Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Stop me if I’m wrong,’ Pauline began, looking at Rose over the tops of her glasses.

  The image of her father, Rose thought. Somehow, the thought made her feel better.

  ‘Your home was originally bought in both your names in 1975. In 1988, you remortgaged, taking out a significant amount of money, based on the equity in the house. Correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘There was some business deal Ben was really excited about, and he needed working capital. To be honest, it was one of those pieces of paper I used to sign without paying very much attention. I trusted him – trusted his business judgement. We’d done very nicely up to then.’

  ‘Forgive me – this is purely for background – did you question his judgement on that occasion, or disagree about the amount of money to be borrowed for whatever project he might have had in mind?’

  ‘No. I’d given up on that, probably for the last ten years we were together – if not more. If ever I questioned him, which I did on a couple of occasions in the early days, he’d become angry very quickly.’ Rose shrugged her shoulders. ‘We had a dreadful row about it one time, and I ended up feeling guilty. I suppose I didn’t feel I had the right to challenge him: I wasn’t earning any money of my own, after all. I was between a rock and a hard place, although to be fair, I didn’t see it like that then. I just deferred to him, to his business experience, his . . . acumen, I suppose. My province was our home and the children. That’s what both of us wanted. Until he came unstuck, of course.’

  ‘The mortgage continued to be paid until 1995, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, and I didn’t know how much financial trouble he was in back then. He’d stopped paying it without saying anything; that was around the time of his affair with Caroline. When all that ended, I kept chasing him for money, to keep the roof over our heads. Once he disappeared, that was it. I had to restructure the mortgage, start my own business and learn to survive.’

  ‘Have you ever defaulted on the mortgage repayments?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No, never. I’ve basically kept my head above water for the past eight years. I’ve always kept up the monthly repayments. In a funny way, it became a matter of pride. And having three hungry young people at your table tends to focus the attention. It was a struggle but I did it; I’m still doing it, for God’s sake.’

  Pauline made some notes on the pad in front of her. ‘Let’s deal with one issue at a time. If I am correct, your husband has paid no mortgage, no family expenses, no child support in eight years.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Well, seven and a half years, maybe. I did manage to get him to pay up for a few months after he left us, before he disappeared for good to England.’

  ‘If he’s looking for his portion of the home, there are a few things you must remember. The first and the most important one is that Ben can’t force you to sell. This is the family home and Lisa is not yet eighteen. You are entitled to stay for another four years – that’s the law. Longer, if she decides to go to college. If you decide to accede to his demands – assuming he makes demands – you are entitled to fight for a much larger portion of the estate than he is. You’re going to start divorce proceedings, I presume?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Yes, please,’ she said grimly. ‘Today. Now. This very afternoon. Should have done it years ago.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s leave future maintenance aside for the moment and deal with the past. Should you decide to go ahead and sell the house, we would make a case for eight years of child support at a minimum, plus eight years’ mortgage repayments. The division of the spoils, as you so succinctly put it, would probably end up as a seventy–thirty split in your favour, or maybe sixty-five–thirty-five. We wouldn’t tell him that, of course. We’d start off by offering him, maybe, fifteen to twenty per cent. But the real question is, do you want to sell?’

  ‘I have to put it another way, Pauline, to be honest.’ Rose spoke quickly, breathlessly, feeling the clash of emotions with which she’d become all too familiar, all over again, during recent days. ‘More than anything else, I want to be rid of him. I want rid of Ben out of my life. That’s my only certainty, and I’ve become more and more convinced over the past few days that that’s what I want, that’s what I need.

  ‘If getting rid of the house means that I cut all connection with Ben, then that’s what I’m prepared to do.’ Rose paused for a moment. ‘Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I shouldn’t even consider disrupting my family all over again.’ She looked Pauline right in the eye. ‘But I know this man. I know that he won’t leave me alone until this issue with the house, with money, is sorted out. I can’t explain to you how . . . significant that house always was to Ben. It was like a symbol of his success, a sign that he’d made it, become someone important. It was like taking out a full-page advertisement in the newspaper: “Look at me! I’ve arrived! I’m somebody!” Sometimes I wonder if he stayed with me for far longer than he wanted, because leaving me would have also meant losing the house.’

