If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (6 page)

Not likely, I think, a bit smugly. I was a total failure on earth, but by God, for once in my miserable life, I am going be a success. I’m going to put my mind to this task, totally apply myself and really impress everyone, myself included, at just how well I can do. I’ll wholeheartedly devote myself to spreading joy and happiness, a bit like an Irish version of
Amélie
, minus the subtitles.

I’m going to spend my time here doing good on earth. People down there will probably light candles to me, and whoever this hopeless case is, I’ll completely turn them into an honest, upstanding, kind to stray dogs/ doing meals on wheels at weekends/volunteering at soup kitchens/charity-giving-type person . . .

‘Just remember the golden rule, dear. We never, ever interfere with free will. Keep that to the front of your mind, and you’ll be just grand. Yes . . . here we are, I have the charge’s name here. You know, we generally assign to people that you already knew in the mortal plane, makes things so much simpler, really.’

How fab is this? I’m thinking . . . Mum? Kate? Fiona? Someone I don’t know all that well, but whose whole life I’m now about to transform for the better?

‘Right then. I see you know this person intimately, so that should help you a lot. It’s a Mr James Kane.’

Oh F******************************CK . . .

Chapter Four

JAMES

I have never been so totally and utterly shocked in my entire life. Sorry, death. What’s worse is, I can’t even do what I’d normally do, or what any normal person would: i.e., go straight to the nearest pub, order a double vodkatini, then knock it back in a single wrist flick. Because before I’ve even had a chance to a) splutter or b) hurl myself out the nearest window (sure, what the hell, I’m dead anyway) . . . I’m back at home. Bloody hell, I’ll tell you one thing. There is absolutely no arsing around on the angelic plane, that’s for sure.

Sorry, did I say I was back home? I meant back in James’s house, she sez through gritted teeth. In our bedroom, to be exact. I mean
his
bedroom. In my defence, though, can I just point out that, in the five years since I first moved in here, I’ve poured a lot of my own blood, sweat and tears into the place, so you’ll excuse me for sounding a bit territorial. So would you if you knew the sheer amount of man-hours I spent decorating/scrubbing Dulux’s Himalayan Blush off my clothes/waiting in for hours on plumbers whose entire work-schedule seemed to revolve around the FA Cup Premiership/guarding a ten-tonne skip at the front gate from kids setting fire to it.

You name it, I was that soldier.

I know, I know, technically it is James’s house; he’d bought it not long before we met, mortgaged up to the back teeth, but I was project manager on it because he asked me to be, both of us swept up in the romance of transforming what was then a semi-derelict shithole into a gorgeous period house, close to town, close to the sea, yadda, yadda yadda. Phase one in the taming of James Kane, was my reasoning. OK, so his sole contribution was to put in a Bang & Olufsen TV then leave the rest up to me, but I was more than happy to do it. I mean, everyone knows the direct mathematical correlation between buying a house and spending less time in nightclubs and more in Woodies DIY looking at outdoor decking, don’t they? We’ll be like a couple in a Homebase ad, I blissfully thought.

‘You and me could be so happy here,’ he used to say. ‘We’ll get engaged/exchange vows on a beach some-where/try for a baby really, really soon,’ he’d say.

‘Any idea how soon?’ I’d say, not really caring about which particular order these wondrous miracles would happen in, but understandably anxious to put some kind of time frame on it, without sounding too impatient.

‘Just as soon as this movie gets off the ground/right after I get the green light for this TV series/once I get investors on board/when the LA trip is out of the way,’ he’d say.

Always the dangled carrot, always the magical ‘when’, but there was absolutely no doubt in my mind what he really meant. That as soon as things settled down for him, at some unforeseen date, this would be our permanent home. So, I happily figured, no harm to put my own stamp on the place while I’m at it, sure, it’s an investment in the future, isn’t it? I can’t even explain my rationale: maybe that by picking out soft furnishings, curtain poles and tablecloths that matched the napkins, I’d somehow seal the deal for him and me. That the Cath Kidston catalogue was all it would take for him to commit to me.

And now I’m back.

