Sushi for Beginners

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SUSHI FOR BEGINNERS

  ‘Readable and funny… will no doubt affirm her place as reigning queen of romantic fiction’ The Times

  ‘Pick this one up for a quick leaf through and my advice to you is don’t make any plans, because you will not be putting it down again until you’re finished .. Put simply, it’s brilliant! A real page turner but with far more wit, skill and insight than are usually found in books of this genre… She deserves every drop of acclaim’ Sunday Express

  ‘Written with warmth, compassion and a sprinkling of welcome grit… if you fancy a girly read, Marian Keyes is the best bet on offer’ Big Issue

  ‘Marian Keyes has created three alarmingly recognisable characters in this tale about the pursuit of happiness… The elusive goal of happiness is a familiar one for Keyes and that is why she writes about it with such dexterity’ Observer

  ‘Marian Keyes is on her usual top form with Sushi for Beginners’ Elle

  ‘Keyes builds her characters beautifully, as always, and there are dozens of amusing observations to have you chuckling away’ Heat

  ‘It should keep Keyes’s many fans happy, delivering her trademark mix of humour and wry observation’ Image

  ‘She is a talented comic writer… laden with plot, twists, jokey asides and nicely turned bits of zeitgeisty observational humour… energetic, well-constructed prose delivers life and people in satisfyingly various shades of grey’ Guardian

  ‘[She] gives popular fiction a good name, no easy feat in a field dominated by overpaid imitators and charlatans’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘Keyes has taken over Binchy’s crown as the Queen of Irish Fiction. [She] is a superior storyteller who seamlessly combines style and substance, humour and pathos, and thoroughly deserves her best-selling status. [This] book is filled with wonderful warm characters and dialogue that leaps off the pages’ Irish Independent

  ‘Her writing sparkles and the world is a better place for her books’ Irish Tatler

  ‘Marian Keyes is the queen of feel-good fiction. Her hip, heart-warming comedies have made her the hottest young female writer in Britain and the voice of a generation’ Daily Mirror

  ‘Keyes’s light touch conceals both depth and compassion; she’s sassy yet subtle; and she has a real gift for dialogue and accents’ Ireland on Sunday

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Marian Keyes is the international bestselling author of Watermelon, Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married, Rachel’s Holiday, Last Chance Saloon, Sushi for Beginners, Angels, and most recently The Other Side of the Story, a Sunday Times Number One Bestseller. She is published in twenty-nine different languages. A collection of her journalism, called Under the Duvet, is also available in Penguin. Marian lives in Dublin with her husband.

  SUSHI FOR BEGINNERS

  Marian Keyes

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Michael Joseph 2000

  Published in Penguin Books 2001

  61

  Copyright © Marian Keyes, 2000

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  These characters are fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN-13: 978-0-14-027181-2

  For Niall, Caitríona, Tadhg and Rita-Anne

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my fantastic editor Louise Moore and all at Michael Joseph and Penguin for their hard work and enthusiasm.

  Thanks to all at Poolbeg.

  Thanks to Jonathan Lloyd and all at Curtis Brown.

  Thanks to Caitríona Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes and Louise Voss who read this book as it was written and kept demanding more.

  Thanks to Eileen Prendergast and especial thanks for giving me the name for the book!

  Thanks to Siobhan Coogan for insider info on being a mammy.

  Thanks to the Simon community for generously giving time and information about homelessness.

  Thanks to Morag Prunty and everyone at Irish Tatler for revealing the world of magazines to me.

  Thanks to all the stand-up comedians I know, none of whom are anything like the ones in the book!

  Thanks to the Clarence hotel.

  The following people also helped greatly with advice and enthusiasm. If I’ve forgotten anyone, please forgive me: Suzanne Benson, Jenny Boland, Susie Burgin, Ailish Connelly, Gai Griffin, Suzanne Power, and Annemarie Scanlan.

  Thanks, as always, to my beloved Tony, for everything.

  Prologue

  ‘Dammit,’ she realized. ‘I think I’m having a nervous breakdown’

  She looked around at the bed she was flung in. Her well-overdue-for-a-bath body was sprawled lethargically on the well-overdue-for-a-change sheet. Tissues, sodden and balled, littered the duvet. Gathering dust on her chest of drawers was an untouched arsenal of chocolate. Scattered on the floor were magazines she’d been unable to concentrate on. The television in the corner relentlessly delivered daytime viewing direct to her bed. Yip, nervous-breakdown territory all right.

  But something was wrong. What was it?

  ‘I always thought…’ she tried. ‘You know, I always expected…’

  Abruptly she knew. ‘I always thought it would be nicer than this…’

  1

  At Femme magazine, something had been in the air for weeks, a feeling that they were living on a fault-line. Speculation finally burst into flames when it was confirmed that Calvin Carter, the US Managing Director, had been sighted roaming around the top floor, looking for the gents’. Apparently he’d just arrived in London from head-office in New York.

  It’s happening. Lisa clenched her fists in excitement. It’s actually finally, bloody happening.

