want to be on my own. But how stupid would it be to sit in an accountant's office while Emily went through her tax returns? The sun was splitting the stones and I was a big girl now.
“I'll go to the beach,” I said, swallowing.
“How are you fixed for money?” Emily asked. “Not that I'm looking for any,” she added quickly.
“Well, Garv said he'd cover the mortgage for a month and I've got my credit card. No way of paying it off, though, until I get a new job.” For some reason this worry wasn't as potent as it usually was. “And I've a bit in my current account.”
In fact, my Ladies' Nice Things account was quite 78 / MARIAN KEYES
healthy. Though I'd been spending too much lately, I'd been doing it from our joint account and it struck me that maybe I'd been stockpiling money in my own account, somehow anticipating the split with Garv. It wasn't a comfortable thought. “Why are you asking me about money?”
“I was thinking you might like to rent a car while you're here.”
“Can't I get the bus?”
A funny noise made me look up. It was Emily, laughing.
“What did I say?”
“‘Can't I get the bus?’ Next you'll be offering to walk places.
You're a tonic!”
“I can't get the bus?”
“Not really, no one gets the bus. The service is beyond shit. Or so I'm told; I've never actually experienced it first-hand. You need a car in this town. There are some great pickup trucks for rent,”
Emily said dreamily.
“Pickup trucks? Do you mean Jeeps?”
“No, I mean pickup trucks.”
“You mean…like hillbillies drive?”
“Well, yeah, but new and shiny and without hogs sitting up front.”
But I didn't want a pickup truck. I'd been entertaining a pleasant vision of zipping around in a foxy little silver convertible, my hair flying out behind me, lowering my heart-shaped sunglasses and making eye contact with men at traffic lights. (Not that I ever would, of course.)
“Only tourists and out-of-towners drive convertibles,” Emily scorned. “Angelenos never do. Because of the smog.”
It was then that I remembered that Emily had picked me up from the airport in a huge Jeep-style, four-wheel-drive thing. She'd looked as if she was driving a block of flats and I'd almost needed a rope and crampons to get up to the passenger seat. “Pickup trucks are very now,” she advised. “And if not a pickup truck, then get a Jeep like mine.”
“But I just need something to get me from A to B.” And it was all right for her living in year-round sunshine, but when ANGELS / 79
would I get another chance to take the roof off my car and not get soaked to the skin?
“You see, your car is how you're judged in this town. Your car and your body. It doesn't matter if you live in a cardboard box, so long as your car is cool and you're in the terminal stages of anorexia.”
“Well, I think convertibles are cool. That's the car I'd like.”
“But—”
“My marriage has broken up,” I said, playing dirty. “I want a convertible.”
“Okay.” Emily knew when she was beaten. “We'll get you a convertible.”
Just before we went out, my mother called just to remind me that
“the entire seaboard could fall into the Pacific at any moment.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“I'm only saying it for your good.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it sunny there?”
“Very. I have to go now.”
The beach was no distance; I could easily have walked it. If I'd been allowed. I rappelled down out of the car, and away Emily drove, perched high and tiny in her mobile block of flats.
The scene ahead of me looked like a postcard. Bathed in citrus light, lines of high, spindly palm trees brushed the jaunty blue sky.
Stretching far away in both directions was a wide expanse of powdery white sand, and beyond that was the glinting rush of the ocean.
We've all heard that Californians are gorgeous. That through a combination of good living, health consciousness, sunshine, plastic surgery, and eating disorders they're
“I'll go to the beach,” I said, swallowing.
“How are you fixed for money?” Emily asked. “Not that I'm looking for any,” she added quickly.
“Well, Garv said he'd cover the mortgage for a month and I've got my credit card. No way of paying it off, though, until I get a new job.” For some reason this worry wasn't as potent as it usually was. “And I've a bit in my current account.”
In fact, my Ladies' Nice Things account was quite 78 / MARIAN KEYES
healthy. Though I'd been spending too much lately, I'd been doing it from our joint account and it struck me that maybe I'd been stockpiling money in my own account, somehow anticipating the split with Garv. It wasn't a comfortable thought. “Why are you asking me about money?”
“I was thinking you might like to rent a car while you're here.”
“Can't I get the bus?”
A funny noise made me look up. It was Emily, laughing.
“What did I say?”
“‘Can't I get the bus?’ Next you'll be offering to walk places.
You're a tonic!”
“I can't get the bus?”
“Not really, no one gets the bus. The service is beyond shit. Or so I'm told; I've never actually experienced it first-hand. You need a car in this town. There are some great pickup trucks for rent,”
Emily said dreamily.
“Pickup trucks? Do you mean Jeeps?”
“No, I mean pickup trucks.”
“You mean…like hillbillies drive?”
“Well, yeah, but new and shiny and without hogs sitting up front.”
But I didn't want a pickup truck. I'd been entertaining a pleasant vision of zipping around in a foxy little silver convertible, my hair flying out behind me, lowering my heart-shaped sunglasses and making eye contact with men at traffic lights. (Not that I ever would, of course.)
“Only tourists and out-of-towners drive convertibles,” Emily scorned. “Angelenos never do. Because of the smog.”
It was then that I remembered that Emily had picked me up from the airport in a huge Jeep-style, four-wheel-drive thing. She'd looked as if she was driving a block of flats and I'd almost needed a rope and crampons to get up to the passenger seat. “Pickup trucks are very now,” she advised. “And if not a pickup truck, then get a Jeep like mine.”
“But I just need something to get me from A to B.” And it was all right for her living in year-round sunshine, but when ANGELS / 79
would I get another chance to take the roof off my car and not get soaked to the skin?
“You see, your car is how you're judged in this town. Your car and your body. It doesn't matter if you live in a cardboard box, so long as your car is cool and you're in the terminal stages of anorexia.”
“Well, I think convertibles are cool. That's the car I'd like.”
“But—”
“My marriage has broken up,” I said, playing dirty. “I want a convertible.”
“Okay.” Emily knew when she was beaten. “We'll get you a convertible.”
Just before we went out, my mother called just to remind me that
“the entire seaboard could fall into the Pacific at any moment.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“I'm only saying it for your good.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it sunny there?”
“Very. I have to go now.”
The beach was no distance; I could easily have walked it. If I'd been allowed. I rappelled down out of the car, and away Emily drove, perched high and tiny in her mobile block of flats.
The scene ahead of me looked like a postcard. Bathed in citrus light, lines of high, spindly palm trees brushed the jaunty blue sky.
Stretching far away in both directions was a wide expanse of powdery white sand, and beyond that was the glinting rush of the ocean.
We've all heard that Californians are gorgeous. That through a combination of good living, health consciousness, sunshine, plastic surgery, and eating disorders they're
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