Still You

by Claire Allan

  She looked wistful and I wondered what layers I could peel back. I wished I had known her years ago – but then again I supposed I had time to find out more. We were going to be spending a lot of time together.

  Jonathan arrived just before six – just as I was getting ready to say goodbye to Áine. The house was tidy. The dishes were done and put away. Áine’s night things were laid out and a small fire was burning in the hearth. It would be enough to keep the slight chill in the air out of the house – and of course it made the place feel so much cosier.

  Áine seemed content – well fed and a head full of ideas about the garden – and now it was up to me to bring up the matter with Jonathan.

  While he had a very broad smile for his aunt, he looked at me with a slightly more wearisome look on his face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his top button undone, and he looked as if it had been a tough day at the office. I was well used to that look when Matthew would walk in from a hard day at school and find himself good for nothing for the rest of the evening. Funny, in hindsight, that no matter what the working day had thrown at me I still managed to find the energy to look after the house and make sure the girls were okay.

  I felt awkward. I wasn’t quite sure how to address him. It seemed to be crossing the line to say “Tough day at the office?” but then again would I seem completely dense not to acknowledge that he looked stressed out and just land him with more requests in relation to his aunt? I decided to play it safe and make a comment about the weather – how it was a little colder despite the arrival of spring – and he nodded, grunting an affirmative response.

  I could have walked away, I supposed – and left the matter for another day but I had seen how Áine’s face had lit up at the thought of even a small plot of her beloved garden being saved – and I knew I had to bite the bullet.

  “Jonathan,” I said, “could I have a quick word before I leave?”

  “Fire away,” he said, rubbing his temples as if to ease a headache.

  “Can I get you a glass of water or something first?” I asked.

  He looked at me strangely, but then he nodded again. “Yes, actually. I would love a glass of cold water. I have a headache coming on.” He grimaced.

  “I have some paracetamol in my bag if that helps?”

  He looked at me again – quizzically – as if he wasn’t expecting that I would even dream of helping him, and thanked me for the tablets before he sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Right, now, what is it you wanted to talk about?”

  I sat down and started to tell him how I wanted to help his aunt as much as possible – and I told him about some of the articles I had read and how I thought saving a little of the garden would be of benefit to Áine. It could go either way, I thought as he looked at me, nodding and taking in what I was saying. He could tell me the plans were made, that I was overstepping the mark and that I was getting on his nerves. He looked like the kind of man whose nerves were “got on” easily.

  “I thought giving her less to do would make it easier,” he said eventually – looking at me with a kind of defeated look on his face.

  It was not the response I was expecting – and once again I found myself feeling sorry for him.

  “I’m sure you’re only learning about this – I have only starting reading up on it myself. It’s natural to want to wrap someone in cotton wool,” I said.

  “But from what you’re saying, I’ve been in danger of smothering her in cotton wool?”

  Unexpectedly, without thinking, I found myself reaching across the table and rubbing his arm as if to comfort him. All I could think was that this must be so hard on him – hard on any family – to watch someone they love start to slip away.

  My face blazed as he pulled his arm away as if I had pinched it. He stood up and coughed, turned his back to me and then turned to face me again.

  “You tell me what you need, Georgina. Come to me with something more concrete – and tell me what I can do. I’ll do it. She deserves it. Now, it’s past your finishing time and I’d love to spend some time alone with my aunt so you may as well get going.”

  I felt the heat from my face creep down my neck – I had, again, made an eejit of myself. Reaching out to comfort this man had been one move too far and he clearly wasn’t impressed. In fact if the look on his face was anything to go by, he looked absolutely horrified that I had touched him.

  “Right,” I muttered, lifting my bag and my files, “I’ll be off then. I’ll come back to you soon about the garden.”

  “Yes. Yes, do that. Whatever we need to buy, to get, we’ll get it.”

  He didn’t say thanks. He didn’t say goodbye. He just stood in the kitchen as I walked down the hall, poked my head through the door to say my farewells to Áine, and left – my face still blazing.

  It was only when I got to the car that I allowed myself to let out a string of expletives. And when I remembered that I had planned to go and see Matthew – to discuss Pink Bra-gate amongst a number of other things – I let out a second string of expletives.

  I fished my phone out of my bag and texted Sinéad, asking her to put some wine in the fridge and to have the tequila ready – just in case.

  Normally I would have made an effort. Since we had split up I had tried my very best to always look like the best possible version of me when I saw my husband. I wanted to show him what he was missing – so before any scheduled visit I would brush my hair, touch up my make-up, wear something figure-flattering and spray on some perfume. I would plaster a big old smile on my face, even when I wanted to cry or shout, and I would adopt the nonchalant approach of a woman trying to show her husband that she was absolutely okay with him “finding himself”.

  But of course that was when I thought “finding himself” would also involve finding me again – remembering the woman he had fallen in love with and realising that even though we were older, and perhaps not wiser, we were still the perfect match we totally thought we were when we were teenagers.