  Pauline opened her mouth to speak, but Rose silenced her with a wave. ‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself, and I’m not proud of how Ben’s return is making me think. I feel mean-spirited and small. I hate the way he’s made me angry again, and spiteful. I can’t go on like this, not knowing what’s going to happen next to me and my family. I need to survive – and my best chance of survival is to cut the cord and move on. If that means moving house, so be it. It’s only bricks and mortar to me. Home is a completely different thing: I’ll make another one.’

  Pauline spoke quietly. ‘I admire your honesty. And I know what you’re saying. But surely the children mean that you can’t completely cut the cord: assuming that Ben does want a relationship with them?’

  Rose looked at her steadily. ‘I’m more than happy for the kids to have contact. It would be good for them to reestablish their relationship, to have a dad again; that’s fine by me, more than fine. Maybe they can all salvage something: I never wanted them to be without their father in the first place. But all that’s apart from what I want for myself. You have no idea the grief Ben’s coming back has caused me. It’s made me doubt myself, my right to be angry, my own ability to survive. Don’t ask me how, but just the very fact of his presence has already started to undermine any bit of self-confidence and self-belief I’ve managed to build up in the last few years. I want to draw a line in the sand, move on, get my divorce. And I don’t want him turning everybody’s life upside down again. I want to be in control of this, to manage it. I don’t want any more surprises.’

  Pauline let the silence settle around them for a few moments. Rose used the time to breathe deeply, to stem imminent tears.

  ‘Does Ben have a solicitor?’

  ‘He hasn’t said.’ Rose rummaged in her handbag for a tissue. ‘All of this just blindsided me last Thursday. I never even asked. Talk about a week being a long time in politics: the past few days have been interminable. I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday. I was so shocked to see him standing on my doorstep last week that I just went numb, and kind of fumbled along. Then he made me so mad I threw him out of the house and said I’d talk to him when I was ready. I haven’t spoken to him since.’

  Pauline grinned. ‘Good for you, for throwing him out, I mean. I hope you . . . enjoyed it?’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe the words were braver then than I feel now. I was so furious – his arrogance really got under my skin. And then yesterday: standing in my garden with a tape measure. Only for a sensible friend, I’d have rushed downstairs and hurled abuse at him. Would it sound daft if I said that this was the first time I’ve ever felt truly middle-aged? I mean, I know I am: but I’ve never felt it until now. It’s made me feel stale and tired and I think I’d do anything for a quiet life.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ said Pauline sharply. ‘The one thing I want you to do is to stay keen and sharp and angry. They say, “Don’t get mad, get even,” but in my experience getting even means getting mad, at least at first. You’ve
got a good accountant, haven’t you, someone you trust to look after you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, feeling a shock of recognition at Pauline’s words. ‘Yes, I do indeed. I’ve already contacted him. It’s Sam McCarthy; I think you know him?’

  Pauline smiled at her. ‘I do. You couldn’t be in better hands. I want you to talk to him as soon as you can. Put figures on what things have cost you over the past eight years, mortgage, kids, the works. Let him do his magic with inflation and bank charges and interest rates, all the stuff accountants are good at. I want you to get started on that right away. I also want you to promise me that you’ll talk to me before you talk to Ben – and I don’t just mean the first time – every time. You need to manage each and every conversation, to take hold of the reins. I’m sorry, Rose, but this is not the time to give in. You know what his real intentions are, particularly after yesterday. You must be ready for one more fight, or everything you’ve worked so hard to hold onto will be taken away from you. Your worst enemy, your most dangerous adversary in all this is inside this office, right now.’

