‘I hope Selina will get on OK without you,’ she says.
I wonder if that’s the line the other women in the estate will take. That I was with my mum because of Dad’s death, not because I caught Dave with Julie Halpin. I’m kind of happy to allow that to be the story. So I tell her that Mum is doing well and that it’s time I came home, even as I know that I’ll be sorry to leave. We’ve been a good team, Mum and me.
Girl power.
There’s a roar of joy from the pitch, where the boys have pulled a goal back. Tom, who set it up, and Andrew, who scored, are celebrating wildly and then have to cut their celebration short to defend a fast break from Emma.
In the end, the girls win by five goals to three and everyone piles happily into the cars. Fortunately we’re in the Toyota, because their muddy gear makes it filthy within seconds. I toot goodbye to Audrey and then head home.
Mica and Tom run inside, where Mum doles out ice creams she bought earlier, and I go and transform myself from a dishevelled mother of two to a sleek, professional chauffeur.
‘You always look very smart like that,’ Mum says when I come into the kitchen to collect the car keys.
‘Thanks.’
‘Your dad would be proud of you. He was proud of you,’ she adds. ‘Like I am.’
‘Thanks,’ I say again, touched by the sincerity in her voice.
‘You’re a strong woman,’ she says. ‘Going back to Dave is a strength too, not a weakness.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of it as anything else,’ I say.
I give her a kiss, grab the keys, yell goodbye to the children and get into the Mercedes.
It’s such a pleasure to drive after the Toyota. Not that Cherry (as Tom named my car when I got it) isn’t a good one. But it’s a family car, and after today, it reeks of sweaty children and earthy mud. The Mercedes smells fresh and clean. I turn on my country hits mix and hit the road.
I get to the airport just as Ivo Lehane’s flight from Brussels lands, and see him before he spots me, tall and rangy as he strides across the hall, his dark hair neater than the last time I drove him. He’s looking altogether more groomed despite his still stubbly chin and the fact that this time he’s wearing a casual jacket over jeans. Still a touch of the Dr McDreamys, though!
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘You didn’t need the iPad. I remember you.’
I smile.
‘The only female,’ he adds.
People seem obsessed with the fact that I’m a woman chauffeur. But plenty of women drive taxis. I know. I’ve been driven by them myself.
‘There are others,’ I tell him.
‘I’d still recognise you.’
He’s chattier today, in a better mood and significantly warmer.
‘Next time you shouldn’t bother to come in,’ he remarks as we cross the road to the car park. ‘You can pick me up outside.’
Dublin airport is awful for pickups. There’s no decent area to wait and you have to time it with almost military precision. I say this to him.
‘Let’s play it by ear,’ he says.
We reach the car and I open the rear door for him. He seems quite unfazed by me doing this, which is nice. It means he regards me as a professional. Alison (who never did get a boyfriend while we were at school) works in a finance company and she occasionally has to take clients to dinner. Sometimes the waiter will place the bill in front of her male guest, even though Alison has asked for it and is paying. The client nearly always makes a joke about it, but she finds it very annoying. It’s odd, isn’t it, that women are supposed to be equal in so many ways and yet it’s those tiny moments that prove we’re not really. I once said this to Dave, and he asked, in a slightly offended tone, if I’d prefer that he didn’t hold doors open for me or let me go ahead of him when we’re getting on a bus, or if I’d like him to not bother being courteous at all. And I see his point. But it’s about the situation, isn’t it? Not the act itself.
Ivo Lehane has done what nearly everyone in the back seat does by now and has taken out his phone. We’re exiting onto the M50 when it buzzes with an incoming call and immediately he starts talking in French. It’s probably a boring business call, but it still sounds very sexy.
Then he switches to English.
‘Of course I’m sorry I can’t be there tonight,’ he says. ‘I wish it was different. But I made a promise.’
There’s a pause while he listens to the person at the other end.
‘It’s not choosing one over the other,’ he says. ‘I have obligations.’ His tone is conciliatory and not very businesslike. So perhaps it’s a personal call.
