Angels (9 page)

Next to register his displeasure at my departure was Garv. I phoned to tell him I was off for a month or so and he'd come hotfooting it to the house. Mum ushered him into the sitting room.

“Now!” she declared triumphantly, her entire demeanor saying,

“Time for this nonsense to stop, young lady.”

Garv said hello and we both looked at each other for far too long. Maybe that's what you do when you split up with someone: try to remember what once welded you together. He'd gone slightly raggedy and unkempt. Even though he was in his work clothes, he was wearing his off-duty hair, and his expression was grim—unless it was always grim? Maybe I was reading more into this than I should.

Indeed, he didn't look as if he was fading away from sorrow; he was still, to use a phrase of my mother's (except she never said it about Garv), “a fine figure of a man.”

Hazily, I suspected that these weren't the right thoughts to be thinking in the circumstances; they didn't seem weighty enough.

But they were all I could manage—why? Shock, maybe? Or could it be that Anna was right and
Cosmopolitan
was wrong—that perhaps I
was
depressed?

“Why L.A.?” Garv asked stiffly.

“Why not? Emily's there.”

He gave me a look that I didn't understand.

“I've no job and…you know…” I explained. “I might as well. I know we've got a lot of stuff to sort out, but…”

62 / MARIAN KEYES

“When will you be back?”

“Don't know exactly, I've an open-ended ticket. In about a month.”

“A month.” He sounded weary. “Well, when you come back, we'll talk.”

“That'd make a change.” I hadn't meant to sound so bitter.

Rancor mushroomed between us like a cloud of poison.

Then—poof!—it was gone again and we were back to being polite adults.

“We do need to talk,” he stressed.

“If I'm not back in a month, you can come and get me.” I strove to sound pleasant. “Then we'll get lawyers and all that.”

“Yes.”

“Don't you go jumping the gun and getting one before me.” It was meant to sound lighthearted, but instead emerged sounding spiteful.

He looked at me without expression. “Don't worry, I'll wait until you're back.”

“I won't be working, so I'll pay the mortgage from my Ladies'

Nice Things account.”

I had a separate bank account in addition to my joint one with Garv, into which I put a small amount every month—just enough to cover impractical sandals and unnecessary lip glosses without feeling riddled with guilt at spending our mortgage money. Some of my friends—specifically, Donna—wondered how I'd conned Garv into agreeing to it, but in fact it had been his idea and he was the one who'd come up with the jokey name.

“Forget the mortgage,” he sighed. “I'll cover it. You'll need your Ladies' Nice Things money to buy ladies' nice things.”

“I'll pay you back.” I was relieved to have a bit more money for Los Angeles. “Is it okay for me to go to the house to get some of my stuff?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Something guilty and defensive flickered.

He knew exactly what I was talking about, but he ANGELS / 63

pretended not to. And I didn't bother to elucidate. There was a funny complicity between us, and an awful lot not being said. It was the way I wanted it: if he had someone else, I
so
did not want to know. “It's your house,” he said. “You own half of it.”

It was then that I had the first normal thought that a person whose marriage has just broken up should have—we'd have to sell the house. The mist cleared and my future unspooled like a film.

Selling the house, having nowhere to live, searching for somewhere else, trying to make a new life, being alone.
And who would I be
?

So much of my sense of self was tied up in my marriage that, without it, I hadn't a clue as to who I was.

I felt dislocated from everything, floating in empty time and space, but I couldn't think about it now.

“All in all, how are you? Are you okay?” Garv asked.

“Yeah. Considering. You?”

“Yeah.” A breathless little laugh. “Considering. Keep in touch,”

he said, and made a funny move toward me. It began as a hug, but ended up being a pat on my shoulder.

“Sure.” I slid away from his heat and familiar smell. I didn't want to get too near him.

We said good-bye like strangers.

Through the window, I watched him leave. That's my husband, I told myself, marveling at how unreal it seemed. Soon to be
ex
-husband, and more than a decade of my life is going with him.

As he walked out the short driveway and became hidden by the hedge, I was ambushed by an inferno of white-hot fury.
Go on
, I wanted to empty my lungs and bellow,
fuck off back to truffle woman
. As quickly as it had appeared, the rush of rage receded, and once again I felt heavy and kind of dead.

