Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘It’s not just Dave,’ I say.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I wanted to sleep with someone. He sort of kissed me by mistake and I wish it had been for real, and now I can’t stop thinking about it and about him.’

  It sounds ridiculous when I put it like that. Thea refills her cup and asks me if I’d like another coffee. I nod.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks when she puts the fresh coffee in front of me.

  I explain and she looks thoughtful. ‘Which are you more upset about? Your husband and the other woman or how you’re suddenly feeling about this man?’

  ‘I had right on my side, but now I don’t,’ I say. ‘So I guess I’m most upset about that.’

  ‘It was a fantasy, Roxy,’ says Thea. ‘Everyone has fantasies. I often had them with my co-stars, but they didn’t mean anything. It’s hardly a massive betrayal.’

  ‘It’s how it makes me feel,’ I tell her. ‘Ivo’s kiss was . . . well, it was supposed to be friendly, you know? But every time I think about it, I can’t help feeling what it would’ve been like to kiss him back properly. And wishing that I had. And wishing that he’d come to my bedroom the night before, which is awful of me, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s still fantasy,’ Thea says. ‘When I kissed my co-stars, I believed in it. I wanted them too. Sometimes it was hard to separate Thea the person from the character they were kissing or holding or pretending to make love to.’

  I tell her that what’s happened to me is very different.

  ‘Not entirely,’ she says. ‘When you’re being Roxy the chauffeur, you’re playing a role. This man is part of a scene that isn’t your real life. You felt something. Maybe, for a time, you wanted something. You didn’t actually do anything. Unlike your husband. Whom you’ve very generously forgiven.’

  ‘I know. On a practical level, I know. It’s . . . well, it’s a long time since I’ve had feelings like that. And I should know better. I’m the grown-up, after all.’

  ‘Your husband isn’t?’

  ‘He’s Dave,’ I say. ‘I look after him. I make sure he’s OK.’

  ‘Roxy!’ she exclaims. ‘He’s an adult and he can look after himself.’

  I cover my face with my hands. I don’t know why I said that. I know Dave is an adult. I know he can look after himself. But I suppose when it comes to our family unit – despite everything I think about Dave being the one to make the decisions – I’m actually the person who keeps it all together. And so Dave’s behaviour is OK because I can fix it by forgiving him. How I feel is entirely different, because I can’t forgive myself.

  ‘Why are you punishing yourself so much?’ asks Thea. ‘If all you’re doing is imagining how it would be with a man who’s not your husband, but you’ve no intention of taking it any further, then why are you so upset?’

  Because I wanted to take it further, even if it was only a one-off. I wanted to see what it would be like with someone else. Which is maybe what Dave thought when he slept with Julie. I believe him now when he says it didn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t have meant anything with Ivo either, but it would have been great.

  ‘You’re a good person, Roxy,’ Thea says. ‘Whatever you want to do, you’re doing from the position of being a good person. Truly.’

  ‘I know it’s daft,’ I say. ‘I really do. But I can’t possibly drive him ever again. And that’s hard.’

  Thea nods slowly.

  ‘Maybe Dave’s right about me driving anyhow,’ I say. ‘Money and a room of your own are all very well, but there has to be give and take.’

  ‘Is Dave the teeniest bit jealous of you, do you think?’ Thea puts the question to me very casually, and I look at her in surprise.

  ‘Jealous? Of me? Of course not. Why would he be?’

  ‘Because you’re smart and resourceful and you’ve taken this business by the scruff of the neck and are making a success of it. You’re good at what you do and I’m sure all your clients like you. I like you. I told you before, you’re an excellent driver.’

  ‘But not very professional.’ I sigh. ‘I’m lusting after one client and I’m sitting here having coffee and biscuits and sharing my problems with another. Which is really not in the job description.’

  ‘Breaking down the door to my loo isn’t in the job description either, but you did it,’ says Thea. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. Nobody’s perfect. Nobody can be. You can only do your best, and that’s what you’ve been doing. So cut yourself some slack, forget about one little kiss at a time when you were in shock, for heaven’s sake, and allow yourself to chill.’

