I suddenly think of Leona Lynch and wonder if she’d do a vlog about the octopussies. I don’t imagine many of her followers would crochet them, but their mums or grans might. I suggest this to Mum, who says she’ll talk to the group about it, and agrees that it would be nice to think that someone as young and well-known as Leona might get involved.
‘I really should take it up myself,’ I remark as I pour us both a cup of tea but don’t add any biscuits to the table. ‘It would be a far better use of my time than playing games on my iPad when I’m waiting for people.’
‘So how has the driving been going lately?’ asks Mum, who is very interested in all the stuff I learned at the workshop, and as a result has been more gung-ho about the business.
‘Better than I ever could have expected,’ I reply. ‘Dad had so many contacts, and all of them are really happy to give me work. Plus I’ve done stuff for one of the people I met at the Convention Centre. And I could get an exclusive contract for some kind of hi-tech manufacturing company in Leopardstown if I wanted, but that would mean only driving for them so I’d prefer not to.’
‘Wouldn’t that be better than what you’re doing now?’ she asks. ‘Wouldn’t it give you a degree of certainty and allow you to plan your time?’
‘I can plan it now.’ I give her a considered look as I think about next week and Ivo Lehane’s trip. ‘Is it imposing on you too much? Because we can make changes.’
‘I adore spending time with my grandchildren,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not a hardship, Roxy. All I care about is that you’re happy with what you’re doing.’
‘I am.’ I hug her and she hugs me in return.
‘Anyhow, what about you?’ I ask. ‘Any news on the dating front despite you not being on TV?’
She allows the topic to be changed and makes a face at my question. ‘I told you, I’m not looking to date someone, just a bit of companionship. It’s too soon to even think of anything else.’
‘Any news on the companionship front, then?’ I amend.
‘I did go out with someone,’ she admits.
‘Oh, who? One of the men I saw? Not the guy with the messy kitchen, I hope!’
‘Are you off your head? No!’ she exclaims. ‘This was an older gentleman who was specifically looking for an older lady. I bet he was swamped,’ she adds. ‘He didn’t respond to me for days after I messaged him.’
‘What was he like? Where did you go? Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘It was very posh,’ says Mum. ‘He brought me for afternoon tea in the Merrion.’
The Merrion is one of Dublin’s most luxurious hotels. It’s popular with American visitors, as well as with politicians from both Ireland and abroad. I’ve done quite a few pickups and drop-offs there.
‘Of course it’s ridiculously expensive for a few finger sandwiches and pastries,’ continues Mum. ‘But the setting is lovely and everything was very elegant.’
‘What’s the man’s name? What does he do? Are you seeing him again?’ I pepper her with more questions.
‘Diarmuid. He’s retired. Possibly.’ She ticks the answers off on her fingers.
‘How old is he?’ I ask.
‘Sixty-nine.’
‘A young fellah, so.’ I grin. ‘Ooh, Mum, this is exciting.’
‘Let’s see if I hear from him again,’ she says. ‘He probably has so many offers that he doesn’t need to drink at the same well twice. It’s no laughing matter,’ she adds when I chortle. ‘It’s a minefield out there.’
It would have been for me too, I think, if I hadn’t gone back to Dave. There are no adults without baggage. And it’s not that you don’t want people not to have lived, but the idea of adding their problems to your own is simply too daunting to consider. At least it would be for me. If I had to think about it. Which, fortunately, I don’t.
Chapter 20
As I suspected, Dave goes mental when I tell him about the Ivo Lehane job.
‘I told you I didn’t want you driving for that man any more!’ he cries. ‘Picking him up from the airport would be bad enough. But now you’re talking about spending the effing night with him. Are you out of your mind? D’you think I’m out of mine to allow it? What if he’s using you as a cover for one of his drug drops?’
‘First of all, I’m not spending the effing night with him, as you put it,’ I say. ‘I have to overnight, yes. But it’s hardly sleeping with the man. As for him being a drug dealer – get a grip, Dave.’
