Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I’m exiting the airport roundabout when a message pops up on the screen in front of me.

  Leaving terminal building now , it says. See you outside.

  I drive past the car park and slow down as I reach the drop-off point – which is where, perversely, I have to pick Ivo up. I scan the crowds for him and then spot him at the furthest possible distance. I pull in, and before I have time to get out of the car, he’s already in the passenger seat beside me.

  ‘Don’t want you to fall foul of the parking police,’ he says as he fastens his seat belt. ‘They’ve been shooing people away like nobody’s business.’

  ‘It’s daft,’ I remark. ‘There should be a proper short-term parking solution for pickups.’

  ‘Doubt it’ll happen. This is Ireland, after all.’

  I give him a slight smile and pull into the evening traffic.

  Although I’m not a fan of clients sitting in the passenger seat, I don’t feel crowded by Ivo Lehane, who has leaned slightly towards the door and is leaving plenty of space between us. Nevertheless, there’s an intimacy in having someone beside you that’s at odds with my professional desire to transport clients in ‘quiet luxury’ (which is what it says on Dad’s business cards). I don’t want to feel intimate with my clients. In fact I keep a small Mace spray in the pocket of the driver’s door in case any of them try to take the intimacy a bit too far. I’ve never had to use it, but it’s always best to be prepared.

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of it?’ Ivo puts the phone he’s been tapping into his suit pocket and stares at the traffic ahead.

  I glance at him and raise an eyebrow enquiringly.

  ‘This bumper-to-bumper stuff.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘But it’s not always like this. I love it when there’s an empty road ahead of me and I can put my foot down properly.’

  ‘You like driving fast?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘Um. Me. Possibly.’

  ‘You don’t like driving?’

  ‘It’s never been a thing for me,’ he says. ‘I don’t really need a car in Brussels.’

  ‘Have you been there long?’

  ‘Ten years,’ he replies.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s nice to be on mainland Europe. I get the train a lot, which I much prefer to flying.’

  ‘Less stressful,’ I remark.

  ‘Yes. And you get to see places you wouldn’t otherwise.’

  ‘Where do you go?’ If he wants to chat, I’ll chat.

  ‘Well, not very far in Belgium,’ he says. ‘But I go back and forward to Paris a lot. I lived there for a while too.’

  It sounds so romantic. Back and forward to Paris.

  I can’t speak French . . .

  ‘Amsterdam,’ he adds. ‘Frankfurt. Vienna. Berlin . . .’

  ‘I’ve never been to any of those places,’ I say. ‘Well, Paris, yes, for Disneyland.’

  ‘Disneyland hasn’t been on my list so far.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t imagine so.’

  I feel him glance at me.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you imagine I’d go to Disneyland?’

  ‘It’s for kids,’ I say. ‘And I didn’t think you were a family man. I’m sorry if I’m wrong.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re not wrong. I’m not married. I don’t have children.’

  But he has a girlfriend. Annabel, I remember. I picture her as a tall, willowy blonde. Dewy skin. Long legs. Sexy. High-maintenance.

  ‘My children loved Disneyland,’ I tell him. ‘They were positively sick with excitement when we went.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Two.’ I chuckle. ‘Though I always say three. One big kid – my husband, Dave. And then Mica and Tom. They’re eleven and seven.’

  ‘Do you go often?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ I ask. ‘Once. It was our holiday.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’

  ‘Which would you recommend?’ I ask.

  ‘Which what?’

  ‘City. For a city break. Paris, Vienna or Frankfurt?’

  ‘Did you see much of Paris when you were at Disneyland?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ I reply.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘Really beautiful. So that’s where you should go first.’

  There’s a romantic vibe about Paris, I think. It’s the city of love and passion. Not that you get either in Disneyland.

  ‘Do you go there a lot?’

  ‘Yes. It’s only an hour and a half from Brussels by train. Brussels is work. Paris is fun.’

