My marriage is over. The thought lunges at me, and I suddenly feel like I’m on another planet. How can everyone be acting so ordinarily? How can the sun be shining? How can Diarmuid be in love with Charlene? How am I going to tell my relatives at Marie’s party? And why, oh, why did I have to meet Nathaniel?
‘Put on your hard hat, Sally,’ Saffron says. ‘Everyone has to wear a hat before we go on the ride.’
I feel like shouting, Fuck off, you bitch, my husband’s just left me, but then Erika and Fiona would know too, and I can’t bear to talk to anyone about it at the moment. I can hardly admit it to myself. They said I seemed very quiet in the car, and I said it was because Diarmuid had been talking about maybe moving in with Charlene. Erika and Fiona were suitably outraged and wonderfully biased; Erika showed no evidence of her annoying even-handedness. Then they said that riding would ‘take me out of myself’ and help me to forget my worries. This, of course, is utter nonsense. It is just a brand new worry to add to the steaming heap that’s there already.
I plonk the hat on my head and glower at Saffron. What will I do with my wedding ring? I think. Should I give it to Diarmuid or hand it over to Oxfam?
There are five riders in my group, and I am the only one who hasn’t got on her horse. Saffron offers me a leg up, which I clearly need, since Blossom is the equine equivalent of Mount Everest.
‘Feel the fear and do it anyway,’ Erika whispers.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I bark at her. Saffron is marching towards me, and I fear she may lift me up and plonk me on Blossom whether I like it or not. All the riders are looking very smug. Some of them must have spent hundreds of euros getting the right gear. Only Blossom seems to be looking at me with a slight trace of sympathy. We are both in the same boat: neither of us wants to do this. She’d prefer to be munching grass in a field and I’d prefer to be at home watching daytime television and trying not to think about my life.
Saffron appears to be hanging on to my left leg. She obviously expects me to cling onto the saddle and sort of claw my way upwards, while hanging onto Blossom’s mane. I notice a large stone nearby – a stone that has clearly been used many times before by people in my situation.
‘I’m going to use that,’ I say to Saffron, in the gruff military voice she employs herself. Then I get on the stone and attempt to throw myself across Blossom’s enormous back. She stands very still while I make a total arse of myself. Eventually I manage to haul myself aloft, even though the saddle is slipping. And then Blossom puffs out her stomach, so that the saddle stabilises and I am not left clinging to it under her stomach. I am actually on her back. I feel like punching the air like a footballer.
‘Thanks, Blossom,’ I whisper. Her ears twitch back and forth. She’s listening.
‘All right, now that we’ve got that finished with, we can start the ride,’ Saffron says joylessly. ‘Tighten Blossom’s girth.’ She frowns at me. ‘Bluebell, you go behind me, and…’ She starts to reel off various names, which all seem to be connected with flowers. Blossom has to be at the back because she occasionally kicks. I am on a rebel horse. A horse with attitude. How on earth did I allow myself to be talked into this?
Fiona darts forward as we are all about to set off. She has a new digital camera. She’s probably been recording the entire saga, and we haven’t even left the paddock yet. I smile. That’s the stupid thing about photographs: you feel you have to smile. My marriage was like the smiling Olympics.
Nathaniel has such a wonderful smile. It lights up his whole face.
‘Oh my God!’ Erika suddenly screeches.
We all look at her. ‘What is it?’ I enquire. Blossom is dancing up and down as if she may make her bid for freedom at any minute; she’s champing at her bit and backing towards Bluebell as if she’s about to give her a quick belt on the shin.
‘It’s Alex and his wife,’ Erika moans. ‘They’re over there. Look. In the advanced ride.’
‘What is it?’ Saffron demands. ‘Are your stirrups too short?’ She glides towards us on her gleaming thoroughbred to inspect Erika’s legs.
‘I… I have to make a phone call,’ Erika whimpers.
‘You’ll have to make it later. We’re going now.’ Saffron glares at her.
Erika ignores her. She takes out her mobile phone and dials, while Bluebell starts to snatch mouthfuls of grass from the side of the path.