‘It’s you who needs to get a grip,’ he retorts. ‘How much of a fool d’you think I am? What’s going on between you and him?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ I say. ‘Other than he’s the best-paying client I’ve ever had.’
‘What type of client?’ Dave’s tone is pure acid. ‘Paying over the odds. Giving you bottles of perfume. Asking you to stay with him. I’m entitled to know what exactly it’s all about.’
I guess Ivo’s generosity could be misconstrued. But there’s nothing between us. Nothing at all.
‘I’ll explain it to you in a way you’ll understand, then, shall I?’ I ask. ‘You’ll never be in the same position I was and come home to find me in bed shagging him. Because Ivo and I have a business relationship. And because I’d never break your damn heart the way you broke mine.’
‘Every time I argue with you from now on you’re going to bring that up, aren’t you?’ Dave’s voice is quivering with anger. ‘No matter what it is. No matter what you’ve done. Nothing will ever be as bad as my single mistake.’
‘I don’t always bring it up,’ I say. ‘Only when you’re falsely accusing me of doing the same thing.’
‘You are not going to take this job,’ says Dave.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You’ll be sorry if you do.’
‘I’ll be sorrier if I don’t. And so will you. It’s easy money, Dave.’
‘Selling the car like your dad wanted would be a damn sight easier,’ he says. ‘And our lives would be exactly the way they were before, only better.’
‘I don’t want them to be exactly the way they were before!’ I retort. ‘In fact, mine is already a good deal better.’
‘Thanks for that,’ says Dave. ‘All the years, all the time I’ve put into doing my best for you and the kids, and you fling it back in my face.’
I’m chastened by the hurt in his voice. I can understand why he’s upset. But why can’t he understand me?
‘I’m telling you not to do this,’ Dave says. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
My chastened feelings have only lasted a minute.
‘You can’t tell me anything, Dave McMenamin. You can ask.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’
And he goes to the pub even though it’s Saturday afternoon and he’s supposed to be bringing Tom to his soccer match.
I know I should call Ivo Lehane and say I can’t drive him after all. But I don’t. After bringing Tom to his match and cheering him along from the sidelines, and then collecting Mica from her ballet class (it’s her second lesson, and although she wasn’t interested at first, she’s been unexpectedly seduced by the tutu!), I drop around to Mum’s.
The children go upstairs to have their showers while I sit in the living room and watch her crochet. But she knows there’s something wrong and she puts it to one side and asks. I take a deep breath and tell her about Ivo’s request.
‘Overnight!’ Mum’s eyes widen. ‘He’s paying for you to stay overnight!’
‘Now you sound like Dave,’ I say. ‘He’s paying for my accommodation. He’s not asking me to sleep with him.’
‘How do you know?’ she demands.
‘For heaven’s sake, he’s given me an itinerary.’ I take the printout of the Arklow–Tipperary–Cork–Shannon trip out of my bag and hand it to her. ‘There isn’t time for illicit sex.’
‘That means nothing,’ she says as she glances at it and then gives it back to me. ‘Honestly, Roxy, I can’t help thinking you’re being incredibly naïve.’
‘He has a girlfriend!’ I exclaim.
‘So what?’
‘Why are you so ready to believe this is some kind of dangerous liaison?’ I ask. ‘Why can’t you simply accept that it’s a brilliantly paid job?’
‘Because men are men,’ she says. ‘Even the good ones.’
‘Like Dave, you mean?’ I ask. ‘The good husband who slept with the neighbour? Or like Dad, who used your money to pay off a woman he might have got pregnant?’
Mum’s lips tighten.
‘That was uncalled for,’ she says.
‘I don’t think so.’ I pick up a little octopussy and play with its tentacles. ‘Dave did what he did. Dad did what he did. And because of them, you’re prepared to completely discount me and my judgement and say that I’m being duped by my own client. It’s not very trusting, is it?’
Mum looks at me in silence. I continue to fidget with the crocheted toy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says finally. ‘You’re right. I’m making it all about him and not about you. I know you. I do trust you.’
Tears flood my eyes and I don’t manage to blink them all away in time. She hands me a tissue. I put the octopussy on the table, then wipe my eyes and blow my nose.
