Sushi for Beginners - Marian Keyes [34]
She picked up the foil card of Rohypnol and suddenly suicide seemed gloriously tempting. Would sixteen tablets be enough to kill herself? Probably, she decided. She could just close her eyes and eddy away from everything. Go out on a blaze of glory, while her name was still a byword for successful, high-circulation magazines. Preserve her reputation for all eternity.
She’d always been a survivor, and had never before contemplated suicide – and she was only doing so now because dying seemed the most appropriate way to survive. But the more she thought about it, the more killing herself wasn’t an option: everyone would simply think she’d cracked under the pressure and they’d gloat like mad.
She squirmed, thinking of every magazine person in Britain showing up at her funeral, bringing their murmury soundtrack of She couldn’t hack it, you know. Poor girl, couldn’t stay the pace. Turning to each other in their sleek black suits – they wouldn’t even have to change out of their work clothes for the funeral – and congratulating themselves that they were still, by virtue of being alive, players. No burn-out here, no sir!
Not being able to stay the pace was the worst crime in magazine publishing. Worse than hitting the burgers hard and becoming a size twelve, or telling the world that short hair was in when everyone else’s money was riding on shoulder-length locks. Working on the principle that there was only so much endurance knocking around, magazine folk joyously embraced the news that a colleague was ‘taking a long, well-deserved rest’ or ‘spending more time with their family’.
A tragic accident was the only way out, Lisa decided. A glamorous tragic accident, she amended. Forget falling under a low-rent Irish bus, that would be even more embarrassing than topping herself. She’d have to fall out of a speedboat, at the very least. Or crash in an orange ball of flame while helicoptering to some fuck-off location.
… She was on her way to Manoir aux Quatre Saisons, I believe.
Actually, I heard it was Balmoral Castle. At the personal request of you-know-who.
But what a fitting way to go. Fabulous in death as in life.
Burnt to a crisp, I’m told, like an overdone steak. The super-bitchy tones of Lily Headly-Smythe, editor of Panache, interrupted Lisa’s sleepy reverie.
… Rumour has it that Vivienne Westwood’s going to base her next collection on it, all the models will be done up like burn victims.
Fantasy back on track, Lisa eventually fell asleep, comforted by thoughts of her society-pages death.
11
The week carried on. Lisa moved through her grey-bordered life like a sleepwalker. Albeit, a well-dressed, bossy one.
On Friday, the rain stopped and the sun came out, which caused great excitement amongst the staff – they were like children on Christmas morning. As they arrived into work, there was a stream of comments.
‘Glorious day.’
‘Aren’t we blessed with the weather?’
‘Fabulous morning.’
Just because it had stopped flaming raining, Lisa thought, with contempt.
‘Remember last summer?’ Kelvin shouted across the office to Ashling, his eyes sparkling gleefully behind his black-framed fake glasses.
‘Indeed I do,’ Ashling replied. ‘It was on a Wednesday, wasn’t it?’
Everyone roared laughing. Everyone except Lisa.
Mid-morning, Mai tripped gracefully into the office, flashed a sly, sweet smile around and asked, ‘Is Jack in?’
Lisa experienced a small thrill. This was obviously Jack’s girl and what a surprise. Lisa had expected some pale, freckly Irish girl, not this coffee-coloured little piece of exotica.
Ashling, standing at the photocopier, copying several million press releases for distribution to every clothes designer and cosmetic manufacturer in the universe, paid attention also. It was the finger-biter, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her cherry-plump mouth.
‘Have you an appointment?’ Mrs Morley drew herself up to her full four foot eleven,