Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘ I will always . . . be madly in love . . . with you .’

  He’s looking straight into my eyes, and I want to look away but I can’t. I’m staring at him and remembering all the good times.

  ‘ Take my hand ,’ he sings, and reaches out to me.

  It would be a nice thing to do. Maybe it would be the right thing to do. But I can’t.

  ‘Ah, go on!’ Michelle gives me a little push.

  I shake my head wordlessly.

  Dave touches the side of my face and then stands up.

  ‘Shy lady,’ he says, and then continues with the song.

  I’m mortified. My heart is thumping and I can feel my cheeks burning. Why did he have to do that? He’s embarrassed both of us in front of everybody. As if he hadn’t embarrassed us enough already. I get up from the table and make my way to the ladies’, where I lock myself in a cubicle until I feel my hammering heartbeat return to something near normal.

  I wonder what people are thinking. Maybe that I’m an unfeeling, unforgiving bitch because Dave has put himself out there for me and I’ve let him down in front of everyone. But he let me down too, didn’t he? So why should I feel like I have to forgive him just because he’s trying to make up to me in public?

  I open the cubicle door at the same time as Debs walks into the ladies’.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘I honestly didn’t think he’d do that,’ she says. ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come on back inside, have a drink,’ she says.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll head home. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Stay here with the girls. Have a good night. I’ll give you a shout next week.’

  ‘Ah, Roxy, no. I’ll go if you’re going.’

  ‘That’d make me feel bad.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She hesitates, then gives me a hug. ‘Take care.’

  ‘You too.’

  I leave the ladies’ and step outside. It’s still not completely dark, but even though the air is warm, I pull my jacket more tightly around me. I’ve just walked through the gates of the community centre complex when I hear my name.

  ‘Roxy! Wait up.’

  I think about ignoring him and continuing on my way, but I stop and turn around.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Dave.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Home where?’

  ‘Home to my mother’s.’

  ‘That’s not your home. Beechgrove Park is your home.’

  ‘Is that why you brought another woman into it?’ Even as I say the words, they sound melodramatic. My life has never been melodramatic before. There have been tough times, of course, but it’s been normal. For the last few weeks, though, I’ve felt like I’m living on Coronation Street.

  ‘Look, sweetheart, we have to sit down and talk.’ Dave is using his most reasonable voice. ‘I know I’ve done something awful and you can’t imagine how sorry I am, even though I’ve told you at least a million times. But things can’t go on like this. I tried to make it up to you tonight and you let me down.’

  ‘I let you down!’ My voice is a squeak. ‘I’m not the one who . . . who . . .’

  ‘I’m trying to show you how much I love you,’ he says. ‘I was prepared to make an arse of myself in front of everyone to prove it to you. I did make an arse of myself in front of everyone! Please come home.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because I love you. I’ve always loved you and I always will.’

  ‘Funny way you have of showing it.’

  I obviously don’t sound as bitter as I feel, because he gives me a small smile and takes my hand before I have a chance to react. And I don’t pull away because I know he’s sorry and wants to make things right again. Part of me wants to let him. Dave is my husband and he made a mistake, but being married is all about knowing that mistakes can be made and forgiving them. And trusting that the other person won’t do the same thing again. But I trusted him not to make that particular mistake in the first place. Can I trust him not to repeat it?

  ‘I’m still angry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not ready to come home yet.’

  ‘But you will be?’ He squeezes my hand.

  ‘I . . . You really hurt me, Dave.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t.’ He sighs. ‘She wasn’t even that good.’

  ‘She was on top,’ I say. ‘You never like it when I want to be on top.’

  ‘That was just . . . Look, it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is it shouldn’t have happened and I made an eejit of myself and risked everything and I’m really sorry.’

  His remorse is genuine. I should forgive him here and now. I’d want him to forgive me, wouldn’t I? But then I’d never have slept with someone else in our bed.

  ‘I need a bit more time.’ It’s the best I can do right now.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe.’

  ‘A few weeks!’ He looks horrified. ‘You’ve already had a few weeks.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing,’ I say. ‘You know, a bit of time apart. So that we can get our heads together.’

  ‘My head is perfectly fine,’ he says.

  ‘Mine isn’t,’ I tell him. ‘What with Dad and everything.’

  ‘Of course.’ His voice softens and he releases my hand before putting his arm around me. Once again, I don’t pull away, even though I tell myself I should. ‘Christy’s passing has made you much more vulnerable than you would have been.’

  Has he been reading self-help books? I wonder. Or googling the same sites as me? I’ve never heard him use the words ‘passing’ or ‘vulnerable’ before. Unless he’s talking about Arsenal’s defence.

  ‘I need to go,’ I say. ‘Mum will be expecting me.’

  ‘Not for ages,’ says Dave. ‘Come home with me now. If you don’t want to spend the night, you don’t have to. But I miss you so much. I want to make it up to you, Roxy.’

