Time Out

by Emma Murray

  12

  The next morning I wake up at six o’clock with my heart beating too fast and a feeling of inexplicable euphoria. It’s the first time since I found out about David’s affair that I’ve woken up in such a positive mood and it feels exhilarating. I lie there for a moment searching my mind for why I have such a feeling of anticipation and my throbbing head reminds me that I am probably still pissed from yesterday. I groan and turn over, trying to go back to sleep, but it’s useless. I am too fired up for sleep. Grumbling, I gently heave myself out of bed, legs first, trying desperately not to move my aching head. My tongue is firmly rooted to the roof of my mouth and I desperately need some non-alcoholic bubbles.

  I check the fridge and find it comes up short on pretty much everything I crave for a hangover. Not surprising, given the shopping-dodge I did yesterday.

  ‘I’d kill for a Coke or a 7-Up,’ I mutter to myself, slamming the fridge door shut.

  I settle for a glass of water instead, but it’s not the same as the cool fizz I’m craving. As I sit on the stool at the kitchen island, cradling the water, I spend a few moments trying to remember the hazy events of the previous day. I know that Deirdre, ‘but everyone calls me Dee’ and I went to McGowan’s pub on the high street around midday. Channelling Bea, we started on Prosecco and when that became ‘too acidy’ we switched to red wine instead. I vaguely remember a man (could have been the father of Dee’s children, maybe?) coming to pick up the kids, but Dee staying behind to drink with me. I have no idea what we talked about, what we ate (or even if we ate), or what time I left the pub.

  The oven clock tells me it’s now 6.10 a.m. and I wonder what I’m going to do with myself. I can’t go back to sleep and my jerky stomach tells me it’s too soon for food.

  It occurs to me that I have no idea where Dee lives or even her last name. If this was London, I’d never see her again, and if I did, we would meet as near-strangers, almost as if our drunken togetherness had been an illusion. I remind myself that this is a tiny village in southern Ireland where everyone knows each other. There is no doubt that I will bump into Dee again.

  I finish my water and look guiltily at my laptop, which I had abandoned on the kitchen island a good eighteen hours before. A panicky feeling surges through my upset stomach.

  With a huge effort, I slide the laptop over to where I’m sitting and flip open the lid. The white screen of writer’s block fills me with horror and before I know quite what I’m doing, I start to type for the comfort of seeing something fill the terrible space.

  I write for what seems like minutes but actually turns out to be hours. When I finally stop and read over it, I am pleasantly surprised that it is halfway coherent. It turns out that the tiny part of my brain that hasn’t been violently assaulted by extreme alcohol consumption has retained the part about the old lady in the tunnel. I write about the impact of judgement on being a mother, raining verbal blows on old ladies with bad memories and trite comfortless pleasantries, and smug mums who argue for wooden versus plastic toys, organic versus normal food, and full-time mum versus full-time job. Then I end it with, ‘After all, the good thing about plastic toys is that they don’t get woodworm.’

  I spend another hour editing it and when I am finished, I am pleased how it reads. Besides, it feels wonderfully cathartic to blast those who make parenting far, far harder than it needs to be.

  Satisfied with an unexpectedly productive morning, I get off the stool to stretch. And then screech because there is an elderly man’s face pressed against the glass of one of the sliding doors. When he sees I’ve spotted him, he steps back from the window and gives me a jovial wave. At first sight, he seems harmless enough but I’m still in my cotton nightie with no pants underneath, and there’s no way I’m opening that door. I mime a ‘what the fuck do you want?’ gesture, and he makes a swimming motion (breaststroke to be exact) in return.

  I almost give him the finger but as he is an older man, wearing a saggy old grey tracksuit, I don’t have the heart. Sighing, I ease the door open a small way.

  ‘I’m Frank. Kitty told me to get you,’ he says, sticking his head through the gap. ‘Says you’re mad for the swimming!’

  I raise my eyes skywards and feel my hands balling into fists.

  ‘I’m afraid Kitty was mistaken,’ I say formally. I don’t mean to be rude but these people don’t seem to get the message.