Helen was the only one who approved of my going to L.A.

“Smart work,” she said. “Just think of the men. Lovely sexy surfy types.” She groaned. “
Christ
. Tanned, sunbleached hair all tangled and salty, six-pack stomach, mus

64 / MARIAN KEYES

cly thighs from staying up on the surfboard—” She paused and announced, “Jesus, I might come with you!”

And then it hit me: I was single. I was a single woman in my thirties. I'd spent my twenties in the safe cocoon of a marriage and I had no idea what it was like to be on my own. Of course I knew about singletons, about the culture of the thirty-something single person. I'd heard the statistics: a thirty-something woman had a better chance of being abducted by aliens (I think) than of receiving a proposal of marriage. I had watched my single sisters and friends pursue true love and had joined in wondering where all the good men were when things didn't work out for them. But the interest I'd taken had been purely theoretical. I'd
wondered
where all the good men were, but I hadn't really cared. I hadn't been smug—at least not consciously—but there's no doubt that pride comes before a fall.

I had no man now. I was no different than Emily or Sinead or anyone else.

Although, in fairness, I didn't want a man. I no longer wanted to be with Garv, but I was blocked. I couldn't make the necessary leap of imagination to being with anyone else.

It was then that I had my second normal thought:
my life is over
.

That was the only thing I was sure of, the one fixed fact in an uncertain world. I clung to this knowledge because, strangely, it gave me comfort.

Immigration took forever. Finally it was my turn to hand my passport over to the big, unpleasant guy at the desk. (And it made no difference which desk you picked; somewhere there must be a factory where they manufacture these men.) As he ran a disgusted eye over me, I found myself wondering if he was married or divorced. Not—let me hasten to add—because I fancied him. I'd wondered it about the woman I was sitting next to on the plane too, and I'm fairly sure I didn't fancy her. I just didn't want to be the only one…

ANGELS / 65

My speculation came to an abrupt halt when he barked, “Reason for visiting the United States?”

“Vacation.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With a friend in Santa Monica.”

“And your friend in Santa Monica? What does he do?”

“
She
is a scriptwriter.”

And I swear to God, Mr. Mean changed before my eyes. He sat up straight, stopped narrowing his eyes contemptuously, and suddenly was as sweet as candy.

“Oh yeah? Someone buy her script?”

“Universal.” Or was it Paramount? But then they'd sidelined it…

“So is there a part for me in this movie?” he joked. Only thing is, I'm not sure he was joking.

“Dunno,” I said nervously.

“You dunno,” he sighed, reaching for his stamp and giving my passport a good thump with it.

I was in!

And there was Emily tapping her (beautiful, Japanese-style besandaled) foot impatiently. God, it was so good to see her.

“How are you? Psychotic with jet lag?” she asked sympathetically.

“Certifiable. I believe I watched three films on the plane and I couldn't tell you the first thing about any of them. One of them might have been about a dog.”

“Gimme that.” Emily positioned herself at the helm of my trol-ley—or should I say “cart”—and pushed it briskly toward the airport parking lot.

The heat hit like God had opened a huge oven door. “Lord,” I said, reeling.

“Not far,” she encouraged.

“Hey, look.” I was distracted from the faint-making heat by a bunch of holy-roller, culty types clustered on a patch of grass, wearing turquoise robes, shaking tambourines, and chanting away.

I half suspected they'd been put there spe 66 / MARIAN KEYES

cially for me—Welcome to L.A.—the way in Hawaii they get some girl to put one of those garlands of flowers around your neck.

Emily was unimpressed. “Plenty more where they came from.

Get in,” she said, opening the car door. “The air-con will be on in a minute.”

I'd never been to Los Angeles before, but I'd have known it anywhere. It was all so familiar—the sixteen-lane freeways, the tall, skinny palm trees, the adobe-style houses. The skyline was low and extended forever—it was nothing
at all
like Chicago.

Every few blocks we passed mini malls that advertised pet grooming, nail salons, gun shops, surveillance equipment, dentists, tanning salons, more pet grooming…

“You could groom a lot of pets in this town,” I remarked dreamily. It was the jet lag. I was a bit mental from it.