‘Pull her up!’ Saffron roars. ‘She’s not supposed to eat until we get back.’
‘Oh, shut up, you bossy woman!’ Erika roars back. Then she starts to whisper urgently into the phone. I wonder if Saffron is going to send Erika back to the stables and tell her to write a hundred lines, but she seems too surprised to get angry; she merely waits until Erika stuffs her phone back into her pocket.
‘Who did you ring?’ I ask, but Bluebell is trotting forwards to take her place behind Saffron’s mount, who is called Primrose. Poor Erika. I wish I could get closer to her and offer her some comfort.
In normal circumstances, my day would have been full of Diarmuid. I would have thought for hours about what I could have done differently, in between watching the telly and drinking tea and soaking desolately in the bath. I would also have got angry about Charlene and felt desperately betrayed and rejected. Then I would have got miserable about Nathaniel not wanting me like I want him, and eaten a whole packet of chocolate biscuits.
By this stage I would probably have phoned Erika and she would have joined me. We would both have been wailing about being on the sideboard and wondering why we were such eejits.
But I can’t think any of these things, because my thoughts have contracted into one major concern: staying on Blossom while she slithers down the bank of a river and splashes across. Then she has to climb up the other side. She trips, alarmingly, a number of times, and I cling to her mane. What on earth can Saffron be thinking of? Doesn’t she know we’re beginners? We reach a leafy path and have to duck to avoid the branches. Two kids on frisky ponies are riding up and down policing us, making sure that we are all in the correct order and behaving ourselves. They must be Saffron’s staff sergeants.
Saffron now wants us all to climb a steep hill; then, apparently, there will be some trotting. I sigh stoically and try to keep the sense of panic from rising too rapidly. But then Blossom does something unexpected. She turns to the left while the others walk on. We’re on a small path bordered with wildflowers and blackberries. Blossom walks on, steadily and contentedly. I try to get her to turn round, but she politely ignores me.
I am beyond caring. I’m tired and pissed off and very far from the ground. I am perched precariously on top of a huge animal who has absolutely no respect for me and who may take off at any moment. And so, since I am now virtually a prisoner on Blossom’s back, I decide just to try to enjoy myself. I’m tired of waiting for the circumstances that will make me happy. The right job, the right house, the right man, the right marriage… they were all supposed to be the answer. But they weren’t. I was – I am – still the same Sally. Having big articles in newspapers didn’t increase my sense of worth; being married didn’t make me feel more loved. Maybe the only way to be contented is to accept where I am and make the most of it. I should drink in this moment, especially since I may soon find myself deposited unceremoniously in a ditch. I smile. How did I become so serious about things? So worried and earnest?
It’s good to be away from Saffron. It’s good just to be with Blossom. I pat her shiny brown neck. She is innocent of the intentions I gave her; I don’t know how I know this, but suddenly I’m no longer frightened. I listen to the birds. I watch a small squirrel darting around, collecting nuts. That’s the thing about nature: it only knows how to be who it is. It doesn’t know how to pretend. It doesn’t know how to lie. Suddenly I am the little girl who wanted a mountain bike so she could pedal into the wilds, who wanted to learn the names of every bird and every tiny animal. DeeDee was right when she said parts of us are like the Serengeti and parts are like the back yard.
/> Poor DeeDee. Did she consider coming home, when Marie confirmed that Joseph was dead? Maybe she wanted to be sure she wouldn’t have to see him. Why else would she have phoned? But then she probably decided she couldn’t face the rest of us – especially Aggie…
Blossom knows where I – we – need to go. She takes us to a calm lake, where there are blackberries and tall, lush grass for her to eat. I get off her and let her munch. I lie back on the earth and stare up through the trees, at the clear, high, singing blue sky.
‘So you sometimes want to get away, too,’ I say to Blossom. ‘Get off the old path and try something different.’ I know Saffron will probably be going apeshit, but I find that I don’t care. The world will always have people like Saffron in it. You just have to learn not to take them too seriously.
