If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (4 page)

But I know that a day doesn’t go by where she doesn’t miss him and pray for him and ache for him.

‘Mind you, it could be a fair wee while before she’s ready to come over here,’ Dad says, softly. ‘She’s not exactly tearing through that list of hers, now is she?’

I do not
believe
he knows about that. Mum’s list, I should tell you, is a big catalogue she made of all the things she wants to do before she’s ready to rejoin him in the afterlife. Stuff like:

‘But, Charlotte, it’s you I’ve been most worried about. Particularly in the last while.’

‘You mean with the accident and then me being in hospital . . .’

‘No, since well before that,’ he says, looking keenly at me. ‘You see, I don’t think you’ve been really happy with your life for a very long while. Have you now, pet? Be honest.’

It’s like turning a knob on the radio a degree to the right and suddenly everything clicks in. Like stepping outside of myself and taking a third-person audit of my twenty-eight years of life. Suddenly I remember back to what it was like to be eighteen again, and to have actual, proper,
dreams.
Mine were vague at first; I knew I wanted to work in the creative field, but wasn’t quite sure what as. Next thing, I got the job with Anna’s agency, which was initially to be only for a few weeks, but somehow I ended up staying for six years. And I enjoyed it and thought that I might even set up on my own someday. Maybe even as a producer.

Then James Kane tornadoed into the calm waters of my life, and that was pretty much that. It makes my feminist hair stand on end even to admit it, but somehow he managed to make himself my number one priority, taking up, ooh, I dunno . . . only about a thousand per cent of my time. Once he and I are permanently together, was my warped reasoning, then I’ll tackle the rest of my life and career and everything will all fit beautifully into place. And I’d no doubt in my mind that it would eventually happen; just a question of when and not if. ‘You’re so good for James,’ anyone who knew him used to say. Like I was the broccoli of dating.

In the meantime, my dreams of being a producer pretty much went out the window; one look at the way James went on, and I just knew I’d never have the steel-lined stomach needed for it.

‘If you want to know whether you’ve got what it takes to be a producer,’ he used to say to me, ‘then go to the bank, borrow two hundred grand, set fire to it and walk away without a backward glance. If you’ve the nerve for that, then you can produce. Gotta be a risk-taker, baby.’

Now my idea of taking a risk is to eat a carton of Muller Light yoghurt from the fridge that’s more than a day past its sell-by date, so no, I figured on second thoughts, maybe I’ll just stick with the nice, safe job I have. Although, in the first couple of years we were together, I often used to pitch James ideas I had for movies and TV shows. And he went with a lot of them, and they worked, and I was so proud, except, now that I think back, I never really got credited. Example: the sitcom he made,
My Trophy Husband
? My idea. Likewise the documentary he made about this new dating craze where women go dog-walking in order to meet fellas.
Leashes and Lovers
it was called, and it got a huge response. Also my idea. Not tooting my own trumpet or anything, but it got to the stage where if ever he needed projects aimed at a female audience, then I was his first port of call. But somehow in all the hoo-ha after broadcast and reviews and press stuff, James always seemed to forget where the germ of the idea had originally come from. I’m not whingeing, just saying it wouldn’t have killed him to say thanks, that’s all.

Then all sorts of other flashbacks come reeling back to me, a speeded-up montage of signs which, at the time, I should have been able to read, but chose to ignore. All the countless red flags that when we love, we rationalize away. The time Kate’s Labrador had puppies and I wanted to take one. ‘But think about how it would compromise our lifestyle,’ said James. ‘We wouldn’t be as free as we are now,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t be able to just hop on a flight to Rome or Paris for the weekend if we felt like it.’

‘But we never
do
fly off to Rome or Paris for weekends,’ I said. ‘Do we?’ One heated row later, I backed down; secretly hoping he might have had such a romantic weekend planned and wanted to surprise me. But he didn’t. Not then and not ever.

