Anybody Out There?
Page 108
“Bummer.”
“What?”
“’Cause that’s just what I was thinking.”
At work, I began living a double life. To most people I was still a Candy Grrrl, wearing my goofy clothes and purveying my goofy products. But I was also an undercover Formula Twelve girl, who had intense meetings with Devereaux, thrashing out publicity plans and fine-tuning packaging.
Any leftover time I had, I spent with Jacqui, reading baby books and saying what a prick Joey was.
I never cried and I never got tired: a pilot light of bitterness fueled me.
I didn’t reschedule with Neris Hemming, and abruptly, I stopped going to Leisl’s.
The first Sunday, Mitch rang. “We missed you today, peanut.”
“I think I’m going to give it a miss for a while.”
“How’d it go with Neris Hemming?”
“Bad, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence. “They say anger is good. Another phase in the grieving process.”
“I’m not angry.” Well, I was, but not for the reasons he thought. It had nothing to do with any grieving process.
“So when am I going to see you?”
“I’ve got a lot on at work right now…”
“Sure! I totally understand. But let’s stay in touch.”
“Yes,” I lied. “Let’s.”
Then Nicholas called and we had a similar conversation, and for months afterward, they both rang regularly, but I never spoke to them and never returned their calls. I didn’t want any reminder of what an idiot I’d been, trying to talk to my dead husband. Eventually they stopped ringing and I was relieved; that part of my life was over.
I’d closed up like a flower at night, a bitter little bud, sealed tight.
But I was far from being unprofessional—on the contrary, I was probably more professional than I’d ever been before. People actually seemed slightly unnerved by me. And it appeared to be paying off because just before Thanksgiving, the first tantalizing reference to Formula Twelve appeared in the press: described as a “Quantum Leap in skin care.”
90
Anna, it’s a miracle,” Mrs. Maddox gushed. “I was dead. I was walking around, dead. And this little boy…I know he’s not Aidan, I know Aidan will never be back, but he’s like a part of Aidan.”
Dianne had completely abandoned her Thanksgiving plans to take off on a women’s retreat and dance in her pelt and paint herself blue beneath a full moon. Instead it was business as usual—turkey, best crystal, etc.—because “little Jack” was coming to visit.
“He’s beautiful, just beautiful. Please say you’ll come and meet him.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“You used to be such a sweet girl.”
“That was before I found out my dead husband had fathered a child with someone else.”
“But it was before he met you! He didn’t cheat on you!”
“Dianne, I have to go now.”
Rachel and Luke are doing Thanksgiving,” I told Jacqui. “You’re invited too. But—”
“Yes, I know, Joey will be there. So obviously I won’t be going.”
I offered to boycott it also. “We can spend it together, just the two of us.”
“No need. I’ve had another invitation.”
“Where?”
“Um…Bermuda.”
“Bermuda? Don’t tell me it’s Jessie Cheadle’s place!”
Jessie Cheadle was one of her clients; he owned a record company.
“None other.”
“How’re you getting there? Don’t tell me—he’s sending a plane?”
She nodded, roaring with laughter at my jealousy. “And there’ll be staff to unpack my LV wheelie case and a butler to run rose-petal baths. And when I leave, they’ll repack my case and put tissue paper between every layer. Scented tissue paper. D’you mind me going?”
“I’m delighted for you. You’re not crying so much now, had you noticed?”
“Yeah. It was just hormones.” Then she added, “But he’s still a prick. Look!” She pointed at herself. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Nothing.” She looked fantastic, all aglow and sporting a neat little bump. Then I noticed. “You’ve got a chest!”
“Yes! For the first time ever. It’s great having knockers.”
Luke opened the door. He had a needle sticking out of his forehead, like he was a unicorn. “Gaz,” he explained. “Gaz and his acupuncture. Happy Thanksgiving. Come on in.”
Sitting around the dinner table were Gaz, Joey, and Rachel’s friends Judy and Fergal. Shake wasn’t present. He’d gone to Newport to spend Thanksgiving with Brooke Edison’s family. Apparently, Shake and Brooke were having amazing sex; he’d told Luke she was “filthy.”
Everyone had acupuncture needles sticking out of their foreheads; they were straight out of Star Trek, like an alien council of war. Gaz jumped up when he saw me, his needle at the ready. “To stimulate your endorphins.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go on. But I remember the days when we used to wear paper hats at this sort of thing.”
Gaz inserted the needle and I took my place. Dinner was just about to be served; I’d chosen my time carefully: I hadn’t wanted to be late but I didn’t want to do any of that sitting-around predinner-chatting stuff either.
Rachel emerged from the kitchen with a massive nut roast and plonked it on the table.
Immediately Gaz lunged at it.
“Oi,” Rachel said. “Wait a minute. We’ve to say grace.”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
Rachel bowed her head (chinging her needle against a Kombucha bottle) and said a little piece about how lucky they all were, not just to be getting a yummy dinner, but for all the excellent things in their lives.
Everyone nodded in agreement, their needles flashing in the candlelight.
“It’s also timely,” Rachel said, “to remember those who are no longer with us.” She picked up her glass of sparkling apple juice and said, “To absent friends.” She paused, like she was fighting back tears, and said, “To Aidan.”
“To Aidan.” Everyone raised their glasses. Everyone but me. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.