I want to do things like this more often, I think. Have more adventures. I want to travel more. And why shouldn’t I? I’m a single woman now. I’ve never really felt single before; I’ve felt married to my job, my family, my friends, even my house. I want to be more like Nathaniel. I love his carefree ways, his humour. And I want not to care so much what people think of me. It makes you feel small and trapped and scared.
‘My husband has left me,’ I whisper to the wind, which carries the words away into the distance. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I have made a lot of mistakes.’ The lake stares back at me, calm and gentle, undismayed and unsurprised.
Eventually I feel I should make some attempt to get back to the others. I’m worried about Erika. We’ll have to whisk her away from Alex’s vicinity as soon as possible. I find a tree stump and manage to clamber onto Blossom’s back. As I wriggle around arduously, I remember the way Fiona puts one foot in a stirrup and swings herself upwards so that she lands neatly on the saddle; but I am tired of comparing myself to Fiona. Why should I? We’re different people. Why can’t I just accept myself as I am, instead of wanting someone else to do it for me?
Blossom heads back down the path without protest. Suddenly I hear the sound of trotting, so Blossom and I hide behind a large bush. I peep out at the riders. It’s the beginners. Erika is hanging grimly onto Bluebell’s mane and bouncing up and down on her saddle. When the last rider has passed, Blossom and I creep out from behind the bush and fall in at the back. No one even comments on our absence, apart from one of the small staff sergeants, who says, ‘Did you like the lake?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Blossom’s favourite place. If she likes people, she takes them there.’
‘And you didn’t stop us?’
‘No. Saffron said Blossom would look after you. Blossom’s very good with people who are frightened and don’t really want to go riding at all.’
Saffron is roaring instructions about some gate and telling Erika to shorten her reins. How hard it is to tell who people really are! I feel a warmth in my heart, a surge in my spirit. It’s been a lovely morning, lovely in a way I didn’t expect at all. It hasn’t just been helpful; it has been necessary. It happened just when I needed it to.
The horses are walking faster, towards the stables and food. As we reach the paddock, I see Erika glancing around nervously. The advanced ride will be returning soon. She’ll probably want to flee before Alex and his wife get back here. Fiona is taking more pictures, and Milly is looking at us all with great interest.
There is a man resting his elbows on the wooden fencing. He is tall and dark and lithe, with soft brown eyes and a lovely, open face. He’s watching Erika, watching her every movement. He looks shy but determined.
‘Who’s that?’ I nudge Erika as she loosens the girth on Bluebell’s saddle.
But suddenly I know, even before she says it. It’s the person she phoned. It’s Lionel, and he’s gorgeous.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I stumble into the day from a thick sleep, with no wish to go anywhere. I want to spend the day in my cosy wee cottage. It’s lashing rain outside. I have to write my column, and this one’s going to be different. It’s going to say things I actually believe, for a change. I’m tired of feeling like a fake. I’m tired of telling people to paint walls and buy woven rattan baskets. There’s quite enough of that advice around already. I want to write something different, but I don’t quite know what it is yet. I need a cup of tea first.
I propel myself from my bed. I can barely stagger. Erika’s wildflower liqueur has set off a foggy, dull ache in my head, and the muscles in my legs and thighs and bum are complaining mightily. I wince with every step. Who would have thought sitting on a horse for an hour could do this to you? I inch my way downstairs towards the kitchen and the kettle. I feel as though I’m ninety.
As I gingerly sip my tea, I decide to phone Erika to see if she has recovered from seeing Alex and his wife. When we sat on her saggy sofa last night, I spilt the beans and spent most of the time talking about Diarmuid and Charlene and Nathaniel. It didn’t help that the sofa’s cushions were sliding gradually onto the floor. It’s a cheap sofa with a rickety wooden base, and it seems to have aspirations to become a carpet. By the time we were virtually on Erika’s multicoloured ethnic rug, I was announcing that I was a failure and clearly knew nothing at all about intimate relationships, so I would obviously be alone forever. The brief serenity I had found when riding Blossom had disappeared entirely. How could I believe I knew anyone again? I hadn’t had the slightest suspicion that Diarmuid was about to ditch me so dramatically. Yes, I agreed, I hadn’t been entirely sure about my marriage, but I’d thought it would at least drag on a little longer. Erika pointed out that ‘dragging on’ didn’t sound that satisfactory, but I proclaimed that it could, at any moment, have got better. Diarmuid had given the mice back to the college. He was a great lover. He remembered things like milk and black bean sauce. He washed up, for God’s sake, and he knew how to put up shelving. I started to cry when I mentioned the shelving. Charlene would have his shelving, and I was on the shelf.
