Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘If you’re not quiet, neither of you will be going to summer camp!’ I have to yell to make myself heard. The silence is instant. They’ve been looking forward to the camp, which starts in a couple of weeks or so, ever since the start of the holidays. ‘Thank you,’ I tell them.

  ‘I’m finished.’ Tom crams the half-slice of garlic bread that Mica gave him into his mouth and then stands up.

  ‘Please may I leave the table?’ says Mum, looking at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, and he and Mica crack up laughing.

  I laugh too.

  So does Mum.

  It’s not that bad living with her again.

  This is the first night I’ll have gone out socially since I walked out on Dave. The community centre is actually in Mum’s estate and not where Dave and I now live in Baldoyle, but everybody there will be completely up to speed with what’s happened because we’ve known the people in Abbeywood all our lives. The women will be on my side, I’m pretty sure of that. Many of them are old friends, because a lot of people who left Abbeywood after school moved back once they got married. It was my dream to come back too. But not to my mother’s house. Not without Dave.

  I’m standing in my dressing gown looking into the wardrobe and wondering what the hell I’m going to wear. When I flung my clothes into the wheelie bag before turning up on Mum’s doorstep, I just grabbed the nearest things I could find. So I’m missing the floaty floral dress that I bought at the beginning of the summer, as well as nearly all my sandals and light shoes. I’m raging about the dress because it did nice things to my boobs. I’m equally raging about leaving behind the new rose-coloured sandals that I hadn’t even worn. I wonder if I could bear to flit back and get my stuff, but I haven’t the courage. Instead I keep looking into the wardrobe as though new clothes will magically appear.

  In the end I decide on a retro country look. It was one I rocked quite a bit in my teens when Shania Twain was one of my idols, and despite the fact that twenty-odd years have gone by, country chic is back in fashion. I nip into the shower and wash my hair, drying it with a diffuser to give it volume and a bit of a curl. Then I do my make-up again, only this time using a glittery silver-grey shadow instead of the matt colour I wear when I’m working. I add some blue eyeliner and blue mascara, something I used to do when I was in my twenties. Then I put on my red and black checked blouse over a short-ish denim skirt. I finish it all off with a selection of sparkly earrings, a chunky necklace and my open-toed boots. (I don’t know what I was thinking when I took my jewellery instead of my clothes. It’s not like it’s expensive stuff – I could have replaced all of it.)

  I look younger, I think. I twirl in front of the mirror and then worry that if I remember this look from the first time round, I must be far too old to do it again. Am I trying too hard? Will I be making a fool of myself? But just as I’m wondering if I shouldn’t haul my work trousers out of the wardrobe and team them with a plain T-shirt, my mobile pings and it’s Debs to ask where the hell am I because she’s ready.

  With you soon , I send.

  I still hesitate before leaving the bedroom. Maybe I should change the skirt for a pair of jeans? But then I think, feck it, who cares how I look? I’m dressing for me, not anyone else. As I close the door behind me, I realise that along with the earrings and necklace I’m still wearing my wedding and engagement rings. I’ve never even thought of taking them off.

  ‘You look lovely, Mum!’ says Tom when I walk into the living room.

  Mica gives me an approving nod, but my mother raises her eyebrows.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I won’t be late. Thank you for looking after them.’

  ‘I’m not looking after them, they’re looking after me,’ she says.

  ‘Of course we are,’ says Mica. ‘Granny is still bereaved.’

  She learned the word at Dad’s funeral. She uses it all the time now.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ says Mum with a grin.

  It’s the first time she’s looked genuinely amused since Dad died. I smile at her.

  ‘I truly won’t be late.’

  ‘No worries,’ she says. ‘Have fun.’

  I leave them watching TV and walk down the road to Debs’s house. It used to be her family home. Her parents now live next door, in a house they built on their large corner site. Like many Dubliners, they got planning permission during the boom to build another house in the garden. Then they sold the original house to Debs and her husband at cost. Debs always says how lucky she is, but I used to think I’d find it restrictive to live next door to my mother. I never thought I’d be living in the same house as her again.