Then there was the time we were at my cousin’s wedding, and someone innocently asked him whether he and I would be next. Perfectly reasonable question to a couple who’ve lived together for five years.

‘We don’t believe in marriage,’ James smugly replied for both of us. ‘It’s just a conspiracy to deny the dark and confirm the light.’

I think he meant to be smart-arsed and funny, but I just remember turning away, absolutely mortified, and then spending the rest of the day in a temper with myself for not confronting him there and then, telling him that he didn’t speak for me, and that actually I did believe in marriage, thanks very much. Plus, there’s nothing like going to a wedding to put a magnifying glass on problems you’re having in your own relationship. Something to do with being surrounded by all that love and happiness and hope for the future. Anyway, like the complete eejit I am, I convinced myself that James just wasn’t ready
right now
, but would eventually come round in time, when he realized how much he loved/needed/ couldn’t live without me.

Funny how every ill in my life can be traced back to him. Like he’s the square root of all evil. To my shame, I just can’t justify why I stayed with him for as long as I did, nor can I even begin to describe the magnetic appeal he held over me. The only defence I have is this. It’s like at birth, the magi gave James three gifts: good looks, intelligence and an uncanny ability to charm his way out of any situation, no matter how hopeless. A bit like James Bond, as played by Sean Connery. So, after every row we’d have, and believe me, there were many, he’d somehow get around me, find something to make me laugh at, and wham! I’d be right back to square one: the adoring girlfriend, completely blinkered by love and utterly prepared to put up with just about any old shite.

Amazing how you can be madly in love with someone and, at the same time, not particularly like them.

It’s so weird; the last boyfriend I talked to Dad about was a guy who took me to his school graduation do, aged seventeen. (Who subsequently turned out to be gay, but I can hardly be blamed for that, now can I?) Right now, though, it just feels so natural for me to spill out my guts about James. How all along I thought I was with the love of my life, but now I know he was just passing time with me, until he met the love of his. Dad just sits there, patiently listening while I rant on and on about how completely daft and blind and pathetic I must have been to a) have fallen for the bastard, and worse, b) stuck with him for so long and allowed him to become the focal point of my entire existence. My theme seems to be: ‘Picture the perfect relationship. Right, now forget about it and let me tell you all about mine.’ Like there’s rock bottom, then two hundred feet of crap, then me. I don’t even mean to blather on and on; it just all comes tumbling out and I don’t even know why, apart from the fact that it’s lovely to have a new audience that hasn’t heard my tale of woe before.

‘I hope I’m not driving you mental?’ I ask Dad, and he just smiles back.

‘Charlotte, the unexamined life isn’t worth living.’

Oh my God, I’d completely forgotten that: how he was always throwing little inspirational quotes at me and Kate when we were small. I think in the misguided hope that it would expand our minds.

‘Keep going, pet. It’ll eventually get better, I promise. Remember, you’re one that loved not wisely but too well.’ His face is completely impassive and blank, he just lets me talk on and on again, till the pain that’s searing inside me whenever I even think about the unholy mess I’m in starts to ease a bit. For the time being, at least.

And there’s something else that’s really, seriously bothering me. The fact that I’m here to be assessed. Even the word assessment is enough to terrify me, mainly because in school I failed just about every assessment I ever had to take. Time and again, I keep bringing it up, but Dad keeps waving all my fears away, telling me not to worry, that it’s nothing to be afraid of. But, biblical and all as it sounds . . . supposing whoever’s sitting in judgement on me decides I was a complete waste of space when I was alive, and I get sent . . . well, sent to hell?

I don’t want to go to hell. Neither would you if you knew what heat and sulphur do to my hair. But suppose I don’t make it up to heaven? What then? I mean, I have to be honest, the last time I was inside a church was for Kate’s wedding. Three years ago.

Shit.

I could really be screwed here, couldn’t I? Unless maybe there’s some kind of ‘hell on earth’ trade-off scheme, where you get time off for all the crap you had to put up with on earth, such as being a freckly ginger like me. Or burning to a crisp after more than five seconds exposure to strong sun. Or putting up with non-committal, cheating boyfriends.

