If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (19 page)

There’s a group of teachers, all the Marys, sitting around the coffee table and yakking, so I join them. Honest to God, one of the Marys is holding court about an article she read about how to read your cat’s mind, another is giving out handy tips to keep your compost bin smelling nice and fresh, and the one nearest me is telling anyone who’ll listen that she thinks she might be suffering from the early stages of gout. Gout? I’m thinking, isn’t that all a bit, you know . . . Jane Austen? Poor old Fi, no wonder she spends so much of her free classes with her head stuck in her computer. Nothing against the Marys, they’re all lovely, they’re just so, so, SO much older than our Fi, that’s all.

Anyway, I notice that she’s back on her own again, so I muscle into the little cubicle space beside her and start reading over her shoulder.

She’s typing out a list. Called ‘Things I’d Really Like To Tell Charlotte.’

Sorry, but my eye just skims over this one. Mainly because I know if I start bawling crying, there’ll be no shutting me up, and I’ve far too much else to be getting on with.

I’m back to almost yelling in her face and thank God no one can hear me.

‘NO, Fi! After how he stood you up in public? And gave you that lame excuse? Why can’t you just think of him, if you must . . . as an utter arsehole?’

I read on, over her shoulder, shaking my head sadly.

OK, nothing for it, then. Time to implement part two of my cunning plan.

Just something else I need to check out first, that’s all. But don’t worry, I’ll be right back.

Poor old Fi, by ten o’clock that night, she’s fast asleep again, out for the count and snoring gently. She even lets out quite a girlie-sounding fart at one point.

I will
never
get over the things people do when they think they’re alone.

Anyway, she’s in her living room, stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV, which is still on, with a rerun of an old
Sex and the City
episode blaring away in the background. The one where Mr Big’s marriage to the five-foot-ten modelly one breaks up, and he tells Carrie she’s the real love of his life. Which is ironic, or at least it will be, when Fiona realizes where I’ll be taking her later on tonight.

There’s a pile of neatly corrected essays on the coffee table in front of her, and an empty tub of Ben & Jerry’s Rocky Road ice cream, with the spoon still sticking out of it. Oh, and a lovely Diptyque lavender-scented candle burning away in the fireplace. I bought it for her last birthday, it cost a small fortune, and it’s annoying me now that it’s blazing away while she’s sleeping and not getting the full benefit of it. That’s the thing about dying young: all waste really gets to you. Even over-priced aromatherapy.

I try blowing it out, really try hard, till my cheeks are all puffed out and I’m sure I must be purple in the face. Nothing. I try again, blowing till I’m fit to burst a blood vessel, and . . . I’m not imagining it, it does . . . it actually
does
seem to flicker a tiny bit. Oh my God, this could be so amazing! If I could only just train myself to do physical things, then how much easier would it be for me to give little signs to Mum and Kate and Fi? And batter James across the head with a hockey stick while I’m at it? Maybe it’s a bit like training for a marathon: you start with little things like making candles flicker, then gradually work your way up to making butterflies land on people’s shoulders and songs loaded with meaning play for them on the radio on cue. So, in no time at all, I’ll end up being able to steer
Kate and Fiona with all the precision and accuracy of a surface-to-air missile.

Then I look around the living room and realize.

She just went to sleep with the window open, and now the night breeze is fluttering in, making the candle flame flicker, that’s all.

Shite.

Anyway, there’s no more time to waste, so I wait till she’s safely passed through that membrane between being awake and asleep, and in I go.

‘Wakey wakey!’

She turns over on her side and keeps on sleeping. Jesus, it’s like trying to wake the living dead.

‘Fiona?’ I say, gently at first, but then getting louder and louder, until her eyes gradually open and she sits sleepily up beside me.

‘Hey, babes!’ she says, hugging me warmly. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

‘And you, hon.’

‘Second dream in a row I’ve had about you.’

‘I know.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Ehh, long story. Let’s just say, I’m kind of on a bit of a mission here, and we need to get moving fast . . .’

‘On a bit of a mission?’

‘Yeeeeeeah, and it’s important that you trust me. Now take my hand, there’s something I need you to see.’

‘Cool. Any clues as to what it is? The inside of the Brangelina mansion? One of the Wilson brothers in the nip? Luke or Owen, you know me, I’m not fussy.’

‘Fiona! Shut up and grab my hand, will you? We’ve so little time before you wake up!’

‘Or you know what would be
really
useful? If you could fix it for me to dream what comes up in this year’s English and history Higher Level papers. Not that I’d cheat; let’s say I’d just gently steer the girls towards what to focus on when they’re doing their last-minute cramming, that’s all.’

‘Fiona! Just hold on to me and stop bloody yakking!’

‘Or any chance we could beam into an RTE studio to get next Saturday’s Lotto Plus numbers?’

‘Last chance.’

‘OK, OK, OK. Jeez, can I just point out that you’re an awful lot bossier in my dreams than you ever were in real life?’

We lock hands and we’re away.

Next thing, the two of us are standing in the front garden of a perfectly normal-looking suburban house, with a huge sycamore tree growing right at the gate. It’s daytime, bright, warm and sunny, and there’s a gang of kids going up and down the road on their bikes, screaming abuse at each other, like they’re having a race.

Fiona looks at me, puzzled.

‘I don’t get it,’ she eventually says. ‘Where the fuck are we, Wisteria Lane? Or make that Hysteria Lane. So, what’s going on, have you brought me here so I can dream about tomorrow night’s episode of
Desperate Housewives
?’