He switches back to French again and it’s softer and definitely more personal than before. But even if he was reading a shopping list, it would sound seductive. No wonder Debs was tempted by her French farmer.
I glance in the rear-view mirror.
Ivo’s not a hunky farmer, but he’s certainly one of my more attractive male clients.
I exhale slowly.
Maybe it’s fortunate there’s no funky music in the car.
It begins to rain as we arrive at Banville Terrace, and Ivo doesn’t wait for me to open the door for him. He hops out and tells me he’ll see me in the morning.
‘Here or near Tesco?’ I ask.
He hesitates for a moment and then says, ‘Tesco.’
‘You can send me a message if you change your mind,’ I say.
I drive away. In my rear-view mirror I can see him standing outside the house in the rain.
OK, he’s one of the most attractive clients I’ve ever had, and one of the most laid-back, but he’s also one of the weirdest – and there’ve been a few. All the same, like Dad said, what happens in the car stays in the car, so I put his eccentricities out of my mind and switch on the radio. I sing along to Dolly, Shania and Taylor all the way home.
Mum has sent out for pizza and it arrives at almost the same time as me. She brings the boxes into the kitchen (which now looks like a scene from Invasion of the Octopussies , as they seem to be on every available surface), then pours us both a glass of wine before we dig in. Tom and Mica squabble, as they always do, about who has the biggest slice, and who has the most chips, and whose turn it is to refill their mugs with water.
I suddenly feel bad for Dave, who is home alone while we’re behaving like one of those happy TV families where it’s nothing but laughter around the dinner table. I lick my fingers, take out my phone and call him.
It takes a while for him to answer, and when he does, I can hear clattery noises in the background and a sudden spurt of laughter.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘In the pub,’ he tells me. ‘With Jimmy. For one. It was a busy day.’
‘Oh. Right.’
I can’t begrudge him going to the pub. I can’t expect him to stay at home when there’s nothing there for him.
‘Is everything OK?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sure. I wondered . . . well . . . we’re all here having pizza and I thought that maybe you’d like to come over.’
‘Better not.’ His tone is regretful. ‘I’ve had a pint now.’
Dave wouldn’t even dream of driving once alcohol has passed his lips. My husband is a good man. A good father. I’ve been an idiot. I get up from the table and walk into the living room.
‘That’s a pity,’ I say. ‘I miss you.’
There’s silence at the other end.
‘Dave?’
‘I miss you too,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry now that I came out for the pint. Listen, why don’t you come here tonight? Just you and me, no kids.’
I think about it for a minute. I want to, and I’ve only drunk half a glass of wine. But I’m a professional driver and even a mouthful is too much. So I tell him I’ve been drinking too, and it’s out of the question. I can’t get a taxi because I need the car to pick up Ivo Lehane early in the morning, although I don’t say that to Dave. I don’t want him to think I’m putting work before him. So I tell him that I’ll see
him soon and I’m glad I’m coming home.
‘Me too,’ says Dave.
‘I’m sorry you’re going away.’
‘Can’t be helped.’ His voice is cheerier now. ‘But at least you’ll be there when I get back.’
‘Love you,’ I tell him.
‘Love you too,’ he says.
It’s good to be loved. It’s even better to love the person who loves you back.
It continues raining all night and is still raining when I wake up the next morning to collect Ivo Lehane. The house is quiet, and when I go downstairs, I see that, for once, Mum isn’t in the kitchen before me. I’m glad. She needs her sleep.
I pour coffee into my thermos cup and slip out as quietly as I can. The day is grey, the clouds low and the streets slick with water. The fields are no longer a bright emerald green but a darker, duller shade, and the leaves of the trees are weighed down by the deluge falling from the heavy grey skies.
I don’t get any messages from Ivo asking to change the meeting point, so I head to Tesco, which hasn’t opened yet. He’s there already, standing in the shelter of the building and holding his jacket to his face.
