The Woman Who Stole My Life (36 page)

Mannix and I gathered at the boardroom table with Bryce Bonesman and some of the vice-presidents. The turnout was considerably down on the last debrief we’d had and, once again, there was no sign of Phyllis.

‘Welcome, everyone,’ Bryce said. ‘A couple of folk couldn’t be with us today because it’s vacation season. So
One Blink at a Time
didn’t chart this time round.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.

‘It’s too bad,’ Bryce said. ‘But we’re guessing it’s due to the time of year; a whole bunch more books are published in July than in March.’

‘Sorry,’ I repeated.

‘Our Vice-President of Sales, Thoreson Gribble, couldn’t be with us at this moment but his report will be emailed to everyone,’ Bryce said. ‘Bottom line, we remain tentatively hopeful. Enough to suggest you re-lease the Skogells’ apartment. They’re staying on in Asia for another year. You tour again in November and that’s when all our hard work will come together. Who knows, we could be looking at a
New York Times
best-seller for the holidays? Right?’

‘… Right! And I’m on schedule to deliver my second book in February.’ Well, I’d made a start on it. ‘I’ve got a great title.’ I forced myself to speak with confidence. ‘I’m calling it “Right Here, Right Now”. I think it will chime with
mindfulness and the Power of Now and all that fashionable stuff.’

With monumental effort I injected positivity into my voice: ‘It’s going to be even better than
One Blink at a Time
!’

‘Terrific,’ Bryce said. ‘I look forward to reading it.’

Down in the street, the August heat and humidity hit us like a blow. Immediately Mannix and I launched into talk.

‘I’ll take another year off work,’ Mannix said.

‘But –’

‘It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about everything and we can’t just abandon ship now.’

‘Are you sure?’ I felt guilty and miserable.

‘But if we’re going to lease the Skogells’ apartment for another year, we need to know where we are, money-wise. We need to talk to Phyllis –’

‘How long since one of us has actually spoken to her?’

Ages. Neither of us could remember the last time.

‘But,’ Mannix said, ‘it’s different now. We need to make decisions and you need a new contract.’

As soon as we got home we rang Phyllis and put her on speaker.

She picked up directly. ‘Yep?’ She sounded slurpy, like she was eating noodles.

‘Hi, Phyllis, it’s Stella. Stella Sweeney.’

‘I know.’ It was definitely noodles. ‘You think I’d answer my phone without knowing who you were. What’s up?’

‘We just had a meeting with Bryce,’ I said. ‘He’s really gung-ho.’ Well, he wasn’t exactly but I’d learned that round here it was normal to put a wildly positive spin on everything. ‘So we were wondering, Mannix and I, if you’d talk to Bryce about doing a new contract for the second book?’

‘No.’

‘Phyllis, I’m sorry, but Mannix and I, we need to get our financial stuff in place.’

She laughed. ‘You’re cute! You think this is about you! This isn’t about you. This is about me and my reputation. Mexican stand-off, baby. This is not the time to blink.’

‘But –’

‘Hey, I’m not saying I don’t feel for you. You don’t know if you should sign a lease for another year, you don’t know if you should keep your kid here in school. But now is not the moment to go to Blisset Renown to make a new deal. Maybe if you’d charted this time round …’ A meaningful and unpleasant pause followed.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Bryce is touring you again in the fall. He’s still spending money and committing resources to you. That’s a good sign. He hasn’t given up on you. But nothing happens until after the tour.’

‘So what should we do?’

‘You do what you have to do – go home to Ireland or stay here – but regarding a new deal, we wait this thing out. I’ll know when the time is right. And that time is not now.’

‘Phyllis, I –’ But I was talking to the air; she’d hung up.

‘Oh!’ I turned to Mannix.

He looked as shocked as I felt.

‘What should we do?’ My mind was whirling.

Mannix took a deep breath. ‘Let’s look at the issues.’ He sounded like it was an effort for him to stay calm. ‘Highest on the list is Jeffrey and his education – it was a big deal for him to be yanked out of school in Ireland and parachuted into a new one in New York. He’s done his best to settle in here
and
he’s about to start his all-important final year at school – we can’t disrupt him at this sensitive time.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you for making Jeffrey a priority.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Other factors?’ I said. ‘I don’t have a job to go back to and there are tenants in the house in Dublin, so we’d have nowhere to live.’

‘And all my patients have been reassigned. It would take a while to build up a new practice.’

After some anxious silence, Mannix said, ‘Let’s look at things another way: we have enough money to live here for one more year.’

