What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

by Claire Allan

  I smiled at my colleagues as I walked in – nodding towards Grace’s office which was to my right and seeing that she was deep in conversation with our editor in chief, Sinéad. When those two conspired, one of two things happened – something magnificent or something really, really bad. I could cope with the magnificence but not the something really bad. I sat down at my desk, looked atall my personal possessions surrounding me and switched on my computer. I decided it might just be a very good idea to throw myself into my work and not worry about whatever they were up to.

  Paddy had still been sleeping when I’d left. He was tired these days – and that worried me as it was only a week till his next cycle of chemo and by this stage he was normally at the bouncing-back stage. Still, I reminded myself, we’d had a busy couple of weeks – the wedding planning was reaching fever pitch. Just the day before we had written out the invitations and, as I sat at my desk, I was aware of them resting in my bag, all stamped and ready to be sent out into the world. I was sure that if he just got a good few days, a bit of calm and quiet, he would feel better. Sure wasn’t I feeling a little bit tired myself?

  I keyed in my password, listened to the computer whizz and whirr into life and opened the window beside me to let in some fresh air. I lifted the yoghurt and granola from my bag and tucked in, all the while dreaming of a sausage bap from the shop next door. But, you know, I had a figure-hugging dress to fit into and skin which needed to be glowing and not spot-ridden. I ate my granola while checking my emails and making a few appointments for interviews and then I downed the first of my requisite four bottles of water a day – and all the while Grace and Sinéad were still chatting.

  My emails were not yielding a lot to get excited about – but then again it was a Monday morning and things tended to take a little while to get going on Mondays. As usual, everyone seemed to be in a haze of post-weekend lethargy until at least eleven and, had it not been for Sinéad and Grace and their council of war, I might have been inclined to ease myself into the day in the same way.

  We were two weeks into the new magazine cycle – about now things should be coming together and the pages of Northern People should be filling nicely. I had a few things underway – our usual fixtures and fittings were done and I had a few features lined up – but I had a feeling I would have to pull something even more remarkable out of the bag now. After all, I was now an award-winning features writer. There was no room for a slack month. Now was not the time to rest back on my laurels. Feeling a headache building, I swallowed two paracetamol from my stash in my top drawer, smiled politely at colleagues who passed by, got my head down and went on with things.

  The creak of the door alerted me to the fact that the big meeting was done – followed by Sinéad stalking out of Grace’s office. It wasn’t that Sinéad was scary – it was just that she was, and how can I put this without fear of losing my job . . . uber-efficient. To a point where she did not tolerate gladly anyone who was not as uber-efficient as she was.She smiled in my direction – a brief flash of white – as she passed on her way back to her office where she would shut the door indicating an absolute ‘Do Not Disturb Unless Absolutely Necessary’ policy.

  She hadn’t closed Grace’s door, this much I had noticed. And I glanced up to see Grace standing in the doorway, peering out at me, a sneaky half-smile on her face.

  “You two have been scheming, haven’t you?” I asked, forcing a smile on my face but feeling my heart sink to the bottom of my shoes.

  “Can you come in a wee minute?” Grace said. “It’s nothing bad, I swear.”

  Somehow I didn’t believe her. I lifted a notebook and pen – prerequisites for any meeting with your editor – and followed her into her office, feeling a little like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  “Sit down,” she said, smiling as she sat behind her desk and looked atthe notes she had obviously taken from her meeting with Sinéad. She glanced up at me. “You look shit-scared,” she said.

  “I am shit-scared,” I laughed back. The thing with Grace was that you could say it like it was – to a point of course. She was still my boss and for that reason if nothing else she made me feel nervous.

  “Look, we just want to run something past you and this is something you can absolutely say no to – but I think it would be good for you and for the magazine. We all know how tough things are in the magazine world these days and we can’t deny our circulation is taking a hit – so we are looking at spicing things up a bit.”

  Images of me, dressed in lingerie, pouting from Page 3, sprang into my mind and I felt my face redden. I blinked several times, trying to regain my composure. Surely they wouldn’t ask me to go that far? Or anywhere near that far? Or evenanywhere in the vague direction of that far?

  “You’re more of a name now. We want to capitalise on your recent success in the media awards. We get a good response to your stuff, Erin. When we put you on a story we know we can trust you to do a good job.”

  This was starting to feel like a buttering-up exercise and I wondered where exactly it was going.

  “We think we should make more use of you – make you even more of a name. Your opinion pieces get a good response and people are clearly interested in what you have to say.”

  I nodded, wishing she would get to the point, but secretly enjoying a little bit of the flattery while she tried to get there.

  “One thing that people always want to read about is, well, weddings. And people like you. So combining weddings and you – well, it could be good.”

  “I’m already combining weddings and me, in real life,” I said, still not sure where she was going.

  “But would you write about it? Would you share the details with your readers?”

  “And tell them about the dress and the flowers and all the girly things?”

  Grace nodded.

