Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  “No, no.”

  “They should. You don’t look well at all, now that I get a good look at you.”

  “I’m afraid, Liz. After the last time,” Emily said.

  Liz was a bit discomfited at this show of honesty. “Well, of course. But lots of women have miscarriages. And go on to have a clatter of kids, thank God. Too many in some cases. Look at Myra Byrne. She could open her own crèche.”

  It could have been their mother speaking, combating any hint of complaint with her mish-mash of religious clichés and good, old-fashioned Irish insistence that there were always others worse off than themselves.

  It was just another aspect of the endless denial that Emily had bought into too. Emily didn’t pursue it. There was no sense in forcing Liz to see the light. Emily was only starting to see it herself.

  “Have you talked to Eamon?”

  “I phoned the Revenue this morning from Mammy’s,” Liz confided. “They were quite sympathetic, if you can believe that. I’m going to start paying off bits of the tax bill straightaway. I’ll have to use the Children’s Allowance.”

  “So you didn’t talk to him then?”

  Liz sensed criticism. “And when would I talk to him? He was working till midnight last night. And this morning I had to take Tommy to school, then Willy here to the doctor for his vaccinations, and now I’m visiting you.”

  “Okay, Liz –”

  “It’s not like your house, Emily, nobody to worry about except yourselves, nothing to do any day except talk.”

  They talked all right. Emily did most of it, with Conor chipping in occasionally. They discussed endless things in depth, such as Mrs Conlon’s kitchen extension, the latest news from Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly, Conor’s efforts to find a replacement key for the piano at home. Oh, there was plenty of communication in the Collins’ household. And they went to bed at night secure in the knowledge that the TV had not been on while they ate dinner, like they had passed some kind of test.

  Emily looked at Liz and for a brief moment considering confiding in her. Surely they might find some common bond in all this? Maybe even be some kind of support to each other?

  But Emily would only be telling Liz so that Liz wouldn’t feel that her own problems were so bad. Liz would sympathise but she would be thinking that whatever Eamon might be, at least he wasn’t a cheat. If their situations were reversed, Liz would think that at least Eamon didn’t plunge them into financial chaos.

  “And I have to fill out some kind of form for the bank,” Liz said, rummaging in her bag. “To change the joint savings account into just my name, so that Eamon can’t go buying a new hydraulic drill or something stupid. Can you look at it for me, Emily? You’re good at these things.”

  Emily’s expertise as a solicitor was often called upon by members of her family who routinely got confused by ESB demands, bank forms, insurance policies and other standard day-to-day documentation. Institutions had always been held in a kind of fear and awe in their household. It had irritated Emily, but the sight of a brown envelope through the door had always been greeted with great caution by her parents, and examined at length before any decision was taken.

  “You just fill in the details of your bank account number, Liz. That’s all. And sign there where there’s an X.”

  “Thanks, Emily.” Liz gratefully signed her name.

  “You need Eamon’s signature too. You can’t change the account into your own name without his consent.”

  “I know. I have to trick him.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll have to tell him it’s something else and trick him.”

  Emily was astounded and disbelieving, until she thought of the trickery she had just put Neasa up to. Was this what relationships had come to, after all the movements and revolutions and the joyous dawning of an age where there was at last meaningful communication and understanding? Wives filling in bank forms and checking hotels behind their husband’s backs, suspicious and conniving. Husbands reneging on mortgages and merrily chasing other women, while their wives gave birth and reared numerous children. Somewhere along the way the plot had been lost, she thought.

  Liz saw her face. “Look, he won’t admit how bad it is, Emily. I was trying to tell him we should go and work something out with the mortgage people, but he won’t hear of it. Do you know what his solution is? Borrow more! Throw good money after bad! Now, if it means I have to trick him in order to pay last month’s ESB bill so that they don’t cut us off too, then I will.”

  Emily acknowledged this. “Liz, don’t be insulted, but if you need money –”

  “No.”

  “It would just be a loan – you could pay me back.”

  “No. Thanks anyway, Emily,” Liz said stiffly. “This is our mess. Oh, and you won’t say anything about it, will you? To Mammy.”

  “God, Liz. Of course I won’t.”

  There wasn’t even any sisterhood any more.

  “And she said for you to ring her, by the way. Put her mind at rest.”

  There was no question of their mother ringing Emily. She always claimed that she didn’t know how to work mobile phones. You’re not working one; you’re just ringing one from your own phone in the hall, Emily had tried to explain. But their mother cleverly refused to get the hang of the ‘new technology’, as she called it. Instead she sat at home, raging that nobody ever thought to ring her and put her mind at rest.

  Liz rummaged some more in her bag. “They dropped that petition into the chemist. You know, to stop this place closing. I brought it in.”

  “Oh, right. Give me that pen.”

  “No, I meant I was going to leave it with you. You could get loads of signatures in here.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You could go around a few wards, couldn’t you? Haven’t you plenty of free time?”

  “After I ring Mammy and put her mind at rest, and do that form for you for the bank, of course. And see Mr Chapman about my condition.”

