Mar­ian Keyes

Mar­ian Keyes chron­i­cles a day in the life of her fab­u­lous, per­fect alter-ego.

Australian Women’s Weekly NZ - - CONTENTS -

out­lines her per­fectly fab­u­lous life

You know the way some­times a fab­u­lous, fa­mous woman tells us about her av­er­age day? Well, this is what I wish I could write... “Ev­ery day I wake at 6am on the dot. I’ve no need of an alarm clock or any of that non­sense, my body knows when it’s had all the sleep it needs and sim­ply wakes of its own ac­cord. I’m lucky enough to have sev­eral homes – an 18-room apart­ment on the Up­per West Side, a four-storey house in

Prim­rose Hill, a charm­ing cot­tage in the Stock­holm ar­chi­pel­ago and a light-filled, over­wa­ter mod­ernist glass cube in Sydney.

“There was a time when I had a ten­dency to bite peo­ple un­til I’d had eight cap­sules of Kazaar Ne­spresso, but these days, af­ter three glasses of the spe­cial sul­phur water I have im­ported spe­cially from Pom­peii, I’m rar­ing to go – straight onto my deck, which juts far out into the ocean, for my morn­ing Bar­reCon­cept. A Rus­sian dance master used to coach me, but it got a lit­tle em­bar­rass­ing when I be­came bet­ter than him and he was charg­ing me £375 an hour and calling me ‘veak end lazy’, so we said our farewells.

“Af­ter 50 min­utes of pliées, I step into my out­door rain­for­est shower. Then a gen­tle knock on my bed­room door tells me my break­fast tray has been left out­side. My staff are amaz­ing – so thor­ough – I never have a mo­ment when I look at the re­mote con­trol and think, ‘Christ alive, when was the last time this thing was cleaned?’ They’re also dis­creet enough that I never see them scrub­bing my kitchen floor, so I’m spared chronic, gnaw­ing guilt.

“Break­fast might be miso broth or an egg­white omelette, and yes, I used to think egg-white omelettes con­sti­tuted cruel and un­usual pun­ish­ment, but now I un­der­stand it’s all about sim­ply de­cid­ing that egg-white omelettes are de­li­cious. I have mine with 35g of plain kale and per­haps an av­o­cado smoothie. The days when my ideal break­fast in­volved me ly­ing on the floor and pour­ing Sugar Puffs straight at my face are long in the past.

“Es­pe­cially be­cause I keep my daily carb in­take un­der 15g.

“Of course, I love sweet things, but find them so fill­ing – I think mini Mag­nums should be re­branded be­cause ac­tu­ally they’re huge. And when I look at pick’n’mix sta­tions, I don’t see pretty, ir­re­sistible jel­lies that I want to cram, hand­ful af­ter hand­ful, into my mouth un­til I feel pleas­antly queasy – no, I see toxic lit­tle balls of death. A fizzy cola bot­tle? Why not just give me a cyanide cap­sule?

“Be­fore I start work, it’s time for the DHL man. I once met Mi­uc­cia Prada and she thought I was ‘de­light­ful’, and as a re­sult I get de­liv­er­ies of next sea­son’s Prada or Miu Miu a few times a month. They’re al­ways gor­geous – I mean, it’s Mi­uc­cia! – but some­times even the sam­ple sizes are too big for me. And if it’s not stuff from Mi­uc­cia, it could be crip­plingly ex­pen­sive skin­care such as Natura Bissé or the Tom Ford make-up range. (Tom loves me too. He sent me his en­tire wom­enswear col­lec­tion the other day. I said, ‘Tom, you bad man! There was no need to send the hand­bag in ev­ery colour.’ But he said, ‘Mar­ian, the thought of you wear­ing my clothes makes me happy.’ And who am I to deny Tom Ford his hap­pi­ness?)

“I have a hus­band and we have huge amounts of as­ton­ish­ingly in­ven­tive sex; af­ter all these years, we still can’t keep our hands off each other. Like teenagers, we are.

“Then it’s time for work! I write nov­els that are huge best­sellers and get crit­i­cal ac­claim, so not once have I been in­sulted at a party by peo­ple ask­ing, ‘Just how many of your bonk­busters do you churn out a year?’

“I sit at my key­board and in­stantly the words start to flow. I never stare in de­spair at an empty screen or slam my head on my key­board and shout, ‘This is a load of rub­bish,’ or delete an

I have a hus­band and we have huge amounts of in­ven­tive sex; af­ter all these years, we still can’t keep our hands off each other.

I don’t stop to eat for the sim­ple rea­son that I don’t get hun­gry, and un­der no cir­cum­stances do I look at the clock at 9.35am and won­der if it’s too early for lunch.

en­tire day’s work be­cause it’s dross, or an­nounce to the four empty walls, ‘That’s it! I’m re­train­ing as a nail tech­ni­cian!’

“I don’t stop to eat for the sim­ple rea­son that I don’t get hun­gry, and un­der no cir­cum­stances do I look at the clock at 9.35am and won­der if it’s too early for lunch. But at 3.30pm I force my­self away from my desk and go for a run. I don’t jog – I run. I haven’t an ad­dic­tive bone in my body, ex­cept maybe when it comes to ex­er­cise.

“When I re­turn, I med­i­tate for 30 min­utes, manag­ing to still my mind into bliss­ful si­lence, and no way do I think, ‘Oh Christ, I’d bet­ter make that den­tist’s ap­point­ment, I can’t keep putting it off for ever.’ Or, ‘Why the hell did I in­vite those peo­ple over tonight? I re­ally just want to slump on the couch and watch eight hours of telly.’

“Evenings vary. If it’s not my night to vol­un­teer at the soup kitchen or my movie club (we’re cur­rently ex­plor­ing Yu­gosla­vian cin­ema un­der Tito), we have an eclec­tic group of tal­ented, beau­ti­ful friends round for din­ner. I’m a calm, skilled cook and don’t find hav­ing to have the stuffed pheas­ant ready at the same time as the kohlrabi at the same time as the quinoa stress­ful enough to war­rant a Xanax. We sit at our 20ft-long limed oak din­ing ta­ble and chat and laugh late into the night and no one gets messy drunk and fol­lows some­one’s else’s boyfriend into the down­stairs loo.

“When I get into bed, I don’t lie awake for sev­eral hours, my head whirling like a wash­ing ma­chine, won­der­ing how I can con my doc­tor into giv­ing me some de­li­cious ver­boten sleep­ing pill. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pil­low and never wake at 4am, feel­ing like an im­poster and a fail­ure and that all my teeth are go­ing to fall out. My life is in per­fect bal­ance.”

Yes, well... I no longer eat the Sugar Puffs.

It’s a start.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from New Zealand

© PressReader. All rights reserved.