  ‘Is this the kind of advice you give your daughters?’ My smile is a little wobbly.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she grins. ‘But as they’re my daughters, they hardly ever listen. That’s why I’m hoping it’s different with you.’

  Chapter 25

  I’m looking forward to Sunday lunch at Mum’s and am hoping that having all the family around will bring back a sense of normality to my life. I also hope that the lunch gives us some kind of closure on Dad. I know a funeral is supposed to be closure, but it wasn’t, not really. Maybe Dave is right after all and the reason I want to drive the Merc so much is because I still miss my father. Maybe he knows me better than I know myself.

  Dad and Dave got on well. There were occasional times when they fell out over something relatively trivial, but their arguments were usually short-lived. Dad liked Dave’s work ethic. He told me that my husband would always be able to take care of me, and he was right. Despite the fact that we needed my wages in the early years, and that we’ve never been entirely financially secure, I’ve never felt pressured by it because I’ve always trusted Dave to look after us. He’s a hard worker, and unlike some husbands, he never criticises how I spend the household income. He might be a traditionalist in many ways, but he’s a good traditionalist.

  Dave insists we take a taxi to Mum’s so that we can both have a glass of wine with dinner. When we get into the cab, Tom and Mica start squabbling, and when I tell them to be quiet, they ask me if I ever say that to passengers in my taxi. I say that it’s a bit different for me and they want to know why, and Dave lobs in the fact that most taxi drivers don’t have to spend a night away from home. I don’t know the guy who’s driving us now, but I’m sure he thinks we’re all mental. I tell my children to sit quietly and they both get into a huff, and I sigh and hope the rest of the day ahead will be calmer.

  Tom is first out of the cab and races up the path to ring the doorbell, but Mica chases after him and they fight about who gets to buzz, which is utterly ridiculous, as ringing a doorbell is hardly a novelty for them. So I press it instead. Mum opens the door looking positively radiant in a chic purple dress and matching court shoes. She’s also wearing gold earrings and the pretty gold chain that Dad bought her for Christmas a few years ago.

  She smiles at the children and suddenly they’re on their best behaviour, hugging her and telling her that it’s lovely to see her. I exhale with relief.

  ‘Something smells good, and it’s not just you, Selina,’ says Dave as we step inside. He’s right: the savoury aroma of cooking permeates the house, and I feel hungry right away. Mum waves us to the living room, where Aidan and Kerry are already sitting, a beer in his hand and a glass of wine in hers.

  There’s a flurry of hellos and Mica scoops Sheryl, Aidan and Kerry’s three-year-old daughter, into her arms. Deacon and Tom, who are close in age, immediately start punching each other and Kerry tells them to stop play-acting. Aidan offers to get Dave a beer, and when he returns with a bottle of Bud, the two of them start talking sport.

  Kerry tells me that I’m looking well, though beside her – a slender woman with chestnut curls, chocolate-brown eyes and cheekbones to die for – I usually feel pale and uninteresting. However, today I’m wearing the polka-dot dress I bought for the start-up workshop, and I’m empowered. Even Dave, who was lukewarm about the dress before,
commented on how sassy I looked when I came downstairs earlier.

  ‘Food will be on the table in five minutes.’ Mum comes into the living room, her face slightly flushed, and I offer to help her serve it all up.

  ‘No, no,’ she protests. ‘I’m doing everything today.’

  When we troop into the dining room, I gasp. The table is beautifully set with the linen tablecloth that was only ever used at Christmas when I was small. There are also linen napkins at each place, as well as a menu card with a picture of Dad on the front.

  ‘Granny, it’s fabulous!’ cries Mica. ‘It’s so pretty. Like a party.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mum looks pleased

  ‘You’ve excelled yourself.’ I pick up one of the menu cards. ‘This is a lovely idea!’

  The menu has a shrimp terrine starter, garlic and rosemary pork for the main course, and lemon cookie fruit tarts as a dessert. I’m pretty certain she didn’t get any of it out of a Gina Hayes book, but it sounds like a meal the nutritionist might put together.