  “Just whenever you have a minute,” Liz agreed.

  She was perfectly serious. Never mind that Emily should probably be on the flat of her back. Never mind that her career and marriage had hit the rocks. But Liz didn’t know that, Emily found herself rationalising. But still, she didn’t want to do this, why should she?

  “Oh, okay! But just my ward,” she said grudgingly.

  Willy stirred and started to cry. Liz lowered the sling, hiked up her shirt and stuffed a breast into his mouth.

  “At least I don’t have to fork out for formula,” she said bravely.

  Gary was a bit put out when Neasa abruptly changed their lunchtime plans.

  “I have a condom on and all,” he complained.

  “Well, take it off,” she said a bit snappily. “I have work to do.”

  “What work?” He peered over her shoulder at her computer screen.

  “Creepy Crawley’s asked me to touch up the contract for the sale of Tilbury House,” Neasa lied easily.

  “That contract went out this morning.”

  Gary, through no fault of his own, had done more work in three hours this morning than he’d managed all month. The pace was killing him and he had hoped to let off a little steam with Neasa in Crawley’s office.

  “I meant Tamworth House.”

  “That’s gone too,” Gary said self-righteously.

  “Oh, all right! I’m doing some personal work, okay? It’s not a crime. It’s in my lunch break.”

  “What personal work?”

  “Just bits and pieces,” Neasa said vaguely.

  Gary was hurt that she wasn’t confiding in him. He told her absolutely everything. She even knew how much he had in his savings account, which was considerable.

  “I’ll leave you to it so,” he muttered, hoping that she would stop him. She didn’t.

  “Yeh.”

  Out of spite, Gary went off to Milo’s with the laddish element in the office and had three pints of Smithwicks. And actually, it turned out to be exactly
the right thing to do, because he was able to reassure them that he was still a lad even though he was now a partner, and everybody had a great time.

  Alone in the office, Neasa procured the number of the German hotel from the relevant directory enquiries. Now, how to worm the information out of them? What if they didn’t speak English on the reception desk? The only German Neasa knew was from the old war films her father was fond of watching and most of it translated into ‘Die, you English pig’.

  In the end she plucked up the phone, dialled, and just went for it.

  “Hello,” she said clearly and slowly. “Do you speak English?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she was told.

  Well, if they were going to be shirty about it . . .

  “This is Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly,” Neasa said in a very threatening tone. “International solicitors.” Well, there were rumours that a branch would open in Kinnegad. “We’re acting on behalf of some clients who stayed in your establishment last year. There appears to be a discrepancy about the bill.”

  A silence at the other end. Feel the fear, Neasa thought nastily.

  “I need the details please.”

  Neasa told the woman what she knew. “That would be sometime in early September. We’re concerned that a couple of members of the orchestra were billed for some extra nights after that.”

  She heard rapid computer clicks on the other end of the phone. The Germans really were very efficient, she thought admiringly. If only Mandy at reception here could work a keyboard like that.

  “There was a group booking for the 3rd and 4th of September. Two members of the party stayed on after that,” the receptionist eventually informed her.

  “Two?” Neasa barked. “I’m afraid I have no record of that.”

  God, she was hot today.

  “They paid for the room themselves.”

  Ah-ha. Now they were getting to the crux of the matter.

  “And these people, their names . . .?”

  “May I ask whether you are acting on behalf of these two individuals also?”

  Oooh. The receptionist was hot too. Time to change tack.

  “You see, this is the thing,” Neasa murmured discreetly. “Basically, this pair are trying to claim expenses to which they are not entitled. A little holiday paid for by someone else, you understand?”

  The receptionist did, and warmed up immensely. Nobody of any nationality liked to see other people getting away with a fast one.

  “I can fax you their account,” she offered immediately.

  “That would be lovely,” Neasa gushed, giving her the work fax number. “Au revoir.”

  She hung up triumphantly, buzzing with adrenaline. Wow! How great for a change to actually put into practice everything she had learned in law school – lying, bending facts, bullying and threatening lawsuits at the drop of a hat. She had missed it more than she’d thought. Her New Year’s Resolution this year would be to ditch this kip and go back to Cork.

  But Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly were very clever. They didn’t give bonuses before Christmas, knowing that half the employees wouldn’t show up in January. No, they held off until the end of January, when any New Year’s Resolutions had gone out the window. And in case there was still some ambition lingering amongst the hardened dissidents, Crawley Dunne O’Reilly hit people with another bonus at Easter. “Jesus Christ!” people would moan as they looked at their bank accounts, “Another fucking bonus!” It was the same in summer. Everyone would gather in Milo’s, grim-faced, and try to form a pressure group to stop the bonuses. But the bonuses kept coming and so people kept staying. Neasa personally knew two people who had been trying to leave for fifteen years but had given up and bought holiday homes instead.

  Sometimes Neasa woke at night, wet with sweat and screaming, having dreamt that she was still selling boggy land at forty.

