Jenny reaches across and her hand finds mine. She gently curls her fingers around my clenched fist.
‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘Deep breath. It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay.’
Hoooonnnnnkkkkk.
Jesus Christ.
I shake Jenny’s hand off mine and inhale deeply before I calmly re-grip the steering wheel at ten and two. I tap the accelerator gently and the car rolls forward. It picks up more speed than I intend as we descend a hill. Turning the wheel sharply, the car straightens and lines itself back up on the right side of the road. My breath catches in the back of my throat when I recognise the driver of the other car. Larry. The police must have released him. Oh Jesus Christ. I’m running out of time.
‘Jenny, I have to go.’ I cough to mask my panic. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be. Urgently.’
‘Where?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows, enthused with irritating curiosity.
‘Excuse me?’ I snap as I stop the car to let her out.
Jenny giggles. It’s by far the most irritating noise to come out of her since she sat in the car. ‘I don’t mean to pry . . .’ she says, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, that must have sounded very rude. I mean, are you going into Cork city? I could really use a lift.’
‘No,’ I say firmly.
‘Oh. I’ll just get out in the village then.’
‘Haven’t you just come from the village?’ I ask, hoping she’ll mention if she got talking to anyone.
‘No. I just went for a walk. It’s lovely around here, very quiet and peaceful.’
I smile, relieved that she hasn’t bumped into any of my nosy neighbours.
‘Where’s the best place to grab a taxi back to the city?’ Jenny asks.
‘A taxi?’
I roll my eyes and wonder if Jenny is serious. Ballyown village consists of two pubs, a corner shop and the post office. That’s it. Where the hell she thinks she’s going to hail a cab among the green fields is a mystery.
‘Where is your car?’ I ask.
‘I came by train. And then a nice taxi driver dropped me off here,’ she says, and I can see she’s slowly realising how stupid she’s been. ‘I didn’t think about getting back. I didn’t realise it would be so remote out here.’
Jenny’s hopes of us rekindling our friendship were even higher than I imagined. Wow! She must have thought I’d invite her in as a guest in my home. Or at least chauffeur her back to the train station like a good friend after we’d spent the afternoon catching up. Poor deluded cow. And it kills me that I’ll have to indulge her fairy-tale notion, for a little while at least. I can’t very well drive away and leave her roaming around Ballyown after I’ve gone.
‘C’mon.’ I try to sound breezy as I flash a huge smile. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
Chapter Thirty
THEN
My degree took four years to complete. I’ve worked hard to earn the pieces of paper that confirm I know my shit, and I’m exhausted after four long years of study. Yet the relief of finally finishing and moving on doesn’t come.
Unsurprisingly, my mother fails to show up at my graduation. It’s three days later before she calls. I allow two missed calls and a grovelling voicemail before I finally answer. She tells me that she has arranged to have my certificates framed and that they will arrive by courier soon.
‘I hope you like them, sweetheart,’ she says, and I swear I can hear her smiling. ‘Be sure to let me know when they arrive safely, won’t you?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, while imagining shoving the frames under my bed or tossing them into the back of the wardrobe, never to see them again.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there, Sue,’ she says. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I do,’ I lie.
She goes on to reiterate for the umpteenth time how it would be too emotionally distressing to set foot on the university grounds where Adam was knocked down. ‘It would bring it all back, Sue,’ she says.
I wonder if she realises that I spend as much time on campus as possible since Adam died, and only leave to return to my little flat right around the corner. It doesn’t matter.
The conversation drifts towards evening walks in vineyards and descriptions of the new friends my mother is making among the expat community in Provence. I shake my head in disbelief at her wonderful life that seems a million miles from the hell I’m living. My mother is moving on, maybe even healing. I wonder if it’s possible to resent anyone more than I resent her right now. And then I remember Paul. I hate him!
‘Goodbye, sweetheart,’ my mother says. ‘I’ll call again soon.’
I hang up.