  ‘I had some help,’ admits Mum. ‘But for the moment you can pretend it’s all my own work.’

  ‘What help?’ asks Aidan, but she shakes her head at him and refuses to answer.

  Shrimp has never been on the menu in Mum’s house before, and I know Dave isn’t a fan, but he eats it anyway and compliments Mum on the taste. Even the children are happy to dig in.

  ‘I’ll help you clear away,’ I tell her when we’ve finished. For a moment it looks as though she’s going to refuse, but then she nods. I carry some of the little ramekin dishes to the kitchen – they’re new, I’ve never seen them before in my life.

  ‘What’s all this?’ I murmur as she takes the carving knife out of the drawer. ‘Have you been going to classes without me? You’ve turned into Nigella Lawson.’

  ‘Ah, it’s just a bit of home cooking,’ she says. ‘I’ve been impressed with what you’ve been doing over the past few weeks and I thought I’d give it a go myself.’

  ‘How many times have you practised this?’ I take the plates out of the oven where she’s been keeping them warm.

  ‘It’s my first go,’ she admits. ‘But I was able to do the shrimp things yesterday, and a roast is a roast – the garlic and rosemary is just fancying it up a bit.’

  I stick a metal skewer into the accompanying potatoes. Mum’s relationship with roast potatoes (even McCain’s frozen ones) has always been a bit hit and miss, but these are perfectly done.

  ‘I got the timings right,’ she says with a hint of pride.

  I’m stunned. I inherited my ‘can’t cook won’t cook’ attitude from her, and now it seems that both of us could give Nigella and Jamie a run for their money!

  We bring the pork to the table. Dave makes more appreciative sounds, which Aidan echoes.

  ‘Don’t ever remember this sort of stuff when we were kids,’ he remarks, and I think Kerry kicks him under the table, because he nearly chokes on a carrot.

  ‘How’s business?’ Dave asks him when he recovers.

  ‘Not bad.’ Like me, Aidan has driving in his bones. In his case, though, he was never interested in driving people. He prefers inanimate objects. My brother has a furniture removal business, although it’s not only furniture he moves – he’ll transport anything for anybody.

  ‘Economy picking up again,’ observes Dave. ‘Should keep you busy.’

  Aidan nods. Dave makes some comment about the amount of new-builds going on and the number of people renovating bathrooms. The two men get stuck into their conversation about their respective businesses and what the government should be doing to make things easier for them and how the tax is still a killer. It’s the sort of stuff Dad would have been talking about too if he was still with us, and I feel a stab of pain that he’s not here to tell them – as he so often did – that they have it easy these days and it was all different when he was a boy. I wish, oh how I wish, he’d lived to enjoy his retirement. If he’d actually ever retired. Because he was always on the go.

  I imagine him as a young man, like Aidan and Dave, and then, perhaps inevitably, I think about Estelle. I should have another conversation with my brother about the possibility that she had a child by Dad. If it’s true, knowing about Estelle’s son would be like a glimpse into another world. Of how it might have been if she and Dad had stayed together and raised a family. Well, obviously Aidan and I wouldn’t have existed, but with Estelle by his side, would Dad have lived the same sort of life he had with Mum? Or would it have been very different?

  What has life been like for her son? Did Estelle ever return to Ireland with him? Do I really have a half-brother I’ve never met?

  It’s impossible to believe. And yet part of me does.

  The conversation gets more and more animated and the topics more and more diverse. Mum brings out the lemon cookie fruit tarts, which are both sweet and sharp and are absolutely delicious. She’s been hiding this latent talent as a cook all of her life. It’s a tragedy. I say so.

  ‘Ah, it’s easier now with the YouTube videos telling you what to do,’ she says. ‘And of course you can get all sorts in the shops.’

  ‘That’s true,’ observes Kerry. ‘It was a delicious meal, Selina, thank you.’

  ‘You’ve gone from zero to hero in a flash,’ I say, and Mum beams with pride.

  ‘You did a great job, and Dad would be proud of you.’ Aidan nods his agreement.

  At the mention of Dad, we all go silent. Then Mum stands up with her glass in her hand.