I pull up beside him, and yet again, he doesn’t wait for me to open the door but just gets in.
‘I hope you weren’t hanging around too long,’ I say.
‘Five minutes, that’s all.’
Why did he walk ten minutes in the rain to be picked up here instead of waiting at the house for me? What the hell is going on in his life?
‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here on a day like today,’ he says.
‘No problem.’
‘All the same, it’s very early and I’m sure you’d rather have stayed in bed.’
I glance in the rear-view mirror. He’s looking at me.
‘I’m one of those people who don’t mind getting up in the morning.’
It’s nearly true. Once I’m awake, I’m awake. So getting up isn’t a hardship.
‘Good,’ says Ivo.
There’s no seductive French conversation this morning as he takes out his phone and begins to tap. He only speaks as we approach the airport, and that’s to tell me he’s leaving from Terminal 1.
‘The first available flight to Paris was with Ryanair,’ he adds, as though that’s a burden.
Whenever I get a flight anywhere – which isn’t that often, obviously – I go Ryanair. I don’t think I’ve ever flown with anyone else.
‘ID, mobile, credit cards?’ I didn’t ask him my standard question before because I didn’t feel the need, but today I put it without thinking.
‘Yes,’ he replies. And then he swears.
‘Problem?’ I turn to look at him.
‘I’ve just realised I’ve done something very stupid,’ he says.
‘Oh?’
‘I bought Annabel perfume on the way over. At Charles de Gaulle. It’s one she’s been wanting for a while, a limited edition.’
Annabel must be the woman he was speaking to in French yesterday evening. I don’t see why buying her perfume is such a mistake. And then, suddenly, I do. The ban on carrying liquids in cabin baggage still hasn’t been completely lifted. People forget all the time.
‘Over a hundred millilitres?’ I ask.
‘Easily. The bottle is huge. It won’t fit in the stupid resealable bag.’
‘You could check your cabin bag in,’ I suggest. ‘Or they can take it from you at the door to the plane and put it in the hold.’
‘I don’t want to let it out of my sight.’
If it’s business papers or something, surely he could take them out.
‘My laptop is in it,’ he clarifies.
‘Can’t you carry the laptop separately?’ I ask, but he shakes his head.
‘I don’t have a bag for it.’
I’d carry it under my arm – or buy something else in the duty-free so that I get a plastic bag. But maybe Ivo Lehane is the sort of man who thinks carrying things in plastic bags is naff.
‘In that case, buy her another bottle in the duty-free and bring this one home next week in a checked bag,’ I suggest. ‘I can hold onto it till then. You can give it to her for a different occasion.’
He considers this for a moment, then nods slowly.
‘I doubt I can get the same perfume in Dublin,’ he says. ‘It was a limited edition. But if you don’t mind keeping this bottle for me until I can give it to her, that would be great.’
‘I’ll look after it,’ I assure him. ‘You could always buy her an atomiser on the plane, too. They’re about a hundred mils each, so she can decant some perfume into one and bring it onto a plane herself any time.’
He smiles suddenly. ‘I should’ve thought of that. Thanks.’
I wonder how he has such a high-powered job (because clearly he must do, given that he jets around the place the same way I take buses) and yet is so unaware of ways to make travel simple.
He takes the perfume out of his cabin bag and hands it to me. The box is enormous, as is the bottle itself, which is jade-green glass, shaped a little like an urn and gilded with gold. There’s a big green lid with a gold rim. It looks unbelievably decadent and beautiful.
‘I’ll keep it in the car,’ I say. ‘So that I won’t forget it.’
‘Thanks,’ he says again. ‘It’s very good of you.’
‘Hey, you’re a great client.’ I grin. ‘Why wouldn’t I look after you?’
‘Speaking of which.’ He takes out his credit card and gives it to me to scan. ‘See you next week,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you when I know whether I’m coming from Brussels or Paris.’
‘OK. Safe flight.’
And then he’s out of the car and striding towards the terminal.
