Lifesaving for Beginners (11 page)

Faith says, ‘That’s why I have to see her.
To make sure.’
Faith looks at Jonathon but she doesn’t nod or smile.
She looks pretty cool for an adult.
She wears boots that are called Doc Martens.
They’re new but they look old because she got Rob to run over them a few times in his van.

Jonathon smiles and nods and then he says, ‘OK.’

And before he can say anything else, Faith says, ‘How long will it take?’

Jonathon says, ‘It depends.’

Faith says, ‘On what?’

Jonathon says, ‘On when she responds to my letter.
Or if she responds to my letter.’

Faith says, ‘How many letters do you send?’

Jonathon says, ‘Usually three.
The third one is registered.’

Faith nods but she doesn’t smile.

Jonathon tries to ruffle my hair when I’m leaving the office but I duck and he misses.

The phone rings and I pick it up and say, ‘Yes?’
like I usually do, except there’s nobody there.
I can’t hear anyone but I can sense someone.
I don’t say anything.
I just wait.
But the person who I can sense says nothing and I hang up.
I’m still standing beside the phone when it rings again.
This time, I pick it up and say nothing.

It’s Brona.
She says, ‘Hello?’

I say, ‘Hi, Brona.’

‘What would you like for your birthday?’

‘It’s not my birthday till January.’
I’m hanging onto thirty-nine with my fingernails, which I happen to bite most of the time.

‘Well, Christmas, then.
What would you like for Christmas?’

‘Don’t mention the C-word.’

‘Someone sounds like they need a little cheering up.’

‘Did you just phone here?’

‘Yes, of course I did.’

‘No, I mean before.
Just a minute ago.’

‘No.
Why?’

‘Someone phoned.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s probably nothing.
I was just wondering .
.
.
has anyone been asking about me recently?’

Brona laughs and says, ‘My precious girl, everyone asks about you.
You’re the darling of the publishing world, you know that.’

‘No, I mean anything .
.
.
unusual.
Lately.
Anything a bit .
.
.
I don’t know, out of the ordinary.’

‘No, nothing strange.
What’s going on, Kat?
You’re starting to worry me.’

‘Is your office door locked?
Right now?
While you’re on the phone to me?’

‘Of course it is.
I always lock it before I ring you, you know that.’

‘And when you’re not in the office .
.
.
do you still lock your office door when you’re not there?’

‘Kat, you know how cautious myself and Jeremy are when it comes to you.
What’s this about?’

‘It’s probably nothing, it’s just I’ve had a few calls lately.
You know, when you pick up and no one’s there?
Except there is someone there.
I’m sure of it.’

‘You think someone’s found out?’

‘No.
But last week, I picked up the phone and a man said, “Is Killian there?”
and I said, “No,” and he just hung up.’

‘Well, that sounds like it was just a wrong number.’

‘Yes, but the name.’

‘Lots of people are called Killian.’

‘Yes, but it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sure that’s all it is, Kat.
A coincidence.’

‘What about the dropped calls?’

‘It’s probably kids.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Nothing to worry yourself about.’

‘Maybe not .
.
.’

Brona says, ‘So .
.
.’

I say nothing.
I know what’s coming.

After a while, Brona says, ‘What’s the gorgeous Declan Darker up to these days?’

‘You know I don’t like talking about him over the phone.’

‘Come on, Kat, it’s just me.
You’re being paranoid.’

‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean your phone’s not bugged.’

‘Look, the last thing I want to do is put you under pressure but, as you know, there’s a heck of a lot of interest in this one.
More than usual, I mean.’

Brona is the only person I know who can get away with saying ‘heck’.
For a publishing phenomenon – that’s how they described her in
Hello!
– there’s something a little old fashioned about her.
Like, if she wore a gingham apron in her kitchen and went ahead and made bread and butter pudding, nobody’d bat an eyelid.
It could be her hair.
It never moves.
It looks like it’s been set, like a trifle.

I say, ‘Why?’
I know why but I’m buying time.

‘The tenth Darker novel?
DreamWorks are already chomping at the bit for a preview.
Clooney has refuted allegations that he’s too old to play Darker.
Looks like the studio’ll have a catfight on their hands between himself and Matt Damon for the job.
Either way, it’s a winning combination for us, am I right?
Gallons of other stuff too.
There’s an app in development.
Merchandising is going to town.
There’s talk of a special-edition packet of Durex.’

‘Declan Darker doesn’t use condoms.’

‘That’s not the point.’

I wait for her to tell me what the point is.

‘The point is, it’s ready, steady, go here and I’m just wondering .
.
.
you know .
.
.
when we can expect delivery.’