  Rose looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Yourself.’ Pauline’s voice was firm. ‘You cannot allow yourself to be taken advantage of. As your solicitor, I won’t let you. Simple as that. Besides, Dad would kill me.’

  She reached over to the mountain of manila folders on the side of her desk, pulled the top one towards her and rolled off its elastic band.

  ‘Now, let’s start drawing up a wish list. Your must haves, your negotiables and your nice to haves. Once you know what each of them is, you’ll know when to push, when to concede, when to chance your arm. Your husband – soon to be ex-husband – is not the only one who can be tutored in the royal and ancient Irish art of negotiation. You can, too. So. Are you ready?’

  Rose emerged from Pauline’s office feeling exhilarated. The woman was right: this was not the time to whinge, to plead tiredness, to give in because giving in was easier than winning. How she behaved over the next few weeks and months would shape the rest of her life. She would go back to the régime of the early days following Ben’s departure. She had thought nothing then of getting up at five in the morning, cooking up a storm, fitting her own life in and around the gaps that might or might not emerge during any given day. Damien had once told her she was like Boxer in Animal Farm: to every difficulty, every challenge, every potential disaster, her response had always been the same – I will work harder.

  She had learned subsequently, but forgotten again in the tornado of events that followed, that working harder was often not the point. Working smarter was. If Ben Holden could learn the art of negotiation, of getting what he wanted at any price, then so could she.

  Now she was ready: now she knew who she was again, what she wanted, what she needed.

  Now she could go home and deal with her eldest child.

  ‘Mum, Damien’s here.’

  ‘Hiya, Ma. Hiya, little sister.’

  Rose could feel the material of her blouse already sticking to her back. Strands of hair began to cling to the base of her neck; her palms were clammy. She opened the kitchen window. But she knew that what she felt now had nothing to do with the heat of the kitchen.

  Damien walked in, looking immensely self-conscious in dark chinos, dark jacket, white open-necked shirt. There was a tie peeping from his top pocket, but Rose pretended not to see it.

  ‘Well,’ she remarked, observing the transformation. She didn’t quite know what else to say. Where had the raggy jeans gone, the T-shirts crowded with logos, double-entendres, skulls and crossbones? ‘Such formality. To what do we owe the honour?’

  She could see him struggling to be calm and understated, but he couldn’t wait. ‘I’ve got a new job,’ he blurted, ‘a proper job. I start on Monday. I’ve just come from meeting my supervisor.’

  ‘Damien! Congratulations – that’s wonderful!’

  Rose felt a rush of delight at his news. A new job, a proper job: did that mean that the bleak hand-to-mouth days of counting spare parts in a storeroom were finally over?

  In the year or so since he’d been discharged from hospital, Damien had insisted on finding his own way in everything. He’d stayed at home for a few restless months only, determined to begin again: new flat, new friends, new job. Rose had learned to say nothing about what she saw as his unwise decisions, his apparent lack of ambition. Standing on the sidelines of your child’s life, she’d decided, was one of the coldest and most inhospitable places she’d ever been.

  ‘Where? Who’s it with? Will you be earning loads of money?’ Lisa was dancing, circling her brother, eyeing his new clothes, his shiny shoes.

  ‘Lisa! Give him a bit of breathing space.’

  ‘It’s with Freeman’s, the advertising agency. It’s not much to start with, but they give training and there’s loads of opportunities. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure I had it.’

  Rose looked at him, seeing his shining eyes, the faint beads of perspiration along his upper lip, his pride bursting at the seams. She knew by him that he had rushed here tonight with his news, could see by the pinkness of his cheeks.

  How am I going to tell him? she wondered. How in God’s name am I ever going to tell him that his father’s back? His first, real, grown-up balloon: and I have to be the one to burst it.