‘He’s a decent man and a good client,’ I say. ‘And I want to do this.’
‘I see that.’
‘Dave is annoyed because he thinks I’m not respecting all his hard work over the years,’ I say after I give my nose another blow. ‘But I’ve always respected him. He’s the one who’s not respecting me.’
‘So do you want me to stay over while you’re away?’ she asks.
‘Or maybe have Tom and Mica here?’ I suggest. ‘Whatever upsets Dave the least.’
I resent that I have to think about his feelings.
But I’m glad that my mum is onside.
Dave and I don’t discuss the job at all over the rest of the weekend or even the following week. There’s an edgy atmosphere in the house, which I try to deflect by being manically cheerful.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ asks Mica the night before Ivo arrives.
‘Of course, why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You keep laughing,’ she says. ‘About silly things.’
‘Oh. Well I’m a very silly mother in that case, aren’t I?’ Even to my own ears I sound like a demented hyena.
Dave, who’s engrossed in a game on his iPad, doesn’t even look up.
Fortunately neither Mica nor Tom seems to have linked my job and their upcoming stay at their grandmother’s (which they both elected over Mum coming here) with my hysterical silliness. But Dave does, I’m sure, and I’m afraid he thinks it’s because I’m excited about seeing Ivo again. I’d like him to be OK with this, but I know it’s impossible. And yet I can’t do what he wants and back out.
On Wednesday morning, as he leaves for work, Dave doesn’t kiss me goodbye. I decide not to get upset about it. Instead I go upstairs and get dressed in my navy suit and white shirt. I had my hair cut yesterday and it’s still gleaming and silky. I pull it back into its ponytail, hold it in place with some clips, fasten my silver chain around my neck and finally spritz myself with Annabel’s expensive perfume. I look in the mirror. Very Homeland . Very professional. And at the same time, very demure.
I track Ivo’s flight on my phone and leave for the airport when it’s close to landing. As I pull up outside the terminal, I see him already there and waiting for me. I get out of the car.
‘Roxy,’ he says. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Flight OK?’ I ask.
‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Glorious day.’
And, for the time of year, it is. The sky is a crisp blue with only a couple of bright white clouds, the sun is warm, and it feels more like late summer than the beginning of autumn. I open the boot of the car and he puts his wheelie bag inside. I’m not sure where he wants to sit, but I feel that I should be ultra-professional and so I move around to the rear passenger door. Ivo waits for me to open it.
‘Music or silence?’ I switch on the satnav, where I’ve already entered the address of the Arklow business he’s going to.
‘Silence,’ he replies. ‘I need to go through some paperwork.’
‘Of course.’
I put the car into gear and we glide forward.
Dave doesn’t need to worry about a thing. Ivo has returned to professional mode. And so have I.
The drive to Arklow, which takes a little over an hour, is beautiful. Although the N11 can be busy, it also runs through some of Ireland’s most stunning countryside, and today, in its early autumn glory, it’s magnificent. The leaves on the trees are copper and gold and the surrounding fields are a deep vibrant green. In the distance, shimmering in and out of view, is the steel blue of the Irish Sea. I wonder if being able to flit between Brussels and Amsterdam and Paris on a whim compensates Ivo Lehane for not being able to see views like this every day. I’m not sure it could.
Arklow itself is a pretty little town on the banks of the Avoca river, with brightly painted shops lining the streets. The business Ivo is visiting is on the outskirts, accessed from a winding country road where the trees on either side form a dappled canopy overhead. But the building itself is a modern glass and steel structure, a sudden surprise as we round the corner and see it standing there in the middle of all the greenery.
I pull up outside the main door and get out of the car.
‘That was a beautiful drive, thank you.’
I didn’t think Ivo was aware of it. Any time I glanced into the rear-view mirror, he was engrossed in his iPad.
‘I presume you’re staying here tonight?’ I say. ‘In the town? Do you need me to bring you to your hotel after your meeting?’
