by Claire Allan
By the time my house was gleaming, my washing was out on the line and my iPod had exhausted all my favourite cleaning classics I was tired and readyto relax and not feeling quite so scared by my own home. First I would have a shower, and tackle my undergrowth, and then I promised myself I would sit down and watch TV or something equally meaningless in what used to be my comfort zone.
This had to be an improvement. I was actually quite proud of myself and even jotted off a quick text to Cara to tell her I was just fine and then I forwarded that very same text to Rose and Daddy just so that they would stop worrying. Because, I knew they were worrying. I glanced at my phone, wondering if now was the time to text James. It probably was. I was feeling stronger and really it had been unfair of me to ignore him for the past week when it had been clearly accepted that he had not done anything wrong.
I’m sorry for not being in touch. Please don’t worry. I’m fine. Or at least I will be fine.
I sent the message and stood under the shower and tried to remind myself that I had made a great deal of progress and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that there was something missing from my house.
Showered and revived, I switched on the TV, pulled the throw from the sofa over my knees, cuddled into the cushions and tried to lose myself in an old black and white movie. When my phone beeped to life, instinctively I lifted it. The hope that it would be a message from Mark hadn’t quite left me but I knew deep down that it wouldn’t be from him. I should have known it would be from James, given the frequency with which he had texted me that week, and sure enough it was from him.
I hate how we left things. Can we talk?
I pulled my knees up to my chin. I didn’t know if I wanted to talk. I couldn’t say that James and I had ever been particularly close in the past. Sure we’d had a laugh or two over the years and he had helped me deal with a drunken Mark on a few occasions when we wereall younger and much less sensible. The three of us had spent a weekend together in a caravan in the Gaeltacht which would forever go down as the worst weekend of our lives. But we didn’t really do deep and meaningful. That said, he was the nearest thing I had to Mark in my life at the moment and the best chance I had of getting any answers.
I’m at home. Call over after 6.
I pressed send, threw the blanket off my knees and wandered into the garden for some fresh air, my throat suddenly feeling all constricted and scratchy. I wondered if I should phone Cara or even Rose and ask them to come over for moral support but I didn’t want James to feel like he was walking into an interrogation. No, I would face it alone. Even if the thought of it made me want to boke.
Unlike Mark, who was never on time for anything in his entire life, not even our wedding, James was always punctual and arrived at six on the very button. We stood, awkwardly, not quite sure how to greet each other. It wasn’t a quick-peck-on-the-cheek type of scenario. He held a bottle of white wine in his hand which he gestured with awkwardly in my direction. I took it, muttered athanks and allowed him to follow me into the kitchen. It was a little strange to have him here without Mark around, but those were the breaks.
Lifting two glasses from the cupboard, I turned to ask, “You want some?”
“I think we need some,” he said with a smile.
“I certainly feel as though a drink would help,” I said, unscrewing the lid of the bottle and pouring us both drinks before gesturing towards the living room where we sat opposite each other on my matching chocolate-brown leather sofas without saying a word.
“This isn’t the slightest bit awkward, is it?” James smiled, sipping from his glass and casting a glance downwards.
“Not at all,” I smiled back – in more of a nervous way than anything else because it was bloody awkward. Each of us waiting for the other to speak without having a notion of what either of us might say. I didn’t even know if there was anything to say – apart from the obvious ‘Well this has all gone royally tits up, hasn’t it?’
James had been best man at our wedding and he had become misty-eyed during his speech, wishing us many, many happy years. He had even taken me around the floor for a dance later and whispered that Mark was a lucky man and we made a wonderful couple. “One of those Hollywood couples – you know, happy endings and riding off into the sunset.”
Yep, we were a Hollywood couple all right – just more of a Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston kind of a couple than a happy-ever-after kind of a couple.
“Look, I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’m sorry it was me who told you,” he offered. “I’m sorry he did it in the first place if the truth be told and that he didn’t have the manners or guts to tell you to your face.”
“Did he tell you? Before now, that is? Did you know?” I had to ask and I felt strong enough to deal with it if he said yes, that he had been complicit in the whole sorry affair all along, but James just shook his head.
“I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
He looked genuine enough. But then Mark had looked genuine enough when he told me he loved me just hours before he cleared off.
“I would have told him he was a prick,” James offered, sitting back in his chair a little more and sipping from his wine, a little more deeply this time. “I would have punched him,” he added and I smiled because I couldn’t imagine James ever punching anyone in his life.
“He was your friend. He is your friend. You must have talked?” I curled my feet under me and stared at my wineglass, the smell enticing me to lose myself in the drink.
“We talked,” James nodded. “But in the way men talk. It’s not a myth, you know. We don’t often do feelings. We talked work and beer and Top Gear and football. If I asked how you were he would tell me you were fine – busy but fine. There was no hint.”
“But he told you last week?” I had to know every detail.
