Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (38 page)

And then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and held up the little jar between my thumb and
index finger.
"Formula Twelve." I swiveled so that everyone could see the jar. "The most revolutionary
advance in skin care since Cr�me de la Mer. How best to promote it? Well, I'll tell you." I
stopped talking, looked each person in the eye, and announced. "We do...nothing."
That got their attention: I'd lost it. Clearly, I'd totally lost it. Horror sat on Franklin's face: he'd
allowed me to keep my pitch secret until now. Ariella would kill him. Of course, Wendell and
Lois were thrilled--half of the opposition dispatched without them having to do a thing. Just
before Ariella got off her chair and bitch-slapped me, I opened my mouth again.
"Well, not quite nothing." I twinkled. At least I tried; I'd been out of twinkling practice for a
while.
"I'm thinking: a whispering campaign. Every time I have lunch with an editor, I drop hints that
there's a new skin-care product coming. Something off the map. But if they ask me questions, I
clam up instantly, say that it's top secret, beg them to say nothing about it to anyone...but that
when they get it, they'll be amazed."
Everyone was watching me very carefully.
"These plants and roots that make up Formula Twelve are very rare and can't be synthesized.
Therefore the product will be rare. I plan to give one jar--one tiny jar--to, say, the beauty editor
at Harper's. The only beauty editor in the United States to get it. Literally. And I don't mail it. I
don't even messenger it. I bring it, in person, to her. Not to her office but to some neutral venue.
Almost like we're doing something illegal." Now I had them. "She gets it if she promises me a
full page. And if she can't do it, I go to someone else. Vogue, probably. And the jar should be
made out of a semiprecious stone, like amber or tourmaline. I'm thinking this tiny, heavy thing
that fits in the palm of my hand. Weighty, you know? Like a little bomb of superpowered stuff."
Still no one spoke, but Ariella inclined her head in a tiny gesture of approval.
"And there's more," I said. "Read my lips. No. Celebrity. Endorsement."
Franklin blanched. Celebrity endorsement was his life.
"Nobody gets this stuff for free. If Madonna wants it, Madonna pays for it--"
"Hey, not Madonna," Franklin objected.
"Even Madonna."
"This is crazy," he muttered.

"And no advertising," I said. "Formula Twelve should be a word-of-mouth phenomenon, so that
people feel they're in on a big secret. The buzz should build slowly so that by the time it finally
goes on sale--in one outlet in the United States--Barneys? Bergdorf?--the waiting list is
already full. There's a waiting list to go on the waiting list. Women will be waiting outside the
store before it's even opened. Jars of Formula Twelve will be changing hands on the black
market. Women will be frenzied, it'll be like new-season Chlo� bags, to the power of ten. The
most elite thing in New York. Which means the most elite thing in the world. Money can't buy it.
Contacts can't swing it. You just have to wait your turn--and people will wait because it's worth
waiting for."
On the other hand, everyone might just decide, fuck that, I couldn't be arsed, give me my usual
order of La Prairie. It was a risk. There was no guarantee that New Yorkers would get whipped
into a frenzy. If they felt they were being manipulated they would turn against the whole idea.
However, now was not the time to mention this.
"Nine months later we do it all again with the serum, and six months after that the base. Then
we've got the eye cream, the lip balm, the body repair, the body wash, and the exfoliator all to
come."
Ariella gave another of those almost invisible nods. This was the equivalent to her jumping on
her desk, shrieking, "Go, Anna!!!"
"But that's not all," I said, striving for a wry tone.
Oh yes?
"I've got an added extra." I paused, made them wait, then pointed to my scar. "As you may have
noticed, I am the lucky owner of a badly scarred face."
I let them have their embarrassed little chuckle.
"In the two short weeks since I've started using Formula Twelve, there's been a huge
improvement. I took a photo of my scar just before I started using Formula Twelve." It was
actually after the first night, but never mind. "The difference is already visible. I believe in this
product. I genuinely do." Well, I'd give it a go. "When I pitch to beauty editors, I will be visible
proof that Formula Twelve is amazing."
"Yes!" Ariella was hugely impressed with this proposal. "And if the results aren't dramatic
enough, we can always send you for a little plastic surgery."
71
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Bitten arse!