  I miss him too. And there’s something warm and comforting about the familiar feel of his arm around me and the musky scent of his body. But nothing he can do right now will make it up to me.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Roxy . . .’

  ‘Honestly, I’ll think about everything. I’ll talk to you soon. But tonight – no.’

  I can feel the tension surge through him and see a flash of anger in his eyes before he shrugs and then squeezes my shoulder.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a bit more time. But you’ve got to understand that this thing with Julie Halpin meant nothing to me. It was stupid and wrong but it’s irrelevant to our lives. We can get past it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I always have and I always will. You know that, Roxy. You know you know it.’

  I give him a small smile. But I don’t tell him I love him back.

  ‘I’ll call tomorrow for the kids.’

  He’s being a responsible dad. He took them last Saturday too and kept them overnight at Beechgrove Park. He’s doing everything he should do to make things right. And yet my heart still feels like a block of ice.

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ I say.

  ‘Do you want to share a taxi?’ He takes out his phone and opens the app.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a short walk for me.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Dave . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you home for ages.’ Mum snaps her iPad closed when I walk into the living room.

  It’s eleven o’clock. Which isn’t that early.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ I tell her.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  She knows everything isn’t OK. She w
ants me to confide in her. But I don’t want to have the discussion again.

  ‘I’m out of practice,’ I say. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Would you like something first?’ she asks. ‘A nightcap? Or a hot chocolate?’

  I smile at her. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine. Honestly. Just tired.’

  ‘You can sleep on in the morning,’ she says.

  ‘I know. I’m looking forward to a lie-in.’

  ‘I’ll do a fry-up for breakfast.’

  Fry-ups for breakfast in the Carpenter/McMenamin family are generally restricted to big occasions. Like Christmas or Easter or St Patrick’s Day.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I say.

  ‘You do look tired.’ Mum gives me a once-over. ‘I know you’re under stress and—’

  ‘Not talking about it,’ I insist. ‘It’ll only keep me awake.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So . . . goodnight, Mum.’

  ‘Night-night, sleep tight . . .’

  ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ I finish.

  We both laugh. Living with Mum is better than I expected. But I can’t use her as a prop for my own life. I need to move on. Or back.

  When my alarm goes off the next morning, I’m completely bewildered because I didn’t set it. I blink a few times and see sunlight peeking through the chink in the curtains. The alarm keeps buzzing, and I realise it isn’t the alarm at all, but an incoming call.

  The caller ID says ‘Lehane’, and I have no idea who Lehane is and why he or she is ringing me at . . . six in the morning! Six o’clock on a Saturday? What the actual . . .

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hi, is that Roxy McMenamin? The driver?’

  ‘Yes.’ I rub my sleep-encrusted eyes.

  ‘This is Ivo Lehane.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You drove me to Kildare yesterday.’

  Ivo Lehane. The suit. I remember now.

  ‘Mr Lehane.’ I try to sound professional, but I truly think I’m entitled to be a bit ratty at six a.m. on a Saturday. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You said to call if I needed your services again,’ he said. ‘And I do.’

  ‘I . . . Right. When?’

  ‘Now,’ says Ivo Lehane.

  I don’t answer for a moment because I’m still in a post-sleep confusion.

  ‘You mean, you want me to drive to Kildare and pick you up now?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I realise it’s short notice and that it’s a Saturday. Of course I’ll compensate you. I’ll pay double the standard rate.’

  I’m awake now. Double money for driving to Kildare early on a Saturday when there won’t be any traffic sounds like a good deal to me.

  ‘Where do you need to go?’ I ask.

  ‘The airport,’ he says.

  Of course it’s the airport. He probably has some urgent suit-type business that needs his immediate attention even though it’s the weekend.

  ‘It’ll be an hour or so before I get to you,’ I say.

  ‘I understand. I’ll be ready and waiting.’

  I suppose that’s how all businessmen work. No messing around.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I end the call and get up. After a quick shower, I dress in my work clothes and tiptoe downstairs. I’m leaving a note on the table for Mum when she comes into the kitchen in her PJs, carrying her iPad.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asks.

  ‘A job.’

  ‘At this hour? On a Saturday?’

  I explain about Ivo Lehane and she shrugs and says it’s good to have those kinds of clients even if they are a bit demanding, and I agree and make myself some coffee, which I then pour into my thermos mug.

  ‘No hot water and lemon this morning?’ she asks as I cram a breakfast bar into my mouth.

  ‘No. Maybe you’d like to share your Ryvitas?’

  She makes a face at me and I make one at her in return. Then she kisses me on the cheek and I leave the house.

  I get into the car. Before I start the engine, I take a quick peek at Dad’s memorial card.

  He was a good man.

  I wish I’d married someone like him.

