Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  There’s a baby belly there that never went away.

  You should be proud of it , texts Mum. It shows you’ve had two lovely children.

  Her message makes me smile. The scars from my Caesarean will always remind me, belly or not. I’m still smiling when the phone buzzes again, this time with a call.

  It’s Eric, the driver from this morning.

  ‘How’s things?’ I ask.

  ‘Grand. Grand. Listen, love, if you’re not already booked tomorrow, I’m wondering if you could do me a favour. You remember that suit I picked up earlier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s changed his plans a bit. He wants to be collected from the Gibson tomorrow and driven to Kildare. I can’t do that, I’ve got a booking. How are you fixed?’

  I tell him I’ve two early airport pickups.

  ‘My man doesn’t want to be collected until the afternoon. Would that work for you? If it doesn’t, no worries, I can get someone else. I thought of you first.’

  ‘Kildare and back?’ I ask. ‘Do I have to wait around for him?’

  ‘No. Just there.’

  I don’t want to turn down work. The Kildare trip is reasonable – it will only take an hour or so to get there, and I’ll still be home early enough in the afternoon to spend some time with the children.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Where did you say he was staying?’

  ‘The Gibson.’

  The Gibson is a modern hotel in the docklands area.

  ‘No problem. Text me his number.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks, sweetheart.’

  I’ve tried a million times to stop Eric calling me love, or pet, or sweetheart, but it doesn’t make any difference. I don’t think he even notices he’s using the words. A moment later, his text with the client’s number and the time of the pickup appears on my phone, and I add it to my contacts. Shortly after that, Melisse calls to say that Gina has finished her slot and is ready to be taken to the airport.

  I wolf down the last of the chocolate cake and then hightail it into the bathroom to make sure there are no telltale chocolate crumbs on my face. I freshen up, redo my hair and head back to the studio.

  Dad used to do these types of trips all the time, but I’m still getting used to so much driving in one day. And I’m still getting used to tuning out the conversations from the back seat.

  ‘Your car is like a confessional,’ he told me the first time I drove for him. ‘Always remember that. What’s said in the car stays in the car. People discuss all sorts of stuff and they don’t think you hear them. You don’t, that’s the thing. You close your ears and you let them talk and you don’t ever remember.’

  ‘What if they’re talking about a crime?’ I asked him.

  ‘God almighty, girl, who do you think I have in my car?’ he demanded. ‘Nobody will be talking about crimes. Mostly it’s sex.’

  ‘Dad!’ I rolled my eyes and made a face and we laughed together.

  Gina and Melisse aren’t talking about sex. They’re congratulating each other again on a great day and I definitely want to tune them out, as all the talk about Gina’s books and TV show and commercial deals is making me feel totally inadequate.

  ‘What did you think of it?’ Gina asks me suddenly.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I glance at her in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘The Bite Boost,’ said Gina. ‘Did it fill you up?’

  I check my own reflection to reassure myself that there are no cake crumbs on my lips.

  ‘It was filling.’ I’m trying to be diplomatic. ‘I’m not sure it substitutes for a meal, though.’

  ‘It’s not meant to,’ said Gina. ‘It’s instead of cake and biscuits.’

  I feel as though the words ‘chocolate cake’ are tattooed across my forehead.

  ‘It would certainly see you through,’ I say.

  ‘You see.’ Gina sits back in the rear seat and gives a satisfied sigh. ‘I will bring healthy eating to the masses.’

  I’m not sure how I feel at being considered part of the masses. Although from Gina’s point of view, that’s exactly who I am.

  I indicate and turn off for Belfast City Airport.

  ‘That was quick,’ says Gina.

  ‘Small city.’ I pull up outside the terminal building and get out of the car to open the door for her.

  ‘Got everything?’ I repeat the question I put to Thea and Desmond earlier as she steps out.

  ‘Of course,’ says Gina.

  ‘Any promotional stuff you need to bring back?’

  I ask my clients to check because most of them are in a hurry and it’s easy to overlook personal items.