He sighed, sipped from his wine, even deeper this time, and looked back at me. “When you phoned me and told me he was gone . . . I just . . . just couldn’t believe it. So I called him and he answered.”
I bristled. I thought of all the times I had called. All the times I had shouted at my phone to try and get him to answer. I thought of how I’d slept with the damn thing on my pillow and had rung it almost on the hour every hour to make sure it was working. I thought of how I had cried really quite hysterically . . . and then I thought of how Mark had answered the first time James had called. I was trying to process all this information when I realised he was still talking.
“. . . needed to get away. He needed to clear his head. He sounded, I don’t know, strange.”
I thought of the cheery tone in his voice that time I had called – strange wouldn’t exactly have been the word I would have used.
“He said he had wanted to tell me, wanted to tell us both, but he got caught up in everything and didn’t know where to go or who to turn to.” James shrugged his shoulders.
I just drank from my glass again, already starting to feel a little tipsy. It was, of course, entirely possible my head was swimming for another reason – a reason related to the general feckwittery of my husband and not to anything alcoholic.
I forced myself to breathe, realising I had been holding my breath and that I was in serious danger of turning blue and passing out.
“I know this is shit,” James said.
“More than you realise,” I stuttered, unsure if I wanted him to keep talking at all.
“He told me about her then. He said he just felt flattered and he said he had been an asshole.”
I nodded my head. “Was it my fault?” I asked. “Did he say it was my fault? Did he say I was awful?” I was aware there was a whine in my voice and I sounded pathetic and needy. I watched as James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the slide of his arse against the leather sofa giving me all the answer I needed. Clearly it was my fault. Or Mark thought it was my fault, which meant I could now legitimately crucify myself into believing it was indeed all my fault. Despite my deep breaths and the f
act that I had stopped gulping at my wine, I felt a little nauseous.
“He didn’t really go into it,” James offered limply and I plastered on a fake smile and got up to open a window and let some air in.
“Yes, he did, James, but I won’t ask you to go over it. Not now anyway. Part of me wants to know, but I’m not stupid enough to think I’m ready to hear it. Did he say why he couldn’t tell me himself? Why he didn’t talk to me?”
James shook his head. “Not really. He said he didn’t really know how to explain it.”
“Like hell he didn’t,” I spat, my smile fading and my anger rising.
“He’s a dick. He’s my best friend but he’s still a dick and I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come over. This was a bad idea.” James made to stand up but I gestured – some weird international-sign-language type thing – for him to sit down.
“No. It was kind of you. To tell me. To let me know. I know this must be hard for you too.”
“You’ve no idea how hard,” James said, running his hands through his dark hair and sitting back into the chair and sighing. “You really have no idea.”
James had left when the bottle of wine was finished and when we had simply said “This is hard” too many times for it to be socially acceptable to continue saying it.He had told me to call him if I needed anything – anything at all but especially man things – like leaving the bin out, unblocking drains, that kind of thing. Of course I was more than capable of all of this but it was nice that he offered. I had crawled into bed – for my first night back in my marital bed after knowing my husband had cheated on me – and mercifully I slept. I wasn’t haunted by weird dreams. I didn’t wake up in the night, turn to put my arm around Mark and start sobbing. I just slept and when I woke up I got up, made a proper non-Diet-Coke-related breakfast, dressed in my black trousers and purple satin blouse and went to work.
I didn’t cry in the car – not even when Snow Patrol sang about ‘Chasing Cars’ on the radio. I did not even get the mad rage when a car which looked like Mark’s but wasn’t cut me up at the traffic lights. I didn’t slump in despair when I opened the doors to the shop and saw our mannequins dressed in their white lace and shot satin. I just switched on the radioand ran upstairs to the workshop to put on the kettle in preparation forRose’s arrival. There was a calmness on me that day – one step further from the day before. Maybe each day would see me move a step on. Of course that new-found inner strength didn’t stop me checking my email to see if he had sent me a message or checking his Facebook for any updates (there was none – which was a blessed relief for now – I lived in fear of him telling the world he had gone from married to ‘it’s complicated’ or even worse, married to single). There were no messages on the office answer phone – no form of communication at all from him or anyone else. I opened the sash windows, watched as a lone tourist walked along the city walls as the traffic sounds grew louder. It was a lovely day – not overly warm, with bright shards of blue sky and the promise of a day that would stay dry. I was standing at the window, breathing in and smiling, when I saw Rose walking down the street, dressed in bright pink with a purple scarf around her neck. There was no missing her – she exuded the calmness and happiness I could only dream of andwhich I hoped would be contagious. She was launching into a chorus of ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’ as she walked through the door and I walked down the stairs. Seeing me, she stopped singing and gave me that same look she had been giving me every day since Mark had left – that slight-tilt-of-the-head-are-you-okay look.
“Morning, Rose,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I’m fine, honest. And yes, I survived the night back in the house. And nothing bad happened. James came over and we talked, but I didn’t get all over-emotional or make a show of myself and today I am determined not to mope around but instead to get on with things – because even though wedding dresses are the least of my notions at the moment, this is my business and what I need to do.”