‘If we’re careful. And we
will
be careful,’ I said, fiercely. ‘No more holidays. No more Gilda. No more anything. But, oh God, Mannix, what if we find out in February that they don’t want another book from me? What if
One Blink
hasn’t sold enough? They’re not going to want a second one just like it. I must make this new one better than the first. Jesus.’ I buried my face in my hands. I hated financial insecurity more than anything.

‘We can’t think that way. And Bryce was hopeful at that meeting,’ Mannix reminded me.

‘
Tentatively
hopeful.’

‘Hopeful enough to tour you again in November. I think we have to stay. Come on, Stella, let’s decide to be positive. Let’s simply decide to not worry.’

‘Have you had a personality transplant?’

But Mannix was right. We’d burned too many bridges. We’d invested too much emotionally and too much financially in everything here in New York. The door to our old life had closed over more completely than we’d expected. We couldn’t go back.

Suddenly the summer had ended and it was September and Jeffrey was back at school, doing his final year.

I broke the news to Gilda that I couldn’t afford to pay her any longer, but she was adamant that we still run together four times a week. ‘We’re friends, right?’ she said.

‘Yes, but …’

‘I like to run and I prefer to have company.’

I wavered, then gave in. ‘Okay, thank you. But if I ever get the chance to pay you back in any way, I will.’

‘Like I said, we’re friends.’

Betsy returned from Asia and couldn’t get a job doing anything. Until, like a miracle, Gilda somehow secured her an internship in an art gallery. The job was unpaid, but it was vaguely in keeping with Betsy’s plans to study art therapy, so my worry eased.

The owner of the gallery was a cadaverous, black-clad man called Joss Wootten. According to Google he was sixty-eight, and it took me a while – longer than everyone else – to realize that he was Gilda’s boyfriend.

‘Jeez, Mom,’ Betsy said. ‘How else do you think I got the internship?’

‘Cripes,’ I muttered. What was it with Gilda and the old blokes?

Carefully I broached the subject of what attracted her to Joss.

‘He’s so interesting,’ she said dreamily.

‘Like Laszlo Jellico?’ I asked, desperate to understand. ‘Was he interesting?’

Her face went blank. ‘He was the wrong sort of interesting.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’ I knew not to go there again.

I was making progress with the second book, which was exactly the same sort of thing as
One Blink at a Time
. Every conversation I had, I concentrated till my head hurt, desperately hoping to hear words of everyday wisdom. I rang Dad a lot and kept urging him to remember what Granny Locke used to say. I had about thirty sayings that worked and I needed to get to sixty.

Ruben still kept me very busy – every day I had to do a blog and tweet a wise and comforting platitude, but it was tricky because anything decent I came up with I wanted to save for the second book. Then Ruben made me start on Instagram. ‘Do cashmere and cosiness,’ he said. ‘Pictures of sunrises and babies’ hands.’

That kind of stuff wasn’t really me – I’d prefer to do beautiful shoes and pretty nails – but Ruben said, ‘It’s not who you are, it’s who we decide you are.’

Salvation came from Gilda, who said, ‘I’ll do it. And your Twitter stuff too. And your blog, if you want.’

‘But –’

‘I know. You can’t pay me. That’s okay.’

I wrestled with the rights and wrongs of the situation, then I gave in, because I simply couldn’t cope with the torrent of Ruben’s demands.

‘Someday, somehow, your goodness will make its way back to you.’

‘Oh please.’ She waved away my gratitude. ‘It’s nothing.’

Ruben’s demand for written articles remained relentless. And there wasn’t a hospital, a school or a physical rehab place in the tri-state area (basically anywhere that it didn’t cost money to send me) to which I wasn’t despatched, to do a speech.

It was around the end of October that Betsy met Chad. He’d come into the gallery and brazenly said he’d buy an installation if she would go out with him.

I was shocked and worried: he seemed all wrong for Betsy. He was far too old – only five years younger than me – far too mercenary and far too cynical.

He was a lawyer and corporate to the bone. He worked twelve-hour days and lived a life of suits and limos and dark expensive restaurants.

‘What is it you like about him, sweetie?’ I asked, cautiously. ‘He makes you laugh? He makes you feel safe?’

‘Oh no.’ She shivered. ‘He
thrills
me.’

I stared at her, mildly horrified.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m totally not his type. But he’s going through his kooky-girl phase.’

‘… What about you?’

‘And I’m going through my older lawyer-guy phase. It’s all good!’