I catch my breath and nervously look around the bedroom, not having the first clue what to expect. Nope, everything looks just the way I left it when I was last here, God knows how long ago. The last time I remember everything being normal. Which, given what’s happened in the meantime, is beyond weird. So funny to think that I would have hauled myself out of bed that morning as usual, hopped into the shower, got dressed, gone out the door, worried about a contract that should have arrived at the office the previous day but hadn’t, wondered if I’d be home that night in time for
The Apprentice
, debated about whether or not I’d cook that night or else leave it to James, who fancies himself as a bit of a Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen, right down to all the effing and blinding. All the normal thoughts and cares and worries that go through our minds every day. And then in the space of one short afternoon, I managed to lose everything. Boyfriend, lover, home, job . . . life. Unbelievable.

I must be alone because the house is so quiet. Whenever James is around, it’s always like a three-ring circus: mobiles going off (he has one for LA and one for Europe, for absolutely no reason that I can see, other than to show off with), people banging at the front door, and him always searching for something he’s lost, demanding to know where it is at the top of his voice. A misplaced script/passport/car keys/a Pop Tart he was eating that’s now vanished into thin air. Honest to God, there are five-year-olds out there who are probably able to take better care of themselves. And the sad thing is that up until my whole life turned upside down, I used to find that carry-on sweet and endearing.

Absolutely nothing has changed. There’s still a squeezed-out tube of cleanser belonging to me lying on the dressing table. An old
Hello!
magazine with Kate Middleton on the cover that I bought weeks ago is strewn across the bedside table, even some underwear is exactly where I left it: shoved down the back of a radiator. And it’s not the good, sexy La Perla stuff either, it’s a knackered old bra and knickers, gone grey from several thousand washes. (Not my fault, I mean it’s not like I went into Marks & Spencer and said, ‘Do you have anything faded and droopy with hooks missing at the back?’)

Suppose somebody was here and they saw that? is the completely irrational thought that goes through my addled brain, like I’d nothing else to be worried about. Instinctively, I go to whip the offending articles from behind the radiator, but nothing happens.

Shit.

I try again.

Nothing.

I try it slower. Still nothing. I have to do it in slow motion a few times before I finally cop on.

My hand is going clean through them. Definitely. I’m not imagining it.

Anxiously, I look around for something else to experiment with, and my eyes immediately light on a photo of me and Kate taken on her wedding day that’s plonked on the dressing table, beside my GHD hair straighteners. She looks like a young, glamorous Fergie, with the red hair piled elegantly up on her head, all tall, thin and gorgeous; whereas I’m like a shorter, more freckly version of her, stuck in a lime-green bridesmaid’s dress (not a good colour if you’re a ginger, trust me), made out of what looks like the same fabric they use to prevent the space shuttle burning up on re-entry.

I try to pick up the picture frame and nothing happens. Same thing. My hands just glide clean through it. And I don’t even feel a thing, there’s no sensation whatsoever. Tentatively, I move towards the mirror on the dressing table and look in. There’s nothing there, no reflection, even though I know I’m standing right in front of it. I wave, then jump up and down, then stick my face right up close to it, the way presenters do directly to camera on kids’ TV shows.

Big fat nada.

So this is it, then, I think.

I’m really dead.

I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know, it’s just that somehow, being back here, in this dimension, if that doesn’t sound too
Star Trek
-ky, is really hammering it home. Half of me just wants to pull whatever emergency cord there is and yank myself out of here, or else find a tardis and make a run for it, like they do on
Doctor Who
, but the other half is, well . . . a bit curious, if I’m being honest. I mean, it’s not like I just moved out of this house in a huff or something, I actually
died.

All the things I wanted to do and never got to. Like having a baby. Taking a train ride through India. Paying off my credit card. Finally getting around to writing my novella. Meeting Johnny Depp. Telling everyone my Oscar picks for next year. Then I think about the sheer amount of time I wasted worrying about crap. Not fitting into my skinny jeans any more. Will Amy Winehouse get her act together? Is Prince William losing his hair? Would Ikea ever open in Dublin?