  ‘We’re here to celebrate the birthday of a man who can’t celebrate with us,’ she says. ‘But we’ll never forget him. I’ll never forget him. He’ll always be the love of my life. Happy birthday, Christy.’

  We’re all a little emotional as we raise our glasses. The children run around the table clinking their plastic beakers, thus making sure that nobody actually cries. But, I think as I wipe my eyes, it’s OK to cry. And it’s OK to miss my dad. I look across the table at Aidan, who gives me a small smile. I always thought I had a special relationship with Dad, but he and Aidan were close too. Dad was the one who gave him the money to buy his first van. He was a good man, no matter what.

  We return to the living room. Mum puts on music from one of the playlists on Dad’s old phone. It’s music from the seventies and eighties, heavy on Donna Summer and Crystal Gayle. It takes me back to my childhood, when he used to play the same music on an enormous portable stereo system while he tinkered with the car in the driveway. I say this and then wish I hadn’t, because the talk turns to Dad’s time as a taxi driver and a chauffeur, and then, annoyingly, to me and what my plans might be.

  ‘I thought you were only doing it for Dad,’ says Aidan. ‘I can’t believe you’re still at it.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ says Dave. ‘She’s taking a break. But ultimately we’ll be winding down the business and selling the car.’

  I knew all this talk of a break was stonewalling.

  Mum looks at me in surprise. ‘Have you finally decided enough is enough?’

  ‘No. I have,’ says Dave.

  ‘Dave’s a bit fed up with me,’ I tell my brother. ‘I’ve been inundated with jobs lately and I had to overnight for one of them.’

  ‘In a very flashy hotel.’ Dave’s voice is sour. ‘She’s got a taste for the high life now, has our Roxy.’

  ‘Don’t you have enough to do?’ asks Kerry. ‘I’d love to get back to work, but I’m run off my feet with the kids and I don’t have the time or the energy.’

  ‘I like it,’ I say. ‘And of course my two are a little older than Deacon and Sheryl.’

  ‘But it has to change.’ Dave opens another tin of beer.

  I’m pissed off with him at raising what’s basically our personal business in front of everyone and turning it into a topic of conversation. I don’t need other people’s advice. Especially as they might side with Dave.

  ‘Are you making money?’ asks Aidan.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Quite a d
ecent wedge, actually.’

  ‘I should really have had a look at the books before she started so we can assess it properly,’ Dave says. ‘She got so-called business advice from some friend of a friend, but you’re better off with family.’

  ‘He’s a colleague of Alison King’s,’ I say. ‘A professional. And I’m perfectly capable of seeing that I’m making money.’

  ‘Dave’s right, though. Family will always be better at looking out for your best interests,’ says Aidan, and I want to hit him over the head.

  ‘Roxy likes driving.’ Mum speaks when it’s obvious nobody else is going to say anything.

  ‘I know she does,’ says my husband. ‘But it was always going to be temporary. The key thing will be to get out at the right time and sell the car before it depreciates too much. Christy was very generous in leaving it to her, but I’m pretty sure he never expected her to keep the business going. He wanted us to sell it so that we could treat ourselves. We could go to the Caribbean for Christmas.’

  ‘Dave!’ I shoot him a horrified look. ‘We’ll be here for Christmas. With Mum.’

  There’s an awkward little silence broken only by the Bellamy Brothers wondering if they said I had a beautiful body would I hold it against them.

  ‘Anyway, Roxy can find something else to do,’ says Dave. ‘She was happy enough before.’

  I nearly say ‘Before what?’ but I don’t. When was I happier? Before I got married? Before I had children? Before Dad became ill? Before he died? Or was I simply happy before my husband cheated on me with the woman next door? And what does ‘happy enough’ really mean? Isn’t that a watered-down version of happiness, where you’re making the best of a bad job? Yes, I was happy enough. But is happy enough really enough? Shouldn’t I just be happy? Also – and I can feel myself getting angry at both Dave and my brother – why are they talking about me as if I’m not here? Or as if I don’t know what I’m doing?

  Mum looks between us and then takes charge of the conversation.