  Chapter 8

  As I set cruise control to about five kilometres below the limit and revel in the comfort and power of the Mercedes, it comes as a bit of a shock to realise that I’m actually quite liking this part of my life. Obviously my heart is still broken and I’m in turmoil about my marriage, but driving people is something I enjoy. I liked it when I did it for Dad, and doing it for myself is . . . well, I don’t know if empowering is the word, but it’s making me happy. I don’t always get to know the clients, but I like the variety of people I drive. Those I talk to – like Thea Ryan – are usually fun and interesting. But even those who sit in silence still allow me a glimpse into a different world. I can’t help thinking that over the last ten years or so my own world has got smaller and smaller. It’s all about Dave and the children and doing what’s best for them. And it’s not that I’ve entirely forgotten about me, but I’ve certainly forgotten what it’s like to go to work and not think about home.

  Determined to make the most of my solitude, I switch on the car radio and hit one of the preset buttons. If easy listening is my preferred music for the city, country music is my choice for the motorway. The station is playing Dolly Parton. I love Dolly. She’s smart and sassy and has never taken any crap from anyone. I wonder what she’d have done if she’d walked in on her husband with another woman. Whatever it was, it’d be final. She wouldn’t keep second-guessing herself.

  What would Dolly do? That should be my mantra. I laugh at myself, but it sticks with me as she sings that this dumb blonde ain’t nobody’s fool. Does Dave take me for a fool? Would I be a fool to forgive him? Or a fool not to?

  I realise that despite my determination not to think about him, I am. Like the country singers who pore over their broken hearts, I can’t stop myself.

  The phone rings.

  ‘Is that Roxy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Ivo Lehane. Can you pick me up at a different location?’ he asks.

  ‘No problem. Where would you like?’ I make a face. I don’t know Kildare very well, and I’d put Banville Terrace into the satnav.

  ‘The Monasterevin Road,’ he says. ‘Opposite Tesco.’

  It’s always good to have a decent landmark. I tell him I’m about twenty minutes away and I’ll see him soon.

  Luckily, there’s a sign for Tesco, which makes things easy. I turn onto the road and see him standing there, his leather case in his hand. I pull in, but before I have time to stop the engine and get out of the car to open the door for him, Ivo Lehane has already got into the back seat and dropped the case on the floor.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I mean, are you belted in?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Thanks.’

  I pull away and turn back towards the motorway.

  I have to admit that I’m intrigued by the whole Ivo Lehane scenario. The trip to Banville Terrace. The crack-of-dawn phone call to be picked up again. The hint of anger in the way he dropped his case. I’m dying to know what the hell it’s all about, but of course I can’t ask. I wish he was a talker like Thea Ryan. She’d definitely tell me.

  But he’s not and he doesn’t. He sits back in the seat and looks out of the side window as though the chequered green of the passing countryside is of great interest to him. Traffic is a little heavier now, but still nothing worth speaking of, and we get to the airport in just over an hour.

  ‘Which terminal?’ I ask as I turn off the roundabout.

  ‘Two,’ he says.

  I pull up outside the building and this time manage to get out of the car before him, although I don’t get to open his door.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Um,
do you take credit cards?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dad was totally up to speed on IT. He’d asked one of my brother Aidan’s mates to sort it for him. Christy’s Chauffeurs even has an app.

  ‘I said I’d pay double,’ says Ivo. ‘Thank you for coming to get me at such an early hour.’

  ‘No problem.’ I smile at him. ‘All part of the service.’

  He pays the fee and then takes out his wallet and extracts another fifty euro.

  ‘You tipped me yesterday, remember?’

  ‘That was for yesterday. This is for today.’

  Given that he’s already paid so much, I can’t possibly take another significant tip, and I tell him so.

  ‘It’s worth it,’ he insists. ‘You’re great. No chatter.’

  ‘I can chat,’ I tell him. ‘But only if the client wants it. Anyway, this is my job and you’ve already paid double, so I have to insist you keep the cash.’

  He smiles, and suddenly he’s a different person.

  ‘Maybe one day I’ll order your car and chat,’ he says as he replaces the note in his wallet. ‘But in the meantime, the silence was golden. I may be back again. Can I book you in advance if so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I use the old-fashioned method of giving him a business card, which he tucks into his wallet along with the tip.

  ‘Thanks again,’ he says.

  ‘Have a good day.’ I get back into the car and drive away. When I look in my rear-view mirror, he’s gone.

  Tom and Mica are still in their pyjamas when I get back to Mum’s. They’re sitting on the floor of the conservatory playing a game that they’re making up as they go along, but when I walk in, they jump up and hug me. I hug them back, secure in my unconditional love for them. And theirs for me.

  Mum – who has always shown me unconditional love, even in my tearaway teenage years – asks if I’d like a coffee, and I say yes. I really must cut down on my caffeine intake. But as the aroma of the fresh brew drifts towards me, I know it won’t be any time soon.

  Mum brings the coffee to me, along with a Danish pastry wrapped in a paper napkin.

  ‘I forgot I bought these yesterday,’ she said. ‘Have it while it’s still sort of fresh.’