Was he really that stupid, Laura wondered in amazement – did he really think that a scan photo of his and his wife’s beautiful little unborn baby was an appropriate thing to show to her, his discarded mistress? This hurt was more than she could take.
“Get out,” she said softly, laying the crumpled photo on the bed.
“What?” Paul stared at her, startled.
“I said get out,” repeated Laura. “Take your photo of your baby with you and piss off out of it.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you premenstrual or something?”
“Get out!” she screamed. “I’m done with you. I never want to see you again. We’re done, over, finished, for good.”
“What the fuck did I do?” He was standing there staring at her, patting down his pockets methodically for his phone, keys and wallet. Funny how people were conditioned to do that, Laura thought as she watched him, no matter what the ongoing crisis. Earthquake, hurricane or zombie apocalypse, you couldn’t cross the road without checking you had your phone, keys and wallet.
“Get out!” She picked up a jar of face-cream from her bedside table as if she intended hurling it through the air at him like a missile. “Get out, get out, get out!”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m going,” he said, before adding nastily, “And this time I won’t be back.”
“Good. That’s good, because you’re a dirty lying cheating pig of a man and you’re not good enough for me. I never want to see you again. Now get out and shut the door after you!”
When he was gone, she threw herself down on the bed and cried for him for what she sincerely hoped would be the last time.
Now it was a Monday morning, the Monday after that terrible Friday night, and Laura was on the Luas to work. She’d spent all weekend having a truly horrible Long Dark Night of the Soul. As dreadful as it had been, she reckoned it was worth it. She had poured the remaining booze down the sink on the Saturday morning. She was not a lush like her mother. She was determined not to end up a hopeless alcoholic like Eleanor Brennan. There would be no more drinking to help her cope with life’s ups and downs. From now on, she would cope with any crises herself, but while dry, clean and sober and not drowning in booze. She was determined that her relationship with Paul was over. No longer could she sit meekly by while Paul played Happy Families and rubbed his new baby photos in her face, showing her like nothing else had that he didn’t give a toss about her feelings at all. She was done with Paul, the bastard.
In her stylish black handbag right now sat her resignation from work, a neatly typed letter that had taken her a while to compose and didn’t mention a single word about Paul. She’d be giving it to the younger Mr. Phelan later on today. It was effective immediately, although if they wanted her to work out her two weeks’ notice, then she’d do that. It would be hard to find another job this side of Christmas, but she had savings that would last her for a while if the worst came to the worst. A clean break from Paul and Phelan’s was what she needed. Aside from her financial situation, though, getting through Christmas would be hard with everyone around her either all loved up or playing Happy bloody Families. Even Eleanor, her alcoholic mother, had someone to spend Christmas with. She had a new boyfriend now, an Algerian waiter of twenty-eight (the same age as Laura!) called Ali, who worked in a fast-food restaurant in the Liberties. Laura had nearly died of shock when her mother had broken the news over the phone.
“Have you given him any money, Mum?” was Laura’s first question.
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Laura,” Eleanor had sniffed, offended.
On a Disability payment for her panic attacks and chronic anxiety (chronic alcoholism, more like, Laura personally thought), the forty-five-year-old Eleanor was a prime target for conmen, who smelled her desperation and figured that they could somehow swing it to their advantage. Still, Laura wasn’t going to worry about Eleanor and her Algerian toy-boy now. That was very definitely a problem for the future.
Laura, more concerned about the here and now for the moment, checked her appearance in her little gold compact mirror, a present from Paul that was too good to throw out or give away to charity just because Paul had given it to her. Finding her make-up to be flawless, as she’d expected it to be, she took a quick selfie with her phone, then another and then another, and quickly uploaded them to social media from her phone with the caption: ‘Moi, en route to the daily grind.’ There. Good. She felt better. It was important to keep up external appearances anyway, no matter how shit everything was under the surface. And Paul might just see these pictures and suffer a pang of longing for what he was missing. If there was even the slightest chance of his seeing them, then all the effort she’d gone to would be worth it a thousand times over. She looked up suddenly and caught the eye of the man sitting across from her.
To her surprise, she realised that it was the tall, dark-haired guy in the long black coat, the one she often saw on the Luas and who’d been sitting two or three seats down from her at the start of the journey.
“I like a woman who takes care of herself, like you clearly do,” he said, eyeing her up appreciatively.
“Do you now?” She tucked her phone and compact mirror back into her handbag. She crossed and recrossed her legs deliberately to see the effect it had on him (he stared at her like he was the Big Bad Wolf and she Little Red Hiding Hood crossed with a nice juicy steak, which was exactly the desired effect), and looked him over as discreetly as she could.
He was certainly good-looking – no one could deny him that – about thirty-five or even older. That was the age Laura preferred her men to be. Paul had been an immature thirty-four going on fifteen, the jerk, and Barry O’Donnell was still only in his late twenties. This guy looked older, like he was a man of the world and knew things about life. His long black cashmere coat had clearly cost a bomb. His shoes were undoubtedly designer, and even his dark subtly patterned socks looked as if they’d just strolled casually off a catwalk. The gloves on his lap were black leather and he carried a matching black briefcase. There was a general air of expensiveness about him. He even smelled expensive, a scent that appealed greatly to Laura’s trained nostrils. What he was doing on the Luas instead of driving his own posh car, she couldn’t imagine. Maybe he liked public transport or something. Maybe it was a good place to pick up women.
“I’m Dominic,” he said smoothly, offering her his hand.
“Is that a wedding ring?” She suddenly noticed it winking on the hand he hadn’t proffered.
“Well, yes,” he admitted, “but don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. It’s a marriage in-name-only.”
He leaned forward and she caught a whiff of his outrageously expensive aftershave and it made her go weak at the knees.
Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, “My Wife Doesn’t Understand Me.”
“I see,” said Laura. She looked him up and down slowly. And smiled.
“I’m Laura,” she said. “Tell me more.”
NOT THE END . . .
FLOWERS FOR EUGENIA
A POEM BY MELISSA CREIGHTON-REDMOND
She loved all flowers
Loved the snowdrops and daffodils
In spring
Made daisy-chains
In summer
Look at me, Mummy,
Look at the pretty!
Am I a princess?
Of course, darling,
The prettiest princess
She cried when they died
The flowers in winter
When will they come back?
In the spring, darling,
Everything comes back
In the spring
Will you and me
Be here in the spring,
Mummy?
Of course we will, darling,
Why wouldn’t we be?
Snowdrops and daffodils
Brighten her grave now
Every spring
Tossing their beautiful heads
In the breeze
And in the summer
There’ll be daisies
A blanket of daisies
To cushion her sleep
I’ll fashion a chain
For her neck
Lay it round her
So gently she doesn’t even stir
Not a breath
Another chain for the headstone
Flowers for Eugenia
Crowning the resting-place
Of this little princess
Who loved them in life
Flowers for Eugenia
Look at me, Mummy!
Flowers for Eugenia
Watered by the rain
Warmed by the sun
To everything
There is a season
Flowers for Eugenia
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Flowers for Eugenia
Thirteen Stops Page 32