‘I understand you might need a bit of time,’ he said. ‘But the children need their dad.’
‘You should have thought of that before,’ I said.
‘What do you want from me, Roxy?’ he asked. ‘I’ll do anything. I truly will.’
I believed that, too. Dave is a good man. He made a mistake. He has to pay for it, but according to another one of the cheating-husband articles, though a desire for punishment is understandable, it’s not necessarily the solution.
The pendulum swung back towards forgive and forget.
‘I need some time,’ I told him. ‘I’m sorry. But I do.’
‘Please don’t take too long,’ he said.
And then he left.
I didn’t hear from him for two days. Then he sent a long, rambling text (from the local pub, I reckon) all about how much he still loved me and how he hadn’t seen Julie Halpin since and if he did he’d turn his back on her and he was sorry, sorry, sorry.
He didn’t say anything about me coming home, but he turned up at Mum’s house on Saturday to take the kids for the day. He also had an enormous bunch of flowers in his arms.
‘The flowers are for you. Football in the park for them,’ he said as he handed them to me. ‘The children can stay with me tonight. You could too, if you wanted.’
I buried my face in the flowers, which was a bit stupid as I immediately started to sneeze.
‘For one night?’ I put down the flowers and blew my nose.
‘If it made a difference.’
I shook my head. He took the children and I stayed home alone with my mum. She divided the flowers between three different vases.
And that’s how it’s been since Rodeo Night. He texts me every day to say how sorry he is. All of his texts include a sad-face emoji and half a dozen hearts. Sometimes he adds a soppy romantic video. He asks me to come home. I delete the texts and videos and say that I need more time. He tells me I can take as much time as I like, but he needs me back. He needs the children to come home. He tells me that he’ll never be alone in a room with another woman again. He says how much he loves me. And I always end up replying once again that I need more time. So far he hasn’t asked how much more. But sooner or later he will. Sooner or later he’ll stop being sorry and sending the videos and he’ll get pissed off at me. I know he will, because that’s how I’d feel too. And that means I can’t swing with the pendulum forever. I have to make a decision about the rest of my life.
But no matter how good I’m supposed to be at decision-making, this is still one I don’t want to make.
Debs, my closest friend, is trying to be even-handed about it. She says that all men are fools but that Dave is one of the better men even if he did do a very foolish thing. I know she’s right. But I still can’t cope with how let-down I feel. And although I truly want to forgive him, I’m not ready to do it.
I continue to stare at the photograph of my children and their father. They belong with him just as much as with me. Children need two parents. But even as my finger hovers indecisively over the message icon to type the words ‘I’m coming home’, I pull it away.
Why can’t I accept that it was a moment of madness on his part? Why is it that every time I think I’m ready to let it go, another wave of pure rage washes over me and leaves me shaking? Why can’t I simply forgive him? But why should I simply forgive him? He’s broken my heart, after all.
My life used to be sorted. It might not have been glamorous or exciting, but it was perfect. Yet in the space of a few weeks, I no longer have the two men who meant the most to me in the world. I’m not living in the home that I love. All the certainties I’ve built up over the years have come tumbling down, leaving me bereft and bewildered. I’m not the person I used to be. Right now, I don’t know who I am any more.
An announcement about a delayed flight jolts me back to my job. I glance at my watch, then check Gina’s flight status. The plane has landed, so I type the name ‘Gina Hayes’ in a large, bold font onto my iPad and go to stand in the already crowded arrivals hall.
‘Roxy, sweetheart, how are things?’
I’ve wormed my way towards the barrier and it’s another driver, Eric Fallon, who greets me. Meeting passengers at the airport is a bread-and-butter business and the drivers get to know each other. On one occasion a terrible thunderstorm delayed every flight coming into Dublin, and I spent nearly three hours in the coffee shop with Eric. It was one of my first jobs after Dad’s diagnosis, and Eric, who’s almost the same age as him, was kind and understanding.
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Which flight are you meeting?’
