Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I go into the living room and call my husband. He doesn’t answer. I wonder if he’s the one punishing me now. Have our lives become a series of mini battles? I left him. He’s leaving me. Does he want me to beg him not to?

  While I wait for him to call or message me, I sign up for Instagram. Then I upload the photos I took today to my new account. I’m quite proud of how they look. I switch to Leona’s page and there I am in her selfie, in one of the best pictures ever taken of me, with a comment below saying that I was a brilliant driver and an inspiration, along with #girlpower #ladydriver #inspiring . Obviously that’s poetic licence, because I’m not an inspiration to anyone, but it’s nice to see all the same. I like the photo and follow her straight away. Almost immediately she becomes my own first follower, and then she tags me in her photo and next thing I know another ten people have followed me too. It’s actually quite exciting, though I worry that I won’t have enough great pictures to keep followers of Leona Lynch interested. Still, it’s a new part of my business empire!

  I glance at my phone again. No missed calls from Dave. No messages.

  If he’s changed his mind about us, if he doesn’t want me back, what am I going to do? Not just about my domestic life, but about the business too. How will I cope? Living with Mum has been easy – we never argue, she’s always there as a backup and a support for me, as I try to be for her. I never have to ask her to do anything. She does it automatically. But the big difference to living at Beechgrove Park is the way she simply assumes that whatever I do is necessary and important. She’s worked her timetable around me. Not that there was much timetable for her to have to worry about in the early days after Dad died, but she still continually put me ahead of herself. I know mothers do stuff like that – I do too – but it’s lovely all the same. Managing on my own would be very different. Despite having spent the last few weeks thinking about it, now that it could be a possibility, the thought terrifies me.

  I can’t be a working mum. It’s too much hassle. And yet, as I look at the likes accumulating on my Instagram post, I feel a sense of pride in what I’m doing. I’ve found a part of me that I don’t want to let go. Not yet, anyhow. Besides, I have a busy week ahead because a multinational corporation has retained me exclusively to ferry some visiting businessmen to various meetings and conferences around town. I was pretty chuffed to get the booking. It was good that the company considered me a suitable ambassador for our country, which, as one of the first people they’ll meet, I am. Dad used to say that a lot. That when he picked up people from abroad, he might be the first Irish person they ever met. He always wanted to give them a good impression, and I want to do that too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Mum as she walks into the room with her crochet hook and a ball of purple wool.

  ‘Oh, work stuff. Look.’ I open Instagram.

  ‘They’re great,’ she says as she studies the photos. ‘Very professional-looking. Will you keep doing it when – if – you go back to Dave?

  I don’t tell her about Dave’s job in Wexford. It’s an added complication. But despite my doubts about being a working mum, I feel as though I’m making progress in my life, moving forward. A sense of resolve hardens within me. I can do this, no matter what. So I tell her that it’s all up for discussion.

  She says nothing to that, but goes into the kitchen and makes us both a cup of tea.

  It’s late when Dave calls me back. I ask him about the Wexford job and how long he expects it to take.

  ‘Not sure,’ he says. ‘It’s a big hotel and we’re lucky to get the business. Jimmy Corcoran’s family have a holiday house nearby, so that’s where we’ll stay. I reckon it’ll be three weeks at least. It’ll be nice to be out of Dublin, near the sea, in the height of summer. Good for relaxing after work.’

  ‘Are you planning to come back at all?’ I ask.

  ‘Is there anything for me to come back to?’

  ‘Oh, Dave . . .’ I’m suddenly choked up. ‘Of course there is.’

  He’s silent.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realise where I should be.’

  ‘Does that mean you want to come home?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  Even as I say the word, I wonder how it is that I suddenly feel as though I’m the one in the wrong, as though I’ve been the person who needs to be forgiven.

