Read Online Angels by Marian Keyes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marian Keyes
Tags: Fiction
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though it had been on sale, at 40 percent off, it had still been fairly pricey. She'd like to get some use out of it.
Go ahead, Emily advised.
Then, lo and behold, a rival studio brought out a film. It was about a group of eight couples who go on a golfing holiday on a tiny island off Fiji. The island is invaded by terrorists who kill the few locals and take several of the golfers hostage. Some escape into the undergrowth, survive castaway style on twigs, etc., and plot a rescue mission. It was an action movie, with—you'll never guess—a love story. And even, would you believe, one or two laughs. I'd worked on the fringes of the film business long enough not to be surprised when news filtered back that the studio had decided to
“pass” on making Emily's movie. “Pass” was Hollywood-speak for
“turn down,”“reject,” and “want nothing further to do with it.” I called Emily to tell her how sorry I was. She was crying. “But I'm working on a new script,” she told me. “You win some, you lose some, right?”
That was a year and a half ago. Soon afterward she came home to Ireland for Christmas and persuaded me to go out on the town with her, just the two of us.
ANGELS / 55
Garv begged to be allowed to come, but sorrowfully she told him it was a girls' night out and he wouldn't be up to it. She was right: at the best of times she was a dangerous person to go out with, and when she was feeling raw, humiliated, and disinclined to talk about it, she was even worse.
It was the pink Stetson night: the rock-chick look was reaching critical mass and about to collapse under the weight of its own silliness. But it hadn't happened yet and she looked sensational.
I jumped all over her, so happy to see her, but despite our delight in each other's company, it was a strange night. At the time I thought I was having the time of my life, but in retrospect I'm not so sure. Emily drank an awful lot at high speed—since she'd started drinking, she'd become very good at it. Normally I didn't even attempt to keep up, but on this particular night I did. Obviously I got very drunk, but strangely I didn't realize it. I felt perfectly sober.
The only indication that anything was amiss was the fact that everyone I came into contact with seemed to do something to insult or annoy me. It never occurred to me that the fault might be mine.
We were in a bar in the Hayman, a new, fancy hotel where everything from the roof tiles right down to the ashtrays had been
“created” by some celebrated New York designer. I'd heard about the place—it had been all over the papers, not least the fact that most of its objects were for sale—but had never been there, whereas Emily had been home only three days and had already been there twice.
We settled down at a corner table, ordered a bottle of wine, and Emily launched into the story of her life since we'd last seen each other. She refused to talk about her writing—“Don't mention the war,” she'd groaned—and instead told me about her love life. The dates she'd gone on with the gay man who insisted he wasn't and the straight man who insisted he was gay. She was a great raconteur, with impeccable attention to detail. No broad brushstrokes.
Gripping stuff.
56 / MARIAN KEYES
She always seemed to do a lot more talking than me. But then again she had a lot more to talk about. By the time we were finally up to speed on her life, we had almost finished our second bottle of wine.
“Now you,” she ordered. “What's the story with the rabbits?”
She frowned. “And what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
I sighed and began my sorry tale, then through the throng spotted my sister Claire.
“What are you doing here?” Claire exclaimed to me. Then she saw Emily and understood. She spent a bit of time chatting with us, then noticed the people she was meant to be meeting, so off she went. No sooner was she out of earshot than Emily muttered darkly, “Oh yeah?
Go ahead, Emily advised.
Then, lo and behold, a rival studio brought out a film. It was about a group of eight couples who go on a golfing holiday on a tiny island off Fiji. The island is invaded by terrorists who kill the few locals and take several of the golfers hostage. Some escape into the undergrowth, survive castaway style on twigs, etc., and plot a rescue mission. It was an action movie, with—you'll never guess—a love story. And even, would you believe, one or two laughs. I'd worked on the fringes of the film business long enough not to be surprised when news filtered back that the studio had decided to
“pass” on making Emily's movie. “Pass” was Hollywood-speak for
“turn down,”“reject,” and “want nothing further to do with it.” I called Emily to tell her how sorry I was. She was crying. “But I'm working on a new script,” she told me. “You win some, you lose some, right?”
That was a year and a half ago. Soon afterward she came home to Ireland for Christmas and persuaded me to go out on the town with her, just the two of us.
ANGELS / 55
Garv begged to be allowed to come, but sorrowfully she told him it was a girls' night out and he wouldn't be up to it. She was right: at the best of times she was a dangerous person to go out with, and when she was feeling raw, humiliated, and disinclined to talk about it, she was even worse.
It was the pink Stetson night: the rock-chick look was reaching critical mass and about to collapse under the weight of its own silliness. But it hadn't happened yet and she looked sensational.
I jumped all over her, so happy to see her, but despite our delight in each other's company, it was a strange night. At the time I thought I was having the time of my life, but in retrospect I'm not so sure. Emily drank an awful lot at high speed—since she'd started drinking, she'd become very good at it. Normally I didn't even attempt to keep up, but on this particular night I did. Obviously I got very drunk, but strangely I didn't realize it. I felt perfectly sober.
The only indication that anything was amiss was the fact that everyone I came into contact with seemed to do something to insult or annoy me. It never occurred to me that the fault might be mine.
We were in a bar in the Hayman, a new, fancy hotel where everything from the roof tiles right down to the ashtrays had been
“created” by some celebrated New York designer. I'd heard about the place—it had been all over the papers, not least the fact that most of its objects were for sale—but had never been there, whereas Emily had been home only three days and had already been there twice.
We settled down at a corner table, ordered a bottle of wine, and Emily launched into the story of her life since we'd last seen each other. She refused to talk about her writing—“Don't mention the war,” she'd groaned—and instead told me about her love life. The dates she'd gone on with the gay man who insisted he wasn't and the straight man who insisted he was gay. She was a great raconteur, with impeccable attention to detail. No broad brushstrokes.
Gripping stuff.
56 / MARIAN KEYES
She always seemed to do a lot more talking than me. But then again she had a lot more to talk about. By the time we were finally up to speed on her life, we had almost finished our second bottle of wine.
“Now you,” she ordered. “What's the story with the rabbits?”
She frowned. “And what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
I sighed and began my sorry tale, then through the throng spotted my sister Claire.
“What are you doing here?” Claire exclaimed to me. Then she saw Emily and understood. She spent a bit of time chatting with us, then noticed the people she was meant to be meeting, so off she went. No sooner was she out of earshot than Emily muttered darkly, “Oh yeah?
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