  I didn’t know it was such a short journey. I suppose I think that everywhere on the Continent is a huge distance from everywhere else. I wish it was possible to drive to a different country. I love the idea of starting out from Dublin and ending up in Paris, or Rome, or Madrid, then getting out of the car and hearing different languages being spoken all around me, even if I don’t understand a single word.

  Quel dommage . Out of nowhere, the phrase comes to me: Mrs Behan, our French teacher in school, saying it after I’d got a terrible mark in my French exam. Quel dommage . What a pity. It’s certainly a pity I didn’t listen more in her classes.

  ‘What do you work at?’ I don’t usually ask that question. I don’t generally care.

  ‘I used to work for the EU,’ he says. ‘Then I got a job in the private sector.’

  I recall that when he’d been picked up by Eric, he was going to a conference on ethical business models.

  ‘A pharma company,’ he adds.

  ‘I thought you were some kind of banker.’

  ‘No. But I do ask them for money.’ His tone is matter-of-fact.

  Although our conversation is a little formal and stilted, it’s quite nice to talk to him. He’s very different to the usual type of suit I drive. There’s something very studied about him, as though he thinks before he speaks. But there’s an underlying warmth there too, and even though our lives are light years apart, I feel strangely at ease in his company.

  ‘Did you go straight into the EU after college?’ I ask.

  ‘More or less,’ he replies. ‘I liked it. It was interesting. Then this other opportunity came up and I took it.’

  ‘I worked in London,’ I said. ‘But I was homesick.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you ever get homesick?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says, and there’s a finality in his answer that means I stop talking and concentrate on the road ahead.

  We turn into Banville Terrace an hour and a half after leaving the airport. Apart from the bottleneck getting onto the N7, there’s a delay exiting the motorway too. And the traffic in Kildare is also heavy.

  ‘That’s great,’ he says as I bring the car to a stop.

  ‘What time would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Here? Or near Tesco?’

  ‘Near Tesco,’ he says.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘See you then.’

  He almost visibly straightens his shoulders. Then he takes a deep breath, picks up his bag and gets out of the car.

  By the time I get home, Dave is there too. He’s in the living room watching TV, with Mica and Tom stretched out on the floor at his feet. Mica is engrossed in her mobile phone, Tom is reading. My heart warms to see them.

  ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ I smile at him and he looks at his watch.

  ‘I thought you’d be back ages ago.’

  ‘Friday traffic,’ I say.

  ‘And you’re picking him up again in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, but early. I’ll be home all day.’ I flop onto the sofa beside him.

  ‘I was going to send out for food but decided to wait till you got back.’

  ‘I left you some chopped salad,’ I say.

  ‘I had that when I came in. But it’s hardly food, is it?’

  I glance at Mica and
Tom. I don’t want them thinking that salad isn’t food. But they’re not listening to us.

  ‘Takeaway?’ I ask.

  ‘Chicken curry,’ he says, straight away. ‘Boiled rice. Side portion of chips.’

  I pick up my phone and put in the order.

  Dave suggests an early night. I haven’t slept well since I came home. I still don’t feel as though I belong in my own bed. I can’t help thinking that Julie Halpin has been where I am. That she put her head on my pillow. That she wrapped my duvet around her shoulders. That she slept with my husband. I tell myself that to make this work, I have to put these thoughts out of my head.

  And as Dave pulls me close to him, I do.

  I wake, as expected, exactly ten minutes before the alarm is due to go off and mute it so that it doesn’t disturb Dave. I shower and get dressed as quietly as I can and leave the house.

  It’s raining.

  There’s a film of water on the roads but they’re almost deserted, so the drive is relatively stress-free. I think about calling Ivo and suggesting that I pick him up at Banville Terrace after all, because he’s going to get soaked on the ten-minute walk to our meeting point. But in the end I don’t. He’s the client. If he wants to change anything, he’ll call me.