  ‘Ah, you’re British!’ he replies. ‘Well, that makes sense. The Brits don’t like the cold water.’

  What? Kitty has accused me of being a ‘West Brit’ and now this old fella has straight-out called me British. Enough is enough!

  ‘I. AM. IRISH!’ I say, speaking like Mr Slow from Anna’s Mr Men collection.

  ‘Are you indeed?’ he says, surprised.

  ‘First generation,’ I say, laying on the accent as thick as I am able.

  He folds his arms, looks at me appraisingly and says, ‘Well, if you’re as Irish as you think you are, you’ll dive into the Irish Sea, no bother!’

  Feeling I have been tricked somehow, I give him a short wave, before slamming the door, sloping back to my room and diving under the covers, where I can hide in the safety of a room with fucking blinds.

  I fall asleep and wake up at 3 p.m., feeling a lot less hungover but absolutely starving. There is one voicemail and a text message. I listen to the voicemail first. It’s my mother. She begins with ‘Do you know who’s…?’ and then… nothing. Either she’s got distracted by her latest eBay auction or her phone has died in the middle of leaving a message. I am not the least bit curious about what she was going to say. I know my mother well enough to finish the sentence without prompting.

  Dead.

  As in, ‘Do you know who’s dead?’

  Calls like this are a fairly regular occurrence now that my mother has got a bit older. I am rarely sentimental about these deaths because I have no idea who these people are. These types of calls usually go along these lines:

  Mum: ‘Do you know who’s dead?’

  Me: (sighing) ‘No.’

  Mum: ‘Margaret Murphy.’

  Me: ‘I have no idea who that is.’

  Mum: ‘Margaret! Who used to drop you to playschool when you were three? Surely you remember Margaret!’

  Me: (hazarding a guess just so we don’t have to talk about Margaret any more) ‘Did she have brown hair?’

  Mum: ‘No!’

  Dammit.

  Mum: ‘The hair was straight from a bottle. Dyed it for years. Now that I think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the bleach that killed her.’

  Cue the sound of heavy thudding while I bang my head against the nearest brick wall.

  As I’m not in a hurry to call my mother back, especially with the remnants of a hangover, I click on the text message. It’s from David to say he has left Anna with Bea for a few hours as he needs to go to an important meeting. He signs off with his customary five kisses and I want to thump him. First, it’s a Sunday; as long as I have known David he has never gone into the office on a Sunday. A hot flush of anger sweeps over me with the sudden realisation that he is most likely with that slut Jordan. In fact, I would bet my life on it. But what enrages me the most – far more than the thought of him having sex with someone else – is his cavalier attitude towards Anna, binning her off on a Sunday. It’s not like he sees her much during the week. The least he could do is keep his fucking boxers on for one weekend.

  I pick up the phone and dial Bea.

  ‘Hello? Yes? Is that you, Mum? No, Harry, you’ve had enough bananas. You don’t want to get tummy pains.’

  Despite my frustration, I grin.

  ‘Relax. It’s me, not your mum,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Oh, good. She’s due to call soon so stay on the line as long as you can. I can’t face hearing about the latest “juicing diet” for small children,’ she says, sounding more like her commanding self.

  ‘I hear David has thrown my child at you for the day,’ I say. ‘How
is she?’

  ‘She’s been absolutely fine. Does me a favour, really. She keeps Harry on his toes! Hasn’t asked for you once,’ she says firmly.

  I exhale in relief. I can’t bear the thought of Anna crying and wondering why I have abandoned her.

  ‘Can I talk to her?’

  Bea calls Anna over and a moment later I hear the heavy breathing of a serial killer on the other end. I greet her and ask her how she is, and she breathes in reply. It’s like listening to an anonymous caller. I can hear Bea in the background explaining that it’s Mummy on the phone, and to say hello. At last, she starts to speak.

  ‘I want Skype,’ she says.

  I forget what a child of technology she is, at the age of four.

  A couple of minutes later, her big eyes come into view and I blow her lots of kisses. I ask her how her day out with Daddy was, and she gives me a surly, ‘Good.’ I exhale in relief. ‘Good’ for Anna means she had a great time. Maybe they are starting to bond after all. Then I ask her what movie she went to, and I get a shrug in return. She stares at the screen for a bit, and says, ‘Mummy, why do you have so many spots on your face?’

