Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  “Ask them to teach you.”

  “You make everything sound so simple, Emily.”

  “What do you want me to tell you, that you’re wasting your time turning up at all?” Emily said loudly. She had that childish urge again to sit on her hands in case she ended up belting Liz. “Well, by God, if I have to mind that lot for an hour, I’d like you to at least make a go of it.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I honestly don’t think they’d allow me to look after five children in here, Liz.”

  “They needn’t know,” Liz pleaded.

  “I really think you should ask Eamon. He’d be delighted that you’ve got an interview.”

  “He won’t be delighted. He’ll just go on about the cost of childcare, and all the tax I’ll have to pay, and what happens when the kids are sick – things I haven’t even thought about yet because if I start on all that, I won’t go at all.”

  “He is very concerned about the kids, Liz.”

  “Oh sure, the kids – but not me,” Liz said rather bitterly. “He has no idea what it’s like to be waiting around for handouts from him, while he plays the big man that we’re all dependent upon!” She took out her car keys and closed her handbag with a loud snap. “Willy has just been changed and fed, so he should be all right. There’s books and jigsaws for the boys in the baby-bag, and if all comes to all, there’s a big packet of buttons in the side pocket.” She whispered this bit. “It’ll be fine. I’ve warned them all to be on their best behaviour.”

  The five boys looked over at Emily cannily, and she had that horrible feeling a fly must have when it comes up against a spider’s web.

  “Liz, I . . .” She looked at Liz’s nervous, thin, made-up face, and she just nodded. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Liz looked a bit awkward. “You’ve been great about everything, Emily. I mean it.”

  But lest Emily might get a swelled head, Liz turned away quickly, kissed all the boys anywhere she could reach, and left.

  “Well, boys!” Emily said loudly. “Will we play with a jigsaw puzzle on the bed?”

  “I don’t want to,” Robbie said at last.

  “Of course, you do!”

  “I don’t.”

  The little shit. Emily could see disaster looming. “Buttons,” she said loudly.

  There were no buttons in the baby bag. Just a forlorn, empty bag. There was chocolate all over Bobby’s face, and he smiled at Emily happily.

  Neasa rose early as it happened. She put on the pair of old jeans that she saved for spring-cleaning and redecorating and she went straight downstairs. She had things to do today. The first port of call was the press under the kitchen sink, and a big roll of black bin-liners. Neasa always kept more bin-liners in stock than most people. But most people didn’t have nine serious partners in four years and hadn’t as much need for bin-liners.

  She started in the living-room. Into the bin-liner went the copies of Gary’s Law Review that he had left behind on her coffee table, to be returned to him this morning. These were followed swiftly by two novels, his training shoes, a spare set of car keys, his Ralph Lauren facial moisturiser and a pair of boxer shorts she found behind the sofa. She was nothing if not thorough, and she worked her way around the room with the practised ease of one who had done this many times before.

  She briefly hesitated by the CD collection. Had he given her M People as a present, or had he bought it for himself?

  She couldn’t remember, and chucked it into the bin-liner anyway. She always gave the dearly departed the benefit of the doubt. The cross-dresser had actually doubled his CD collection this way. “It’s nice to know that you’re not bitter and twisted,” he had muttered, and Neasa had smiled understandingly. Little did he know. She just hadn’t wanted to give him an opportunity to go ringing her up about missing possessions, thus dragging the whole miserable thing out a second longer than necessary. Onwards and upwards, that was her motto.

  She didn’t bat an eyelid as she progressed upstairs to the bedroom, where she efficiently packed up Gary’s Hugo Boss underwear, two silk shirts, a pair of pyjamas that he had never actually worn, a five-hundred-pound suit and tie. Oh, and his condoms in case he might want to use one soon. She would strip the bed later and put on a very hot wash.

  She sat down on the bed for a minute now, queasy, even though she’d eaten a big fry and taken three painkillers. She’d outdone herself last night. That’d teach her to get drunk on champagne, she thought cheerfully.

  Still, it had been a great night. Terrific! Daphne and Ewan and Creepy had hung on her every word. And why not? If she played her cards right, she might be heading up that new litigation division Ewan had talked about over his third brandy. At least she thought it had been his idea. Things had been a bit of a blur at that point.

  No, she had no complaints at all this morning. Apart from a hangover, of course, but she would bet that Daphne Dunne was sticking her head down a toilet bowl at this very moment. Gary would probably have ended up accusing her of being an alcoholic too had he not left straight after dessert.

  “Poor Gary,” she sighed sympathetically. His own worst enemy really. He’d want to watch himself or one of these days someone would take a slander suit against him.

