Marian Keyes - Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married (12 page)

my way through the crowds of people in the hall and the even bigger crowds in the kitchen and put four cans of Guinness in the fridge. Then I tucked the other two under my arm and attempted to fight my way back out again, making for the big front room where all the fun seemed to be happening.

And it was then that I met him.

18 In the months that followed I replayed that scene in my head so often that I remembered absolutely everything about it, down to the smallest details.

I was just on my way out of the kitchen when I heard a man's voice saying admiringly, "Behold--a vision in gold! A goddess. A veritable goddess."

Naturally I kept pushing and shoving to leave the room because, although I was wearing a gold dress, I was also wearing my well-tailored inferiority complex. So I didn't, for a second, think that I was the one being called a goddess.

"And not just any kind of goddess," the voice continued. "But my favorite kind of goddess, a Guinness goddess."

The bit about the Guinness broke through my humility barrier, so I turned around and there, wedged in beside an upright freezer, leaning against the wall, was a young man. Not that there was anything unusual about that because it was, after all, a party, and the place was full of people, 134 / marian keyes

even a couple of men, leaning against household appliances.

The young man--and it was hard to say just how young he was--was very cute, with longish black curly hair and bright green, slightly bloodshot eyes, and he was smiling straight at me, as though he knew me, which suited me just fine.

"Hello." He nodded in a civil and friendly fashion.

Our eyes met and I had the oddest sensation. I felt as though I knew him too. I stared at him and, although I knew I was being rude, I couldn't stop. Hot confusion swept over me and at the same time I was totally intrigued because, although I was certain that I had never met him, that I had never before in my life seen him, somehow I knew him. I don't know what it was but there was something about him, something very familiar.

"What's kept you?" he said cheerfully. "I've been waiting for you."

"You have?" I swallowed nervously.

My head raced. What was happening, I wondered? Who was he? What was this instant recognition that had flashed between us?

"Oh aye," he said. "I wished for a beautiful woman with a can of Guin- ness and here you are."

"Oh."

A pause where he lounged against the wall, the picture of relaxation, happy and good-looking, if a little bit bleary-eyed. He didn't seem to find anything unusual about the conversation.

"Have you been waiting long?" I asked. In an odd way it felt like a very normal thing to ask, as though I was making conversation with a stranger at a bus stop.

"The best part of nine hundred years." He sighed.

"Er, nine hundred years?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. lucy sullivan is getting married / 135

"But they hadn't invented cans of Guinness nine hundred years ago."

"Exactly!" he said. "My point exactly! God knows, but wasn't I the sorry one. I've had to wait for them to come up with the technology and it's been so boring. If I'd only wished for a jug of mead or a pitcher of ale I could have saved both of us a whole lot of trouble."

"And you've been here all this time?" I asked.

"Most of the time," he said. "Sometimes I've been over there"--he pointed to a spot on the floor about a foot away from where he was standing--"but mostly I've been here."

I smiled--I was totally captivated by him and his storytelling. He was exactly the kind of man I liked, not dull or staid, but imaginative and invent- ive and so cute.

"I've been waiting for you so long that it's hard to believe you're finally here. Are you real?" he asked. "Or just a figment of my Guinness-starved imagination?"

"Oh, I'm perfectly real," I assured him. Although I wasn't at all sure myself. And I wasn't sure whether he was real either.

"I want you to be real and you're telling me that you're real, but I might be imagining it all, even the bit where you're telling me that you're real. It's all very confusing--you can see my problem?"

"Indeed," I said solemnly. I was enchanted.

"Can I have my can of Guinness?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know," I said anxiously, forgetting for a moment that I was enchanted.

"Nine hundred years," he reminded me gently.

"Yes, I know," I said. "I see your point perfectly, but they're Daniel's. I mean, he paid for them and I was just about to give him one, but...oh never mind. Have one."

"Donal may have paid for them, but destiny says 136 / marian keyes

they're mine," he told me in a confidential tone, and somehow I believed him.