  ‘Oh!’ Gina reaches into the car and takes out a book. It’s one of the copies she was signing at the bookstore and includes a free icing bag. ‘Can’t forget this,’ she says. ‘Not that I use traditional icing on anything, of course. I have a great vegan sugar frosting, though.’

  Hopefully she doesn’t see me shudder.

  ‘Actually . . .’ She hesitates and then thrusts the book at me. ‘You keep it. You might find it useful.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, but—’

  ‘You look tired,’ Gina says. ‘I didn’t want to say before. I’m not sure what you were snacking on while we were busy, but I’m pretty certain none of it was optimal. Read the book. It will help.’

  Have I been insulted by a famous person?

  ‘There are recipes that kids will love too,’ says Gina. ‘I’m guessing you have them.’

  ‘Do I look that exhausted?’ I try a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ says Gina. ‘Read up on my sections about sleep and healthy living. The book isn’t only a recipe book. It’s about how to live your best life.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Gina reaches into her bag, takes out a Sharpie pen and signs the book with a flourish. ‘Next time I see you, you’ll look years younger.’

  Definitely an insult, I think, even if she doesn’t mean it that way. And how can I live my best life when I’m currently not living with my husband?

  I wait while Melisse walks into the terminal building with Gina to point her in the right direction. I’m a bit edgy by the time she comes out again.

  ‘All sorted,’ says Melisse as I open the door for her. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve some stuff to catch up on. So I won’t be talking much on the way back.’

  I’m stunned at how much time one person can spend on her phone. From the moment we leave Belfast until we reach the Port Tunnel at the end of the M1 in Dublin, Melisse keeps up a constant stream of texting, emailing and instant messaging. She briefly remarks that she’s updating Gina’s social media, tweeting about her appearances on TV and letting people know there are signed books in the bookshops.

  ‘Got to squeeze every last bit of mileage out of her,’ she says as we enter the tunnel.

  I love driving through the tunnel, although some clients expressly ask me not to use it – nearly five kilometres underground makes them feel claustrophobic. Melisse says nothing. I’m guessing she’s happy that it saves a lot of time in getting her home.

  ‘Not just my home, my office too,’ she says when we finally arrive at the single-storey-over-basement house. ‘Office downstairs. I live upstairs.’

  I guess my home (or at least my mum’s home) is my office too. Or maybe Dad’s car is.

  ‘A lot of my clients are creative people,’ Melisse tells me, even though I haven’t asked. ‘Musicians, writers, artists. I enjoy working with them. They don’t try to interfere. Most of them, anyhow.’

  ‘Do you have many people working for you?’ Although all I want is to get home myself, I have to appear interested now that she’s suddenly decided to become chatty.

  ‘One intern, one admin person,’ she says. ‘You spoke to Jess. She made the booking.’

  Jess, who didn’t tell me I’d have to drive her boss home.

  ‘We weren’t sure about asking you after we heard abo
ut Christy . . . your dad,’ remarks Melisse as she gathers a bundle of papers from the seat beside her. ‘I got on well with him. He was a nice man.’

  I nod.

  ‘But you were very efficient today. So we’ll use you again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It’s good to be appreciated.

  ‘Have a nice evening.’

  She gives me a quick wave and then hurries down the steps to the basement. I allow myself to release a relaxed breath and am about to drive away when I decide I’d better check to see if she’s left anything behind. There’s nothing on the seat itself, but a couple of brochures are sticking out from the passenger seat pocket. I lower the window and call after her.

  ‘Sorry!’ she says as she opens the rear door and takes them out.

  ‘No problem.’

  I give the rear section another quick glance, but Melisse seems to have taken all her stuff now, so I pull away from the kerb. I call Mum’s landline when I’m stopped at the lights. Mica answers.

  ‘I’ll be home soon,’ I tell her. ‘I hope you had a lovely day.’

  ‘Emma and Oladele came over and we played in the garden,’ Mica says. ‘Tom was out with Andrew.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to get home and cover you with kisses.’