  And, honestly, if anyone drank too much it was him – off to the pub at lunchtime three days a week with the lads! Neasa never went to the pub at lunchtime – how was that for a so-called alcoholic? Alcoholics went sneaking off to the loo for a quick nip from a flask in their handbags, for heaven’s sake! They hid drink in toilet cisterns at home, and they ate Polo mints all the time. They couldn’t hold down jobs, they messed up their relationships, and they were usually drunk by eleven in the morning. And, Neasa thought knowledgeably, they nearly always had some big murky secret in their backgrounds that made them drink their heads off to escape it.

  As if Neasa were like that! She did her drinking in public. Quite a bit of it, certainly, but she enjoyed it and there was nothing wrong with it. It certainly didn’t affect her work or anything like that. And her past was gloriously free of anything remotely traumatic, apart from her grandmother’s death, and she had come to terms with that.

  “Oh, stop it,” she told herself brightly. There was no need to go rationalising and reasoning like this, like she had something to worry about. But it was natural to be a bit defensive when someone hurled accusations at you, however groundless.

  Her stomach had settled a bit now, and she felt better. The problem with men like Gary was that they were misogynists at heart. They couldn’t bear to see women doing as well as them or, God forbid, better. Their answer was to bring them down using any available means. And if they couldn’t beat a woman fair and square, then they tried to plant insecurities in the hopes that the woman might actually bring herself down!

  He was a right pig when you thought about it. And she had been going to return his things to him very civilly, too! Well, not now. The charity shop in Paulstown would be delighted with his Hugo Boss underwear, one careful owner. They’d be delighted with the suit, the CDs, everything. Perhaps not the condoms though. She must take those out before she left. In fact, she might blow them up and hang them from the office ceiling, and tell everybody what a disaster he was in bed. She could plant insecurities too! And hers would actually have some foundations.

  She put him from her mind clinically, and started to review her wardrobe. She had her big day in court coming up Monday week, not to mention the date with Terry Mitton. She could feel a shopping trip coming on. She couldn’t embark on a new romance in old clothes. And, who knows, this could be The One. She had a feeling about this one.

  Ten minutes later, she was in her car with her credit cards. Gary’s stuff was in the boot. She would drop it by the charity shop on her way. She would need a big empty boot for all the new clothes she would buy in Cork today.

  It was a dreary grey day but she put on sunglasses anyway. Her eyes hurt a bit. She’d take it easy tonight, maybe get a vid
eo and a Chinese or something.

  The traffic was light in Paulstown. The charity shop was up on the right, past the traffic lights. She slowed and craned her neck to see whether it was open. It was. Good.

  “Fuck!”

  She didn’t see a car coming from the left. She jammed her foot on the brake. So did the driver of the other car, and for a moment it seemed that they had stopped in time. But then Neasa felt the car rock as the other car touched off the passenger door. Terrific. Another hike in her insurance premium.

  “Nice driving,” she said sarcastically, jumping out of her car and confronting the other driver, a man. The car had a Dublin registration, she saw. Fucking tourists.

  “You broke the lights,” he said, looking a bit shocked.

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  But he was right. Neasa felt a bit sick as she saw clearly that her light was red. The man had the green light.

  “All right, sorry,” she muttered. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  Mortified, Neasa stomped around to the passenger side of her car and threw open the damaged door. She found her licence and insurance details in the glove compartment and thrust them at him.

  “Here,” she said, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Obviously I’ll pay for all the damage.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the police?” the man wanted to know.

  Neasa rolled her eyes. Where did he think he was, Detroit? “Listen, Frankie Noonan won’t appreciate being called out because I jumped a light. Trust me on this one.”

  “Oh. Right. It’s just that my wife has already called them.”

  “Fantastic.”

  She was out of the car now, red-faced with anger, telling Neasa what a reckless driver she was. Neasa just stood there defiantly. Garda Frankie Noonan would sort them out. He hated Dubliners, even more than he hated Cork people.

  Frankie Noonan didn’t come. It was a guy from Mitchelstown. He was young and cocky and Neasa instantly disliked him. He walked dramatically around the two cars as though he were at a murder scene.

  “Can you just take the details and let me go?” Neasa said loudly. He probably hadn’t had as much excitement in years.

  He dutifully stepped up and started to jot down details from her documents into his notebook.

  “Headache?” he enquired, looking at her sunglasses.

  “A bit,” she replied shortly, snatching back her papers. “If you need to know anything more, I can be contacted at Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly. Solicitors.” She said this last bit rather loudly.

  He was standing very close her to now and she didn’t like it. This wasn’t the time or the place to be making a pass at her. As if he had a hope.

  “Were you drinking last night, madam?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Last night? Were you drinking?”

  “I was out for dinner. I had a few drinks, yes,” she said, very patiently, as though he were a buffoon.

  “Quite a few?”