I lifted a pile of leggings, searching for my make-up palette. Gilda had assembled a bespoke kit which had all the eyeshadow, blush, concealer and lipgloss I’d need for my three-week tour, but I couldn’t find it. Clothes were everywhere, strewn on the bed, on the dresser and in the suitcase on the floor. I took a look in a drawer. It wasn’t in there. It would want to turn up soon; we were leaving tomorrow. Maybe I’d left it in another room.

I raced into the living room, where Mannix was, and said, ‘Have you seen my –?’

Immediately I knew something was terribly wrong. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands.

‘Mannix? Sweetie?’

He turned to me. His face was grey. ‘Roland’s had a stroke.’

I rushed to his side. ‘How do you know?’

‘Hero just called. She doesn’t know exact details but she says it’s serious.’ He picked up the phone. ‘I’m calling Rosemary Rozelaar. Apparently he’s under her care.’

Jesus. Small world.

‘Rosemary?’ Mannix said. ‘Bring me up to speed.’ He scribbled lines back and forth onto his jotter until eventually the page tore. ‘CT scan? MRI? Ptosis? Loss of consciousness?
Complete?
How long? Fuck. Ischaemic cascade?’

I didn’t understand most of the words. All I knew about
strokes was a horrible television ad that went on about FAST – it made the point that a stroke victim had to get treatment quickly to ensure any kind of decent outcome.

Mannix hung up. ‘He’s had an ischaemic stroke, followed by an ischaemic cascade.’

I hadn’t a clue what that meant but I let him talk.

‘How fast did he get to hospital?’ I asked.

‘Not fast enough. Not in the first three hours, which are the critical ones. His heart rhythm is abnormal which suggests atrial fibrillations.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means …’ The doctor in him was trying to talk to the civilian in me. ‘It means he might have a heart attack. But even without that complication, he’s in a coma. Whatever happens in the next three days is what counts.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If there’s no indication of normal brainstem activity, he’s not going to survive.’

I was appalled; but this wasn’t my tragedy, this was my time to be strong.

‘Okay.’ I took charge. ‘We’re going to Ireland. I’ll look up the flight times.’

‘We can’t. You can’t cancel your tour.’

‘And you can’t not go to Ireland.’

We stared at each other, paralysed by the novelty of our situation. We had no road map, no idea how to behave.

‘Go to Ireland,’ I said. ‘And take care of your brother. I’ll go on the tour. I’ll be fine.’

I was thinking that maybe Betsy would come with me. That was, if I could persuade her to leave Chad’s side. She was practically living in his downtown apartment and we hardly saw her these days.

It was then that the doorbell rang. It was Gilda, dropping
off some drapey cashmere things that were part of the wardrobe plan she’d done.

‘I’ve got blue, which would work really well with your hair, but I saw this russet and I thought – What’s happened?’

‘Mannix’s brother has had a stroke. It’s serious. We’ve got to get Mannix back to Dublin as soon as possible.’

‘And you?’ Gilda asked. ‘Are you still going on the tour?’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m going to ask Betsy to come with me.’

‘I’ll come,’ Gilda said. ‘I’ll be your assistant.’

‘Gilda, that’s really nice, but I don’t have the money to pay you.’

‘Let me talk to Bryce.’

‘Gilda. It’s for three weeks. Eighteen-hour days –’

‘Let me talk to Bryce.’

‘Okay. But –’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gilda said to Mannix. ‘I’ll take care of her.’

‘Have you got Bryce’s cell?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. From when I was seeing Laszlo.’

‘… Oh. Okay …’

I’d just said goodbye to Mannix at Newark airport when Gilda rang.

‘Blisset Renown are paying me. It’s handled.’

‘How?’

‘It just is.’

‘Nothing.’ Mannix’s voice echoed on the line. ‘Absolutely no response.’

‘Stay hopeful,’ I said. ‘There’s still time.’ It was two days since Roland had had his stroke.

‘Mum and Dad have arrived from France.’

I swallowed hard. If Roland’s parents had shown up, things must be really serious.

‘We’re doing another MRI later today,’ Mannix said. ‘Maybe some brainstem activity will show up.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ I said.

‘I miss you,’ he said.

‘I miss you too.’

I wanted to tell him I loved him, but to say it now, on the phone and in these circumstances, would just sound like pity.

I’d put so much importance on saying the words that I’d painted myself into a corner. I’d told myself too often that the situation had to be right, and I realized now that the situation would never be perfect.