Last night, got call from Colin. Said he had info that Detta Fear was in Racey's posh Dalkey pad!
Delighted. Fucking delighted. Might finally nail this shagging job. Drove over there fast! But
Racey's house still had electronic gate, high walls, spikes on top. How do other private
investigators get in anywhere? Maybe they have handy little device to disable gate. Or they'd be
mountaineers in spare time, so could loop rope around one of spikes on top of wall and they'd be
in garden before you could say "into the void."
All I have going for me is am brazen. Pressed gate intercom, waited. After while, woman's
voice, all crackly, says Hello?
I tried to sound desperate: Missus, I'm very sorry to trouble you, but I'm supposed to be
meeting my friend at the Druid's Chair and I'm lost and desperate to go to the loo and I've tried
two other houses along this road and they wouldn't let me in and I was wondering if you'd do an
act of Christian charity and let me use your bathroom. I can hardly drive the car I'm so bad...
I shut up--gate was opening! Walked up drive, like entering heaven. Front door opened,
shining out rectangle of light. Inside all looked warm, inviting, and hopefully full of Detta and
Racey in incriminating poses. Tiny woman at front door--approx three foot six, extremely old,
easily hundred and seven. Curly white hair, glasses, shapeless tweed skirt, and lopsided chunky
cardigan she must have knitted herself. Racey O'Grady's housekeeper?
Her: Come in, you poor pet.
Me (with real gratitude): Oh, thank you, missus.
Her: The facility is this way.
Pointed me toward downstairs cloakroom but I wanted to be upstairs where might catch Detta
and Racey in the act.
Me: Missus, I'm sorry to sound so ungrateful, but I have a "condition."
She stepped back.
Me: No, not like that, it's not contagious. It's a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder and I
can only use toilets that no one else uses.
Her (looking doubtful): Well, there's an en suite in one of the spare bedrooms that doesn't get
used much. Would that do? Come on, I'll show you.
Me: There's no need for you to come upstairs on your aged legs. I'm putting you to enough
trouble. Just point me in the right direction.
Her: Okay, top of the stairs, go right, second door.
Then she called after me: And don't confuse the wardrobe with the bathroom like Racey did
one night when he had a few jars on him.
I went to bathroom, decided might as well make wees, seeing as was there. Then crept around
and opened doors of other four bedrooms, camera at ready. Nobody in any of them. Where the
hell were Racey and Detta?
The old woman was waiting at bottom of stairs: All done?
Me: All done.
Her: It's a scourge, isn't it? An unreliable bladder.
Me: It certainly is.

Her: But the incontinence pants are great. Would you like a biscuit?
Into kitchen, proper kitchen, blue Aga, rough wooden table, dried flowers hanging upside
down. Top-class biscuits. Belgian. All fully chocolate coated (not just on one side), some even
wrapped in goldy paper.
Me: These are top-notch biscuits.
Her: Sure, you have to have a little bit of luxury in your life, don't you? What's your name,
pet?
Me: Helen.
Her: Helen what?
Me: Helen...er.
Had been just about to say "Walsh" when occurred it mightn't be smartest idea.
Me: Keller.
It was first thing that came to mind: Helen Keller.
Her: Helen Keller? That has a kind of familiar ring to it. Have we met before?
Me: I don't know.
Her: And I'm Tessie O'Grady.
Holy Jesus! Nearly choked. This was the famed Tessie O'Grady, the most dangerous woman
in Dublin crime? And does that mean that Racey O'Grady lives with his mammy?
Quickly recovered meself. Doesn't do to show your weakness.
Me: Thank you for letting me use your jacks, Tessie. You're a Christian woman.
(The aged like if you call them Christian.)
Me: You're like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, helping our Lord put out the burning
bush before it had the whole Bible burned down.
Her: No bother at all. Take a biccie for the drive.
She consulted biscuit guide: Do you like orange creams?
Me: No. No one does.
Her: Mint creams?
Me: Fine.
She put two mint creams in my pocket and patted them, narrowly missing gun, then followed
me down hall. As we passed half-open door, saw Racey and Detta! Sitting close together on
couch in overbright sitting room drinking tea, eating biscuits (same high quality as ones in
kitchen, from brief glance I got) and watching Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em. War crime. (UK
Gold does reruns.)
At door, thanked Tessie again, and as walked toward gate, she called after me, in surprisingly
loud voice: Mind how you go, now. Suddenly got that feeling again. The one where if I was able
to feel fear, fear would have been what I'd felt.

