to try because as well as the chicken nuggets, Dad had also gotten me a large fries and a Coke, and by the look of things, a happy meal for himself. It came with a free robot.
“Eat a fry thing,” he tempted. (He feels silly calling them “fries.”
The real name, he feels, is “chips.”) I'd almost have preferred to eat the robot, but because I felt sorry for him, I tried. The chip (or fry, if you prefer) sat in my mouth like a foreign body. He watched me anxiously and I attempted to choke it down my closed throat.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Brandy, vodka, cider?”
I was stunned. That was one of the strangest questions I've ever been asked in my entire life, bar none. The only time my family ever has a drink with their meals is on Christmas Day when the bottle of warm Blue Nun is wheeled out—always assuming that it hasn't been discovered by one of my sisters and drunk the night before. Besides, there wasn't any—what had he suggested?—brandy, vodka, or cider in the house. Then I realized that Dad wasn't offering me a drink. He was simply curious, trying to gauge how bad off I was.
I shook my head. “I don't want a drink.” That would be a huge mistake. When I was depressed, alcohol never cheered me up; in fact, it probably made me worse—maudlin and self-pitying. “If I got drunk I'd probably kill myself.”
“Good, then. Marvelous.” Suddenly he was as happy as his meal.
He ate with relieved gusto, attempted to play with his robot—“What does this thing do?”—then departed.
A few minutes later he was back. “Emily's on the phone.”
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY IS MY best friend. Best girl friend, that is, and actually since Garv and I have gone weird on each other, probably best friend.
Gawky twelve-year-olds, we met at secondary school and instantly recognized in each other a kindred spirit. We were outsiders. Not total pariahs, but we were a long way from being the most popular girls in the class. Part of the problem was that we were both good at sports: genuinely cool girls smoked and faked letters from their parents saying they had a cold and had to skip gym class. Another black mark against us was that we'd no interest in the usual teenage experimentation with cigarettes and alcohol. I was too terrified of getting into trouble and Emily said it was a waste of money. Together we pronounced it “stupid.”
At school Emily was small, skinny, and looked like E.T. with a bad perm. A far cry from how she looks today. She's still small and skinny, which we now know to be a Good Thing, right? Especially the skinny part. But the bad perm (which wasn't a perm at all, but the real thing) is just a distant memory. Her hair is now swishy and glossy—very, very impressive—even though she says that in its natural state she could still double for a member of the Jackson Five. To get her hair fully frizz-free, her hairdresser sometimes has to put his foot on her chest and tug hard.
Her look is very pulled together and confident. When a 52 / MARIAN KEYES
certain style is in vogue, I usually buy something from the “new look” wardrobe and team it with the rest of my “old look” wardrobe and think I'm doing pretty well. But not Emily. For instance, remember when the rock-chick look was in? I bought a T-shirt that said “Rock Chick” in pink, shiny letters and I thought I was it.
Emily, however, appeared in bandage-tight snakeskin jeans, purple stiletto-heeled cowboy boots, and a pink leather Stetson. But instead of looking preposterous, she made me want to applaud.
She's also a woman who knows how to accessorize. Colored shoes (a color other than black, that is), handbags shaped like flowerpots, kooky barrettes in her hair if the occasion demands it.
I'm not a total klutz. I read magazines, I'm an enthusiastic shopper, and I take a keen interest in skirt lengths, heel shapes, and the light-diffusing qualities of foundation. But you only have to look at my single friends to see that
“Eat a fry thing,” he tempted. (He feels silly calling them “fries.”
The real name, he feels, is “chips.”) I'd almost have preferred to eat the robot, but because I felt sorry for him, I tried. The chip (or fry, if you prefer) sat in my mouth like a foreign body. He watched me anxiously and I attempted to choke it down my closed throat.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Brandy, vodka, cider?”
I was stunned. That was one of the strangest questions I've ever been asked in my entire life, bar none. The only time my family ever has a drink with their meals is on Christmas Day when the bottle of warm Blue Nun is wheeled out—always assuming that it hasn't been discovered by one of my sisters and drunk the night before. Besides, there wasn't any—what had he suggested?—brandy, vodka, or cider in the house. Then I realized that Dad wasn't offering me a drink. He was simply curious, trying to gauge how bad off I was.
I shook my head. “I don't want a drink.” That would be a huge mistake. When I was depressed, alcohol never cheered me up; in fact, it probably made me worse—maudlin and self-pitying. “If I got drunk I'd probably kill myself.”
“Good, then. Marvelous.” Suddenly he was as happy as his meal.
He ate with relieved gusto, attempted to play with his robot—“What does this thing do?”—then departed.
A few minutes later he was back. “Emily's on the phone.”
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY IS MY best friend. Best girl friend, that is, and actually since Garv and I have gone weird on each other, probably best friend.
Gawky twelve-year-olds, we met at secondary school and instantly recognized in each other a kindred spirit. We were outsiders. Not total pariahs, but we were a long way from being the most popular girls in the class. Part of the problem was that we were both good at sports: genuinely cool girls smoked and faked letters from their parents saying they had a cold and had to skip gym class. Another black mark against us was that we'd no interest in the usual teenage experimentation with cigarettes and alcohol. I was too terrified of getting into trouble and Emily said it was a waste of money. Together we pronounced it “stupid.”
At school Emily was small, skinny, and looked like E.T. with a bad perm. A far cry from how she looks today. She's still small and skinny, which we now know to be a Good Thing, right? Especially the skinny part. But the bad perm (which wasn't a perm at all, but the real thing) is just a distant memory. Her hair is now swishy and glossy—very, very impressive—even though she says that in its natural state she could still double for a member of the Jackson Five. To get her hair fully frizz-free, her hairdresser sometimes has to put his foot on her chest and tug hard.
Her look is very pulled together and confident. When a 52 / MARIAN KEYES
certain style is in vogue, I usually buy something from the “new look” wardrobe and team it with the rest of my “old look” wardrobe and think I'm doing pretty well. But not Emily. For instance, remember when the rock-chick look was in? I bought a T-shirt that said “Rock Chick” in pink, shiny letters and I thought I was it.
Emily, however, appeared in bandage-tight snakeskin jeans, purple stiletto-heeled cowboy boots, and a pink leather Stetson. But instead of looking preposterous, she made me want to applaud.
She's also a woman who knows how to accessorize. Colored shoes (a color other than black, that is), handbags shaped like flowerpots, kooky barrettes in her hair if the occasion demands it.
I'm not a total klutz. I read magazines, I'm an enthusiastic shopper, and I take a keen interest in skirt lengths, heel shapes, and the light-diffusing qualities of foundation. But you only have to look at my single friends to see that
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