  ‘Roxy!’ Debs opens the door before I have time to ring the bell. ‘Come in. I’ve poured your drink already.’

  I’ve hardly drunk any alcohol since moving in with Mum. Not because she’d disapprove – she likes a glass of wine in the evenings herself – but because I’m very aware that someone has to be on their toes in case anything should happen to either of the children. Weirdly, this didn’t bother me too much when I was with Dave. I’d have a glass or two at the weekends even if he was also having a beer. But then there were two of us and it was different. Now, even though I know I can count on Mum, I feel as if there’s only me. Besides, I’ve had so many early-morning pickups that alcohol the night before is definitely not a good idea.

  ‘You’ve nothing tomorrow, though,’ says Debs when I suggest that a single drink will leave me reeling. ‘So tuck in.’

  The vodka is smooth and I like the bite of the alcohol. All the same, I won’t have any more when we get to the club. It’s not worth it.

  Debs was the first person to contact me after the incident with Julie Halpin. She texted to ask was it true that Dave had moved in next door. When we met up, I filled her in on the actual turn of events so that she could set the record straight.

  ‘The bitch,’ she said as she bit into a muffin. ‘Shitting on her own doorstep.’

  I nodded.

  ‘What about Dave?’ Debs asked. ‘How do you feel about him?’

  I knew she was being careful not to diss him right away in case I was forgiving him. Saying horrible things about him now might turn out to be awkward later.

  I told her that I didn’t know how I felt about Dave and I didn’t know what I was going to do, but that Julie Halpin was indeed a bitch.

  ‘Generally speaking, Dave’s a good man.’ Debs echoed what I think, what Mum thinks, what everyone thinks. ‘You don’t want to be too hasty even if he behaved like a total dick. You’ve got him where you want him now,’ she added. ‘Make him pay.’

  I’ve been thinking that way too, of course. The only problem is, making him pay is making me and the kids pay too.

  Debs’s husband, Mick, walks into the kitchen and says hello. He warns us not to do anything he wouldn’t when we go out, and Debs makes a face at him and jokes that he’s leaving us with a long list of things we could do. Mick laughs and says he knows what ‘you girls’ are like when we get together, and then he leaves us to it.

  Debs asks about Dave again and I say that I really haven’t got it in me to talk about him and can we forget about it for tonight? And Debs, because she’s been my friend forever, doesn’t get annoyed with me but simply gives me a hug and says, ‘Of course.’

  The club is already buzzing by the time we get there. The event is a fashion show followed by karaoke. Debs asked if I’d like to model in the fashion show because I’d done it once before. But in my current state, there isn’t a chance I could stand up in front of people and sashay down a catwalk. Besides, back then I was younger and prettier and I hadn’t got a wad of comfort-eating fat on my stomach.

  There are about thirty tables arranged around the room. Debs leads me over to the one she has reserved for us. Michelle and Alison are already there, along with Rachel, another old school friend. It’s a relief to be with people I’ve known most of my life. The girls have been sending me suppor
tive messages ever since they found out about Dave’s big mistake.

  ‘Roxy! How’s it going?’ Michelle gets up and gives me a hug. Which is a signal for hugs all round.

  When we sit down, I say that it’s going well and ask about everyone else. I want them to be talking about themselves and not about me.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ says Michelle. ‘Darragh is like a cat on a hot tin roof over his Leaving Cert. Honestly, school exams were the pits when we were there and they’re still the pits now.’

  We all nod.

  ‘He’s hoping to get enough points for engineering,’ she continues. ‘He’s actually really bright, but the competition is fierce and I’m worried that if he doesn’t get what he wants, it’ll totally knock his confidence.’

  We make supportive comments. Michelle is the only one of us with a child old enough to be leaving school. She’s a single mum – Darragh’s dad didn’t want to know back in the day, when he and Michelle were both nineteen. But Michelle never dissed Brendan in front of Darragh, and father and son have a reasonable relationship now. Brendan is married with two kids of his own. Michelle and Darragh live with Michelle’s parents. Her mother is good friends with mine. Both of them strong women looking after daughters who picked the wrong men.