This is not the usual kind of conversation I have with Brona.
For starters, she hardly ever rings me.
I ring her.
From payphones, mostly.
Just in case.
And if she ever does ring me, it’s never to ask about delivery.
There’s never been any need.
Before now.

I ring her.
I tell her when the manuscript will be ready.
Set up the drop.
That’s what Brona calls it.
The drop.
She thinks it’s funny.
Over the top.
Not that she’d say it.
But I know she thinks it all the same.

Because nobody knows who I am, there’s no need for her to ring me to talk about launches or press releases or interviews or magazine articles or appearances on cheesy chat shows, thank Christ.

When I don’t answer immediately, Brona presses on.

‘We’ve been thinking .
.
.’

‘We?’

‘Relax.
Just me and Jeremy.’
Jeremy is Brona’s boss and the only other person in the publishing house who knows.
Jeremy partly owns the company.
Mostly owns it now, I suppose, since his father died.
People say ‘died’ but the truth is he was killed by a Wii.
Collapsed when he was doing a Wii Fit slalom jump.
Which adds further weight to my hypothesis about the dangers of physical exercise.

He left Jeremy everything.
Even the Wii.
Brona says he never uses it.

I say, ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘At least hear me out.’

‘No.’

Brona ignores me.
‘This is the tenth book.
It’s time for the fans to meet the writer.
It’s time to unveil Killian Kobain.’

I didn’t come up with that name, obviously.
Killian Kobain.
Brona calls it her ‘brainchild’.
Publishers are mad about alliteration.

I say, ‘No.’

Brona says, ‘Why not?’

‘For starters, Killian Kobain is a recluse, remember?’

‘Yes, but maybe he feels differently now.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘The tenth book, Kat.
We could have a ball.
Spill the beans.
The journos would lap it up.
The publicity would be gigantic.’

‘There’s enough publicity.’

‘There’s no such thing as enough publicity.’

‘No.
I’m not doing it.’

‘Come on.
It’ll cheer up Jeremy.’

‘What’s wrong with Jeremy?’

‘Harold broke up with him.’

‘Harold’s always breaking up with him.’

‘No, he means it this time.
He moved out.
Just before Jeremy’s birthday.
He’d promised Jeremy a trip to Tuscany.
They were going to do this Italian cookery course.
Now Jeremy’s on his own, having Findus Crispy Pancakes for his breakfast, lunch and dinner, from the looks of his recycling bin.’

‘Poor Jeremy.’

Brona pounces on my moment of empathy.
‘Yes, Kat, that’s precisely why we need to go all out for this launch.
It would give darling Jeremy such a lift.’

‘I’ll send him flowers.’

‘At least say you’ll think about it?’

‘Roses.
Yellow ones.
They’ll do the trick.’

‘Listen, I’ll call you next week and see where you are with the manuscript and we can talk some more about the launch, OK?’

‘Can we talk about something else?’
I haven’t written anything in months but I’m not ready to let Brona know that yet.

‘Of course.
How are you?’

‘Grand.’

But she knows me too well.
She says, ‘Tell Brona what’s the matter.
Is it Thomas?
Has he been in touch at all?’

‘He has a new girlfriend,’ I say and I am appalled to hear a crack in my voice.
A sliver of a crack but a crack all the same.

Brona says, ‘Gosh.
That’s terrible news.
Are you all right?’

‘Of course I’m all right.
I just .
.
.
it’s weird thinking about him with someone else, that’s all.’

Brona says, ‘I’m sure Thomas and this woman aren’t serious.
It’s just a rebound thing.
I’m certain of it.
He was mad about you.’
And there it is.
The past tense.
It still sounds strange.

‘She’s young, of course.’

‘How young?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘That’s only four years younger than you.’

‘Three and three-quarters.’
I’m not forty yet, dammit.

‘Exactly.
That’s nothing.’

‘He went out with her before.’

‘Oh.’

‘For three years.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why do you keep saying, “Oh”?’

‘Do I?
Gosh, I’m sorry, I’m just .
.
.
I’m listening.
Go on.’

‘You think it’s bad, don’t you?
That he went out with her before?
For three years?’

‘No.
Of course not.’

‘She’s at that very susceptible child-bearing age,’ I say.

‘Physiologically speaking,’ begins Brona, ‘the optimal child-bearing age is eighteen.’

I’m not sure if Thomas is aware of this fact.
Or if he cares.
All I know is that he’d love a child.
If he had one.
He’s that type.

‘Anyway,’ I tell Brona, ‘it’s a moot point and, even if it weren’t, I’m too old to have children now.’

Brona produces the trump up her sleeve.
Her sister.
‘Lorna had her first baby when she was forty-two, remember?’

How could I forget?
Lorna is like a lighthouse in Brona’s stormy seas, shining a soft light on the dark waters of Brona’s single, childless life, of which she is not a big fan.