  I arrive exactly on time, but there’s no sign of him. I wait in the car, watching the rain sluice down the windscreen, blurring everything outside. I sit in silence and wonder about my client and his weekly visits to Kildare and his other life that involves commuting between Brussels and Paris and travelling around Europe. Is he happy? Will he marry his French-speaking girlfriend? Will they live a life of luxury, flitting between Brussels and Paris and goodness knows where else? Will money insulate them from the kind of day-to-day problems that can chip away at relationships? Does being in a different country help?

  I wish I’d spent some time in France or Spain or Germany before heading to London with Dave. It would have been a great experience, although I know I’d have been hopeless at living on my own in another country. I wouldn’t have been able to learn the language, I wouldn’t have been able to make friends, and I would have missed my family too much. As I face up to these facts, I can’t help feeling that I haven’t done much with my life. It’s mundane in comparison to people like Ivo Lehane. And all my other clients, who are unfailingly proactive and decisive and dynamic. I’ve simply allowed myself to be carried along by events, reacting to them, doing things because they’ve become the default option.

  I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I almost don’t see Ivo hurrying down the road towards the car. I start the engine and drive towards him. He jumps in immediately I pull up at the kerb, once again leaving me no time to get out and open the passenger door.

  ‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ he says as he runs his hands through his damp hair. ‘Filthy day.’

  ‘I would’ve collected you at the house,’ I tell him. ‘Save you getting drenched like this.’

  ‘I prefer here.’

  Why? Obviously I don’t ask the question out loud, but why on earth would he prefer to walk ten minutes in the teeming rain instead of waiting in relative comfort for a car he’s paying a fortune to hire?

  ‘People are funny.’ I hear Dad’s voice in my head. ‘They do crazy things. At least, they do things that seem crazy. But we don’t know what’s going on in the background.’

  What’s going on in Ivo Lehane’s background? What brings him to Kildare every Friday evening? And what makes him so eager to leave every Saturday morning? I remember he mentioned an obligation when he was talking on his mobile. So it can only be family. But clearly it’s an obligation he doesn’t really want to fulfil. I can’t imagine that. The obligation, yes, of course – we all have family obligations. But wanting to rush away again so quickly? That’s almost inconceivable to me. My family is tight-knit. We look after each other. We put ourselves out for each other. That’s why I stayed with Mum while Dad was dying. That’s why I’m forgiving Dave. So what if it means my life is boring in comparison to other people’s? It’s still hard work. Being part of a family doesn’t come easy.

  ‘Terminal 2 today.’ In contrast to his chattiness of last night, Ivo has been quiet on the journey to the airport. I didn’t even ask him if he wanted music. We’ve done the entire drive in complete silence.

  I take the appropriate slip road to the terminal, and Ivo is just about to get out of the car when I remember.

  ‘The perfume!’ I exclaim. ‘I meant to give it to you yesterday.’

  And then I realise he hasn’t brought an extra bag for his computer.

  ‘I wasn’t at home, so I forgot,’ he admits. ‘And I didn’t get an atomiser either. They weren’t for sale on the plane.’

  I make no comment about the bag but suggest that he might be able to buy an atomiser in Boots.

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ he says. ‘In the meantime, do you mind hanging on to the bottle for another week?’

  ‘Not at all.’ It doesn’t matter to me, but I can’t help thinking that it’s a waste to have it sitting in my glove compartment when he has someone who wants it back home.

  ‘I bought her a necklace instead,’ he says. ‘It was probably more meaningful from her point of view.’

  ‘Was it a special occasion?’ I ask.

  ‘A birthday.’

  ‘Oh. And you’d bought her the perfume she wanted. So annoying!’

  ‘Wanted, not needed,’ says Ivo. ‘Besides, her gift was something else. The perfume was more of a . . . a stocking filler.’

  ‘Well, I hope she had a fantastic day anyway,’ I say.

  He says nothing and I start to think that maybe his girlfriend is even more high-maintenance than I first imagined and was annoyed when she didn’t get the perfume and took a strop for the night.