I skip the graduation after-party, and blow off the week in Spain that I’ve been planning with my classmates since before Christmas. They tell me how disappointed they are and that we’ll catch up soon. It’ll never happen, I know that. We’ll drift our separate ways now that college is over, but we’ll still text awkwardly from time to time and make plans that none of us will keep, until we eventually fade out of each other’s lives.
I’m content to settle for DVD box set marathons, popcorn and endless days of unwashed hair and lounging around in my jammies. Of course, Jenny remains a steadfast friend and drops by every so often. She tries to pretend they’re casual visits because she has no better plans but I can see the concern for me in her eyes. It’s sweet, really. And wasted. Jenny fills me in on the mundane aspects of day-to-day married life. Things like how complicated the paperwork for a mortgage application is. And what vegetables are on special offer in the local Tesco. She never tells me that after a year of trying she can’t fall pregnant and that it’s eating her up inside. She never tells me that the pressure is putting a strain on her marriage. She never tells me that she’s jealous of how close Deacon and I have become. And she absolutely never tells me that she’s gone from politely asking him not to spend time with me to expressly forbidding him from seeing me. But she doesn’t have to, Deacon has already confided in me when we meet in secret.
Most of the summer goes by this way. I shower when I just can’t cope with how greasy my hair is, or when I can’t remember the last time I changed my socks. Without Adam here to nag me I rarely clean and there’s a funny smell coming from the kitchen. I suspect there’s mould growing on an uneaten crust in one of the takeaway pizza boxes stacked in the corner. I keep meaning to throw them out. Jenny’s mentioned the smell a couple of times, and I’ve caught her in the kitchen trying to wash up when she thinks I’m distracted and engrossed in something on the telly. The last time she called over she actually brought rubber gloves, antibacterial spray and disposable cloths. I didn’t even bother to pretend to be embarrassed. I wasn’t. It’s not that I enjoy living in squalor. Who would? I just don’t care enough about living at all to actively do something about the mess.
I reach lower days over the summer. There are days on end of eating beans on toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The dishes are stacked in the sink to toppling point and I rarely watch telly, I prefer simply staring into space. One particularly low afternoon, a light knock on my door catches my attention. I don’t answer. I know who’s on the other side and I’m in no mood to deal with Jenny today. I also know she won’t give up. The knocking grows louder and I turn up the television. There’s something on the news about a hit and run in West Kerry. A teenage boy is critically injured and the Gardaí are looking for witnesses. I shake my head and stand up.
‘Poor bastard,’ I say towards the telly, as if anyone can hear me.
The door rattles as Jenny’s knocking grows increasingly more aggressive.
‘All right, all right,’ I grumble. ‘I’m coming. Hold your horses.’
I unlock the door and pull the handle down. I let it swing open by itself. I’m about to drag my moping arse back to the couch when I’m caught off guard by the state of Jenny standing in front of me. The apples of her cheeks are red and swollen and punctuated with long streaks of black mascara. More mascara clump
s her eyelashes together where she’s obviously been rubbing her eyes. Her shoulders are shaking and she can barely draw her breath.
‘Shh,’ I whisper as I drape my arm over her shoulder and usher her inside.
My other hand drags the door behind us closed with a loud bang.
I switch off the television and we sit on the couch for a long time. The only sound is the odd sniffle and sob from Jenny.
‘Deacon doesn’t want children,’ she finally manages to cry between exhausted breaths.
‘Not ever?’ I say, surprised he finally told her.
‘Not ever,’ she sobs.
I don’t say anything more. What is there to say? There’s no point telling her it will be all right. It clearly won’t.
Finally, when Jenny is all cried out she lifts her head off my shoulder and looks me in the eye. ‘Look at us,’ she says, and I hear a sudden anger in her voice. ‘Look at the state of us.’
‘The state of us?’ I echo.
‘What’s happened to us, Susan? We didn’t deserve this life.’
I look into the eyes of my friend, who I’ve never known as anything other than much too loud and needy. I look around at the revolting filth of my flat. I think about my close to non-existent relationship with my mother and about how different it would all be if Adam was still here.
‘No one deserves this life, Jenny,’ I say.