  My hand flies immediately to my face, trying to assess the damage from last night. I tend to get a bit spotty after a night on the booze. Trust Anna to point it out.

  ‘There’s a big one on your nose,’ she says, touching the screen with her finger. ‘Just there.’

  Trying to change the subject, I ask her how she’s been and what she’s been doing, and she warms up enough to tell me that she’s been ‘having fun with Harry, even though he’s a bit naughty sometimes’ and she’s been eating lots of treats. At this point, Bea sticks her face in front of the camera and reassures me that Anna has not been fed too much shite, but enough to keep her happy.

  I wave her away – the fact that she is looking after Anna for me is more than enough to make up for how much crap she’s been eating.

  A few moments later, Anna wanders off and Bea comes back on again.

  ‘She really is fine, Saoirse,’ she says. ‘And she seems happy enough with David.’

  I frown. ‘Did he tell you why he palmed Anna off on you today?’

  ‘Said something about a meeting,’ she replies. ‘But come to think of it, he was in shorts and T-shirt. I know it’s a Sunday, but isn’t there still a dress code he needs to stick to?’

  I shake my head at David’s stupidity; could he not cover his tracks a little better than that? In contrast with other trendy social media firms, where ragged denim and holey T-shirts are the accepted work gear, David’s company prides itself on its employees being professionally dressed at all times. The most he can get away with is chinos and a smart shirt. He would never ever go to work in just shorts and T-shirt.

  ‘To be honest, I felt a bit sorry for him,’ she continues. ‘He looked bloody awful and he seemed so stressed. I asked him in for a cuppa but he told me he was already running late.’

  Before I can stop myself, I make a vomiting face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bea asks sharply.

  And I open my mouth to tell her that David is off to a different kind of meeting from what she thinks, and then I close it again. Now is not the time, not with Anna in the background.

  Instead, I tell her how grumpy I am about Kitty and Frank, the psychotic swimmers, and how I have become the subject of their mission to plunge me into sub-zero temperatures.

  Bea looks at me and hesitates for a moment.

  ‘Oh, yes, the swimming club. My mother swears by it.’

  ‘Yes, I can certainly see how I would be “swearing” by it if I went even as far as dipping my toes in,’ I reply smartly.

  ‘The locals always hassle visitors to The Cube about it,’ she goes on.

  I am flabbergasted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s sort of a rite of passage for us foreigners,’ she explains.

  I bristle at this. Not her too.

  ‘I’m NOT a fucking foreigner!’ I say.

  ‘Well, to them you are. You’ve deserted the Emerald Isle for the big city and you married a Brit so…’

  Before I can reply, she adds, ‘And you’re from Dublin, so in a way, that’s even worse than being a foreigner.’ Her forehead crinkles a bit. ‘In retrospect, I’m shocked the locals are talking to you at all,’ she finishes.

  Before I can express my sheer indignation, she says something strange.

  ‘Did Kitty mention anything to you about me?’

  I don’t tell her that I suspect Kitty feels sorry for her for being a single mum so I just tell her that Kitty has been asking after her and Harry.

  ‘Good, good,’ she says, her expression growing dark, ‘because—’

  But I don’t get to hear the rest because we are interrupted by an ear-splitting scream.

  Anna.

  Bea jumps up and races off, and I sit and wait at the other side of the screen, feeling bloody useless and extremely anxious.

  Two minutes later, Bea comes back holding a teary-looking Anna by the hand.

  ‘They were fighting over the iPad,’ she explains.

  ‘Did David not give you Anna’s when he dropped her off?’ I say, incredulously.

  Bea shakes her head.

  Fucking useless is what he is. Jesus, fuck that slut Jordan if you want, but at least remember to give Anna the bloody iPad.

  Harry comes over and punches Bea on the arm, presumably because she is comforting Anna. ‘What were you going to say about Kitty anyway?’ I ask, trying to shout over the pandemonium.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ she says, gripping Harry by the wrists to prevent him from smacking her in the face.