‘The sideboard,’ Erika said. ‘It’s not the shelf, it’s the sideboard.’ I didn’t correct her.
At around that time she got up and fetched chocolate biscuits, which she actually put on a plate. As she handed the plate to me, I said that that was what I’d done with Diarmuid: I had virtually handed him to Charlene on a plate, like a biscuit. Then we spent the next hour discussing what type of biscuit Diarmuid would be, if he were a biscuit – and, after four glasses of Erika’s wildflower liqueur, I wouldn’t have sworn he wasn’t. We decided that he wouldn’t contain much sugar but would be alarmingly deceptive – the kind of biscuit that seems wholesome and bland until you get to the bits of raw chilli pepper and have to race to the sink and rinse out your mouth. Alex, on the other hand, would seem to be sweet and delicious, but he wouldn’t really be a biscuit at all; he would be full of salt and pepper and sour mayonnaise. I don’t know where the sour mayonnaise came from. By that stage we were basically talking gibberish.
Erika wanted me to describe what kind of biscuit Nathaniel would be, but I couldn’t. I said he was Eloise’s biscuit and I had no right even to taste him. I started to cry again, and Erika decided to cheer me up by playing the guitar. I got a taxi shortly afterwards. I wonder what sort of state she is in this morning. It’s nine-thirty; she should be at her desk.
‘International Mouldings.’ Her voice has acquired the sing-song tone of public announcements at airports.
‘I thought it was International Holdings.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘No, you said International Mouldings.’
‘Oh, feck.’
‘It’s OK, most people wouldn’t notice.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with the stapler. There’s another one in the stationery cupboard.’ I’m getting used to this now. Erika sounds groggy and a great deal less patient than usual.
‘How are you, Sally? Are you feeling any better?’
‘I don’t know. I rang to find out about you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I hardly let you say a word last night.’
; ‘Right and proper, too,’ she says. ‘I’m furious with Mouse Boy for being so horrible to you. You needed to let it all out.’
‘Please don’t call him Mouse Boy.’
‘But it suits him.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘You should be more angry with him.’
‘I am angry with him,’ I say. ‘But I’ve been angry with him for months; it’s a normal feeling for me now. I want to talk about you. How are you?’
‘I wish I didn’t have to waste my time at this stupid job,’ Erika sighs. ‘It’s outrageous. Life is far too short for this sort of rubbish.’
I know exactly how she feels.
‘We should be swimming with dolphins, Sally. We should be sitting under olive trees in the sunshine, eating figs.’
I agree with her entirely.
‘Let’s get a camper van and just run away.’
I’m not so sure about that one.
‘How’s Lionel?’ I ask casually.
‘Same as ever.’ Erika sighs. ‘He made a pig’s arse out of pretending to be my boyfriend, didn’t he? I wanted Alex to think I’d found someone who adores me. I wanted to… to regain some dignity. I even hoped he might be jealous.’
‘I… I thought his hand lingered on your elbow with genuine feeling,’ I say.
‘But you missed the rest of it when you went to the café.’ Erika sighs reproachfully. When Lionel was supposed to be pretending to be Erika’s boyfriend, I darted into the small café beside the stables to get some sugar sachets for Blossom.
‘What happened?’ I ask. She didn’t feel capable of talking about it last night. It was all too raw and disappointing and ridiculous, and she wanted me to talk about my raw and disappointing and ridiculous marriage instead.
The Truth Club Page 29