Lifesaving for Beginners (27 page)

Not much happens.

I think about Thomas.
About ringing him.
I don’t ring him.

I smoke.
A lot.

Brona rings.
I tell her I’ve just started a chapter.
I can’t talk.

I don’t write anything.

I examine my face in the mirror.
My almost-forty-year-old face.

Minnie rings and tells me about her teeth.
Apparently, they’re falling into disrepair due to all the calcium in her body bypassing her mouth and going directly to the baby.
She doesn’t seem put out by this turn of events, even though she’s particular about her teeth, having worn train tracks for much of the eighties.

I tell her I can’t talk, I’ve got Brona holding on the other line.
She wants to discuss the chapter I’m writing.
Minnie tells me to ring her back.
I don’t.

I avoid Ed.
I tell him I can’t come over to play Super Mario Galaxy with him.

‘We could play Super Mario Galaxy 2, if you prefer.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not, Kat?’

‘Because .
.
.’

‘Is it because you’re getting things ready for when Faith comes to visit us?’

‘Something like that.’

Later, the phone rings.
I check the screen.

Withheld.

But it could be Ed phoning from Sophie’s, looking for a lift somewhere.
Maybe he’s out of credit.
I don’t think it’s Ed.
But it could be.

‘Hello?’
My voice sounds sharp.
Caustic.
I don’t sound like someone who is afraid.

‘You were wrong.’
The voice is the same as before.
A man’s voice.
Low-pitched.
English accent.
The enunciation of each word like an elocution lesson.

‘Who is this?’

‘Last time we spoke, you said you know who I am.
But you don’t, do you?
You haven’t got a clue.’

‘I know you’re a coward.’

‘I’m a businessman.’

‘What do you want?’

‘An investment in my business.’

‘What business?’

‘The business of not giving an exclusive to one of our lovely tabloids about Killian Kobain and who he really is.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Everybody wants to know this story.’

‘What story?’

‘The Killian Kobain story.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘The clock is ticking on this deal, Kat.
I’m not looking for a big investment.
A modest six-figure sum should be sufficient.
I don’t think that will pose much of a problem for someone with a net worth of about .
.
.
what did the
Bookseller
report say?
Oh yes, twenty-two million, wasn’t it?
Now is that euro or sterling?’
He laughs, like he’s said something funny.

I know I should hang up.
I know I should.

I don’t.

He says, ‘Let’s hope you have no other secrets to hide, Kat.’

Something twists in my gut, like a knife.
‘What are you talking about?’

‘Once the press gets hold of this story, they’ll go through you for a shortcut.
No stone will be left unturned.
I wouldn’t want that for you, of course.
But by then the matter will be out of my hands.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Now, now, Kat, that’s not very polite.’

‘You’re blackmailing me.’

‘I’m not fond of that word.’

‘That’s what you’re doing.’

The edge returns to his voice.
‘This story will either get told or it won’t.
It’s up to you, Katherine.’

‘Don’t ring this number again.’

‘We’ll talk again.
When you’ve had a chance to think about things.’

‘There’s nothing to think about.’

‘There’s always something to think about.’
This time, he hangs up first.

I throw the phone at the wall but it doesn’t break.
The back cover comes off, that’s all.
I put it back and dial the number, but I hang up before it gets a chance to ring.
I end up doing it a couple of times.
Dialling and hanging up.
I don’t know why.
I’ll be glad in the morning, I’d say.
That I didn’t ring Thomas.

I open a Word document.
Look at the blank screen.
Page one of one.
I type ‘Chapter One’.
Then I close the lid of the laptop, put it into the bag and put it under the stairs, behind a case of wine.

I go out.
Sit in the cinema.
I can’t remember the name of the film.
Subtitles.
German, maybe.
I go to a sushi bar.
The food goes round and round on a conveyer belt.
I drink a glass of wine.
Then I go home.

As soon as I open the hall door, I see it.
A light, flashing on my answering machine.
A red light.
In the darkness of the hall, it looks sinister.
It looks like bad news.

It’s probably nothing.
Someone selling broadband.
Or asking me questions about the telly programmes I like.
For a survey.
My viewing habits they call it, when they ring.

The car keys are in my hand, my coat is on, so I turn, away from the light, the red flashing light, close the door and back down the hallway.
I don’t wait for the lift.
Instead, I take the stairs two at a time and don’t stop running until I reach my car.
I get in and turn on the radio – loud – and light a cigarette, even though I am not supposed to smoke in the car.