"Really?" I asked, my voice wobbling, torn between a desire to just sur- render to whatever supernatural forces were operating around this man and me and the fear of being accused of giving away other people's Guin- ness.

"Donal would have wanted it this way," he went on, gently removing something from under my arm.

"Daniel," I said absently, casting a glance down the hall. I could see Daniel's head and Karen's head close together and I didn't think Daniel looked as if he cared about a can of Guinness, one way or the other.

"Maybe you're right," I agreed.

"There's only one problem," said the man.

"What's that?"

"Well, if you're imaginary, then, by definition, your Guinness will also be imaginary and imaginary Guinness isn't half as nice as the real stuff."

He had such a beautiful accent, so gentle and so lyrical, it sounded famil- iar, yet I couldn't quite place it.

He opened the can and poured the contents down his throat. He drank the whole lot in one go as I stood looking at him. I have to say I was im- pressed. I'd seen very few men able to do that. In fact the only one I'd ever seen do it was my dad.

I was delighted--completely captivated by this man-child, whoever he was.

"Hmmm," he said thoughtfully, looking at the empty can and then looking at me. "Hard to tell. It could have been real and then again it might have been imaginary."

"Here," I said, pushing the other can at him. "It's real, I promise."

"Somehow I trust you." And he took the second can and repeated the performance. lucy sullivan is getting married / 137

"Do you know," he said thoughtfully, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "I think you might be right. And if the Guinness is real then that means that you're real too."

"I think I am," I said sorrowfully. "Even though a lot of the time, I'm not sure."

"I suppose you sometimes feel invisible?" he asked.

My heart leaped. Nobody, nobody, had ever asked me that before and that was exactly how I felt for huge chunks of my life. Had he read my mind? I was mesmerized. So much recognition! Somebody understood me. A total stranger had just looked straight into my soul and seen the essence of me. I felt light-headed with exhilaration and joy and hope.

"Yes," I said faintly. "I sometimes feel invisible."

"I know," he said.

"How?"

"Because so do I."

"Oh."

There was a pause and the two of us just stood looking at each other for a little while, smiling slightly.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly. "Or will I just call you the Guinness Goddess? Or, if you like, I could shorten it to GG. But then I might mistake you for a horse and try to back you and let's face it, you don't look anything like a horse and although you have nice legs..." (At this point he paused and leaned over sideways so that his head was level with my knees.) "Yes, very nice legs," he continued, straightening up, "I'm not sure if you could run fast enough to win the Grand National. Though you might come in the first three, so I suppose I could do an each way bet on you. We'll see. We'll see. Anyway, what's your name?"

"Lucy." 138 / marian keyes

"Lucy, is it?" he said thoughtfully, looking at me with his green, green, slightly bloodshot eyes. "A fine name for a fine woman."

Although I was certain that it was the case, I had to ask him anyway: "You're not...by any chance...Irish, are you?"

"Sure," he said, in a stage Irish accent, and did a little dance. "All the way from County Donegal."

"I'm Irish too," I said excitedly.

"You don't sound it," he said doubtfully.

"No, I am," I protested. "At least both my parents are. My surname is Sullivan."

"That's Irish all right," he admitted. "Are you of the species Paddius, variety Plasticus?"

"Sorry?"

"Are you a plastic paddy?"

"I was born here," I admitted. "But I feel Irish."

"Well, that's good enough for me," he said cheerfully. "And my name's Gus. But my friends call me Augustus for short."

"Oh." I was charmed. It got better and better.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Lucy Sullivan," he said, taking my hand in his.

"And I'm very pleased to meet you, Gus."

"No, please!" he said, holding up his hand in protest, "Augustus, I insist."

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather call you Gus. Augustus is a bit of a mouthful."

"Am I?" he said, sounding surprised. "A mouthful? And you've only just met me!"

"Er, you know what I mean..." I said, wondering if perhaps we were slightly at cross-purposes.

"No woman has ever said that about me before," he said, looking at me thoughtfully. "You're a most unusual lucy sullivan is getting married / 139

woman, Lucy Sullivan. A most perceptive woman, if I may say so. And if you will insist on formality, then Gus it is."