  There’s silence at the other end of the phone again.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘You hurt me, Roxy,’ he says. ‘I understand I hurt you too, but walking out like that without giving me a chance . . . and at the fund-raiser, humiliating me when all I wanted was to show you how sorry I was . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘I have to do this job,’ he tells me. ‘We’re contracted now and it’s worth a lot of money. But,’ and suddenly his voice is cheerful, ‘I’ll come home at the weekends.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘So . . . are you planning on being back tonight?’ He sounds a little anxious.

  ‘I need to sort a few things out with Mum first,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t just up and leave. When are you heading off?’

  ‘Sunday afternoon. But I’m doing a lot of late nights this week to finish off the job we’re currently on. So maybe leave it till then, huh?’

  Suddenly he doesn’t want me back? Or is this part of the game? I’m so confused. I don’t know what either of us wants any more.

  ‘I’m glad you’re coming home.’ His voice softens. ‘It’s where you belong.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he says in return.

  Mum hugs me when I tell her, and Debs, who I arranged to meet that evening, says she’s happy if I’m happy. All the same, she asks if I’m a hundred per cent sure that going back is what I want to do.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘What Dave did was horrible, but he’s not a horrible person and he’s the father of my children. I’m giving him a pass because it was a one-off and a tricky situation, and . . . well . . .’

  ‘Would you?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘Would I what?’

  ‘Jump into bed with someone in a one-off tricky situation?’

  ‘I’ve never wanted to jump into bed with anyone but Dave,’ I say. ‘Neither would you. Jump into bed with anyone other than Mick, I mean. I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep with Dave.’

  She makes a so-so face at me, and for one chilling moment I think that she’s going to confess that she has. And I feel the bottom drop out of my world.

  ‘Of course I haven’t slept with anyone other than Mick,’ she says. ‘But I came very close once.’

  I listen in astonishment as she explains that it was on their holiday to France a couple of years ago. She and Mick had rented a place in Provence and went there with Mick’s sister, his sister-in-law and their respective families. I was totally envious at the time because it was a wet and woeful summer in Ireland and Debs messaged me pictures of the gorgeous farmhouse surrounded by lush vineyards and vast meadows of purple lavender. However, from Debs’s point of view, all of the gorgeousness was tempered by the fact that halfway through the stay she tripped and crocked her ankle. She was full of praise for the local doctor who strapped it up, but she had to spend a few days sitting under a sunshade in the farmhouse garden with her leg propped up on a wicker chair. She sent me lots of photos of that too.

  ‘The owner lived in a small cottage at the opposite end of the vineyard,’ she says now. ‘Whenever Mick and the rest went off and left me for a while – which was fine as I didn’t want them faffing around anyway – he was the one who brought me glasses of home-made lemonade. And wine from the vineyard, too. He was a fine thing, Roxy, typically tall, dark and smouldering.’

  She’s never said a word about him before.

  ‘Anyhow, on the third day, when they’d all headed to the beach or something, he came to make sure I was OK and brought a lovely little bowl of fruit along with the w
ine and two glasses. I felt like I was in some sort of arty-farty movie when he opened the bottle and sat down opposite me. His English was OK, but not great. And you know me, terrible at languages. Five years of it at school and I still can’t speak a word of French. Naturally there was a lot of gesturing going on because there wasn’t any funky music to do the talking.’

  I smile. ‘Can’t Speak French.’ The Girls Aloud song was one that we all loved back in the day, when Dave and I and Debs and Mick used to go out as couples. We did some very dirty dancing to it. I look at Debs, who’s lapsed into silence.

  ‘And?’ I demand.

  ‘And then he got up and stood behind me and started massaging my shoulders. It was fantastic, he really knew what he was doing. Then before I knew what was happening, his hand was down the front of my blouse, and I swear to God, Roxy, I nearly came there and then.’

  ‘Debs!’