She drops her head back on to my shoulder and I hold her while she cries herself to sleep. When she’s lightly snoring I slip out from under her, pop her head on a cushion and cover her with a blanket.
Jenny won’t ever know it but her simple sentence has offered me more clarity than all the time in a bereavement group ever could. I set about cleaning up. My flat, my career, my future. Because Jenny is so very right. No one deserves this life – except Paul Warner. He deserves so much more than he got. And everyone should get what they deserve.
Chapter Thirty-one
THEN
By the time September comes, Deacon and Jenny’s marriage is at rock bottom. And when they finally separate Jenny becomes as prominent in my life as before. It takes some time, but she slowly returns to her usual loud, bubbly self. Clearly marriage never suited her. Deacon also reverts to his old ways. He’s quiet, pensive and lets Jenny walk all over him when it comes to taking the house and half of everything he’s worth. I’m surprised by how much I resent her for it, but I never let on.
The irony of being the most together out of the three of us isn’t wasted on me, and it reinforces my focus on the future as I plan ahead.
I didn’t make a conscious decision to remain a student. It seemed to happen organically. My only disappointment is that I spent the entire summer torturing myself when the answer should have been there all along. Logically, when it comes to studying my next subject, four years feels like the appropriate benchmark. I won’t have the privilege of lectures to support me this time, but that will balance out without the distraction of student nights out and binge drinking. There’ll be no textbooks or tests this time. A crash course in revenge is very much independent work. I intend to get an A.
The first thing I do is buy myself a calendar and some coloured markers. Cheap ones from the Euro Shop in bright colours. I hang the calendar in the kitchenette next to the cooker, so I can see it often, and I keep the markers on top of the microwave nearby. I did the exact same thing four years ago when Adam and I started college. The calendar was Adam’s suggestion. He thought it might help me become organised. It didn’t work because I never actually bothered to fill that one in. This time, however, I’m much more dedicated to my studies from the get-go. I enjoy filling in the square boxes with tasks. I start with light blue: Monday, every week – call Mam and make small talk for fifteen to twenty minutes, before hanging up and feeling shit about the conversation until next week. Green marker is next. These days are more haphazard: cinema or drinks with friends – seem normal and be seen in public with friends! Orange is ‘find a job’ day. Rent is crippling me, especially since I’m now paying Adam’s share too and my grant money is quickly running out. Yellow is my least favourite colour, but there are only four markers in the packet, so my choice was limited. It seems to make ironic sense that yellow marks ‘clean the flat’ day. If only Adam could see the place now. It’s spotless and there’s a subtle hint of fig and sandalwood from the scented candles I regularly pick up on special offer in the Euro Shop. I’ve even managed to get the hair dye stain out of the sitting room carpet with a mix of baking soda and vinegar.
I save the red marker for last. Red is for ‘Paul’ days. There is a lot of red on the calendar.
There is one task I don’t mark on the calendar. No colour would ever be strong enough to highlight such a momentous milestone. Besides, I don’t just box up all of Adam’s things in an afternoon as if he’s moving out. It happens organically over time. Sometimes I calmly drop some of his stuff into the cardboard box I’ve placed in the centre of his bed and get on with the rest of my day. Other times I put something of his in, only to fetch it back out immediately, taking out two or three other items along with it. Things I have no recollection of adding in the first place. I cry for a while, holding his stuff close to me. Later, when I’m exhausted and all cried out, I put them all back in the box. This happens a lot.
Finally, one day as I’m teaching myself to tolerate the bitter taste of chilled white wine from a crystal glass with my pinkie raised like a lady, my eyes wander around the flat and I realise that I’ve boxed up the last of Adam’s things. I drop the glass. Wine splashes halfway up the height of the cupboards but I ignore the mess and hurry into Adam’s room.
I don’t look inside the box before I close it and use a whole roll of sticky tape to secure the lid. I pick up the box. It’s cumbersome and my arms can’t seem to settle on where to hold – underneath or around the sides. Finally, I slide one arm under and the other shifts from the side to the top and back every so often to keep the box tucked against my chest. It’s certainly much bigger in my arms than it looked on the bed and I need to tilt my head towards the ceiling so I can see over the top. I don’t bother to change out of my jeans, which have a large, sticky stain streaked down the leg from the wine, before I leave my flat and walk to the post office around the corner.