  Time to go.

  ‘I’ll sign off. Thanks again for looking after Anna,’ I say hurriedly.

  Anna gives me a quick wave and wanders off again. Then the screen goes dark, the call ended.

  I think for a minute. There’s no fucking way I’m getting into that icy water, even if bestselling children’s cookbook author Arianna Wakefield thinks it’s the best thing since vegetable ice lollies.

  I am distracted by an unattractive growl coming from the region of my stomach. Time to get some food. I jump in the shower, get dressed and, as it’s raining, I hop into my little convertible, once again rejoicing in the freedom of having a sporty little number all to myself.

  I drive down the windy gravel road to the bottom of the cliff and take the route straight into the village, my stomach churning unpleasantly as I pass McGowan’s pub – the scene of yesterday’s all-day drinking – and grab a parking space just outside the local newsagent’s.

  As soon as I’m in the shop, I head straight towards the sweets and crisps section, craving sour, fizzy sweets – the best thing for a hangover. A child’s wail goes up and at once I feel a mixture of sympathy for the mother and relief that it’s not me. The sweetie aisle is the most treacherous to navigate and only ends one way – in tears.

  As I zoom in towards the E numbers, a little hand grabs mine. I look down and there is Conor, Dee’s little boy, red-faced and teary.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I ask him, and he bursts into tears again.

  Just then Dee runs into the aisle, looking frantic, the pram rocking dangerously. An expression of relief crosses her face as she sees Conor.

  ‘Jesus, Conor! Never EVER run off like that again,’ she says, picking up and holding him close. He stops crying and snuggles into her.

  She turns to me and sighs.

  ‘I was at the tills when he ran off,’ she says.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ I reply quickly. ‘Once I lost Anna in our local park and it took me thirty minutes to find her. Turns out she had disappeared into the woodsy part to look for fairies.’

  Dee laughs and her shoulders relax.

  ‘Anyway, how’s your head this afternoon?’ she says.

  ‘About as good as yours, I imagine,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m dying,’ she says.

  ‘Yep – me too!’


  ‘Did Ryan see you home all right?’ she asks, her eyebrows raised.

  I am confused. ‘Who’s Ryan?’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘Christ, how pissed were you?’

  I think hard. I remember joking with the barman a bit, and there was definitely a live band playing very traditional diddly-aye music, but I have no memory of anyone called Ryan.

  I shrug, totally nonplussed.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember Ryan the Ride!’ she says, through more bursts of laughter. ‘Sure, you were talking to him for half the night!’

  My heart sinks. If I don’t remember talking to Ryan, what else don’t I remember?

  Evidently noting my concern, Dee puts a reassuring hand on my arm.

  ‘Don’t worry, you weren’t doing anything wrong. I was there the whole time and we were all just laughing and joking together.’

  I am relieved but I am still puzzled by one thing.

  ‘Why did Ryan take me home?’

  ‘He was being a gent. You were three sheets to the wind and about to do an “Irish Goodbye” and he didn’t want you walking home in the dark,’ she explains.

  I frown, annoyed with myself, first, for trying to leave without telling anyone; and secondly, for letting a total stranger walk me up that unlit cliff path. Jesus, I’m forty years old, married with a child. It’s not good enough to get shit-faced and go off with strangers at my age. That’s something you do in your twenties.

  ‘Saoirse, don’t beat yourself up. Honestly, I wouldn’t have let Ryan walk you home if I didn’t know him. He’s been coming here for summers for years. And he’s pretty easy on the eye, too!’ she says, winking.

  I laugh suddenly and shake off the guilt. I got pissed, had a bit of craic with a stranger – a good-looking one, by the sounds of it – and that was it. No harm done.

  Dee and I chat for a bit longer before making arrangements to meet at McGowan’s in a couple of days. We both agree that staying off the booze for at least twenty-four hours is probably a good idea.

  When she leaves I turn back to the sweetie aisle and gather a satisfactory selection of the types of fizzy sweets that melt your teeth just by looking at them. Then I pick up some carbonated drinks, a gigantic pepperoni pizza, and head for the tills.