‘The nine a.m. from Paris,’ he says. ‘A suit.’ He tilts his iPad towards me. The name on it is Ivo Lehane. ‘Heading to the convention centre. Something to do with ethical business models.’ He snorts.
I smile at him. Like my dad, Eric doesn’t believe that big business is ethical. He has a deep mistrust of anyone who wears a suit, and is wary of people who try to give him investment advice. Eric was burned in the financial crisis back in 2008. Ever since then, he’s become an anti-establishment figure, having decided that nobody looks out for people like him.
I agree with him, at least in part. The system is rigged against the ordinary person. We don’t get a say in anything. Laws are passed by rich people for rich people and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m not anything like as radical as Eric, who spent much of the recession involved in anti-austerity protest marches and was even, briefly, a member of a new political party. But I get really angry when politicians imply that if you’re struggling, it’s your own fault. I’m worried about what might happen to me and the children if I don’t go back to Dave, because that would make me a single-parent family. I’ve no idea how I could possibly afford a home of my own. It’s a mess and it’s not my fault. But I’m pretty sure that some people would be happy to blame me anyhow.
The doors from the baggage area to the arrivals hall slide open and a stream of passengers walk through. Eric and I hold our iPads up so that our clients can spot us. Neither Gina Hayes nor Ivo Lehane is in the initial group and we lower them again. After a brief lull, more people appear, and eventually a tall man in a charcoal suit walks over to Eric and identifies himself as Ivo. I should be so lucky as to get a client who looks like Patrick Dempsey in his prime! Dr McDreamy is totally wasted on Eric. (I used to love Patrick in Grey’s Anatomy. I was gutted when they killed him off.) Then I laugh at myself for caring whether my clients are as good-looking as TV stars. They don’t notice me and I don’t really notice them. Not after they get into the car, at any rate.
‘This way, Mr Lehane,’ says Eric. And then, to me, ‘See you again soon, love. Take care.’
He leaves the terminal building with his suit. I keep my iPad held up and wait for my second client of the day.
Chapter 3
Dad did a good job of building up the business. Gina Hayes is actually a client of a PR firm that he did a lot of work for. He was very pleased to get Grady PR, because although it’s a small firm, it has a great client list.
The issue of Dad’s business is another pendulum swinging in my mind. Like I said, driving is therapy. I kept doing it after moving in with Mum, partly so that I wasn’t continually obsessing about Dave (although I am, obviously); partly so that I wasn’t under her feet all day; and also because it’s bringing money into the house, even though she keeps refusing to accept it.
But now it’s become more than that. For the first time in years, I’m doing something for myself, and despite the circumstances, I’m enjoying it. It wasn’t until I took over from Dad that I realised how long it had been since I’d done anything of my own. I’ve never been what you’d call an ambitious sort of person. All I ever wanted was to get married and have a family. Work, no matter what the job, was a means to an end. My entire world revolves around my home and my family. Since Tom was born, I haven’t worked outside the house – occasional driving and keeping Dad’s books doesn’t count because that�
�s just helping out, and besides, it didn’t take up too much time. I did some childminding for nearly five years, but the family moved to a new neighbourhood about eighteen months ago, and although there’s always someone needing childcare on the Beechgrove estate (I’m part of a WhatsApp group of available mums), I wanted a bit of a break. Then Dad got sick and my priorities were elsewhere. I suppose Dave has seen himself in a very traditional head-of-the-household role, while I’m . . . well, I don’t know what I am. But dependent on him is part of it. Now, I can’t help thinking that perhaps Dave cheated because he’d lost some respect for me. Because he didn’t think I contributed enough.
Julie Halpin is some kind of office manager. She might not have a husband of her own any more, but she heads off to work every day in her sporty blue car, goes on holidays whenever she feels like it and always wears the most fashionable of clothes. And I’m . . . well, I’m basically the same person I was twenty-odd years ago when Dave and I first started going out together, except with added stretch marks.