Then again, on the other hand, maybe damnation isn’t quite as terrible as it’s made out to be. Maybe there’s a chance that heaven is for people who enjoy . . . heavenly pursuits. You know, things like daily Mass and Sunday afternoon garden fetes and watching
Songs of
Praise
while nursing a nice cup of cocoa. Maybe hell just gets a bad press, that’s all. It could be for people more into vodka and cigarettes and sleeping with the wrong men. (Guilty on all three charges.)

Kind of like a twenty-four-hour nightclub.

Then something else strikes me. Suppose I get to meet God. Actual . . .
God.
But for some reason, whenever I try to get a mental image of what God looks like, I don’t picture a kindly but firm bearded old man in robes and sandals; the only thing I can see is Morgan Freeman, from the
Bruce Almighty
movie. He could even be a woman for all I know, although it’s doubtful that any woman would ever have created an unimaginable bastard in the likeness of James Kane. I wouldn’t mind having a good, stiff word with him or her, though. I mean, let’s be honest, fair’s fair, God has been messing me around for years and years. So much so that you’d nearly think he was having a laugh at my expense; maybe to entertain himself and all his saintly pals. Like I’m the leading lady in a long-running soap opera who everything keeps going arseways for. Get a load of this, lads, I can imagine him saying, here’s Charlotte now, telling her mum and sister that they’re wrong about her boyfriend, and that underneath it all, he’s actually a kind, caring human being who always empties out his pockets for homeless people on the streets, and never looks twice at other women. Isn’t it hysterical just how deluded these mortals can be? Tune in tomorrow, when she’ll be at home wrestling with a Nigella recipe for a cosy dinner, just the two of them, while he’s in Lillie’s Bordello for the night, partying like a brain-damaged test monkey and accessorized by blondes, the way Donald Trump always is. Best part is he doesn’t even bother texting her to let her know. Hilarious!

I put my worries to the side for now, and decide to enjoy and appreciate just being with Dad again. We’ve more majorly big long chats, then, after a time, the racing on TV comes to an end and people begin to drift in and out of the room. A sweet-faced elderly lady wanders over to us, smiles at me kindly, then asks Dad to introduce us. It’s odd, because she’s reminding me of someone but I can’t think who. Then it hits me. She looks like me, right down to the freckles and the ginger hair. At eighty, that is. She’s me with a side-parting and support tights.

‘This is your great-aunt Martha,’ Dad says, as we politely shake hands, like we’re suddenly at a cocktail party for the deceased.

‘Charlotte, love, I first came here when you were only a baby.’ She twinkles at me. ‘But I’ve always kept an eye on you, you know. You’re so very welcome here. And if you ever fancy a little flutter on the horses, just come straight to me. I’ll give you good odds.’

God knows how long has passed, but I’m still here, Dad’s still beside me, we’ve talked and talked and talked for what feels like days – about anything and everything – and I’ve absolutely no regrets about dying at all.

Well, not really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful or anything, but . . . the thing is, it kind of gets just the
teeniest
little bit monotonous here after a while. Now, everyone’s very sweet, and I’ve met so many relatives I never even knew I had, all of whom passed away decades ago, but who’ve come back to this assessment area, or wherever the hell it is I am, just to stick their heads in, say hi and to introduce themselves. Some I vaguely recognize from old family photos, like Dad’s grandfather who died in the Civil War. (Nothing dramatic, though, he wasn’t shot at dawn in front of a firing squad or anything, the big eejit just went out without his scarf and got a chest infection.) Then there’s some I never heard of, I just figure they’re ancestors because of the wiry red hair and the freckles. You should see us all gathered together. We’re like five generations of the Weasleys. In fact, I’m spending so much time with family it’s a bit like permanent Christmas Day here, minus the selection boxes and the vicious rows over whether to watch
The Sound of Music
or
Pirates of the Caribbean
.