  It was becoming increasingly clear to me however that Matthew was finding a whole different side of himself – one which preferred women in lacy lingerie. It hadn’t been like that with us. It didn’t need to be. I don’t mean that we never made an effort with each other – of course we did. I had my share of silky, skimpy and uncomfortable underwear stashed in my bottom drawer for weekends away. But ordinarily we didn’t need to make an extra effort to want each other. That side of our relationship had never been a problem. Or so I thought. When he cleared off (and I played the part of the supportive wife, fully believing that if you loved someone you let them go and they would come back to you if it was meant to be) I started to question things about our relationship that I never had before. Had we become complacent? Too comfortable? Too routine-led? I mean it was hard to be spontaneous with two teenage girls in the house. I had beaten myself up about that since he left – and decided that it was time to try and make more of an effort.

  But sitting outside his house now, straight from work and still burning from what had happened with Jonathan, and knowing what I was going to discuss, I didn’t have the mental energy to think too much about how I looked. I pulled down my sun visor and gave myself a cursory glance in the mirror. My make-up was a little blotchy – but decent enough. My hair was a little frizzy, and the neat ponytail I had put in that morning had come loose. I looked tired – but then again I felt tired. What could Matthew expect though? Doing it all – on my own – wasn’t easy. Feeling cranky, I thought perhaps it was time he saw just what his leaving was doing to me.

  I got out of the car, walked to his door and rang the doorbell. Yes, it was strange to wait for my own husband to let me in. I saw his familiar shadow move down the hall and it dawned on me that I had no idea how to broach what I needed to with him. Did I just jump right in there with a quick “So, a pink bra, eh?” or did I start with some social niceties? God, this was enough to drive me insane. This was a man I had known for more than twenty years – who
I had grown into adulthood with – and now I didn’t even know how to talk to him any more.

  In fact, as he opened the door and said hello I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. Awkwardness mixed with embarrassment mixed with betrayal.

  “Can I come in?” I managed to stutter and he laughed.

  “Of course you can. God, you’re my wife. I’m not going to leave you standing on the doorstep. Come in, come in, have a coffee. I may even have some biscuits. It’s amazing how long they last without the girls eating them.”

  I put on a fake smile – biting back what I wanted to say – which was that of course I wouldn’t know what it was like not to have the girls around. The girls were with me. There was never any question but that they would be with me. Matthew had never once hinted that he wanted them with him and, while that suited me, the part of me that was waking up to all that had happened over the last few months thought that it was incredibly selfish that he never even considered asking the girls to go with him.

  Watching him move around his kitchen with an ease he never seemed to display in our kitchen, my ire only grew stronger. He had bought a coffee machine – one of those fancy yokes you put the pods in and it made lattes and cappuccinos and the like. It was a far stretch from the instant we drank at home. He even had one of those little shakers to add a little sprinkle of chocolate to the top. I was half expecting him to present some home-baked biscotti – and I was glad when he brought some chocolate digestives. I might have had to kill him otherwise.

  “So,” he said, as he took a seat at his kitchen table opposite me. “I’m assuming this is more than just a social call?”

  I looked at him – really looked at him. He had showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt with a slight V-neck. I could see the smallest tuft of hair poke out from the top of his T-shirt and I wanted, though I was angry with him, to reach out and touch it. To draw some comfort from the familiarity of the feel of him. But I couldn’t. Just as it was inappropriate for me to reach out and comfort Jonathan earlier – it was inappropriate for me to reach out and touch my husband. My own husband. Fighting the urge to burst into tears, I decided instead to stuff a chocolate digestive into my mouth – feeding my emotions with sweet biscuit-y goodness.

  Of course, answering Matthew while my mouth was stuffed with chocolate biscuit was not one bit easy and I had to chew and swallow as fast I could, which, in keeping with the evening I was having, led to a mild choking fit. I managed to abate same with a sip of the fancy coffee Matthew had made for me, which just brought back my sense of raw anger.

  “Pink bra!” I blurted when I could catch my breath.

  His face coloured (a colour similar to a pink bra, as it happened), and he glanced down at his coffee. Slowly he lifted his teaspoon, stirred his drink and sucked the foam off the spoon before putting it down. I’m sure it only took a matter of seconds, but it felt like forever.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said – but he couldn’t hold eye contact.

  “I mean,” I said, taking a deep breath, “a pink bra. The girls, they found one, when they were here. They were helping with laundry.”

  “It’s probably just one of theirs. You know, if they leave stuff here I wash it and have it ready for them.” Still no eye contact.

  “I think, Matthew, they would recognise their own underwear,” I said slowly. “And besides, from what they tell me, it’s not the kind of underwear a teenage girl would wear. It was – more – adult in nature.”

  His face coloured deeper. I could almost hear the cogs whir in his head as he tried to think of something to say. I could feel my own face colouring.

  “Look, Matthew, if you’re seeing someone, well, then you’re seeing someone. I can’t pretend I’m comfortable with it,” I said, my voice shaking. I begged myself not to cry. “But it’s your life. I suppose. I just don’t want the girls exposed to it.”

  “Georgie,” he began but the sound of him calling me by my pet name was enough to send me over the edge.

  My eyes filled with tears and the knot of tension that had been sitting in my stomach since I had met with Jonathan shifted.

  “Please don’t call me that!” I blurted.

