Under My Skin Read online

  It happens close to autumn. I will always remember the light, not really summer or autumn or winter, it is another season in another kind of day – and how there is no breeze at all here, the perfect stillness of it and the leaves that fall on the lake and how they move away slowly, in red, yellow and gold.

  Jack knocks softly on the bedroom door. He stands awkwardly in my room with his bag in one hand.

  We stand and face each other and as we watch our eyes begin to fill with tears.

  ‘I have to go now,’ he says and then he sits on my bed and begins to cry. They have taken Daniel away and there is just an empty house, filled with water and so cold. The guards came. Father Brady. Doc, who stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. Pappy took the news in silence and then got up and walked away. He drove straight into the town and put a note on the shop window and pulled the blinds down. I put my arms around Jack now and we are still strangers in a new and strange place. He puts his arms around me. We put our arms around each other, clinging for our lives, both knowing that we have shared something together that we can never forget. We both saw his happy suntanned face on the shore.

  ‘Come on, Star.’

  We heard his voice. We saw his face. We were the last to know it.

  Daniel has left his name in every room. On the wall in my bedroom. In blue chalk half-way up the stairs. On the side of the dresser in the kitchen, on the back of the piano and inside the hall door. In his own room he has left it on the window, etched delicately into the glass. He used an old nail to do it. It is strangely breakable and flimsy-looking, with wispy white letters to remind me of him. And now when I read my books they mean nothing. The letters jump and rearrange themselves – and the words move around like mice on the page.

  TWO

  8 Big Sky Country (February 2001)

  Zoo n. – 1. A park where live wild animals from different parts of the world are kept in cages. 2. (informal) A place characterized as being full of noisy obstreperous people creating confusion and disorder.

  A picture of a light bulb means we have ‘Ideas’. A picture of a smiling face means ‘We love our work’. A picture of a blue sky means ‘There are no limits to our thinking’. Our ideas are like Montana, our brains are Big Sky. Jonathan says that growth here is organic, but there are no trees and no green leaves. Our receptionist is from Rwanda. She is like an ad for a holiday with her beautiful white teeth and coloured beads. There are emails about pitches and brainstorms and revised creative briefs. I have no idea who I am today or what I am supposed to be doing here. On Monday there is an early meeting in the boardroom. Everyone comes in and says a cheerful ‘Good morning’ to someone else. They talk about the weather at the weekend, the football match on Saturday, and after a little while they begin to talk about the work.

  A young man with a suntan smiles and starts us off.

  ‘The client would like us to revisit the brief. He feels the work we presented is wide of the mark.’

  And then the Creative Director responds – and this is almost a shout.

  ‘What exactly does the client want?’

  The man in the suit and the suntan frowns now, but only very slightly, and he says, ‘He wants something edgy.’

  And then the Creative Director gets very red and now he really shouts.

  ‘If one more person mentions edgy I’ll scream. That client hasn’t a fucking clue what he wants. We’ve already presented twice and I’m not tying up two more teams until we have a clear brief – and what the fuck is edgy when it’s at home?’

  Here the man in the suit swallows and smiles again and this time he says, ‘I think we can have another look at the brief but I also think he is entitled to his opinion, given’ (little cough) ‘that he’s paying for the work.’

  And then the Creative Director goes, ‘That client wouldn’t know how to sit the right way round on a toilet.’ And that’s just the first item on the work list.

  This is how Monday morning at the advertising agency starts. The Account Directors sit around the boardroom table smiling and the Creative Director roars at them like Godzilla and then goes back to drawing little flowers on his page.

  Edgy adj. – 1. Nervous and irritable. 2. Having an intense or energetic quality or atmosphere. 3. Unusually smart or stylish.

  Email from Jonathan Kirk 9.33 a.m.

  To Hope Swann

  Subject: Country Fresh Soups Pitch

  Hope – Get everyone together in the boardroom at 11 for a

  brainstorm

  Email to everyone 9.34 a.m.

  From Hope Swann

  Could everyone go to the boardroom at 11 for the soup

  brainstorm?

  Thank you.

  Hope.

  Email to Accounts 9.36 a.m.

  From Hope Swann

  Hello, I was wondering if it would it be possible for someone

  to tell me when I will get paid?

  Thanks very much.

  Hope.

  Email from Jonathan Kirk 9.37 a.m.

  To Hope Swann

  When I said everyone – I meant the Country Fresh team not

  the entire agency…

  Sylvia has the list.

  Email to Hope Swann 9.37 a.m.

  Re: Payday

  From Frankie Preston

  Hopeful… you accidentally copied that mail to everyone.

  Frankie.

  Email to Frankie Preston 9.38 a.m.

  From Hope Swann

  Subject: O Lord

  Who is Sylvia? Where is she?

  Hopeless.

  Email to Hope Swann 9.40 a.m.

  From Gunter Van Wildenberg

  Greetings from Finland!

  Dear Hop,

  We are pitching for the Coke account here in Finland and would appreciate the help of our good friends in the Network. We are looking for the following which we are sure you have on file –

  Overview of the current soft drinks market in Ireland – Coke brand positioning, previous advertising – print, outdoor and TV – over the last four years and competitive material also. Would also appreciate input of your planner into our strategy document and creative brief attached.