  Rachel is also dealing with exam fever this year, as her daughter, Avery, is sitting her Junior Cert. She and Michelle share exam talk, while Debs, Alison and I chat about summer holidays. Alison, the only one of our group who doesn’t have children (like me, Debs has a boy and a girl), has just come back from two weeks in Majorca.

  ‘Puerto Pollensa,’ she says. ‘It was lovely. Brilliant weather, and the hotel was fabulous.’

  Dave and I went to Majorca with Dave’s brother and his wife a few years ago and had a great time. But money has been a bit tight recently, so we decided we’d be better off staying at home. Last year we rented a house in Cork. It rained the whole time. I’d love to go on a cheap sun package somewhere. Preferably by myself. But that’s not going to happen.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ asks Alison during a pause in the conversation.

  ‘Doing OK,’ I reply. ‘It’s hard, of course.’

  ‘Selina is a strong woman.’ Alison echoes my own thoughts. ‘She was great when we were kids. Holding down two jobs and looking after all of you too.’

  Back then, Mum worked in the local convenience store in the mornings and in a dental practice two afternoons a week. Later, she got a job as a part-time admin assistant in one of the local businesses. She gave it up when Dad became ill, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to get something else, even part-time. She doesn’t like sitting around doing nothing.

  ‘Your mum worked too,’ I remind Alison.

  ‘Being a hairdresser is different,’ Alison says. ‘She could set her own schedule because she worked for herself and because she went to people’s houses rather than having a salon.’

  ‘All mothers are wonderful,’ says Debs as she gets up to go to the bar. ‘Each one of us included. Except you, Alison, and I don’t know if that makes you the luckiest one among us or a sad wretch.’ She grins to show it’s a joke. ‘What can I get everyone?’

  She’s scathing when I ask for sparkling water but she doesn’t try to force me. To be honest, I’ve got a bit of a headache already from the vodka. I wonder if I’m turning into someone who simply can’t handle alcohol at all. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing. But I do like a glass of wine with a meal, or sometimes sitting in front of the TV at night. I don’t think I could give it up completely.

  As Debs arrives back with the drinks, Callum Phelan, the football club president, gets up and welcomes everyone. Then Tash, his wife, who’s the chairperson of the committee, gets the fashion-show part of the proceedings under way. The clothes are all from local stores and the models are members of the committee and their friends. It’s nice to see normal-sized women modelling clothes. You get a much better idea of how they’d look on an average body. There are some lovely outfits and I tell myself that, as I’m not entirely opposed to treating myself, I’ll have a day at the shops sometime soon. I haven’t bought anything new in ages. The last thing was the floral summer dress I left behind.

  We applaud wildly as the girls strut their stuff. I remember the thrill I got the year I did it. I was very nervous at the start, but when I stepped onto the catwalk, the energy in the room jolted me into action and I pranced and posed as though I was Kate Moss herself.

  When we got home afterwards, Dave practically ripped the clothes off my body. He said he’d been totally turned on by seeing me up there looking so great, and knowing I was his. It was good sex. Sex with Dave has always been good.

  The fashion show goes on for half an hour and then the karaoke starts.

  ‘I’m putting our names in,’ says Debs.

  ‘No,’ I protest. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘We always sing,’ Debs says. ‘You can’t not.’

  ‘I’m usually half pissed when we do,’ I point out.

  ‘We can remedy that.’

  ‘Honestly, no,’ I say.

  ‘I’m still putting our names in.’ She grabs a pen and a slip of paper from the bundle left on our table earlier.

  I say nothing. I’m not going to argue with her. Though I won’t get up when we’re called.