‘I’ll be here all day, so I’m hoping they’ll organise transport and don’t abandon me here in the middle of nowhere.’ Ivo grins. ‘It’s a bit murder-mystery, don’t you think? Out-of-towner ends up murdered in deserted factory surrounded by cows.’
I laugh as I glance towards the cattle in the nearby fields. It’s the paradox of Ireland. Big business and old traditions side by side.
‘Hopefully you haven’t come all this way to be murdered. How would they do it?’ I add. ‘Hit you over the head with a hammer, or feed you one of their latest drugs?’
He pretends to consider the question. ‘Dump me in a slurry pit,’ he decides, with a nod towards the cows.
‘Ugh.’ But I laugh. We’ve been very professional until now, but I’m sliding into the easiness I’ve always felt with him again. ‘Take care, so.’
‘I will.’
‘Where will I pick you up tomorrow? And what time?’
‘Early if possible.’ He looks a little concerned. ‘Perhaps I should’ve organised for you to stay over tonight too, but I was thinking you’d rather be with your kids.’
‘Of course I would,’ I say. ‘No problem. Whatever time suits you.’
His meeting in Tipperary is at ten thirty. I’ve already checked out the journey from Arklow, which will take about two and a half hours. I suggest collecting him at seven thirty, and he nods. He’s staying at one of the newer hotels in the town, he says, and then adds that he hadn’t thought about how long it would take to get to places and asks if I’m sure I’m OK with this.
‘Ivo – Mr Lehane – this is my job,’ I remind him. ‘If you want to drive to Donegal in the middle of the night, that’s OK with me.’
He grins. ‘Hopefully not.’
Then he extends the handle of his wheelie case and goes about his business.
The journey back to Dublin takes longer than the journey to Arklow, mainly because there’s so much traffic heading towards the city. But I still enjoy it and sing along to Dolly and Shania as I stick to the speed limit and don’t allow myself to be aggravated by other drivers doing stupid things.
I’m back just in time for Mica and Tom coming home from school, and make them a Gina Hayes pitta pocket for their lunch. Then I go upstairs and pack my tra
vel bag for my overnight stay in Cork with Ivo Lehane. I’m beginning to understand why Dave is so annoyed with me, because I’m ridiculously excited at the idea of a night away from home. Obviously not a night away having sex with another man, as he thinks, but a night away being me. I wish he could understand it. I really do.
But he’s still sullen when he gets in later in the evening, and although I’ve cooked a couple of chicken breasts in a lemon sauce accompanied by peas and roast potatoes for his meal, he does no more than grunt thanks to me when he’s finished.
Later still, Debs phones and I get up from the sofa where I’ve been sitting (my legs curled under me instead of across Dave’s lap as I sometimes do) and go into the kitchen for a chat.
‘What does Dave think?’ she asks when I tell her about my trip to Tipperary and Cork.
Everyone always wants to know what Dave thinks! But I very much doubt that his friends ask him what I think whenever he has to go away for work. It’s a given that I’ll go with the flow. Which I always do. So Dave’s views on my work are irrelevant. It should be entirely up to me. But even as I say the words aloud to Debs, I know I’m being disingenuous. It matters a lot. And I’m living the consequences of it right now, with his thunderous face and stony silences. But I tell Debs he’s fine with it and that Mum is looking after the children, so she turns the topic to a girls’ night out with Michelle and Alison, and I say that it would be great fun and that I haven’t seen Michelle in ages.
‘We haven’t been out in ages,’ Debs says. ‘We’re getting old.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ I joke, and Debs says I’m right, we’re not old, just busy, and I agree with that. I tell her that I’ll leave it up to her to arrange the night out, but to count me in.
Dave doesn’t look up when I return to the living room. He’s changed the channel from the documentary we were both pretending to be engrossed in to darts on Sky Sports. We used to joke about darts hardly being a sport, what with the beer bellies on some of the competitors, and Dave would say it was the sort of sport he was prepared to take up when he was older, and I’d laugh and say that he was hopeless at throwing things, and he’d joke that he could throw me over his shoulder any time and . . . It’s my fault that we don’t have these conversations any more.
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