‘How’s it going with you?’ he asked. ‘I hear Gilda is actually making you exercise. You can’t just lie on the floor and breathe heavily into the phone, like you did on the other two tours.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘She rang, to give me a progress report. Listen, Stella, if
you’re not able for the running as well as all the work, just tell her. So what city are you in now?’

‘Baltimore, I think. We’re just about to go to a charity dinner.’

‘Call me when you get back, before you go to sleep.’

‘I will. And promise me you’ll try to be positive.’

‘I promise.’

In every conversation I had with Mannix, I forced myself to sound upbeat, but I felt sick with worry.

What if Roland died? I was full of grief at the thought of a world without Roland. He was such a special person.

 … But a special person with a lot of debts. Someone was going to have to pay them. My selfish thoughts were fleeting, but they shamed me.

And what would it do to Mannix if Roland didn’t make it? How would he cope with the death of the person he loved the most?

Even if Roland didn’t die, his recovery was going to be lengthy and expensive. How were we going to manage that?

Maybe someone should have suggested to Roland that being massively overweight wasn’t a good idea. But when you knew how funny and clever and sweet he was, it would have been like kicking a puppy. And God knows, he’d tried his best. He’d been working with a personal trainer since he’d got back from his holiday in California.

I sighed, then slid on my high heels, picked up my evening bag and knocked on the door that connected my room to Gilda’s. After a second, I stepped inside.

‘Oh!’ She was working on her laptop and quickly she shut it.

‘Sorry.’ I stopped short. ‘I knocked. I thought you heard.’

‘Oh … okay.’

‘Sorry,’ I repeated, backing towards the door. ‘I’ll just … Let me know whenever you’re ready.’

I wondered why she was being so secretive, but she was entitled to a life.

‘No, Stella, wait,’ she said. ‘I’m just being stupid. There’s a … sort of project I’ve been working on. If I show you, promise you won’t laugh.’

‘Of course I won’t laugh.’ But I would have said anything because I was dying to know what was going on.

She hit refresh and a page of colour burst into life. It said:
Your Best Self: A Woman’s Optimum Health from Ten to One Hundred
by Gilda Ashley.

‘Oh my God, it’s a book.’ I was astonished.

‘It’s just something I’ve been playing around with …’

‘Can I look?’

‘Sure.’ She gave me the laptop and I scrolled through the pages. Each chapter focused on a decade in a woman’s life, the correct food and exercise, the changes in physique to expect and the best ways to embrace age-specific ailments. Every decade had its own beautifully coloured background and information was dotted about the pages in friendly bullet points or pretty little sidebars.

The layout was great. No page was overcrowded with text and the fonts changed as the decades advanced, starting off cartoon-y for the teens and becoming more elegant for the thirties, forties and fifties, then bigger and easier to read for the sixties onward.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I said.

‘It’s getting there,’ she said bashfully. ‘But it’s still missing something.’

‘It’s great,’ I insisted.

Its simplicity was what made it so perfect – people were put off by hefty tomes with dense text. This was accessible and informative and, with its beautiful colours and deftly placed illustrations, it felt fundamentally optimistic.

‘The graphics are amazing,’ I said.

She squirmed. ‘Joss helped me with them a little. Well, a
lot
.’

‘How long have you been working on it?’

‘Oh for ever … at least a year. But it’s only really come together since I met Joss. Hey, Stella, do you mind?’

And I had to admit that I
did
feel rattled. Partly because she’d kept it secret from me. But I was just being childish.
And
mean-spirited – why shouldn’t Gilda write a book? This wasn’t a zero-sum game, where only a limited number of people were allowed to be writers. After all, it was ridiculous good fortune that
I’d
got a book deal.

‘I don’t mind,’ I made myself say. ‘Gilda, this is good enough to be published. Would you like me to show it to Phyllis?’

‘Phyllis? The crazy lady who won’t do physical contact and who steals cupcakes for her cats? I’m good, thanks.’

We both started laughing but I couldn’t sustain it for long.

‘Gilda?’ I asked, tentatively. ‘You’ve met other literary agents, yes?’ I was trying to allude to her time with Laszlo Jellico, without causing upset. ‘Are they all as tough as Phyllis?’

‘Are you kidding me? She’s insane. Eccentric, I get; that can be fun and a lot of agents are a little cuckoo. But she’s horrible. You were unlucky because you had to make a quick decision. If you’d had more time, you could have interviewed several agents and picked somebody nice.’

‘Mannix says I don’t have to like her. That it’s just business.’

‘Good point,’ she said. ‘But can I tell you what’s so crazy?’

‘Okay,’ I said, nervously.

‘Mannix would make a great agent.’