Oh my God, I wonder what my funeral was like? Who am I kidding? By that I really mean one thing: was James there, and did he cry embarrassingly copious amounts? Or maybe give a big graveside oration? Make a holy show of himself telling everyone now that I was gone, his life might as well be over, too? After five years together he must have felt something or . . . was the bastard back here that night with his new girlfriend cracking open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?

Then I think about Mum, and suddenly all I want is to be with her. What must she be going through? I mean, she gets unbelievably, irrationally distraught when her satellite dish goes on the blink and she has to miss an episode of Agatha Christie’s
Marple
, her favourite TV show, so I dread to think how she’s dealing with this. Then there’s poor old Kate who had to take a full week off work when her Labrador was put down . . . how is she coping? And Fiona, too . . . oh shit, you know what? I have to get out of here. Right now. I have to find them all, and let them know that I’m OK and that Dad’s OK, and that there’s nothing for anyone to be worried or upset about, and that I’m going to do everything I can to help them and work all sorts of little miracles for them.

Just from this side of the fence, that’s all.

I stride over to the door, grab the handle and . . . my hand just swipes clean through it. I try again and again, but no joy. Honestly, it’s like slicing a knife through butter.

Oh, for f*ck’s sake, does this mean I’m going to be trapped here until James decides to show up and let me out?

As if on cue, there’s a deep, rumbling, oh-shit-isit-morning-already moan from under a big mound of duvet, and I nearly leap into the air with the fright.

I don’t believe it, he’s here. Actually in the room with me. My heart’s having palpitations, and then I remember . . . he can’t see me. To all intents and purposes, I might as well be the invisible woman.

I stand there, completely frozen as, first, his fist comes out from under the mound of bedclothes, and then his head appears, with the hair standing up on end, like he’s just stuck two fingers into a plug socket. You should see the state of him: right now, Russell Brand is probably better groomed. He’s looking dog-rough and dishevelled, with the eyes completely bloodshot.

Good.

He looks around, disorientated, then picks up the clock on the bedside table. Just gone eleven a.m. Which is about the normal time he’d be getting out of bed at. He shoves the clock back and slumps back on to the pillows, rubbing his eyelids with the palms of his hands. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do a thousand times, but right now, it’s making the breath physically catch at the back of my throat. I feel like an intruder in my own home, watching a live theatre show being played out in front of me. Watching, and yet distant from it. Then, I’m not joking, James looks directly at me. Right over to where I’m rooted to the spot, standing at the edge of the bed. My side of the bed.

‘Fuck,’ he half-whispers.

He sees me.

‘I am so fucking late,’ he mutters under his breath, hauling himself out of bed and pulling himself into a pair of the underpants strewn across the floor, right beside where I am.

He doesn’t see me.

Next thing he’s out the door and stumbling down the narrow, uneven stairs, dodging the overhead beams because he’s tall. He heads into our, sorry
his
, gorgeous living room, with its amazing view right out over Sandymount Strand, providing the traffic’s not too heavy, and you don’t end up looking out at ten-tonne haulage trucks, backed up along the road for miles. Except staring out at gridlock isn’t what’s bothering me right now, it’s the state of the place. I only wish I was joking, it’s messier than Jackson Pollock’s studio. Even worse than a nightclub the morning after the night before, with empty bottles of wine and Jack Daniel’s strewn all over the floor; I’m numbly staring at the mess thinking, who exactly did James have over last night? Metallica?

The coffee table is piled high with piles of scripts, more scripts, and an empty pizza box, but somehow he manages to unearth a half-empty box of Marlboro and lights up.

James, outside! You know it’s a non-smoking house!

Oh, would you listen to me. Trying to nag from the other side of the grave.

Then his mobile rings, and it almost makes me laugh watching him delving through the mound of crap on his desk trying to find it.

On top of the fireplace, gobshite.

He eventually finds it and answers. It’s his business partner, Declan, and although I can only hear one side of the call, I’m guessing it involves a finance meeting which James has just slept it out for. He slumps down on the couch, pulling on the cigarette right down to his feet, nodding mutely as poor old Declan rants on and on.

Couple of things you should know about James in business.