  “And this will make me appear to be a more serious journalist how?” I was happy enough to do the human-interest stories. I was happy enough to write my opinions on a wide variety of subjects. I was happy to do almost everything Grace asked me to do in the name of the magazine and my profile, but did I want to show all my Bridezilla colours all over the pages of the magazine? Did I really want people to be reading about my meltdowns? It was embarrassing enough that I actually had them without publicising the fact.

  “You could tell them it all,” she said, her face a little more serious now.

  I saw her sit back in her chair and cross her arms. I saw a glimpse of uncertainty on her face.

  “It all?” I asked.

  “Look, I know this seems hard . . . to ask you to do this . . . but if you told the readers your story, if we brought them in . . . if we shared your strength of character . . .”

  “If we told the world my fiancé has one testicle and cancer and that we are marrying in case he croaks it?” I felt the tears sting in my eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Grace, but this makes me less of a serious journalist and more like a guest on the Jeremy Kyle Show – spilling the very intimate details of my life for all and sundry to read!”

  She ran her hands through her hair and took a deep breath. “Shit, Erin. Look, I know this sounds scary.”

  “With respect, Grace, you have no idea just how scary ‘it all’ is – and I’m not just talking about work. I’m talking about ‘it all’. And to put it out there? Jesus . . . I don’t thinkso . . . not to Paddy and not to me.” My voice was shaking as I spoke. I don’t think I had ever spoken so firmly to Grace in my life.

  “I want you to think about it,” she said. “Just think about it. You might find it helpful. For you. It might help you come to terms with it all. It might raise awareness of what Paddy is going through – you know how men are. You know how lax they can be looking after themselves. You could make a difference.”

  “There are other ways to make a difference – ways that don’t put every detail of my life out there for everyone to read.”

  She nodded slowly. “Of course there are. But think ab
out it. Talk to Paddy. Come back to me when you have considered it fully. I’ve done it, Erin. I’m not picking this out of the sky. I did the whole baring my soul in this magazine a few years back. It worked. It helped me. Christ knows it just about saved my marriage . . . Look, I won’t pressure you but I don’t want you to go with a gut reaction either.”

  She stopped speaking and I couldn’t find the words to say what I wanted. Not without risking my job anyway. I nodded and turned to leave.

  “Erin, I mean it when I say no pressure. Please believe me,” she said.

  I returned to my desk and stared blankly at my computer screen. No, of course there was no pressure. My boss really wanted it. She believed telling our story could boost our ailing circulation. Telling Paddy’s story could help other men. Telling my story could boost my profile. No, there was clearly no pressure at all.

  I picked up a bottle of wine on the way home from work. Paddy was unlikely to want to share it with me – he hadn’t been one for drinking much since he had started chemo but I certainly felt the need for a tall glass. Grace and I had managed to avoid each other perfectly throughout the rest of the day. Sinéad had walked past at one stage and whispered “Just think about it.” I didn’t think I needed to – but that didn’t stop me phoning Jules.

  “So,” she had said, “supposing Paddy didn’t run for the hills at the very thought of sharing his very intimate bits for everyone to read about . . . do you think it might actually be a goodidea?”

  I breathed out. “But it’s not what I want to do.”

  “You want to write. This is writing and more than that it is writing your story.”

  “Putting my neurosis out there for everyone to see? I mean how much would I tell them? Where would it end? Would I mention Ian and the wedding which never was? Would I tell them how I sat in the hospital chapel when Paddy had his operation and prayed like I had never prayed before? Do I tell them I cried all over my wedding dress and took a panic attack?”

  “You tell them what you want to tell them,” she said simply.

  “I don’t know,” I said – and I didn’t know. I was very good at telling other people’s stories – their tales of woe, their tales of triumph over adversity. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell my own.

  “Well, they don’t need an answer just now, do they? Did they not say to think about it? Take your time.”

  I sighed, rubbing my temples and craving something more than the water I was drinking.

  “I suppose. Thanks, sis. Love you.”

  “Erin,” she said, “It will be okay, whatever you decide. But come to think of it . . . if you decide to go for it, if you decide to tell your story, make sure you write in a really gorgeous and totally irresistible sister.”

  Smiling, I put the phone down and tried my very best to get on with my work.

  “I’ve made some dinner,” Paddy called from the kitchen and I walked through, the smell of one his world-renowned chillies catching me square in the nose.

  “I’ve brought wine,” I called back, sitting the blue plastic bag from the off-licence on the table and reaching into the cupboard to pull out a wineglass, kissing Paddy on the side of the cheek as I went. Opening the bottle, I poured a grand big healthy glass of red and sank a good quarter of the glass without stopping for breath.

  “Tough day at the office,” Paddy asked, eying mesuspiciously.

  I nodded and drank again.

  “Would you like some?” I asked and he shook his head.

  “I might try a beer later – last of the party animals, that’s me,” he smiled, bringing the wooden spoon laden with chilli to my mouth for me to taste.

  Blowing on it, I tasted, made the appropriate yummy noises and went back to my wine.

  “Are you going to tell me about it?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

  “About what? The chilli? It’s lovely. Best one you’ve ever done,” I said with a wink.

  “About work – or whatever it is that is bothering you? Did Jules call you a Bridezilla again? Did someone eat the last Bounty bar out of the chocolate machine?”