  ‘I didn’t make her actual birthday,’ he confesses. ‘That was Friday. So I missed the party.’

  ‘Was it a significant birthday?’ I ask.

  ‘Her thirtieth.’

  We hired the GAA hall for my thirtieth. There was a huge gang – all of my friends, Dave’s friends, joint friends, his family, my family . . . Aidan, my brother, paid for the band and Dave hired a karaoke machine. I was hung-over for two days. I blame the fact that it was shortly after Tom was born and my tolerance for alcohol was very low.

  ‘Where was the party?’ I ask.

  ‘She had a private room in a restaurant in Paris,’ replies Ivo. ‘She booked it last year. I was supposed to be free, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure it couldn’t be helped. Did you bring her somewhere nice to make up?’

  ‘The Plaza Athénée,’ he says.

  That means nothing to me, so all I say is that I’m sure it was fabulous and she enjoyed it immensely. I love being taken out to dinner. It’s great to have someone else do all the work.

  ‘I don’t think it made up for missing the day itself,’ confesses Ivo.

  Clearly his girlfriend – Annabel – is ultra high-maintenance. But why wouldn’t he have a high-maintenance girlfriend? A man who uses a chauffeur service is pretty high-maintenance too. I smile as I think this.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ This time my smile is professional. I don’t want him to think that I’m laughing at him or anything. Which I’m not. Obviously.

  ‘What would be your ideal birthday treat?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s always going out to dinner,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know that restaurant in Paris you’re talking about, but last year Dave brought me to Roly’s in Ballsbridge. It was brilliant.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ he asks. ‘Any other presents?’

  I grin. ‘My hair colour. He gets me a voucher for my favourite hairdresser.’

  ‘He knows what you want, I guess.’

  ‘Absolutely. I tell him in advance. Dinner. Then my hair or my nails or a facial. Some kind of treat. That’s all I want.’

  ‘
Easy to please,’ says Ivo.

  I suppose that’s the gulf between someone like him and someone like me. He moves in the kind of circles where you keep having to outdo yourself to please someone. And I move in those where not having to worry about cooking and washing up is the greatest treat life can give you. In all honesty, I might have the better deal.

  ‘Are you OK to pick me up next Friday?’ he asks. ‘Same flight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  He gets out of the car and closes the door. Then he opens it again.

  ‘Is there a Boots in Dublin airport?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘Thanks.’ He closes the door and I drive away into the rain.

  Chapter 14

  Dave and the children are having breakfast when I get back. There are three different boxes of cereal open on the kitchen table, and a mound of toast piled high on a plate between them all.

  I drop a kiss on Dave’s head, then go up and change out of my suit and blouse into a sweatshirt, a pair of capri pants and my navy Skechers.

  ‘Anything you want to do today?’ I ask.

  ‘Just chill,’ he says. ‘It was a busy week in Wexford.’

  ‘I know we had to be with Granny because of her bereavement.’ Mica stops shovelling Rice Krispies into her mouth to speak. ‘But I’ve missed you, Daddy.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you!’ He picks her up and whirls her over his head. Tom jumps up and demands to be whirled too. Next thing they’re all out in the back garden, bouncing on the trampoline, even though it’s still drizzling and the children aren’t even dressed yet. I watch from the kitchen window, my heart bursting with love.

  I text Mum to ask how she is and invite her to lunch tomorrow because I don’t want her to be on her own. She replies almost immediately saying that she’s great but refusing the lunch invitation because, she says, I need to have time with my own family. She’s right, of course, so I don’t insist. But I text Aidan and suggest he might have her over instead. Aidan lives with his wife, Kerry, and their two children in Dunboyne, which is about half an hour away. He was great at the time of Dad’s funeral, but he hasn’t been around much since, which isn’t entirely surprising given that I was with Mum myself. But now that I’ve moved home again, he’ll need to do a little more.