  ‘Mum!’ Mica sounds horrified.

  ‘Two kisses, then.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Deal,’ I concede. ‘Is Gran there?’

  Mica tells me to hold on, and a few seconds later Mum says hello.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I say. ‘Would you like me to pick up a takeaway?’

  ‘Would you?’ Mum is pleased. ‘I did fish fingers and beans for the children a while back. I knew they couldn’t wait.’

  I don’t know what Gina Hayes would have to say about fish fingers and beans. But it’s fish and . . . and . . . pulses – though are baked beans actually pulses or are they some hybrid pretend-bean? I’ve no idea. So yes, I’m a crap mother who’s allowing her own mum to raise her kids while she mainlines coffee, chocolate cake and Chinese takeaway.

  Chapter 4

  It’s after seven when I finally walk in the door.

  Mum takes the paper bag with its foil trays of food from me while I go upstairs. I open the door to Tom’s room first, but there’s no sign of him so I head to the attic. My son and daughter are both up there, reading. It’s nice to see them with books rather than electronic devices in their hands, but to be fair to them, both of them have always enjoyed print books. Mica says she likes the feel of the pages and knowing how much of a story she has left. And Tom is a proper bookworm: he has an entire shelf-load at home. At home in Baldoyle, of course. Not here. He’s brought some of his collection with him, but it only fills a fraction of the shelf in his room.

  ‘Mum!’ Mica looks up first and smiles at me. Tom drops his book and jumps up to hug me. The tensions of the day immediately slide from my shoulders. There is nothing in the world that can make you feel better than a totally unselfconscious, unconditional hug from your child. I hug Tom in return and then kiss Mica on her head.

  ‘That’s one,’ she says.

  ‘One more?’

  She suddenly grins. ‘Yeah.’

  And then she hugs me too, and we’re all in the middle of a group hug when Mum’s voice floats up and says that the food is on the table.

  ‘Chinese,’ I tell my children.

  ‘Did you bring home anything for us?’ asks Tom.

  ‘Curry chips.’

  ‘I do so love you,’ he says fervently, and is out of the room in an instant.

  ‘I got you a spring roll,’ I tell Mica, who doesn’t like curry chips.

  ‘With sauce?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I love you just as much as him.’ And she gives me another kiss.

  ‘That’s three!’ I cry. ‘You must be mad about me.’

  She giggles and runs downstairs too.

  I go to my old bedroom and change out of my Claire Danes outfit and into a pair of leggings and a bright yellow T-shirt. I put some extra earrings in my ears too and immediately feel more like myself again. Although to be fair, even if she isn’t who I am inside, I like being the Roxy who wears the navy suits and white blouses. She might have a broken heart too, but she’s in control of things, something the off-duty Roxy very clearly isn’t.

  We’ve all moved into the living room. Tom and Mica are on the sofa and Mum is in the armchair that used to be Dad’s. I’m in hers. The TV is on and is showing a repeat of Gogglebox . I’m utterly convinced that all politicians should watch Gogglebox . They’d learn more about their constituents that way than they ever do talking to them on the doorstep.

  We laugh at the families as we tuck into our food. Gina Hayes definitely wouldn’t approve of eating like this, but I don’t care. We’re together. And that’s all that counts.

  Later, after Mica and Tom have gone to bed, Mum takes a large envelope from the sideboard and spills its contents onto the coffee table. It’s Dad’s memorial cards, and seeing them makes my heart constrict so much that it hurts. I pick one up. There’s a picture of a sunset on the front, and inside is a photo of Dad with the words ‘In loving memory of Christopher (Christy) Carpenter’ beneath. Mum chose the photo – it’s one of Dad on holiday, and he looks tanned and happy and healthy. There’s also a poem about death and horizons, which is supposed to be comforting and which sort of is. But it doesn’t bring Dad back.

  ‘I miss him.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘I didn’t think I would, especially in the evenings, but I do.’