  But when Tommy Clarke, the guy running the karaoke, announces our names and Debs grabs me by the hand, I can’t help following her. There’s a huge round of applause and the music starts. Our routine – like our friendship – dates back to our school days, when we were the leading lights in a production of Grease . I’m not the best singer in the world, but I was the best of a very mediocre bunch in our year. And with my blonde hair and peaches-and-cream complexion, I was always going to have a chance as Sandy. Frank Phelan, one of the male students, was Danny. Debs played the role of Rizzo.

  For our duet tonight, though, she’s Danny and we do ‘You’re the One That I Want’. I lose myself in the singing, becoming Sandy as I did back when I was sixteen. My curly hair and short skirt, if not exactly right for the musical, feel right for the song. The audience is clapping and whooping and I feel suddenly carefree and young again. Naturally they demand an encore, and many of them already know what it will be, because Debs and I only do two songs. The second is ‘Islands in the Stream’, which was a favourite of Dad’s.

  We’re on the last verse and giving it total welly when I see someone move in the audience. And then my throat completely dries up, leaving Debs to sing on her own. She’s looking at me in utter confusion, but I’m not able to say anything. Because it’s Dave who’s at the back of the hall, leaning against the wall, watching me.

  And I’m back in my own skin again.

  Chapter 7

  Debs finishes the song and there’s more applause as I drag her from the stage and back towards our table.

  ‘Did you know he’d be here?’ I hiss.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dave?’ I nod my head in his direction and she glances across the room.

  ‘God, no,’ she says. ‘But it’s a fund-raiser for the football club, so . . .’

  ‘He hasn’t been to a fund-raiser since the year I did the modelling,’ I remind her.

  She looks a bit sheepish.

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘He asked about it,’ she confesses. ‘Not me,’ she adds quickly. ‘But he was talking to Belinda Danaher in St Anne’s Park the other day and she mentioned it to him. I bumped into her in the supermarket and she told me. I didn’t say anything to you because I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I didn’t actually think he would, to be honest.’

  Belinda is yet another of my old schoolmates. She’s also on the fund-raising committee, and a gossipy wagon. I bet she was delighted at the opportunity to find out what was going on between me and Dave.

  ‘Did she tell him I’d be here?’ I ask, slightly miffed that Debs didn’t give me a heads-up.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replies Debs. ‘But, well, yo
u know Belinda.’

  I do. We were never friends. She didn’t like me when we were younger and I don’t think things have changed over the past twenty years. There are times I wish Dave and I had stayed in London, away from everyone.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter,’ says Debs. ‘You’re here for a good time tonight. Ignore him.’

  Of course it matters. How can I have a good time when my cheating husband is in the same room as me? How can I ignore him? I bet nobody else is!

  We reach our table and I sit down.

  ‘Great singing,’ says Alison. ‘Even if you gave up there at the end, Roxy. Same again?’ She nods at the drinks.

  We all say yes and she asks if I’d like something other than sparkling water. But although I’m absolutely gumming for another vodka, I stick with the Ballygowan. I want to keep a clear head.

  I’ve lost sight of Dave in the crowd of people. A man I don’t know is singing Johnny Cash, and he’s not bad. In other circumstances I’d be enjoying myself. But all I can think about is Dave. And all I can see in my head is him and Julie. Again and again and again.

  Is there something wrong with me? I wonder. Lots of women go through problems in their marriage, but do they obsess like I am right now? Do they have palpitations (and not in a good way) every time they think about their husband? Do they endlessly replay events in their heads? Am I being ridiculous, making a mountain out of a molehill? Not that Julie’s arse was a molehill, of course. But still . . .

  The Johnny Cash singer finishes and Tommy Clarke announces the next.

  ‘Eeeeeelvis Presleeeeey!’

  It’s Dave who walks on stage. He takes the mike and the music starts.

  Dave’s a good singer, but we’ve never sung karaoke together. I always sing with Debs. And he likes to perform on his own. He has his favourite and I know what it is. He’s singing it now and walking along the catwalk, which is still in place, until he’s close to our table.

  He hunkers down, as Elvis used to do, and leans towards me as he changes the words of the song.