I looked back. Tessie was still standing in lit hall and something about way porch light glinted
on her glasses made me think of Josef Mengele.
At bottom of drive, I went outside and gates began to close behind me. Waited until very last
second, then slipped back in, threw down rucksack in spot where the two gates would close, to
break electronic beam and keep gate open for my escape. Cunning.
Cut back across grass toward sitting room. Curtains drawn but didn't meet fully in middle--
lazy--so had good gawk in. Detta and Racey sitting shoulder to shoulder, still drinking tea and
still watching Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em. People have oddest tastes.
Took good few photos, then heard something behind me: growling.
I turned around. Dogs. Two. Stinky, big, black yokes with red eyes and war-crime breath.
Like Claire with hangover. Tessie must have whistled them off when she let me in, but now I was
"gone," they were back patrolling garden. Hate everyone and everything in life, but hate dogs
more than most.
They growled softly and quick as flash, I growled back. There! Weren't expecting that, stupid,
smelly yokes.
You are dogs, I said, But I have a gun. Look.
Slowly took gun out of shoulder holster to give them closer look. A gun, I said. Very
dangerous. You might have seen them on telly. I've had training in a bunker with funny militia
men. I will shoot you and I will kill you. Understand? Now I'm going to back away slowly, with
my gun trained on you and you will stay where you are, confused but obedient.
They did. I kept circling gun on them, and repeating: Gun. To kill you with. Gun. Highly
dangerous.
Kept backing away, across endless fucking lawn, finally almost at gate. That's when made my
mistake: Started to run. So did dogs. Hey! They were thinking. So she was scared, after all. Let's
get her.
Barking heads off, they raced across grass and were nearly on me when I found that the
fucking gate had closed on rucksack, slicing everything inside in two: eyeliners, lip glosses
(discovered this later). I was tugging at gate, hoping fecky thing wasn't fully closed because then
was trapped with these...beasts.
But too late, one of them got me. Had half my bottom between teeth. Gate gave slightly--
poor sliced rucksack had kept lock from fully closing--got myself through, pulled gate behind
me, clanged it shut.
Through the bars the dogs kept barking.
I yelled: Which one of you bit me, you fuckers?
Neither fessed up, so decided to shoot them both, but in enough trouble and thought better
skedaddle because O'Gradys would hear barking and be straight out to investigate. (If they could
tear themselves away from Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em.)
Arse killing me, could hardly sit down to drive, but had to. Drove to Dalkey, parked outside
chipper, rang Colin.

I gave short account. Said: There's nothing to connect me to Harry Fear, but the O'Gradys
will be suspicious. Also the dogs bit me in the bum. I think I need stitches. Do you know where
the nearest hospital is?
Him: St. Vincent's in Booterstown. I'll come to keep you company.
By time he arrived I'd been examined.
Me: I've to get stitches and a tetanus injection.
Seeing as I couldn't sit down, he also stood. Solidarity.
Me: If I get lockjaw, Harry Fear will pay.
Him: You'll never get lockjaw.
He smiled and suddenly I thought, Cor! Really fancy him. Ding-dong!
After I'd got my arse patched back together (eight stitches; apparently if dog destroyed in fire,
you could use imprint on my bum as dental records to identify him), we went back to Colin's
flat. We-hay!
I stared at the screen: this wasn't funny. Helen messing around with guns and getting bitten by
guard dogs was no joke--assuming it was true; and if she'd had to get stitches, I presumed it
was. Fretfully, I wondered what to do; the problem was that Helen was so contrary that if I asked
her to be careful, she might do the opposite. Maybe I should talk to Mum? But the way Mum
was treating the whole business--offering to ring in sick for Helen, etc.--made me think she
wasn't taking it terribly seriously either.
Because I couldn't fix on the best course of action, I decided to do nothing, at least for the
moment. But I remained riddled with anxiety; I didn't want anything bad to happen to anyone
else I loved.
G     reat news!" Franklin was giddy with triumph. "Ariella picked your pitch! We're going to
use Wendell's, too, for insurance, but she liked yours the best." He chuckled. "I have to say...at
the start...I'm like, oh my God, she's wacko, what have I done! But your pitch is great. Totally
great. Mommy is very happy."
72
H     ey, Nicholas," I called down the corridor. "Thanks for your funny Buddhist goose advice. It
got me the gig."
I got close enough to see him coloring with pride. "You really did nothing?"