  We are having an internal review tomorrow morning so would need this for close of play today.

  Thanks very much for help – and welcome on board! Gunter.

  It is 10 a.m. and there are people walking from the kitchen carrying toast and bowls of cornflakes. There is a smell of coffee everywhere and I am wondering if someone is going to start frying bacon and eggs. Someone has left a pair of old shoes under my desk. There is also a small plastic frog carrying a sign that says ‘Good Luck’. The office is like a ship inside; there are high wooden decks and mezzanines and every office has a little porthole. There are four levels rising upward and red and white flags hang down from the glass roof, like sails. Larry has made me a sandwich and I keep looking at it and wondering if it is too early to have my lunch. When I peep inside my lunchbox I see he has also included a bar of Turkish Delight and a little note.

  I love you. You’ll be great.

  Larry xx.

  Frankie is supposed to be explaining ‘office procedures’ – there are things called ‘status reports’, ‘contacts reports’ and ‘critical paths’. Instead he sits at my desk and asks if I have any chocolate and then he begins to go through everyone on the telephone list. He says that people with names beginning or ending in vowels are basically ‘OK’.

  ‘You’re fine,’ he says. ‘Now… Jonathan… for example… is not.’ Then he hums the tune for Countdown.

  ‘Vowel or consonant?’ he asks. When I show him the email from our friends in the ‘network’ he barely glances at it and then he asks, ‘Are you aware there is a Malteser rolling across your floor?’

  Email to everyone 10 a.m.

  From Jonathan Kirk.

  The idea of people having various forms of breakfast i.e.

  croissants, toast, scones and in some cases porridge in the
<
br />   office – as late as 10 a.m. – strikes me as ridiculous.

  That’s because it is ridiculous.

  Jonathan.

  Email to everyone 10.01 a.m.

  From John Paul

  The tuck shop is open.

  Email to everyone 10.02 a.m.

  From Sandra

  Will the person who is scraping their cornflakes into the sink

  in the upstairs bathroom please stop.

  Email to Stephen Hanson 10.10 a.m.

  cc Joe Fagin, Tony Macken, Frankie Preston, David Williams,

  Jonathan Kirk

  Re: Country Fresh pitch (brainstorm)

  From Hope Swann

  Hi Steve,

  Jonathan would like everyone to meet in the boardroom at

  eleven for a brainstorm.

  Thanks,

  Hope.

  Email to everyone 10.20 a.m.

  From Jonathan Kirk

  Will the people who are parking in the client spaces go out

  and move their cars – before I kill someone.

  Jonathan.

  Email to Hope Swann 10.16 a.m.

  From Stephen Hanson

  Hope – I don’t mind at all that you call me Steve in person –

  but I would prefer if you would refer to me as Stephen on

  emails especially those copied to clients and staff.

  Thank you,

  Stephen.

  Email to everyone 10.16 a.m.

  From Frankie Preston

  Who is whistling the theme tune from Glenroe? Please stop.

  You’re giving me distemper.

  Email from Hope Swann 10.17 a.m.

  To Stephen Hanson.

  Hi Stephen. Sorry!! No problem at all. See you at 11!

  Hope.

  Brainstorm n. – 1. (informal) A sudden exciting idea. Also called brainwave. 2. A momentary psychological disturbance. To generate creative ideas spontaneously for problem-solving, and especially in an intensive group discussion that does not allow time for reflection.

  The Director of Client Service gives me some advice. His name is Joe Fagin and he is dark and sleek and wearing a black linen suit. He stands inside the boardroom and we are looking out the window over the car park as the creative people drift into work.

  ‘Look at these monkeys,’ he says and he is smiling. Then he tells me that it is very important to find a good position in any meeting room.

  ‘Watch,’ he says and he takes a place near the centre of the table. ‘Now,’ he continues and he is speaking very slowly, ‘I have positioned myself in the middle – so I am involved and central to everything that is being said.’

  ‘Thank you, Joe,’ I reply and I take a seat somewhere down near the end.

  The rest of the brainstorm team comes into the room and they sit down and talk about rugby, cricket and golf.

  Then Joe says, ‘Why don’t we do a survey of supermarket customers around the country…? Hope… you could do it… you know… get out there and interview people at shops and ask them what they like and dislike about Country Fresh Soup.’

  Then Jonathan asks, ‘How many Spar shops are there?’

  ‘More than three hundred,’ says Frankie.

  ‘Great… let’s do a cross-section. Cork. Galway. Dublin. Donegal. Great stuff.’

  And Joe says, ‘Why don’t we do a vox-pop as well and we’ll have a more informed creative brief?’

  ‘Good idea, Joe.’

  And everyone is nodding and the creative team is looking relieved.

  ‘So,’ the Art Director says, ‘we can’t start work until we get the brief.’

  And the Planner says, ‘And we can’t write the brief until we do the research.’ And now everyone is looking at me.

  Then they all get up and begin to file out the door.