I look at the bottle of perfume again and wonder how much it cost, before putting it carefully in the glove compartment, where it barely fits. I know I told Debs that I was only looking in on the high life. But for a nanosecond, I feel part of it.
Mum has arranged a celebratory lunch for all of us on Sunday (fortunately the weather has returned to being glorious, so we’re having a cold chicken salad, which doesn’t require much effort on her part).
To keep Mica and Tom amused until their dad arrives, I suggest baking a cake. I saw the recipe in the Gina Hayes book when I was leafing through it, and it was probably the simplest thing in there. Anyhow, this is a ‘healthy citrus cake’ and Mum has most of the ingredients in the cupboard already – though the flour is actually a month past its best-before date, which means she bought it years ago. I’m hoping that semi-skimmed milk is a good enough substitute for the soya milk Gina has specified, and that a squirt of Jif lemon will do instead of the zest of the actual fruit. I’ve lined up all the ingredients when the doorbell rings and Mica and Tom abandon the kitchen to greet their dad.
‘We’re coming home!’ Tom cries in excitement. ‘Is the trampoline OK?’
The trampoline was his Christmas present last year. He loves it.
‘It’s waiting for you,’ Dave assures him, as though Tom wasn’t on it only last week.
‘Will we jump together?’ asks Tom.
Dave shudders as he nods. I can’t help noticing that his eyes are bloodshot. I bet he had more than one in the pub last night. Not that I can complain. Mum and I polished off the red – although in our defence it was only a half-bottle that someone had brought to the house on the day of Dad’s funeral.
I make the cake on my own while Dave and the children have a kickabout in the back garden. Mum comes into the kitchen when the aroma of baking begins to waft through the house.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she says.
‘I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.’
‘Don’t be silly. It was a joy to have you and the children. But you need to get back to your husband and I need to get back into my groove.’
She tells me that the hospice where Dad spent his last days is looking for volunteers to read to the patients, and that she’s thinking of signing
up.
‘That sounds lovely,’ I tell her. ‘Won’t it be hard to go back there so soon, though? It would be for me.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. The staff were so wonderful that although it was a horrible time, I felt comforted by them. So I’d like to do something in return.’
‘And you’ve got your octopussies too.’ I grin.
‘I know. They’re fun to do. To tell you the truth,’ she adds, ‘it’d be nice to have a part-time job, but employers won’t look past my age.’
Even though she has fine lines around her eyes and lips, and even though there are a few more wrinkles than I know she’d like on her face, she’s still an attractive woman who could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. Before Dad became ill, I’d have put her at the younger end. Now, though, she’s showing the strain a bit more.
‘Anyone would be lucky to have you,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll stick with the crochet and the volunteering for a while.’ She leans back against the counter as I tidy away the debris from my cake-making. ‘And you’re right,’ she adds suddenly, which makes me look at her in confusion. ‘To want to keep driving,’ she clarifies. ‘I only realised how important it is to you when I said I’d like a job myself. Everyone needs to have something of their own. And if you need me to look after Tom and Mica any time, just say.’
My heart almost explodes with love for her, and I’m about to say something sentimental when the oven pings and I take the cake out. It hasn’t risen as much as the Gina Hayes one, and has a decidedly lopsided appearance.
‘I’m sure it’ll taste great anyhow.’ Mum eyes it critically.
I decide not to bother with the vegan frosting and put the free icing bag back in the cupboard.
‘We’re hopeless, the pair of us,’ I say. ‘Maybe we should do a proper cookery course together. I could learn more than spaghetti bolognese and chicken curry from a jar, and you could start whipping up fabulous meals for one.’
‘I probably should’ve done a course when you and Aidan were younger,’ admits Mum. ‘Now I have to be honest and say I quite like the variety of my M&S meals. If I had to buy all the ingredients to make them from scratch, I’d go mad. Besides, there’s always the Butler’s Pantry and Avoca if I want to push the boat out. All the same, I suppose I could try to be a little more adventurous on my own.’
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