"Thank you."

"It shows that you were well brought up."

"It does?"

"Oh yes! You've a lovely manner, very gentle and polite. I suppose you can play the piano?"

"Er, no, I can't." I wondered what had sparked the abrupt change of subject. I wanted to tell him that I could play the piano because I was des- perate to please him, but at the same time too afraid to tell a barefaced lie, in case he suggested that we play a duet there and then.

"It'd be the fiddle then?"

"Er, no."

"The tin whistle?"

"No."

"In that case it must be the accordion?"

"No," I said, wishing he would stop. What was all this about musical instruments?

"You don't look like you've got the wrists to be a bodhr�n player, but you must be one all the same."

"No, I don't play the bodhr�n."

What was he talking about?

"Well, Lucy Sullivan, you have me well and truly bet. I give up. So tell me, what is your instrument?"

"What instrument?"

"The one that you play?"

"But I don't play an instrument!"

"What! But if you don't play, then you're surely a poet?"

"No," I said shortly, and started thinking about how I could escape. It was too weird, even for me, and I had a very high weirdness threshold. 140 / marian keyes

But, as if he had read my mind, he put his hand on my arm and suddenly became a lot more normal.

"Sorry, Lucy Sullivan," he said, humbly. "I'm sorry. I've scared you, haven't I?"

"A bit," I admitted.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"That's okay," I smiled, relief filling me. I had no objection to people being quirky, slightly eccentric even, but when they started to display psychotic tendencies, I knew when to throw in the towel.

"It's just that I had a great feed of class A drugs earlier this evening," he continued, "and I'm not quite myself."

"Oh," I said faintly, not sure what to think now. So he took drugs? Did I have a problem with that? Well, not really, I supposed, so long as he wasn't mainlining heroin. We were short of teaspoons in the flat as it was.

"What drugs do you take?" I asked tentatively, trying not to sound condemnatory.

"What have you got?" He laughed. Then he stopped abruptly, "I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'm scaring you?"

"Weeell, you know..."

"Don't worry, Lucy Sullivan. I'm partial to the odd mild hallucinogenic or mood-relaxant, nothing more. And in small quantities. And not very often. Hardly ever, really. Apart from pints. I have to admit to a fondness for a great feed of pints early and often."

"Oh that's all right," I said. I had no problem with men who drank.

But, I wondered, if he was currently under the influence of some narcotic, did that mean that normally he didn't tell stories and dream up things and was just as dull as everyone else? I desperately hoped not. It would be unbearably disappointing for this gorgeous, charming, un lucy sullivan is getting married / 141

usual man to disappear along with the last traces of drugs from his blood- stream.

"Are you normally like this?" I asked cautiously. "You know, er, imagin- ing things and telling stories and all that? Or is it just the drugs?"

He stared at me, his shiny curls falling into his eyes.

Why can't I get my hair to shine like that, I wondered absently. I wonder what conditioner he uses.

"This is an important question, isn't it, Lucy Sullivan?" he asked, still staring at me. "A lot depends on it."

"I suppose," I mumbled.

"But I've got to be honest with you, you know," he said sternly. "I can't just tell you what you want to hear, now can I?"

I wasn't at all sure whether I agreed with that. In an unpredictable and unpleasant world it was both unusual and very pleasant to hear what I wanted to hear.

"I suppose." I sighed.

"You won't like what I'm going to tell you, but I'm morally bound to tell you anyway."

"Fine," I said sadly.

"I have no choice." He touched my face gently.

"I know."

"Oh!" He shouted suddenly and theatrically threw wide his arms. He attracted worried looks from all around the kitchen--people as far away as the back door turned to look. "`O, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!' Wouldn't you agree, Lucy Sullivan?"

"Yes." I laughed. I couldn't help it, he was just so crazy and funny.

"Can you weave, Lucy? No? Not much call for it these days. A dying art, a dying art. I'm no good at it myself--two left feet, that's me. Now, to tell you the God's honest truth, Lucy Sullivan..."