  She tried to play for time. She hugged him hard, pulled his head towards her, kissed him soundly on the cheek. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. Come on, tell us all about it! What will you be doing? When was the interview?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve had two – one was three weeks ago. I didn’t know if I’d made it through to the next stage: to be honest, I didn’t think I’d done all that well. But they called me for the second round; that was yesterday evening at five. That’s why I couldn’t come for dinner. I’d to bring them a portfolio – and,’ here he grinned, ‘I’d pretended at the first interview that I’d more prepared than I actually had. I’ve been burning the midnight oil all week.’

  Rose smiled at him. She was remembering his college days, when he was always the last to submit everything, sometimes with only minutes to go to the close of stern, unforgiving deadlines. She was going to remark lightly, ‘Some things never change,’ but stopped herself just in time. It seemed, right now, to be a wholly inappropriate thing to say. Things had changed; he had changed. And the best and most compelling evidence was standing right here before her in her own kitchen: dressed to the nines, reeking of pride and aftershave.

  Damien fumbled now in his inside jacket pocket and took out two envelopes. He handed the first one, awkwardly, to Rose.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked him.

  ‘Open it and see.’

  She opened the flap carefully. ‘Damien! What on—’

  He raised his hand to his lips: a pleading gesture to silence her. ‘It’s to say thanks. For everything. You can relax. I’m on my way now. Got my shit together.’

  She could swear she heard a catch in his voice. ‘But five hundred euro – for Brown Thomas?’

  ‘You deserve it.’ He kissed her quickly, turned away.

  ‘Here you go, little sister. This one’s for you.’

  Lisa ripped the envelope open. ‘A hundred euro!’ She jumped up and down in delight. ‘Thanks! What’s it for? Can I spend it now?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Aren’t you going to the Gaeltacht in August?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, put that towards your spending money. Give your old ma a break.’

  He looked at Rose’s face, misinterpreting what he saw there. ‘It’s all right, Ma, honestly. I took out a Credit Union loan to get clothes and a yearly bus ticket and some bits and pieces that I needed. I can afford it. Stop worryin’.’

  Rose was about to answer, to begin obliquely, to let him down gently, when Lisa broke in: ‘Have you heard about Dad?’

  It felt as though the entire room had just been punctured, emptied of air.

  ‘What?’


  ‘Lisa!’ said Rose angrily. ‘I thought I’d told you to leave that to me?’

  ‘Leave what to you?’ asked Damien, slowly looking from one to the other.

  ‘Sit down, Damien,’ said Rose, quietly.

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks. What’s goin’ on?’

  Rose sat down. She had a blinding, nuclear flash of memory as she did so. Blue uniforms, bad news, words that could not be spoken as long as a mother remained on her feet.

  ‘That’s the main reason why I asked you here this evening. Your dad came back . . . just appeared on the doorstep, out of the blue, last Thursday. He’s anxious to . . . sort out everything between the two of us, and he wants to see each of you.’ She waited, folding her hands on the table to contain the slight trembling that had already started.

  When it came, her son’s outburst was more or less as she had expected.

  ‘What does the old bastard want with us after what – eight years?’ Damien’s voice was instantly, completely angry. He was shrugging out of his jacket, the old, impatient gesture she remembered so well from his schooldays. It was as though the extra layer of clothing could not contain his rage. He needed to let it loose.

  ‘Just what I’ve already told you,’ said Rose quietly. ‘I know no more than what I’ve already said.’

  Damien sat down abruptly at the table, facing Rose. Lisa had gone very quiet.

  She’s going to take her cue from her big brother, Rose thought now, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  ‘He’s lookin’ for money. He has to be lookin’ for money.’ All traces of pink had disappeared from Damien’s cheeks. His face looked suddenly darker, almost middle-aged.

  ‘As I said, he wants to finalize things. So, yes, money would be part of it.’

  ‘But he left you – left us – with nothing!’ Damien slammed his hand down hard on the table. The cutlery trembled a little. Rose wondered at how explosive the sound was in the still kitchen. So much anger, she thought sadly. Still so much anger. Would it ever go away? Lisa sidled over towards her mother.