  ‘He kissed me and he was going to carry me into the farmhouse, but I came to my senses and told him that I was a married woman and that I couldn’t. Which made him laugh. He said I was a married woman but my husband was off enjoying himself and I should enjoy myself too. It was very French.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No,’ says Debs. ‘I wasn’t going to cheat on Mick. But I guess what I’m saying is that sometimes it’s all about a sensation, and I know it would have been sensational and sometimes I regret not doing it with him.’

  I’m shocked. And I’m wondering if Dave thought it was sensational with Julie.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this when you got back?’ I ask Debs.

  ‘I tried to put it out of my mind,’ she admits. ‘I felt awful, both for letting what happened happen and for even thinking that it would’ve been great to take it further. Sometimes,’ she adds, ‘sometimes when I’m with Mick, I think about that guy and it’s always bloody amazing.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve never even looked at another man since Dave. If a complete stranger shoved his hand down my blouse, I certainly wouldn’t fantasise about him; I’d deck him.

  ‘It was the situation,’ Debs says. ‘The sun and the warmth and the wine and his accent. So damn sexy. Anyway, I kind of felt that what happened in Provence stayed in Provence even though nothing actually happened.’

  Dave doesn’t have the excuse of the warmth and the wine and the sultry French accent. He was at home. And Julie’s from Donaghmede, which is a ten-minute walk away. I feel myself suddenly tense up and second-guess my decision again. But I remind myself that I’m doing the right thing for me and my family.

  ‘All I’m saying is that you can get carried away,’ says Debs when I don’t say anything. ‘It doesn’t make you a serial cheater. I wasn’t proud of myself,’ she adds. ‘But for all of ten minutes it was magic.’

  My phone rings, which is a bit of a relief because I don’t know what to say. I understand getting carried away, I really do. But maybe I’m totally out of touch with reality to think that my marriage vows meant not ever being in a situation where I could get carried away. Even for ten minutes.

  I look at the caller ID and this time I know exactly who it is when I see the name Ivo Lehane.

  ‘Mr Lehane.’ I raise my voice slightly over the hubbub of conversation in the bar. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you available to drive me to Kildare tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘And pick me up on Saturday? And if so, would you be able to make it a standing arrangement for the next few weeks?’

  Now I have to make another decision. If I go home and Dave isn’t there, how can I carry on with my so-called business empire? And yet it’s been the thing that’s kept me going this last while. So how can I not? Especially now that I’ve set up the Instagram account and I have all these followers. I laugh at myself then. People I don’t know and who don’t know or care about me shouldn’t be influencing decisions about my future. I need to get a grip on reality.

  And yet the reality is that no matter how difficult I’ve told myself it might be, I can keep driving if I really want to. After all, if Dave comes home for the weekends, he’ll be around on Friday nights and Saturday mornings, which means he can keep an eye on the children. Besides, I like the idea that Ivo Lehane might be a regular client. He was very easy-going.

  I take a deep breath and tell Ivo that I’d be delighted to drive him, and ask if he wants to be collected from the Gibson again.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Directly from the airport.’ He gives me flight details and I ask if he wouldn’t mind texting them to me as well.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say when he agrees. ‘Thank you for choosing Christy’s Chauffeurs.’

  My business empire definitely needs a better name, though.

  ‘Are you going to keep on driving after you go back?’ Debs looks surprised.

  I talk her through my thought process. ‘I’ll be more selective with the clients,’ I add. ‘And with the times, too. But I need to work, Debs. I need to be me again.’

  ‘That’s how I felt in France,’ she says. ‘For those ten minutes I wasn’t Debs Moriarty, mother of two, chief bottle-washer and solver of problems. I was Debs McDonald and anything was possible.’

  I nod slowly. I understand what she’s saying. Because when I’m in the car (not that driving the Merc is anything like having sex with a French farm owner), I feel like I’m Roxy Carpenter again. And I too feel like anything is possible.

  We don’t say any more about her moment of passion in the sun. We talk about my plans and she doesn’t point out something that I’ve suddenly realised – that being selective about clients might not be profitable, even if one of them is paying way over the odds. But I don’t get into the financial side of things with her; I just repeat that I enjoy it.

