live show one of these swizzer women – we’ll call her
Angela – had done; they reckoned she was the real thing. They also said she did one-to-one readings and, all of a sudden, I was excited.

Research, see. I was thinking of writing about a woman who can’t stop looking for answers and attends all manner of swizzers. But, handily enough, I was going through a bit of a bad patch myself and I was interested in what messages from beyond the grave Angela might have for me.

Possibly as a result of the piece in the paper, Angela was very hard to get hold of. I sent an email, which wasn’t replied to for months. When she finally did get in touch, she offered me a half-hour reading over the phone in two months’ time. But first I had to send a cheque for twenty-five euro – which, in all fairness, wasn’t rip-off astronomical.

So I sent my cheque off, counted down the days and tried to keep a tight rein on my hope.

Over the years, on and off, I’d gone to tarot readers, as you do. (Or maybe you don’t.)

I often went when I was having man trouble (most of the time). And then there were the social events, when you got in a load of Chardonnay and a tarot reader came to your house and ‘did’ nine or ten of you, and you all got scuttered and had a good laugh.

But recently I’d had a bad run. I’d gone to a few (again in the name of research with my personal interest add-on) and they’d been seriously crap. A tiny little voice inside me was suggesting that perhaps they’d always been bad. Maybe I’d wanted so hard to believe that I’d overcompensated for their bollocks. And indeed, years ago, I remember one who’d got so much alarmingly wrong about me that when she said, ‘You’ve
just suffered a bereavement?’ I found myself agreeing that I had (although I hadn’t) because I was so embarrassed for her.

Recently, when I’d asked a tarot reader about my career, she’d said, ‘Don’t worry about your career, love. Let your husband take care of all that. Be there to support him and maybe in a couple of years’ time you can get a part-time job.’

I’d also been promised two children who’d never arrived. I’d been told I’d be moving house, which I hadn’t. And a dark-haired man would deliver good news and then ask for money – as yet, no sign of him. The accumulated disappointments had stacked up on top of each other and were on the verge of toppling over into cynicism. So I really, really,
really
wanted this Angela person to be good.

But on the appointed day and hour, when I rang, she said, ‘Who are you? Maureen from Dublin? Look, I can’t talk to you today, I’ve got builders in. Bye.’

She was about to hang up, but anxiously I said, ‘Wait! When
can
you talk to me?’

She said impatiently, ‘Oh I dunno. Ring me on Saturday at five,’ and the line went dead.

So I rang on Saturday at five and even before her answering machine clicked in, I knew she wouldn’t be there. I left a message, then sent another email and after I didn’t hear from her, I decided to forget it. Friends and family got heated about the twenty-five euro I’d been swizzed out of, but I let it go – maybe it would teach me not to be so stupid in future.

Life moved on, then out of the blue – perhaps seven months after the initial contact – Angela emailed, offering me a half-hour phone reading between seven and half past seven, on a Tuesday, six weeks hence.

Naturally, I was trepidatious but when I rang on the agreed date, she answered the phone and this time seemed prepared to talk to me.

‘Where are you based, Maureen?’

‘– Marian –’

‘Is it Dublin? Because I’m coming to Dublin soon to do ten shows. Tell everyone you know. I’m doing my shows in xxxxx.’ (Name of venue withheld to protect her identity, although I’m not sure why I’m bothering.) ‘Do you know it?’

I admitted that yes, I knew the theatre in question.

‘Whereabouts is it exactly?’ she asked.

I told her the street name and she said impatiently that she knew the name of the street but whereabouts in Dublin was it precisely. Using the Brown Thomas handbag department as a reference point, I did my best to explain and she cut in, ‘Is it anywhere near Heuston station?’

I admitted it was near enough.

Walking distance?

Not walking distance, I admitted.

How long would it take to get there in a taxi?

I said it would depend on traffic.

So how much would the taxi cost?

Not much, I said, feeling a little panicky. Could we close down this line of enquiry?

No, actually. She wanted to know what time the last train for Portlaoise left Heuston station. Would she be able to get the train home every night after the gig? Or would she have to stay in a B&B in Dublin? And if so how much would a B&B in Dublin cost?

I was stumped. I mean, how would I know? How often do I have reason to stay in a B&B in the town I live in? I suggested she contacted the tourist board.

It was now eight minutes past seven and we still hadn’t started on my reading. Desperately trying to steer things back on track, I asked, ‘How does this work? Someone will come through for me?’

She sighed as if I was being selfish and unhelpful. ‘Oh aye, the reading. Let’s see who we have for you.’ A pause. Another sigh. ‘I have your granny here.’

Surprise, surprise. That was pretty low-risk. ‘Which granny?’

‘She says her name is Mary. Does the name Mary mean anything to you?’

‘My mother’s name is Mary.’

‘Ah! It’s not your granny, it’s your mother! Sorry, sometimes they don’t make it clear.’

‘My mother isn’t dead.’ She’s at home in Monkstown, watching
Emmerdale
and eating peanut M&Ms.

‘It’s not Mary I’m getting anyway.’ Like I’d tried to mislead her. ‘I’m getting the name Margaret? Maggie? Mean anything?’

No. No.

‘Bridget? Bridie?’

No. No.

‘Catherine? Kate? Katie?’

No. No. Yes. My mother’s mother was called Katie. Angela had finally hit paydirt on the eighth attempt. Mind you, how hard could it be to get the name of an Irish granny right? They came from an era when women’s names were rationed; there were only four or five possibilities.

‘Katie says to say hello to you.’

‘Right back at her,’ I said.

A pause. ‘She’s telling me you have relationship troubles.’

Actually, I hadn’t. And, instead of trying to save Angela’s blushes, I said so.

‘No relationship troubles? Aren’t you the lucky girl? Well, you’re probably going to get them, they don’t always get the timing right. Katie tells me you’re thinking of moving house.’

I wasn’t. And I told her so.

‘Sorry, I misheard. Katie says you’re thinking of changing job.’

No.

‘You’re worried about a family member. They have health troubles.’

No.

‘
You
have health troubles.’

No. Not really. Not apart from the ear infections I got every Thursday.

‘So what
are
your troubles?’ But the tone of her voice said, So what are your fucking troubles?

So what were my fucking troubles? Fear of not being able to write my next book, fear that everyone would hate my current one, fear of public speaking, fear of journalists, fear of causing offence, fear of saying no, fear of looking in the mirror, fear that all the size 36 sandals would be gone before I got to the shops. You know, the
usual
. How to encapsulate it? ‘Sometimes I feel like I can’t cope.’

With that she took a deep breath and yelped, ‘
You
feel you can’t cope. You’d want to try being me. I’ve not got a day off, not one day for the next month and a half. I’m booked
solid with readings, back to back, and they’re always asking me to be on TV, they’re making a documentary about me – did I tell you that? – a film crew are going to follow me for a week, then I’ve got the shows in Dublin and I’ll be on telly a lot for that and talking to journalists and being on the radio. I could tell you a thing or two about not being able to cope!’

She said it with enormous pride. She loved it. She fucking
loved
it. The giddy whirl of being a busy, in-demand medium had gone to her head.

‘Book a massage, breathe deeply and spare a thought for me, girl,’ was her advice.

It was now seven twenty-four. ‘No one else is coming through for you. Bye now. And don’t forget to tell everyone to come to my shows!’

A couple of months later she came to Dublin to do her live shows and she got a lot of publicity. I saw her on the telly; she’d done a reading for a presenter on a daytime programme and the presenter looked at the camera and intoned solemnly, ‘This woman is amazing. In a world full of con-merchants, I can promise you that she is the real thing.’

Previously unpublished.