She hugged me back and I breathed in her perfume and allowed myself to lean into the softness of her embrace.
“Good woman yourself,” she said. “I’ll just go put the kettle on. We have a ten thirty appointment, a fitting at one and a few orders to put through. That rep wants to know what samples we want in too, when you get the chance, and I’ve a couple of alterations to be getting on with. Wee buns to us.”
“I have the kettle on already for you,” I smiled, relishing the thought of a busy and distracting day. “And I even brought a couple of muffinsfrom the bakery so help yourself. And then let’s get this day started.”
“Okay, boss,” she smiled, heading for the stairs and stopping to look back at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“You don’t need to ask,” I smiled. “I’m getting there. Now go get your tea – I know you are good for nothing without it and I’ll go and make sure the dressing room is ready. Bit early for Prosecco this morning perhaps – so can you make sure there’s some fizzy water and the like in the fridge, just in case?”
“Will do,” Rose said and disappeared from my view.
I walked into the dressing room and set about opening the French doors to let in some air and switching on the various spotlights which would show off the dresses and the bride-to-be in the best way possible. I tidied the magazines on the table and made sure the flowers in the vases still looked acceptable and didn’t need to be replaced. Then I made sure the changing room was tidy and that there were a couple of boxes of tissues sitting around for when the bride and whoever was accompanying her became emotional. It was all looking good. I still got a thrill from seeing our dressing room ready for an appointment – it still gave me butterflies in my stomach and I smiled as I stood for a second on the podium and tried to remind myself to believe in happy endings.
My ten-thirty appointment was a second-time bride who was as nervous as any young bride we had in the door.
“I had the full works first time,” Nuala Lochlainnsaid. “Big rock. Big do. Big hair. Honeymoon in Mauritius. All that was missing was the big romance. But this time – I have that.”
She smiled, a gorgeous full-faced smile which accentuated the gentle crow’s feet at her eyes and her dazzling white teeth. She flashed a simple engagement ring at me – yellow gold with a modest solitaire diamond set in it. “We’re doing it a little less flashy this time, but I want to knock his socks off. My friends said this was the place to come . . . so here I am.” She smiled at me and then at her two friends who were sipping from their Prosecco glasses despite the early hour. Gesturing to her almost flat tummy, she smiled. “Two kids. I definitely want a dress which hides the evidence. Something elegant. Not too fussy. Something which makes me look about ten years younger if possible.” She laughed and I mentally ticked off another number on my wedding-dress bingo. If I had a fiver for every time a bride told me she wished a dress could make her look younger or thinner, I would be a very rich woman. Still, who didn’t want to look amazing on her wedding day? My entire business was built on that very notion.
“Nuala, let’s have a little look and see what we can come up with,” I said while mentally working through the dresses in our stock until my brain focused on two or three dresses which screamed youthful, flattering, non-fussy elegance.
And then I smiled as I watched Nuala transform into a bride before my eyes even though she had not so much as a scrape of make-up on and was crying tears of joy.
“You look lovely,” her friends wept as I stood back, admired my workand heard the ding of the bell on the door announcing the arrival of another customer. I knew Rose wouldn’t hear it – by this stage of the morning she would be hunched over her sewing machine singing along to the Grease soundtrack – Grease being a definite Monday-morning favourite. So I excused myself, walked through to the reception area of the shop and came face to face with a woman who I had not seen in five years and who I had not wanted to see ever again, if I could have helped it.
“Mother,” I said, the words sticking in my th
roat.
“Katherine,” she replied. “I wondered could we talk?”
Chapter fourteen
Erin
My desk was my sanctuary – nestled in the corner of the office, close to one of the few windows we had. I didn’t go for the Zen workspace of some of my colleagues – I went for the this-is-my-space approach. I had a handmade clay desk-tidy which Jules had made for me at one of her night classes. I had a picture of Paddy and me, grinning like eejits at each other, in my direct eye-line. I had coloured Post-It notes with inspirational quotes scrawled on them. In my top drawer I had an emergency supply of make-up for touching my face up before any big interview and a spray bottle of Frizz-Be-Gone for particularly humid days. I kept a flat pair of shoes and a heeled pair of shoes in my drawer. My motto, I would joke, was ‘Be Prepared’. Of course Paddy would joke that my motto should actually have been ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ – but I liked to be in control. I liked to know what I was doing and when I was doing it. I liked things black and white. And most of all I liked things the way I liked things. I made no apologies for that. I just wanted a nicelife in perfect keeping with my inner control-freak tendencies. So my workspace was my workspace and when I walked in every Monday morning I liked to know that my pens would all be pointing downwards in the pen jar just as I had left them and that my notebooks would be sitting pointing in the same direction that they had been the previous Friday and that, of course, my drawers would contain the same in-case-of-emergencysupplies.