  He was smiling, which made me smile too – even though my bad day was about nothing as frivolous as a bar of chocolate or my sister being up to her usual shenanigans.

  “You’re mad funny,” I smirked. “And as it happens – not one bite of chocolate has passed my lips this entire day. I’ve been very good. I’ve had my two litres of water and everything.”

  “And you are now going for your two litres of wine?” He nodded towards my glass, which was down to the dregs.

  “Pet, if you don’t mind. I don’t really want to talk about it. Not now anyway. I’ll just have my wine – eat my dinner and maybe I’ll have calmed down by the time that’s done.”

  He looked at me quizzically again, shrugged his shoulders and turned back to serving the dinner.

  I felt a stab of guilt. We didn’t keep things from each other. We told each other every little detail of our lives and when I had a bad day at work I usually came in and gave him all the details, both guns blazing, until he brought me round with a silly joke or a funny story – or the offer to go and see whoever had annoyed me and punch them square on the nose. Which was funny, of course, because I don’t think Paddy had ever punched anyone in his life.

  I watched him busy himself draining the rice andsighed, but didn’t feel strong enough to broach the topic of how Grace and Sinéad wanted the very details of our life to be printed for all to see across a fewglossy pages.

  “How’ve you been today?” I askedas he turned to set the two plates down on the table.

  “Not too bad – tired, I suppose. But sure I’m always tired these days. I’m hungry though, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? A strong appetite and a desire for beer? Could be worse.”

  “Could indeed,” I said, tucking into the dinner in front of me.

  “Sorry I’ve nothing more exciting to report – but basically it has been a day of lying on my arse and watching trashy TV. Jesus, there is a lot of rubbish on the TV during the day. And it’s strangely addictive. I think I might need a 12-step programme for my growing Judge Judy addiction. If I’m not careful I’ll be talking like trailer trash and wanting to sue anyone who so much as looks at me sideways.Actually,” he said, putting his fork down, “I’m so bored I’m thinking of going back to work. Part time maybe, or from home. Just something.”

  Paddy had not gone back to work since his operation, allowing himself time to recover. We had thought it would be only for a couple of weeks, but then we were told he would need more treatment and the more treatment left him exhausted and sick and not fit to spend his days in a busy graphic-design business working into the wee small hours on pitches. Some days, on the days after his chemo, he could barely lift his head from the pillow, never mind set about designing a masterpiece. But he was bored – it was part of the reason he had thrown himself so full-on into the wedding plans: it gave him something to do. That was fine, he could take that at his pace. Work would be tougher – and he needed all his strength if he was to beat this once and for all.

  “Are you sure you would be able for it?”

  “I’m willing to give it a go. I spoke to Dave. He said they would try and work something around me – around the chemo, which is nearly done anyway. They would build me up slowly and then, hopefully, after the wedding I’ll be back in full health and ready to get back to it full time.”

  I allowed his positivity to wash over me for a bit. He was talking about being back in full health and God knows I wanted him back in full health more than anything.

  “I won’t let this beat me,” he said. “I won’t let it beat us and I’m tired of my life being on hold because of it. I want to get on with things, not lie about watching Judge poisonous Judy and playing the Xbox. Life is for living.”

  As he said this he shovelled a huge mouthful of chilli into his mouth and smiled back at me brightly. I smiled back. He was seizing life by the balls – if you’ll excuse the me
taphor – and maybe it was time I did too.

  “I think that sounds brilliant,” I said. “Really brilliant. You should go for it. And since you are going for it . . . can I run something by you about my work?”

  Chapter fifteen

  Kitty

  It wasn’t that my mother and I had some big cataclysmic falling out. We just, at some stage, ceased to feel that we really had any place in each other’s lives. It was fair to say that probably started just about the time she walked out on us – and had been sealed around the time she apologised for not being able to make it to my wedding as she had booked a cruise and it was too good an offer to miss. And sure, wouldn’t I have Rose anyway, she had said with a sniff. I didn’t know if she had wanted me to beg her not to spend a fortnight in the Caribbean and instead walk me down the aisle with Daddy, or if she genuinely was the selfish person I had always pegged her as. Regardless of the reason, I had told her, brusquely, that was fine and that I hoped she would have fun. Then I had gone back home and cried all over Mark for three hours until it looked as if my face would be permanently blotchy and swollen and I would look like a very tragic bride indeed.

  Mark had reacted angrily – telling me my mother didn’t deserve me. When it came to telling Dad, I had painted on the biggest smile I could and told him that seriously it was fine, I didn’t mind at all and that it wouldn’t at all put a damper on my day. It was strange, but no matter how bad I felt about it I felt a hundred times worse when I saw my father’s face – just that flicker in his eyes that he in turn tried to hide.

  Rose stepped up to the mark beautifully. She did everything a mother of the bride should have done. She took me dress-shopping. She insisted on paying for my shoes and my veil, just as her special treat. She took me for lunch after we had done our shopping and she joked that she would buy the biggest hat she could find and then clatter it with flowers to make it even bigger.

  Rose made sure Daddy went to his suit fittings – and wore clean underwear and socks for the occasion.