If we get back together – and it’s still a massive if – something has to change. I need to find the part of me that I never knew mattered before. The rebellious Roxy. The Roxy who competed on the football pitch. The Roxy who thought of herself first and everyone else second (even if that’s not a viable option now). Driving the Merc ticks some of those boxes. The problem is, even though it’s a readymade opportunity, continuing with Dad’s business would be tricky. The hours are erratic and I’d have to be very organised about childcare. And yet . . . in the blur of the last few weeks, being a driver is the one thing that’s kept me grounded. It’s given me something practical to do. Feeling Dad’s presence in the car with me, however tenuous, has been comforting too.
More people emerge into the arrivals hall, but it’s another fifteen minutes before the nutritionist appears. I recognise her at once. Gina Hayes owns the space around her in a way I can only dream of. Even though she’s not as glammed up as when she’s on TV, she’s tall and well groomed, with glossy nut-brown hair that curls gently past her shoulders. She’s carrying a multicoloured tote bag and wearing a light fabric raincoat in pastel pink over skinny jeans, a white T-shirt and high-heeled boots. Somewhat weirdly, the raincoat is Gina’s signature look. She started off presenting her show outdoors, where the raincoat seemed appropriate. Now, even though she’s moved into a room made entirely of glass, she still wears it. It sounds silly, but it works.
I don’t have a signature look. Unless you count today’s navy suit, white blouse and tiny gold earrings, which is working Roxy, not real-life Roxy. Real-life Roxy prefers bright colours, lots of accessories and high heels; though after a day’s driving, I usually pull on jeans, a T-shirt and trainers as soon as I get home. And ‘pull on’ are the operative words. I don’t style my clothes the way Gina does. I just wear them.
I hold up my iPad. Gina sees it and strides across the arrivals hall towards me.
‘I’m Gina Hayes.’ She extends a hand. ‘Are you my driver?’
‘Roxy McMenamin. Pleased to meet you.’
I use Thea Ryan’s umbrella again as I escort Gina to the car park – it’s only a short distance, but I’m not entirely sure that the designer raincoat will be much use in the sort of Irish drizzle that can soak you to the skin before you even notice it’s raining. Besides, I don’t want her to get her artfully styled hair wet. Somewhat weirdly, the exotic umbrella gives me a certain confidence that I associate with Thea. It bestows me with a sprinkling of her personality and makes me feel less intimidated by the powerhouse that is Gina Hayes.
‘I’ve never had a woman driver before,’ Gina remarks as she gets into the back seat of the Merc. ‘And it’s never occurred to me that there might be women drivers out there. Which is annoyingly un-woke of me.’
‘I’m not a driver to make a point,’ I tell her. ‘I’m a driver because it’s my job.’
‘But nice to see women doing jobs that were traditionally male,’ says Gina.
Please tell me she doesn’t want a conversation on gender equality at this hour of the morning. I know taxi drivers are supposed to have opinions on everything, but I’m a chauffeur and I don’t. I glance in the rear-view mirror; fortunately for me, Gina has already moved on and is scrolling through her phone.
‘We’re going to the TV station for your interview first,’ I tell her. ‘Your PR agent will meet you there. Then to the bookshop for your signing session. And after that I’ll be driving you to Belfast. I’ll drop you off at the airport there after you’ve finished.’
‘Fine.’ She’s totally concentrating on the phone and I wonder if she’s a bit pissed off at me for not engaging in the feminist conversation. I’m all for equality and women’s rights. But I can’t bear people who bang on endlessly about it. Whenever I drove the car for Dad, I wasn’t thinking about being a woman driver; just a driver. And yet, I acknowledge to myself as we leave the airport, all of the other drivers I know are men. There must be other women drivers out there, but I’ve never met one. So maybe, despite myself, I’m a feminist icon.
The very idea makes me laugh. Nobody I know, least of all my husband, would think of me as any kind of icon. Dave never made a thing of my driving in the past. He was matter-of-fact about it. Dad needed help and I stepped up to the plate. It’s what you do for family. Simple as that.