Rain lashes against the window and blurs my view as if I’ve been crying, which I haven’t because I don’t, as a rule.

My breath is coming hard and shallow now.
If I didn’t know myself better, I might think I’m having a panic attack.
I roll down the window and pitch my cigarette out.
Sheets of driving rain sting my eyes and my cheeks but the coldness of the air feels good.
I stick my head out of the window and drink it in, like it’s a good stiff Merlot.
I start the car and begin to drive.

Here’s what I love about driving.
Even when your mind is someplace else, you can drive.
You don’t have to think about it.
Not really.
I don’t make a conscious decision to go to Minnie’s.
All of a sudden, I’m just there.
Pulled up outside her and Maurice’s huge pile in Ballsbridge.
That’s the only good thing about accountants coupling up.
Money is no object.

I smoke one more cigarette before I ring the bell, taking care to hide the butt in the hanging basket.
I push it deep into the soil at the back.
Minnie has an eye for butts.

Minnie says, ‘Oh shit.
What’s happened?’

I say, ‘Charming,’ although it’s true that I rarely call at their house, mostly because Maurice is often there.
And I never come without ringing first.
From Minnie’s point of view, I can see how this looks.

Minnie says, ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just .
.
.
come in, come in.’

I say, ‘Is Maurice here?’

She shakes her head.
‘He’s gone to his Mensa meeting.’
And there you have it.
Maurice, it seems, is a genius.
The only thing Maurice has ever done that might denote a modicum of genius is get Minnie to marry him.
Lots of people wanted to – men and women alike – but Maurice was the man who managed it.
God knows, you’d have to have some – grudging – respect for that kind of achievement.

Minnie leads the way to the kitchen, which is like a kitchen in a restaurant with its gleaming stainless steel and its football-stadium proportions.
The radio is on.
Front Row
on BBC Radio 4.
I look at Minnie, who shrugs.
‘There was a programme about famous recluses.
I thought it might amuse me.’

‘Recluses are usually just famous for being recluses.
Take Howard Hughes, for instance.
I bet you can’t name one of the films he produced.’

Minnie ignores the question, which means she doesn’t know the answer.

‘They compared Killian Kobain to JD Salinger.’

‘About time.’

‘No.
Not the writing.
Just the fact that a couple of killers were found with copies of
The Catcher in the Rye
,
either on their person or in their houses.
And a copy of one of your books –
The Secrets You Keep
– was found in Catherine Nevin’s walk-in wardrobe.’

‘Is she the one who’s in the slammer for paying a bloke to polish off her husband?’

‘Black Widow Nevin.
Apparently, she had passages marked in your book.
Murdery-bits.
In pink highlighter pen.’

I shake my head.
‘Murderers just don’t have the same edge anymore, do they?’

Minnie sighs.
‘She’s no Jack the Ripper, that’s for sure.’

She switches off the radio and says, ‘Sit down,’ and I do.
The fact is, my legs feel funny.
Like I’d just done a spinning class.
I took one once.
I can’t believe anybody goes a second time.

Minnie puts on the kettle.
When she reaches up to the press for cups, you can see the beginnings of a slight swell of her belly against her top.

‘Could I have a drink instead?’

‘You’re driving.’

‘Just the one?’

‘You’re driving.’

I don’t argue because there’s no point.
Not with Minnie.
If you’re driving, you’re not drinking and if you’re drinking, you’re not driving.
There’s no grey area.
No middle ground.
She’d be desperate in a peace-talks capacity.

I want coffee.
Minnie makes me a peppermint tea.
‘No coffee after three p.m.,’ she says, as if this were a bald fact rather than a random opinion she happens to hold.
She puts a sprig of mint into the tea.
I unwrap the chocolate brownie she gives me.
From Avoca.
Minnie never buys brownies anywhere else because, she says, the Avoca ones are the best.
She doesn’t do things by halves, Minnie.
That’s the really great and the really terrible thing about her.

She hands me my drink and says, ‘I’m eleven weeks pregnant today.’
Then she sits down in a chair opposite mine.
‘I still can’t get my head around it.
Me and Maurice.
Having a baby.’
Minnie’s eyes look bluer than usual.
The whites whiter.
There is something shiny about them, like a child’s eyes.

I say, ‘I’m so happy for you.’
BAM!
There’s a humdinger.
Once the baby comes, there’s no way I’ll be able to drop in like this.
Can you imagine the noise?
And the mess?
The distractions.
Neither of us would get a word in edgeways, with all the squawking.