By the time I reach the post office my back is sore and I have a crick in my neck. It’s hard to pull open the door and keep hold of the box but I manage. Inside is much smaller than I expected. It’s narrow and cramped like the kitchenette in my flat. It smells of cardboard and deep, musty perfume. A lady sits behind thick glass at the far end and I let the door close behind me before I shuffle towards her.
‘Hello,’ she says, sliding the security glass all the way back as she eyes up my large box.
I set the box down on the countertop; unsurprisingly, it won’t fit through the gap in the glass. My eyes begin to water and my chest is tight. The post office seems to be shrinking.
‘Not to worry,’ the lady says, standing up from her swivel chair to open a glass door I didn’t notice before now at the side of her cubicle. ‘I can take it in this way,’ she explains as she walks around to me. ‘Umph,’ she groans, lifting the box into her arms and settling it on her hip as if it is a small child. ‘This is going to be an expensive one to ship, I’m afraid. Is it going far?’ the woman behind the counter says.
‘Provence,’ I say.
‘Oh, a beautiful place,’ she says. ‘Do you visit often?’
My eyes are burning now but I can’t blink and send tears trickling down my cheeks. I don’t want to admit I’ve never been to France.
The lady shuffles back behind the counter, carrying the box expertly. I watch as her long, polished, red nails fan each side of the cardboard. The hairs on the back of my neck stand like hundreds of sharp, pointed splinters against my skin and an uneasy shiver runs from my head to my toes as she continues to touch the box that sums up my brother’s life. I think I hate this woman. This friendly, helpful woman with
chubby fingers and long nails taking my brother’s memories away from me. I imagine lunging forward and wrapping my hands tightly around her neck and shaking her until she lets go.
A queue is forming behind me. There’s a man with a letter in his hand. I can feel his hot breath puff out of him and climb across the air to fall on to the back of my head. My skin crawls. Behind him there’s a woman with a little boy swinging around her leg. He’s screeching and demanding ice cream.
The woman behind the counter is asking me questions. The man is huffing and puffing. The mother is pointing her finger and talking to the little boy, who is now shouting and running around. The tiny post office is hot and stuffy and so full of noise, and the inside of my head is hot and stuffy and so full of noise.
I run my hands through my hair and take some deep breaths. They don’t help. It’s getting louder and louder. My face is burning. My eyes are stinging. The noise is pounding inside my head like a hammer attacking my skull from the inside out.
‘Shh,’ I hiss through gritted teeth. ‘That’s enough now. Enough.’
The little boy stops running. He tilts his head back and looks up at me with piggy eyes. I wonder if he’s about to cry. I don’t expect him to jam his hands on to his little hips and stick his tongue out at me before running towards his mother to hide safely behind her leg.
‘Ice cream. Ice cream. Ice cream,’ he chants.
‘Stop it,’ I snap, turning around and bending down to his level. I wag an angry finger. ‘You’re a bold boy,’ I scowl. ‘You don’t deserve ice cream.’
The mother scoops her son into her arms and her startled eyes peer at me over his shoulder.
‘Jesus. Relax, love,’ the man behind me says. ‘That was a bit uncalled for.’
The loud, annoying child begins to cry and nuzzles his head into the crook of his mother’s neck. His sobbing is shrill and pierces my brain.
I take a deep breath and smile apologetically. My face stings with embarrassment. I don’t know where the anger came from. I’ve never lashed out at a child before. I want to be calm and say something reassuring or polite but temper still swells inside me like the sea after a storm and I’m afraid to open my mouth in case more venomous words spill out. I’m breathing heavily and I’m twitching. I don’t doubt it’s noticeable. The mother takes a step back. And another. Her eyes locked on mine. I stare back. She’s trying to be assertive and stand her ground but as she takes a third step back before turning to face the door I know I’ve scared her.
Under Lying Page 20