“What?”
“’Cause that’s just what I was thinking.”
At work, I began living a double life. To most people I was still a Candy Grrrl, wearing my goofy clothes and purveying my goofy products. But I was also an undercover Formula Twelve girl, who had intense meetings with Devereaux, thrashing out publicity plans and fine-tuning packaging.
Any leftover time I had, I spent with Jacqui, reading baby books and saying what a prick Joey was.
I never cried and I never got tired: a pilot light of bitterness fueled me.
I didn’t reschedule with Neris Hemming, and abruptly, I stopped going to Leisl’s.
The first Sunday, Mitch rang. “We missed you today, peanut.”
“I think I’m going to give it a miss for a while.”
“How’d it go with Neris Hemming?”
“Bad, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence. “They say anger is good. Another phase in the grieving process.”
“I’m not angry.” Well, I was, but not for the reasons he thought. It had nothing to do with any grieving process.
“So when am I going to see you?”
“I’ve got a lot on at work right now…”
“Sure! I totally understand. But let’s stay in touch.”
“Yes,” I lied. “Let’s.”
Then Nicholas called and we had a similar conversation, and for months afterward, they both rang regularly, but I never spoke to them and never returned their calls. I didn’t want any reminder of what an idiot I’d been, trying to talk to my dead husband. Eventually they stopped ringing and I was relieved; that part of my life was over.
I’d closed up like a flower at night, a bitter little bud, sealed tight.
But I was far from being unprofessional—on the contrary, I was probably more professional than I’d ever been before. People actually seemed slightly unnerved by me. And it appeared to be paying off because just before Thanksgiving, the first tantalizing reference to Formula Twelve appeared in the press: described as a “Quantum Leap in skin care.”
90
Anna, it’s a miracle,” Mrs. Maddox gushed. “I was dead. I was walking around, dead. And this little boy…I know he’s not Aidan, I know Aidan will never be back, but he’s like a part of Aidan.”
Dianne had completely abandoned her Thanksgiving plans to take off on a women’s retreat and dance in her pelt and paint herself blue beneath a full moon. Instead it was business as usual—turkey, best crystal, etc.—because “little Jack” was coming to visit.
“He’s beautiful, just beautiful. Please say you’ll come and meet him.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“You used to be such a sweet girl.”
“That was before I found out my dead husband had fathered a child with someone else.”
“But it was before he met you! He didn’t cheat on you!”
“Dianne, I have to go now.”
Rachel and Luke are doing Thanksgiving,” I told Jacqui. “You’re invited too. But—”
“Yes, I know, Joey will be there. So obviously I won’t be going.”
I offered to boycott it also. “We can spend it together, just the two of us.”
“No need. I’ve had another invitation.”
“Where?”
“Um…Bermuda.”
“Bermuda? Don’t tell me it’s Jessie Cheadle’s place!”
Jessie Cheadle was one of her clients; he owned a record company.
“None other.”
“How’re you getting there? Don’t tell me—he’s sending a plane?”
She nodded, roaring with laughter at my jealousy. “And there’ll be staff to unpack my LV wheelie case and a butler to run rose-petal baths. And when I leave, they’ll repack my case and put tissue paper between every layer. Scented tissue paper. D’you mind me going?”
“I’m delighted for you. You’re not crying so much now, had you noticed?”
“Yeah. It was just hormones.” Then she added, “But he’s still a prick. Look!” She pointed at herself. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Nothing.” She looked fantastic, all aglow and sporting a neat little bump. Then I noticed. “You’ve got a chest!”
“Yes! For the first time ever. It’s great having knockers.”
Luke opened the door. He had a needle sticking out of his forehead, like he was a unicorn. “Gaz,” he explained. “Gaz and his acupuncture. Happy Thanksgiving. Come on in.”
Sitting around the dinner table were Gaz, Joey, and Rachel’s friends Judy and Fergal. Shake wasn’t present. He’d gone to Newport to spend Thanksgiving with Brooke Edison’s family. Apparently, Shake and Brooke were having amazing sex; he’d told Luke she was “filthy.”
Everyone had acupuncture needles sticking out of their foreheads; they were straight out of Star Trek, like an alien council of war. Gaz jumped up when he saw me, his needle at the ready. “To stimulate your endorphins.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go on. But I remember the days when we used to wear paper hats at this sort of thing.”
Gaz inserted the needle and I took my place. Dinner was just about to be served; I’d chosen my time carefully: I hadn’t wanted to be late but I didn’t want to do any of that sitting-around predinner-chatting stuff either.
Rachel emerged from the kitchen with a massive nut roast and plonked it on the table.
Immediately Gaz lunged at it.
“Oi,” Rachel said. “Wait a minute. We’ve to say grace.”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
Rachel bowed her head (chinging her needle against a Kombucha bottle) and said a little piece about how lucky they all were, not just to be getting a yummy dinner, but for all the excellent things in their lives.
Everyone nodded in agreement, their needles flashing in the candlelight.
“It’s also timely,” Rachel said, “to remember those who are no longer with us.” She picked up her glass of sparkling apple juice and said, “To absent friends.” She paused, like she was fighting back tears, and said, “To Aidan.”
“To Aidan.” Everyone raised their glasses. Everyone but me. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.
