‘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 ready-made 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 c
hildren 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 objections, 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.
Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’m as crap at being a mother as I am a wife.
Gina comes out of the building a few minutes later, accompanied by her PR manager, and they talk between themselves while I drive them to the bookstore where she’s making her appearance. Already there’s a line of people waiting to have their copies of Eat Neat signed. I don’t have any cookbooks. Mum never bothered with them either. She’s in the ‘can’t cook won’t cook’ category, and although I try to give the children reasonably healthy food, I can’t be bothered with all the cookbook palaver. Debs, on the other hand, has an entire shelf-load, from Delia to Nigella, all full of sumptuous pictures and beautiful kitchens where women who look like Gina Hayes eat perfect food and live perfect lives with perfect husbands who would never dream of shagging the next-door neighbour.
I’ve arranged my day around Gina’s schedule. She’s going to be in the bookstore for an hour, and that gives me the opportunity to do some shopping. Not for me, sadly, even though I could do with some new clothes, especially as most of my summer wear is still in Beechgrove Park. Even though I know I could pick it up while Dave is at work, I can’t face going back to the house. Not yet, anyway. So my shopping is for Tom and Mica. Most of their stuff is now at Mum’s, as they’ve brought it back after their visits to their dad, but they both get through clothes at an alarming rate.
The saturating drizzle has given way to a partly cloudy sky, but the temperature has risen and my walk down Henry Street is pleasantly warm. There are plenty of bargains in the shops and I pick up some nice tops for both of them. I add some red and yellow hairclips for Mica, and a Batman T-shirt for Tom as treats.
Gina would approve of Mica, whose deep loathing of pink sparkles is entirely of her own making and who is as sporty as, and infinitely more competitive than, her brother. She’s also fiercely independent and doesn’t hold back on her opinions. Tom is the gentler of my two children without a doubt. But perhaps that will change over time. Maybe he will suddenly embrace his masculinity and Mica will feel obliged to like pink. And then she’ll become interested in boys and suddenly her independence and confidence will get cracked, because it always does when boys are involved.
I was a confident child too. It was only when I hit puberty, and the opposite sex became a thing, that I changed. Suddenly, what boys thought of me mattered more than what I thought of myself. Getting dirty on the football pitch became a stupid thing to do. I started thinking about the clothes I wore and how I did my hair and a hundred other silly details. And then, of course, I started going out with Dave McMenamin and the only thing that mattered in the whole world was that he loved me as much as I loved him.
My phone buzzes with a message from Gina’s PR agent, Melisse, saying that they’ll be ready in ten minutes, so I dump my shopping in the car and drive back to the store.
Gina and Melisse are delighted with how the event went and keep up a conversation for most of the drive to Belfast, which takes a little over two hours. Although I try to tune it out, I’m learning more than I ever wanted to about the inner workings of the digestive system. Rather than stop for something to eat, Gina insists we go straight to the TV studio, and when I park the car, she takes a couple of small containers from her tote bag. She offers one to Melisse while keeping the other for herself.
‘They’re an energy-giving mix – my own recipe,’ she says. ‘Much better for us than a mass-produced sandwich or wrap. I’m sorry.’ She leans towards me. ‘I didn’t think to bring anything for you.’
‘Not to worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll get a sandwich on my way home.’
‘No, no!’ Gina is aghast. ‘Have one of my bars. I’m working with a company to produce them commercially,’ she adds as she hands me a wrapped square of pressed nuts. ‘The key thing is not compromising.’
I thank her and look uncertainly at the bite-sized bar, which is an unappetising dark-brown colour.
‘You should still get something a little more substantial to eat while you’re waiting,’ Melisse tells me as she gets out of the car. ‘After we drop Gina at the airport, we’ll head straight back to Dublin. I need to be in Sandymount as near to seven as possible.’
‘I thought you were staying in Belfast,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to drive you back.’
‘It makes no sense for me to stay,’ says Melisse.
Of course it doesn’t. But I took the booking myself on my mobile
and I know that the person making it said nothing about driving Melisse back to Dublin. Not that it matters, as I’m going back there myself. But driving to Sandymount means driving past Mum’s and will probably add another hour to my day. I wanted to be home as soon as possible to give her a break and spend some time with my children. I’ll have to text her to tell her I’ll be late.
Despite Gina’s energy bar (which, being honest, was totally disgusting), I go for yet another coffee. I take Thea’s umbrella from the boot of the car because the rain has started to come down again. Maybe it’s the cheerful design, or maybe I’m still getting the vibe from the older woman, but using it definitely makes me walk a little taller.
I stop at the nearest café and don’t bother with a wrap or sandwich but instead ask for a slice of chocolate cake. I’m a little tired now, which, I decide, means I’m probably low in sugar, so despite the chocolate cake, I also tip half a sachet into my cappuccino. I ignore the voice in my head reminding me that sugar is empty calories.
I text Mum to update her on the schedule. She watched the programme with Gina Hayes this morning and says that she seems a nice enough woman. I reply that she’s pretty committed to all this healthy-eating lark and I feel like a leaden lump beside her. I try not to look at the chocolate cake as I send the text.
You’re not a lump , replies Mum instantly.
I need to lose a few pounds.
Don’t be ridiculous.
There’s a baby belly there that never went away.
Mistake Page 4