  ‘Why didn’t you think you’d miss him?’ I ask in shock. ‘You were married to him for forty-odd years.’

  ‘Yes, but he was out so much of the time,’ she says. ‘Driving at night. Leaving me on my own. I kind of got used to it.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ I protest.

  ‘I know.’ Her smile is rueful. ‘I guess I thought I was a harder nut than I am. Thing is, Roxy, I thought I’d be ready for it. You get to our age and you know that the odds are shortening every day. Your grandfather, Dad’s dad, was only fifty-five when he died. And his mother was fifty-nine. So I thought there might be a genetic thing in his family. Once he got past sixty himself, I sort of relaxed a bit. But I used to think about it all the same. To prepare myself. But you’re never prepared for the finality of it.’

  I don’t know what to say. I never thought of Dad as an older person. I don’t think of Mum as old either. I mean, she’s in her sixties, so clearly not exactly a spring chicken, but she always looks great – better now than when we were younger because she has more time for herself. She gets her hair colour done every month and she’s switched from using the own-brand ranges at Lidl and Boots to more expensive cosmetics. A month before Dad died, she went into Arnotts and had her make-up done at the Charlotte Tilbury counter. She came out looking absolutely amazing, and laden down with premium eyeshadows, blushers and lipsticks. She did her make-up every single day he was sick, although she hasn’t bothered since the funeral.

  ‘I know it seems mad,’ she said to me then. ‘But I need something to make me feel OK.’

  I’ve used the Lidl stuff from time to time myself and it’s fine. But sometimes it’s not about the products themselves. It’s about treating yourself. Despite being regularly told by advertising companies trying to flog the latest in shampoo or foundation or whatever that I’m worth it, I seriously doubt that I am. But Mum truly does deserve to treat herself. She’s the glue that holds us all together. She remembers all our birthdays (and reminds us of each other’s), she posts old family photos on her Facebook page that make us smile and . . . well, she’s just there. Always. No matter what. Even if you turn up with a wheelie bag and say you need to stay a while because your husband is a cheating bastard.

  I try to think of her as a person and not only my mother. But sometimes I forget.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says when I stay silent. ‘I miss your dad, but I have to get on with it. That’s what he’d want
.’

  I give her a hug and tell her there’s no rush to do anything. But I know what she means. Life does move on. And we all have to move with it. I do too, even though I don’t know the direction yet. I blink back the tears that have welled up in my eyes. I don’t want to cry. Not when Mum is being so strong.

  ‘Keep one in the car.’ Mum nods at the cards.

  I take one and stand up.

  ‘I didn’t mean to put it there straight away.’

  But I do, going outside and sliding it into the pouch in the sun visor. I like the idea of having it with me all the time.

  Mum has put the rest back into the envelope when I return to the living room. On the coffee table instead is a big box. I recognise it. It’s one that we use to keep photos from the pre-smartphone era. Proper printed photos going back years. Some are so old they’re black and white, but most are faded colour. She removes the lid and takes out a bundle. We smile as we look through them. There are lots of Aidan as a baby, fewer of me (second baby syndrome, according to Mum; she and Dad were less obsessed with charting my every move). All the same, I feature a lot in communion and confirmation shots, where I’m dressed up.

  I catch my breath as Mum takes out a dog-eared snap of me when I was about ten. It’s at the beach and I’m standing beside my brother, our arms around each other. I don’t remember it being taken, but it was clearly a hot day – the sky is azure blue without a single cloud and I’m wearing a bright yellow swimsuit. It’s a happy, cheery photo. I reach into my handbag for my phone, and show her an almost identical snap of Mica and Tom.

  ‘Wow,’ she says.

  We’re all bound together, I think. Me and Mum and Dad. My children. Their father. That link can never be broken.

  ‘Can I ask about your plans?’ She looks at me, perhaps thinking the same thing.

  ‘You mean, mine and Dave’s plans?’

  ‘The plans you have for both of you,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t have any yet.’

  ‘You can stay here as long as you like,’ she assures me, ‘but you still have to make plans.’