I speed up as I turn onto the motorway. Gina is leafing through a folder of papers that she’s taken from her tote bag. I wonder if she’s nervous about her interview. But why should she be? She’s used to being on TV. Her health show is very popular and I’m sure her cookbook will be a bestseller. I can’t help envying her. It must be great to have it all sussed. To know exactly what you want from life and go out and get it. Gina Hayes is seven years younger than me. But she’s still the grown-up in the car.
By the time we arrive at the studio, she’s replaced the papers and has returned to scrolling through her phone. I get out and open the door for her, and tell her that I’ll be waiting here when she’s finished. She walks inside without a backward glance.
I get back into the car and drive to the small café that I always wait in when I bring people to the TV studio. Waiting around is an occupational hazard for a driver. So is drinking coffee. I’m ready for another caffeine hit and I’m feeling peckish again too. I’m not the sort of person who lets emotional turmoil affect her appetite. I’ve put on almost a kilo since I walked out on Dave. I don’t need Gina Hayes to tell me that comfort eating isn’t a good idea. But it helps.
When I’m settled with a coffee and a scone, I text Mum to ask if the children are up yet.
Tom in shower. Mica having breakfast. All good. How’re you?
Also good. Everything on schedule.
What’s Gina Thingy like?
A bit intimidating. But OK.
Nobody intimidates my daughter! Her text is accompanied by an angry-face emoji.
I send a laughing face and some hearts in return and add that I’ll let her know how the schedule is progressing. Gina Hayes has to be in Belfast for a late-afternoon TV show, and although theoretically there’s plenty of time, I like to make allowances for the unexpected.
I take a newspaper from the pile that the café provides and start to read. I’ve reached the letters page when my phone pings. My heart skips a beat, but when I look at it I see that, despite the signature, the message isn’t from Dave.
Hope you’re still OK for tomorrow night’s fund-raiser. Dx
The fund-raiser is for the local soccer club, and Debs is on the committee. As both Mica and Tom are members of the club, I always go to the fund-raisers, and for this one I’ve donated a day’s free use of my driving services as one of the raffle prizes. I wasn’t going to go because I’m not in the mood to be in a room with people who I know will see me as gossip fodder. Not necessarily maliciously. But I’ll be a topic of conversation all the same. It didn’t matter what I said, though. Debs insisted. She said that I had to be strong, and despite my objection
s, she wore me down. Which goes to prove that my so-called strength and resilience is nothing more than an illusion.
I reply that I’ll be at her house on time.
Looking forward to a good night out, responds Debs.
I send a thumbs-up while thinking it’s a somewhat sad state of affairs for both of us to consider a fund-raising event in the community centre a good night out. In days gone by we would’ve scoffed at the very idea. Back then, it was all about clubbing in town and not coming home until four in the morning. These days, I sometimes get up at four in the morning!
I finish my coffee and return to the TV studio car park. I take out my iPad while I wait in the car. The TV subscription that Dave and I have covers our mobile devices, and although he’s the one who manages the account, he hasn’t blocked me from remote viewing. I’m not sure if this is deliberate or whether he’s simply forgotten – Dave only watches sport, and on the biggest screen possible, so he probably hasn’t even thought of me accessing the TV. Maybe now that he can’t go next door to watch Robbie’s supersized one, he’ll remember.
The segment of the show with Gina Hayes has just begun. The nutritionist is poised and assured as she talks to the presenter and speaks about how healthy eating habits are good for both your body and your mind.
‘It’s not rocket science,’ she says. ‘It’s simply good sense. If you want to be your best you, then eat the best food you can.’
Which is all very well, but when you have two children who go through phases of zoning in on one food group (with Tom, it’s currently baked beans, with curry as a standby) and a husband whose tastes are very traditional, there is simply no point in trying to introduce stuff you know they won’t like. I don’t know if Gina has children, but I’m absolutely certain that if she has, and when they reach their point of food rebellion, it won’t matter a damn what sort of pretty-looking treats she comes up with: they’ll be ignored in favour of alphabetti spaghetti or chicken nuggets. And I also know she’ll ultimately cave in, because nobody has the power to stand up to a determined child who refuses to eat what’s on their plate. Or a determined husband who scoffs at the idea of a meal without meat.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 40