  “It’s all right,” Gary would murmur. “I get those dreams too. Everybody in the office does. But it’s pay day tomorrow.”

  And Neasa would happily go back to sleep.

  But lately the lack of mental stimulation was getting to her, and she was annoyed with herself. Most people were bored senseless in their jobs; what was wrong with her? And it wasn’t as though she had chosen law for any reason other than the money and the fact that she got to wear her own clothes.

  Now she had Gary complicating the picture too. It was unlikely he would be open to any suggestions about moving to Cork, now that he was part of the establishment. Was it possible that the ‘future’ he had talked about meant a detached home with a double garage out on the Cork Road?

  It was all becoming very complicated, Neasa thought. Maybe she and Gary should have a chat. But then again, she didn’t want him thinking she was putting pressure on him. Neither did she want him thinking that she was happy to put her career on the back burner and gaze adoringly at his star rising higher in Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly.

  Neasa jumped as the fax machine over by Mandy’s desk chugged, whirred, and spat a piece of paper onto the ground. It lay there, its corners curling incriminatingly.

  Neasa walked over slowly and picked it up. Her eye caught Conor’s name and she looked away in distaste. Please God may the other name be Billy Middlemiss or someone. But hang on, wouldn’t that be worse?

  It was Ffion Rivera. They hadn’t even bothered with the pretence of separate rooms. They’d shacked up in Room 134. Room service detailed a bottle of champagne, dinner for two, followed by breakfast the next morning. There was also an international phone call, to Emily and Conor’s home number. He’d probably called Emily while Ffion was washing the smell of sex off herself in the shower.

  Neasa was generally unshockable and was shocked to find that she was shocked. Wonders will never cease, she thought darkly, as she thought of Conor rolling buck naked on Mary Murphy, pages of sheet music scattered across the bed with abandon. Had they hummed little arias to each other as the pace hotted up?

  She tried to do some work, but couldn’t. Instead she sat at her desk for ages and ages, her eye constantly straying to the fax.

  She heard footsteps on the corridor outside and quickly folded the fax and put it in her pocket. She would decide what to do with it later.

  “Hi!” It was Gary, red-faced and slightly foolish with Smithwicks. “You missed a great session in the pub. Did you get what you wanted to do done?”

  “I did.” This came out as extremely bitter and twisted. “I did!” she said again, happily.

  Gary, pissed, nuzzled into her neck. “I almost told Phil about you and me.”

  “What?” Neasa was aghast.

  “We have to come clean at some point.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to legitimise our union, Neasa.” This mightn’t have sounded so pretentious if he hadn’t slurred it.

  “Why is it so important that Creepy Crawley and the rest give us the thumbs-up?”

  Neasa knew that Creepy would be sniffing around her even more if he knew she was definitely having sex with someone.

  Gary looked at her coolly. “You know, I’m starting to think that you’re a bit embarrassed to be seen with me.”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a reply.”

  “She replied.”

  Gary was going into Jaws mode, his chin jutting out and his eyes getting smaller. His incisors even seemed to come forward in his mouth. Neasa had never been on the receiving end of this before and wasn’t about to start now.

  “Gary, can we just leave this? I have other things on my mind.”

  “In that case, don’t let me intrude.”

  He stomped off to his desk at the top of the office. They had offered him his own office years ago, of course, but he hadn’t taken them up on it. Not in the interests of team spirit, he had declared sincerely. There’d be no crack at all to be had on his own, and he wouldn’t get sent all those jokes and dirty pictures over the internal email. But now he thought that maybe he should reconsider their offer. There was on
e free room near the back of the building. Unfortunately it was right beside the toilets and some people didn’t flush as often as they should. Hardly fitting for a man in his new position, he thought gloomily. Still, he supposed he could always use Emily’s office – just while she was on maternity leave. He would mention it to Charles Crawley this afternoon. He had decided to dispense with the ‘Creepy’ business, it was very childish and immature. And, really, Charles was quite nice once you got to know him.

  Vera Mooney should have been in bed hours ago with a cup of cocoa and watching last night’s videotaped episode of Horizon on the telly in her bedroom. Lay people always thought that nurses watched nothing except ER and Peak Practice. Those kinds of programmes made Vera Mooney’s blood boil. Collectively they were responsible for luring hundreds of naïve girls and boys into a world they believed to be full of glamour and intrigue and revealing pink uniforms, and where George Clooney would spring out at you from every corner. Oh, the hurt and bewilderment on their faces when they were confronted with the reality of bedpans and piles, bullying consultants and chronic staff shortages. Vera would take the worst cases under her wing, feed them sweetened tea in the canteen and advise them on how to sew little tucks into the waistline of their uniform so that it sat a bit better on the hips. She would murmur about the altruistic rewards of looking after sick folk, the wonder of delivering babies. She pointed up the subsidised canteen and played down the vicious hours. Then she would send them back out onto the firing line, looking a little less beaten. Occasionally she would come across a hopeless case and would quietly advise a change of career. The army, maybe. Soldier Soldier was a lot more realistic in the portrayal of its profession, in her view.