Emily had no time for such nonsense. There was a story and she wanted to hear it. “So what's up with you and Garv?”

I had a very real urge to jump from the speeding car. “We were making each other miserable,” I opted for. “So we've called it a day.”

“Yeah, but—” I could hear fear in her voice. “You haven't actually
split up
? You're just taking a break from each other? 'Cos of everything?”

Was this a conspiracy? Why would nobody accept that it was finished?

“We
have
split up.” My right arm began to tingle. “It's all over.”

“God.” She sounded terribly upset. “But you're not going to…get divorced?”

A wash of shame hit me. “What else would we do?”

“Have you actually started proceedings?”

“Not yet. We're waiting until I get back.” With those words, a fact I'd known intellectually transformed itself into something personal. “I'll be a divorcée!”

ANGELS / 67

“Um…if you get divorced, you probably will.” Emily threw me an anxious glance. “Is that a shock?”

“No, it's just…It's just hit home.” All the same, it had hardly been part of my life plan!

“A divorcée.” I tried out the word again and my ever-present sense of failure intensified. Striving for humor I said, “You know what that means? I'll have brassy blond hair and make a fool of myself at family parties, drinking too much and dancing provocatively with younger men.”

“That's me now,” Emily said. “And, you know, it's not so bad.”

Silence descended and I could almost hear the turning of the cogs of her overtaxed brain.

“But I still can't believe it,” she breathed. “Like, what
happened
?

Did he end it or did you…?”

I didn't want to discuss it. I wanted to forget it and enjoy myself.

“Neither of us. Both of us, I mean.” Then, I lobbed into the conversation like a grenade, “I think he's met someone else.”

“Who?
Garv
!” she shrieked, so high-pitched only bats could hear her.

“He's an attractive man.” I felt oddly defensive.

“That's not what I meant.” With a volley of well-targeted questions, she extracted the story of truffle woman and she took it almost worse than I had. Driving into the sun she muttered, “I thought the decent behavior of Garv Garvan was the one thing I could depend on. I thought he was one of the few good ones out there.

Maggie, I'm devastated.”

“I'm not exactly jumping for joy myself.”

“And who is this girl?”

“Could be anyone. Someone he works with. Could be…” I made myself say it. “Could be Donna. Or Sinead. He gets on well with both of them.”

“It's not Donna or Sinead. They wouldn't do that. And if they had, I'd have heard. Men,” she said bitterly, “they're all the same.

The few brains they have are in their dicks. How much do you hate him?”

68 / MARIAN KEYES

“Lots. When I have the energy.” The thing was, even though I was furious with Garv, in a way, I didn't blame him.

Emily gave me a sharp look. She knows me very well, I have no secrets from her. But before she initiated further exploration, I tried to head her off at the pass.

“It could be worse,” I said with grisly cheer. “At least it's amicable.

“Amicable
ish
,” I added, less certainly. “The money and the house will be sorted out properly.”

“Of course it will. Garv is nothing if not decent. At least you don't have—” She stopped, aghast.

“Children,” I finished for her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“It's okay,” I reassured her. It wasn't really, but I wasn't going to think about it.

“Do you—” she started, at the same time I said, “
Any
way! So what road is this we're on?”

Emily ignored my attempt at changing the conversation. Instead she warned, “Amicable or not, you're going to have to talk about you and Garv.”

I sagged with reluctance, and all of a sudden, I knew what this reminded me of. When I'd been sixteen I'd slipped coming down the stairs and my knee had accidentally gone through the glass front door. I'd ended up with hundreds of silvers of glass embedded in my knee, each one having to be removed individually with tweezers. For some reason the doctor wouldn't give me painkillers and I'd been rigid and sweating with pain and the anticipation of more to come.

Every word about me and Garv was like another sliver being picked from my raw flesh. “I will talk about it,” I said, “but not now. Please.”

“Okay.”

Eventually the character of the roads began to change, until we were in a modest residential area. Each house was unique—some adobe style, some New England, some deco. Painted in low-key pastel shades, there was a general air of tidiness. Everywhere there were flowers.