‘Shhhhhh.’

‘I mean, I like the TV show all right, but not that much. Couldn’t you have taken me somewhere with a bit more . . . pizazz? Like . . . I dunno . . . the Ivy in London, so we could celeb spot. Or the “reduced to clear” rack at some big discount store in New York, so I could see what I’m missing out on . . . or . . . well, pretty much anywhere except here, really.’

‘Be patient, will you?’

‘I just want to point out that right now, particularly after the last dream I had about you, I’m almost expecting a baby grand piano to fall down on my head, like in a Laurel and Hardy movie.’

‘Fiona, just watch, listen and learn.’

‘Good coming from you. When did you ever watch, listen
or
learn?’

‘If you don’t shut up, I’m taking you out of this dream and back to your sofa, and it’ll serve you right for not trusting me. This is for your own good.’

‘OK, OK.’

Just then, a black Range Rover jeep comes gliding smoothly down the road and pulls up right outside the house, only a few feet away from where we’re standing. The door opens and out clamber two gorgeous little girls, very alike, same height, same long, swishy fair hair. It’s like they’ve just come back from the matinee of a panto or something; one is dressed like Belle from
Beauty and the Beast
and the other one is in a Hermione from
Harry Potter
rig-out. They’re both wearing tiaras, and are laden down with magic wands, popcorn, bags of chocolate and jellied eels from the sweet factory.

‘That pair must be twins,’ says Fiona, absent-mindedly. ‘Aren’t they little cuties? How old would you say they are? Four? Maybe five? I always find it hard to tell, speaking as a non-parent . . .’

She breaks off, as the penny slowly begins to drop.

‘Hang on a second, Charlotte, they’re twin girls of about five . . . and . . . if I’m not very much mistaken, we both know someone who, by an incredible coincidence, also has twin girls of about that same age, which begs the question, why did you bring me here to spy on them . . . ?’

She’s interrupted by the driver’s door opening, sees exactly who it is that emerges, then immediately ducks behind the tree, grabbing me with her.

‘Merciful hour, what exactly are you trying to do to me? For Jaysus’ sake, look! It’s him! Tim Keating!’

‘Shh, will you calm down, it’s absolutely OK, he can’t even see us . . .’

‘I do not CARE, now get back behind this tree or I’ll chain you to it. Why are you putting me through this, Charlotte? Is it punishment for borrowing your good Karen Millen black dress and getting vomit stains on it? Because I’ll happily buy you another one, I’ll do anything if you’ll just beam us out of here, like . . . NOW.’

‘Will you just stop rabbiting on and take a look at what’s happening? Quick, you’re missing the sideshow.’

Her back is to the tree, and she’s slumped up against it, arms splayed, like an eco-warrior trying to prevent it from being chopped down.

‘Don’t suppose there’s a chance I’m free to leave at any time, is there?’ she hisses at me.

‘Another two minutes, that’s all I’m asking. For God’s sake, you’ve spent longer on the phone trying to vote on
X Factor
.’

‘Charlotte, PLEEEEEEASE!’

‘Why won’t you trust me? Just take a look behind you, one little peek, that’s all I’m asking.’

‘When I wake up on my lovely warm sofa, you are veh veh dead. Just so you know.’

I think nosiness eventually gets the better of her, though, because, a second or two later, she pokes the tip of her nose cautiously around the edge of the tree. And then she sees.

Sees Tim to be exact. Ex-love of her life. Except she sees him as he is now, slamming the jeep door shut with an expensive clunk, and striding in that lanky, long-legged way he always had towards the front door.

‘Sweet Baby Jesus and the orphans,’ says Fi in total shock, unable to take her eyes off him. ‘It’s Peter Pan with a bald patch. Look at him, he’s taken a
coup de vieux
, as the French say.’

‘Sometimes you’re just too schoolteachery for me, hon; a
coupe de
what?’

‘I just mean . . .’ her voice breaks off a bit here, like she’s starting to choke up. ‘He looks so
grey
. Grey and washed-out and tired. That’s not the Tim I knew. Not by the longest of long shots.’

It’s a pretty good way of describing him, actually: he does look grey in the face. It’s hard to imagine, but only a few short years ago, Tim was really something to look at, a head-turner, but in a couldn’t-care-less kind of way. There wasn’t an ounce of vanity in him: he only shaved because if he didn’t, he’d end up looking like a caveman, and the only time he ever looked in a mirror was to put in his contacts. Tall and super-skinny with unruly black curls that nearly came to his shoulders, like a seventies footballer. Black eyes that danced at you as he made you nearly pee with laughter at one of his gags, or at some bit of messing and devilment he’d been up to. Back then, he always used to wear these mad T-shirts with slogans on them that said things like, ‘My Mother Is a Travel Agent for Guilt Trips.’ Or ‘At My Age, I’ve Seen It All, Heard It All, Done It All. Just Can’t Remember It All.’ Then there was my personal favourite, and the one he wore to his twenty-first birthday party, ‘I Just Do What the Voices Inside My Head Tell Me to Do’. Once, for Fiona’s birthday, he even bought her one that said, ‘Princess, Sufficient Experience With Princes, Seeks Frog.’ Now a more high-maintenance woman would have told him to shove his T-shirt up his arse and go to the nearest jewellers to buy her a proper, decent, more boyfriendy type of present. But Fiona loved it so much, she even slept in it. Mind you, this is a couple whose song was ‘Pretty Vacant’ by the Sex Pistols. Not the most romantic, but there you go.