  Later that day the phone call came. Would Lisa pop upstairs to see Calvin Carter and British MD, Barry Hollingsworth?

  Lisa slammed down the phone. ‘Too right I would,’ she shouted at it.

  Her colleagues barely looked up. People slamming phones down, then shouting, were ten a penny in the magazine game. Besides, they were trapped in Deadline Hell – if they didn’t get this month’s issue put to bed by nightfall, they’d miss their slot with the printers and would be scooped once again by arch-riv
als Marie-Claire. But what did Lisa care, she thought, hobbling to the lift, she wouldn’t have a job here after today. She’d have a much better one somewhere else.

  Lisa was kept waiting outside the boardroom for twenty-five minutes. After all, Barry and Calvin were very important men.

  ‘Should we let her in yet?’ Barry asked Calvin, when he felt they’d killed enough time.

  ‘It’s only twenty minutes since we called her,’ Calvin pointed out, huffily. Obviously Barry Hollingsworth didn’t realize just how important, he, Calvin Carter, was.

  ‘Sorry, I thought it was later. Perhaps you’d show me again how to improve my swing.’

  ‘Sure. Now, head down and hold still. Hold still! Feet steady, left arm straight, and swing!’

  When Lisa was finally granted admission, Barry and Calvin were seated behind a walnut table approximately a kilometre long. They looked frowningly powerful.

  ‘Sit down, Lisa.’ Calvin Carter inclined his silver bullet head graciously.

  Lisa sat. She smoothed back her caramel-coloured hair, showing her free honey highlights to their best advantage. Free because she kept plugging the salon in the ‘Ones to Watch’ section of the magazine.

  Settling herself in the chair, she tucked her Patrick Cox-shod feet neatly around each other. The shoes were a size too small – no matter how many times she asked the Patrick Cox press office to send a size six, they always sent a five. But free Patrick Cox stilettos were free Patrick Cox stilettos. What did an unimportant detail like excruciating agony matter?

  ‘Thank you for coming up,’ Calvin smiled. Lisa decided she’d better smile back. Smiles were a commodity like everything else, only given in exchange for something useful, but she reckoned in this case it was worth her while. After all, it wasn’t every day that a girl was seconded to New York and made deputy editor of Manhattan magazine. So she curled her mouth and bared her pearly white teeth. (Kept that way by the year’s supply of Rembrandt toothpaste which had been donated for a reader competition, but which Lisa had thought would be more appreciated in her own bathroom.)

  ‘You’ve been at Femme for –’ Calvin looked at the stapled pages in front of him. ‘Four years?’

  ‘Four years next month,’ Lisa murmured, with an expertly judged mix of deference and confidence.

  ‘And you’ve been editor for nearly two years?’

  ‘Two wonderful years,’ Lisa confirmed, fighting back the urge to stick her fingers down her throat and gag.

  ‘And you’re only twenty-nine,’ Calvin marvelled. ‘Well, as you know here at Randolph Media we reward hard work.’

  Lisa twinkled prettily at this patent lie. Like many companies in the Western world, Randolph Media rewarded hard work with poor pay, increasing workloads, demotions and on-a-second’s-notice redundancies.

  But Lisa was different. She’d paid her dues at Femme, and made sacrifices that even she’d never intended to make: starting at seven-thirty most mornings, doing twelve, thirteen, fourteen-hour days, then going to evening press dos when she finally switched off her computer. Often she came to work on Saturdays, Sundays, even bank-holiday Mondays. The porters loathed her because it meant that whenever she wanted to come to the office one of them had to come in and open up and thereby forgo their Saturday football or their bank-holiday family outing to Brent Cross.

  ‘We have a vacancy at Randolph Media,’ Calvin said importantly. ‘It would be a wonderful challenge, Lisa.’

  I know, she thought irritably. Just cut to the chase.

  ‘It will involve moving overseas, which can sometimes be a problem for one’s partner.’

  ‘I’m single.’ Lisa was brusque.

  Barry wrinkled his forehead in surprise and thought of the tenner he’d had to hand over for someone’s wedding present, a few years before. He could have sworn it was for Lisa here, but maybe not, perhaps he wasn’t as on-the-ball as he once used to be…

  ‘We’re looking for an editor for a new magazine,’ Calvin went on.

  A new magazine? Lisa was jolted off course. But Manhattan has been published for seventy years. While she was still grappling with the implications of that, Calvin delivered the whammy. ‘It would involve you relocating to Dublin.’

  The shock set up a smothered buzzing in her head, as if her ears needed to pop. A numb, fuzzy sensation of alienation. The only reality was the sudden agony of her crumpled toes. ‘Dublin?’ she heard her muffled voice ask. Perhaps… perhaps… perhaps they meant Dublin, New York.

  ‘Dublin, Ireland,’ Calvin Carter said, down a long, echoey tunnel, destroying the last of her hope.

  I can’t believe this is happening to me.

  ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Small wet place across the Irish sea,’ Barry offered kindly.

  ‘Where they drink a lot,’ Lisa said faintly.

  ‘And they never stop talking. That’s the place. Booming economy, huge population of young folk, market research indicates the place is ripe for a feisty new women’s magazine. And we want you to set it up for us, Lisa.’

  They were looking at her expectantly. She knew it was customary to make stumbling, tearful, overwhelmed noises about how she appreciated how much they trusted her and how she hoped to justify their faith in her.

  ‘Um, good… thanks.’

  ‘Our Irish portfolio is an impressive one,’ boasted Calvin. ‘We have Hibernian Bride, Celtic Health, Gaelic Interiors, Irish Gardening, The Catholic Judger –’

  ‘No, The Catholic Judger is about to fold,’ Barry interrupted. ‘Sales figures are way down.’

  ‘– Gaelic Knitting – ’ Calvin had no interest in bad news, ‘Celtic Car, Spud – that’s our Irish food magazine – DIY Irish-Style and The Hip Hib.’

  ‘The Hip Hip?’ Lisa forced out. It was advisable to keep talking.

  ‘Hip Hib,’ Barry confirmed. ‘Short for Hip Hibernian. Young men’s magazine. Cross between Loaded and Arena. You’ll be setting up a women’s version.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘We think Colleen. Young, feisty, funky, sexy, that’s how we see it. Especially sexy, Lisa. And nothing too clever. Forget downbeat features about female circumcision or women in Afghanistan with no freedom. That’s not our target readership.’

  ‘You want a dumbed-down magazine?’

  ‘You got it,’ Calvin beamed.

  ‘But I’ve never been to Ireland, I know nothing about the place.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Calvin agreed. ‘That’s exactly what we want. No preconceptions, just a fresh, honest approach. Same salary, generous relocation package, you start two weeks Monday.’

  ‘Two weeks? But that gives me almost no time…’

  ‘I hear you’ve wonderful organizational powers,’ Calvin glinted. ‘Impress me. Any questions?’

  She couldn’t stop herself. Normally she smiled while the knife was being twisted because she could see the bigger picture. But she was in shock.

  ‘What about the position of deputy editor at Manhattan?’

  Barry and Calvin exchanged a look.

  ‘Tia Silvano from the New Yorker was the successful candidate,’ Calvin huffily admitted.

  Lisa nodded. She felt as if her world had ended. Woodenly she got up to leave. ‘When do I have to decide by?’ she asked.

  Barry and Calvin exchanged another look.

  Calvin was the one who eventually spoke. ‘We’ve already filled your current position.’

  The world lapsed into slow motion as Lisa realized that this was a fait accompli. She had no choice in it at all. Fixed in a frozen scream, it took several long seconds to understand that there was nothing she could do except hobble from the room.

  ‘Fancy a round of golf?’ Barry asked Calvin, once she’d gone.

  ‘Love to but can’t. Gotta go to Dublin and interview for the other positions.’

  ‘Who’s Irish MD now?’ Barry asked.

  Calvin frowned. Barry should know this. ‘A guy called Jack Devine.’

  ‘Oh him. Bit of a maverick.’


  ‘I don’t think so.’ Calvin strongly disapproved of rebels. ‘Leastways he’d better not be.’

  Lisa tried to put a gloss on it. She’d never admit she was disappointed. Especially after all she’d sacrificed.

  But you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Dublin was not New York, no matter how you sliced it. And the ‘generous’ relocation package could have been sued under the Trade Descriptions Act. Worse still, she had to surrender her mobile. Her mobile! It was as if a limb had been amputated.

  None of her colleagues were exactly devastated at her departure. She never let anyone else get a go of the Patrick Cox shoes, not even the girls with size-five feet. And her generosity with bitchy and untrue personal comments had earned her the nickname Slanderella. Nevertheless, on Lisa’s last day, the staff of Femme were rounded up and press-ganged into the boardroom for the customary send-off – plastic glasses of tepid white wine that could have doubled as paint stripper, a tray with a desultory spread of Hula Hoops and Skips, and a rumour – never realized – that cocktail sausages were on their way.

  When everyone was on their third glass of wine and could therefore be relied on to exhibit some enthusiasm, there was a call for hush and Barry Hollingsworth made his textbook speech, thanking Lisa for everything and wishing her well. It was agreed that he’d done a lovely job of it. Especially because he’d managed to get her name right. The last time someone had left he’d made a tear-jerking, twenty-minute speech lauding the unique talents and contribution of someone called Heather, while Fiona, the person who was leaving, stood by in mortification.

  Then came the presentation to Lisa of twenty pounds’ worth of Marks & Spencers vouchers and a large card with a hippo and ‘Sorry to see you go’ emblazoned on it. Ally Benn, Lisa’s former deputy, had chosen the leaving present with care. She’d thought long and hard about what Lisa would hate the most and eventually concluded that M&S vouchers would cause maximum distress. (Ally Benn’s feet were a perfect size five.)