Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes Read Free

of my chin. It will come in handy when I want to do Kirk Douglas impersonations.)
"But no scratching, missy! Of course, facial wounds are handled so well these days," she said
knowledgeably, parroting what the doctor had told us. "These sutures are far better than stitches.
It's only this one, really," she said, gently stroking antiseptic gel onto the deep, puckered gash
that ran the length of my right cheek, then pausing to let me flinch with pain. This wound wasn't
held together with sutures; instead it had dramatic Frankenstein-style stitches that looked like
they'd been done with a darning needle. Of all the marks on the face this was the only one which
wouldn't eventually disappear.

"But that's what plastic surgeons are for," I said, also parroting what the doctor had told us.

"That's right," Mum agreed. But her voice sounded faraway and strangled. Quickly I opened my
eyes. She was hunched in on herself and muttered something that might have been, "Your poor
little face."

"Mum, don't cry!"

"I'm not."

"Good."

"Anyway, I think I hear Margaret." Roughly, she rubbed her face with a tissue and went outside
to laugh at Maggie's new car.

M aggie had arrived for our daily walk. Maggie, the second eldest of the five of us, was the
maverick of the Walsh family, our dirty secret, our white sheep. The others (even Mum, in
unguarded moments) called her a "lickarse," a word I wasn't comfortable with because it was so
mean, but admittedly did the job well. Maggie had "rebelled" by living a quiet, well-ordered life
with a quiet, well-ordered man called Garv, whom, for years, my family hated. They objected to
his reliability, his decency, and most of all his jumpers. (Too similar to Dad's, was the
consensus.) However, relations have softened in recent years, especially since the children came
along: JJ is now three and Holly is five months.

I will admit to having entertained some jumper-based prejudice myself, of which I'm now
ashamed, because about four years ago Garv helped me to change my life. I'd reached a nasty
little crossroads (more details later) and Garv had been endlessly, unfathomably kind. He'd even
got me a job in the actuarial firm where he worked--initially in the post room, then I got
promoted to the front desk. Then he encouraged me to get a qualification, so I got a diploma in
public relations. I know it's not as impressive as a master's degree in astrophysics and that it
sounds more like a diploma in Watching Telly or Eating Sweets, but if I hadn't got it, I would
never have ended up in my current job--the Most Fabulous Job in the WorldTM. And I would
never have met Aidan.
I hobbled to the front door. Maggie was unloading children from her new car, a wide-bodied
people carrier that Mum was insisting looked like it had elephantiasis.

Dad was also out there, trying to provide a foil against Mum's contempt; he was demonstrating
what a fine car it was by walking around it and kicking all four tires.

"Look at the quality on it," he declared, and kicked a tire again to underscore his point.

"Look at the little piggy eyes on it!"

"They're not eyes, Mum, they're lights," Maggie said, unbuckling something and emerging with
baby Holly under her arm.

"Could you not have got a Porsche?" Mum asked.

"Too eighties."

"A Maserati?"

"Not fast enough."

Mum--I worried that she might have been suffering from boredom--had developed a sudden,
late-in-life longing for a fast, sexy car. She watched Top Gear and she knew (a little) about
Lamborghinis and Aston Martins.

Maggie's torso disappeared into the car again, and after more unbuckling, she emerged with
three-year-old JJ under her other arm.

Maggie, like Claire (the sister older than her) and Rachel (the sister younger than her) was tall
and strong. The three of them come from a gene pool identical to Mum's. Helen and I, a pair of
shortarses, look astonishingly different from them and I don't know where we get it from. Dad
isn't terribly small; it's just the meekness