  ‘We’ll need to play out of our skins to win this,’ Jonathan says but my skin is already falling off me on to the floor.

  At 7 p.m. Joe leaves a Four Star Pizza menu on my desk. ‘Order yourself a pizza,’ he says and his jacket is over his arm.

  I don’t know how to write a contact report. I am worried I will make a mistake and mix up the alarm code. I don’t think I even know how to order a pizza – and then I try to order a 9-inch Hawaiian Special because I think I’m supposed to do this.

  Email from Jonathan Kirk 7.55 p.m.

  To Hope Swann

  cc Joe Fagin, Stephen Hanson, Tony Macken, Frankie Preston,

  David Williams

  Subject: Country Fresh Soups

  Guys,

  The pitch date has been brought forward.

  We need to lock horns.

  How are you to meet at 8 a.m.?

  (I’ll bring the croissants)

  Jonathan.

  Devotion n. – 1. Deep love and commitment. 2. Great dedication and loyalty. 3. Strong enthusiasm and admiration for somebody or something.

  Mr Costello thinks that the world is ending. He sits inside the bay window, under the red lamp bought from the Oxfam shop. His wife holds his left hand and cuts his fingernails. He has the biggest hands I have ever seen. Made to build walls. Chop wood. But she tells me he was a great musician before he got old.

  ‘It’s Hope!’ and she says my name loudly and right down into his ear.

  ‘Floods. Earthquakes. Tornadoes,’ he shouts. ‘It’s the end of the world!’ No one answers. Mrs Costello rolls her eyes to heaven. She goes to their kitchenette and stirs the soup, broth made with boiled chicken and pearl barley. She ladles it into three green bowls. She does not speak. We sit near him and I lean down to the coffee table, lift my spoon and think, ‘Why me, Lord?’

  Their flat is old and creaking. Walls painted red. Dark wooden blinds. Oak chairs. A broken-down yellow couch. There are shelves bending under books, an old record player and hundreds of LPs in tidy rows. Their dog walks across the floor towards me. He is slow and heavy on his feet. His nails tap on the wooden boards. I put my hand on his warm head and he stares at me for a minute, asking for nothing.

  Mr Costello slurps his soup and there is a hole in the elbow of his cardigan. His wife sees only one of these things. When the soup is over she makes coffee and points at his elbow and goes for her sewing box. She is a small woman with pale skin. Her grey hair is neatly curled and set. Her cardigan and skirt would fit an eight-year-old. Our landlord says she has a ‘dicky heart’.

  ‘Here,’ she says to him. ‘Here,’ and she points at his elbow. The cardigan comes off over his head. He sits there, crunches his oatmeal biscuits and waits.

  ‘We’re sorry your husband couldn’t make it,’ she says and she nods into her needlework.

  ‘He’s working late,’ I tell them.

  ‘Hard for young couples,’ Mr Costello says. ‘This city is gone crazy. Rent is crazy. Food is crazy. People… they’re crazy too.’ He points the remote control suddenly and the news flashes on.

  ‘These idiots,’ he says, looking at the politicians. ‘This one,’ and he points, ‘he’s a boy. No substance. Looks like… a damn fish.’

  Here his wife surprises me by starting to laugh quietly. She looks over at me and she is suddenly old and pretty at the same time. It’s something I have not seen before and this is because her old man can still make her laugh. He sees it too and barely smiles but it is a smile and then he turns the TV off.

  ‘How long do you know Larry?’ he asks suddenly. His question sounds angry. Wanting to know. Beginning to like me. Warming to us both. He is beginning to enjoy the company he was sure he didn’t want.

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Ha!’ he says and then louder, ‘Ha!!!’ When he grins he shows brown medieval teeth. A warm moon face, red with blood pressure. Wispy dandelion-seed hair.

  ‘Fifty-six years,’ he shouts. ‘Fifty-six years,’ and he nods at his wife. She has turned his cardigan inside out and spans her fingers under the elbow.

  ‘I don’t know how I stuck her,’ he says. ‘Must be the soup.’

  She
ignores this. Not even a flicker. She is not bothered. Used to his ways. And when I look over there are tears in his eyes. Another big old joke used to cover up love.

  ‘How did you meet?’ I ask, and he looks away. Ignores me.

  ‘You will have to speak up,’ she says quietly. ‘He has become very deaf.’

  ‘What are you whispering for?’ he shouts then. ‘Everyone going around whispering.’

  She gets up and helps him back into his cardigan. She rests her hand on his.

  ‘You have cold hands,’ she says.

  ‘Cold ham?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ll put on the heat,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ he roars.

  ‘Heat!’ she shouts back.

  ‘Geese?’ he replies.

  She watches her husband for a moment and then touches his eyebrow. ‘Your skin is very dry,’ and when she speaks she uses a soft voice and leans into his face. She dots Vaseline between his eyebrows and then rubs it softly into his forehead. He sits quietly during all of this. Letting his woman take care of him.

  ‘I need to wash those trousers,’ she says and then, ‘Trousers!’ at the top of her voice.

  He roars his answer back. ‘And what do you expect me to wear? My pyjamas?’