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised given that it’s been all glam stuff for you lately,’ she remarks after she orders another round. ‘The Ryans, Gina Hayes, Leona Lynch. You’re living the high life.’

  ‘If only.’ I take some crisps from the open bag on the table. ‘I’m looking in at the high life; I’m not experiencing it myself. But that’s fine. They do their thing and I do mine.’

  ‘You really do like it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I admit. ‘Maybe Dave’s dalliance was a blessing in disguise. It’s meant I’ve had to do some thinking. And the net result is that although my family means everything to me, I’m going to be far more proactive about myself and what I want too.’

  ‘Way to go.’ Debs grins.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘I’m deadly serious. You’ve taken a bad moment in your life and turned it around.’

  ‘I kind of have,’ I agree. ‘And it would be nice to be successful as me. As Roxy Carpenter.’

  Debs looks at me speculatively. ‘Is one of your conditions of going back reverting to your maiden name?’

  ‘No.’ I look at her in horror. I like being Roxy McMenamin. ‘It’s that . . . well . . . you’re right about reclaiming yourself. When I was Roxy Carpenter, I only had to worry about me. Now I’m a whole heap of different Roxys with a whole heap of different worries and I’ve kind of lost sight of myself in all of them.’

  ‘No need to worry about the future, though.’ She raises her glass and clinks it against mine. ‘Everything’s right in your world again.’

  ‘Thankfully,’ I say as my phone pings with Ivo Lehane’s message and I save the flight details to my calendar.

  Chapter 11

  The children are pleased to hear that we’ll be going home. Mica looks relieved.

  ‘I was afraid we were staying here because you didn’t love Daddy as much as Granny,’ she confesses.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I pull her towards me and she allows me to hug her. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Because it’s been a bit weird,’ she says. ‘I know Granny is bereaved, but Dad is lonely without you.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Everything’s fine now.’ Then I explain that Dave has
to go away to work for a few weeks and she looks concerned.

  ‘But that’s cheating!’ she cries. ‘You have to both be home at the same time.’

  ‘We will be,’ I promise.

  There’s a scepticism in her look that makes my heart ache.

  ‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘You know Dad has worked away from home before.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she says. ‘I don’t like how things are different.’

  ‘They’ll be back to the way they were before you know it,’ I assure her.

  ‘Cross your heart?’

  I do.

  That seems to satisfy her.

  As my only job for the day is bringing Ivo Lehane to Kildare, and because he’s not arriving at the airport until that afternoon, I take the children to St Anne’s Park, where they exhaust themselves playing football with some of their friends. It’s boys against girls, which sounds unfair, but the girls have the advantage of being older and faster. They also have Shannon, the teammate Mica reckons is a dirty player. My daughter has a point, I think, as Shannon floors Tom with a late tackle, but he gets up and keeps going, only to have his shot blocked by Mica’s friend Emma, who whoops in delight. Mica then scores at the other end, much to the disgust of the boys.

  ‘She’s so like you it’s unreal,’ remarks Emma’s mum, Audrey, as the girls clap Mica on the back. ‘You were a demon on the pitch too.’

  I was. I was also a demon in other ways. I stayed out late, wore too much make-up, smoked cigarettes and occasionally sampled alcohol in the field surrounding the community centre. I did all these things because I didn’t want to be one of the nerdy, boring girls that nobody wanted to know. And yet, I think, as I watch Oladele send another ball into the goal while the boys look on in despair, I became friends with Alison King, who was studious and determined and who was seventeen years old before she even kissed a boy. So perhaps I could have been quiet and studious too if I’d really wanted to.

  ‘How are things with you?’ Audrey asks as the boys regroup for an attack. ‘Not that I want to pry or anything.’

  I tell her I’m fine and that I’ll be moving back to Beechgrove Park shortly. I see a flicker of surprise on her face.