  “Georgina, I never meant to hurt you in all of this. I just wanted to find myself.”

  I nodded, like a grotesque water feature – each downward movement sending forth a flurry of fresh tears. I had well and truly completely arsed up my entire ‘play it cool’ persona.

  “I didn’t think,” I managed, “when you said you wanted some time out that you really wanted someone else.”

  “I didn’t think I did – I don’t know what I want,” he said, his eye contact still sketchy. “It was just this thing – a fling. I’m not sure it means anything. But it was nice to feel desired …”

  I wanted to scream at him to stop talking. To tell him he was making it worse. To tell him that when you’re in a hole, you stop digging – or you at least have the decency to hand me the shovel so that I can brain you with it.

  “I desired you,” I squeaked, in perhaps the least ‘I desire you’ voice known to mankind.

  “Did you?” he asked. “It didn’t feel like it.”

  He was looking at me now and I stared back at him – directly at him. Had we been living in alternative worlds? We had still had sex. I hadn’t dreamt it. We were still together. Okay, it was a bit more functional that it had been, but what did you want after twenty-two years? Swinging from the chandeliers? Fifty Shades of Debauchery? It was supposed to be comfortable and comforting now, wasn’t it?

  “Of course I did.” The tuft of hair was still taunting me. Although now I was in some weird twilight zone between wanting to touch it, to caress it and to prove to him that I desired him and always had, or to pull it, hard, until his eyes watered and he begged for mercy.

  “I’m sorry,” he offered.

  “Then don’t do it,” I countered. “Not until we know where we are going. I mean –”

  “Oh Georgie!”

  “Don’t. Call. Me. That!”

  “Right, look, I’m sorry. But don’t you think we are past this now? I thought things were settling down? I thought we had reached some sort of acceptance?”

  His words hit me. Like body-blows on top of the body-blows he had already loaded on me when he left. He seemed to think a lot for me. He seemed to make all the decisions in the world for us. And he seemed to find a way to come to terms with tearing the world we knew apart without ever feeling the need to tell me about it. Sure we were reaching some sort of acceptance?

  I looked at him again – it was almost as if his features transformed in front of my face. The face I had known and loved – that I had seen get older, more weathered, more handsome, more mine over the years, blurred. I didn’t think I knew him at all.

  It’s hard to know how to react when someone turns your reality on its head. I wanted to shout again, to challenge him, but then again a part of me worried that I was the one who had been living in my own world all these years. Had I been so blind?

  I tried to steady myself – which was no mean feat as my legs were like jelly – and I stood up, leaving my fancy coffee where it sat on his table in his fancy coffee cup.

  “Try to watch what you expose the girls to,” I managed before I turned on my heel and walked to the door.

  As I walked I wanted him to call me – to stop me. I wanted him to make some grand big romantic gesture and run and block the door, tell me he was sorry and he had just been scared by the strength of his emotions for me. I wanted him to say he had worded it all badly and of course he loved me. That he wanted me. I wanted him to kiss me and for that kiss to fix everything that was broken.

  But I knew, with each step I took, that wasn’t going to happen. It was – I realised once and for all and with a searing pain in the very pit of my stomach – over. Totally over. He didn’t stop me. He didn’t even call half-heartedly after me. He didn’t watch from the window as I drove off. He didn’t text t
o say he was sorry and he hoped I was okay.

  He didn’t care, I realised – and we were never going to get that happy ending I dreamt of.

  Chapter 9

  1964

  Áine had to take several deep breaths before she followed her sister into the Corinthian ballroom. She had felt nervous and sick to her stomach even when she was getting ready to go out. Maybe Charlotte was right – she was much too sheltered. She didn’t go dancing – not really. Not unless she felt she simply had to avoid being labelled a hermit. So when she went out, she felt her stomach tighten with nerves.

  “It’s excitement,” Charlotte had said. “It’s a good thing.”

  But it didn’t feel like excitement or a good thing. And, as Áine had applied her blusher and sprayed some perfume on her wrists, she had contemplated not going at all. It was only when her mother had knocked gently on her bedroom door, and had pressed a few coins into her hand to help with her night out, that she had felt there was no turning back. Even her mother was trying to get her to go out a bit more.

  “You know I love you, Áine, and I will always be grateful for all you have done for me,” Rosaleen had said. “But you can’t spend your entire life in this house with me. What kind of company am I for a young thing like yourself? You’re only twenty-seven. You should be building a life for yourself. Like your sister.”

  Áine had taken her mother’s hands in hers, conscious of how her fingers were starting to bend and twist with the force of the disease which was ravaging her body.

  “I will be here for you, Mother, always. I’m happy with my lot. I swear to you. Charlotte does enough living for the both of us – I’m happy being set in my ways.”

  Rosaleen had responded with a weak, watery smile and Áine felt herself relax. She could not bear the thought of Rosaleen being hurt – not when she had already been through so much – and she was for the most part happy with her life. A little lonely at times, perhaps – when Rosaleen had gone to bed, or sometimes when she saw the look Jack would give Charlotte and the way her sister exhaled and closed her eyes in perfect bliss when her husband embraced her.