  “It was a celebration,” Neasa said tightly. “Is that against the law, Garda?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Drink-driving is, though.”

  Neasa threw her head back in amazement. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning! I am perfectly sober.”

  “You won’t mind doing a breathalyser test for me then.”

  “Where’s Mammy?”

  “I told you a minute ago, Robbie, she’ll be back shortly.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Tommy announced.

  “I’ll ask Maureen for a jug of water. How about that?”

  Tommy looked at her as though she’d offered him arsenic.

  “Would Coke do instead?” Conor asked, miraculously producing a two-litre bottle from a large plastic bag.

  The visitors’ room experienced a brief lull as the boys guzzled Coke. Emily looked at Conor gratefully. He’d not only brought the emergency supply of buttons she’d requested but Hula Hoops, Milky Way bars, Coke and apples. They hadn’t touched the apples, naturally.

  “Isn’t it amazing all the same how quickly they can do those jigsaw puzzles?” Conor said. He had a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

  “It is. It is. And how they were able to take Bobby’s tractor apart. All those screws, too.”

  Emily had broken two nails trying to put the thing back together again.

  “Still, only fifteen minutes to go now,” Conor said manfully.

  Emily nodded optimistically. “She might even be back earlier.” She looked at him. “Thanks for staying on with me. I mean it.”

  “Of course I was going to stay,” he replied softly, and she smiled. “You shouldn’t have to cope with that lot in your condition.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Oh, so you just stayed out of concern for the baby then.”

  “Stop being so high-handed, Emily.” He looked at her. “Just because you’re going to be on the TV tonight.”

  He gave her a dry look and she went a bit pink.

  “So, have you moved out yet?” She tried to sound cool and unaffected.

  “Took the last things over this morning. I’ve left the place clean and tidy and all,” he added quickly.

  “Fine,” Emily said. You’d think he was just a lodger.

  “And I’ve taken the dogs, of course.”

  Emily was a bit taken aback. “You’ve taken the dogs?”

  “Well, yes, you mightn’t be home for another month. And anyway, I didn’t think you’d want to look after two dogs and a newborn.”

  “Aren’t you great,” she said colourlessly. Now she wouldn’t even have the blasted dogs to talk to!

  Conor shifted in his chair. “Emily – don’t touch that, Robbie – we’ve been over this. I thought we decided it was the best thing to do.”

  “You decided.”

  “You agreed.”

  “Because you wanted your ‘space’.”

  “I think we both do.”

  “People are always going on about ‘wanting their space’. I often wonder what they do with it all,” Emily said sarcastically.

  Conor seemed a bit puzzled too. “Reflect, I suppose.”

  “On the shoddy state of their marriages.”

  “Something like that,” Conor agreed, smiling a bit.

  On the spare armchair where they’d propped him between two cushions, Willy suddenly twisted his head towards them.

  “Oh, look at him, Conor. He’s all excited for some reason!”

  His face was indeed very red. He fixed his gaze on the ceiling rather desperately, and gave a little grunt. The veins under his white skin bulged as he strained hard.

  “Oh,” Emily said.

  A whiff reached them.

  “Yes,” Conor said, sadly.

  Willy finished up, gurgled, and turned to look at Emily and Conor expectantly.

  “I suppose we should change him,” Emily said eventually.

  “We should. We should,” Conor agreed, fresh sweat breaking out on his upper lip.

  They looked at each other blankly. Emily wondered if that midwife Angela was in the building.

  “It can’t be that hard,” she said sternly. “I’ll get the nappies. You lay him down on the floor over there.”

  “Um, no problem.”

  Emily rummaged in the baby-bag for supplies while Conor approached Willy with great care. After three attempts, he lifted the child off the chair, holding him out awkwardly so that his feet dangled in the air. Willy thought this was great gas.

  “Will I support his head?” Emily asked anxiously.

  “I think he’s got the hang of his own head, but maybe to be on the safe side . . .”

  It was with a great sense of achievement that they finally got Willy down flat on the floor. He looked up at them with great confidence.

  “We’ll have you done in a minute,” Conor reassured him. “Right, I suppose the first thing is to take off his dungarees.”

  This was quite a job given the n
umber of zips, buttons and popper-fasteners. They peeled off the dungarees and found that his top was also popper-fastened underneath. Once that was pulled up, they were confronted with a vest with more of the things.

  “He’d never get through the metal detector at Cork Airport,” Conor muttered.

  Emily undid the last lot and finally he was down to his nappy. The smell hit them full in the face.

  “My God,” Conor said. “And look, it’s leaked out.”

  It had too. Angela hadn’t said anything about leakages.

  “We’ve plenty of wipes,” Emily said strongly. This was no time to go to the wall. If the boys over there sensed any hint of fear at all, they would run riot.