by Cathy Kelly
That had been a near miss. Ruby was forever getting into trouble with teachers these days because she kept zoning out in class and slipping into dreamland. What was the point of school anyway? It was all so useless, so utterly hopeless. It didn’t help you deal with real life and people who were messing up their lives and yours. School was full of people telling you what to do. Ruby was sick of people telling her what to do, what to think, what to feel.
‘When I think of what your father has done to this family … we should all totally ignore him and we should never have to see him again.’
Her mother had been halfway through a bottle of wine when she said this, but no one was likely to call her up and question her about her behaviour. Whereas Ruby got hassled all the time over the stupidest things. Only the day before, Miss Lynott, the fifth-year form mistress, had pulled her aside to let her know yet another teacher had complained that she wasn’t paying attention and her homework was substandard.
Since earlier in the term, when Miss Lynott had rung Mum about Ruby not doing enough work, she’d been making a bit of an effort. Not that Mum was too concerned; she’d been more upset about the school giving out than she had about Ruby doing badly.
‘You’re so clever – and look at all the riff-raff they let in!’ her mother had said crossly. ‘How dare they phone me about you? I gave that woman a piece of my mind, I can tell you!’
Ruby could have told Miss Lynott that her mother was not an easy person to tackle. Ruby could have told Miss Lynott a lot of things, but what was the point? The first person Miss Lynott would tell was Mum, and life was bad enough without Mum going ballistic because Ruby was washing their dirty linen in public.
Ruby knew exactly what she’d say: ‘How dare you tell people that you’re stressed because I hate that bitch your father has moved in with! It’s all your father’s fault, not mine! I’ve done nothing!’
And then she would cry, which was the other thing she did a lot of these days. Rage and cry.
‘I’m sorry, Ruby, I love you, it’s just …’ and she would sob again because she didn’t seem to be able to say what it was.
Mum, Ruby knew, wasn’t able to see anything these days.
It wasn’t the same at school. Yesterday Miss Lynott had told her: ‘Ruby, I’m worried about you. We all are. Your grades have slipped this year and it’s not like you. I know you say nothing’s wrong, but clearly something is. Please help me to help you.’
Ruby had stared past Miss Lynott’s kind, well-meaning face and said, ‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine. Really, thanks.’ Then she’d walked off, leaving Miss Lynott standing there. She’d felt sorry at first, because Miss Lynott was one of the nice teachers who had always been kind to her. But she was sick of all the wrong people wondering what the matter was. Sick of it.
She wanted Dad to see how difficult things were, she wanted Mum to see. But they were so caught up in their own lives that they didn’t.
When the bell rang signalling that forty leaden minutes of history was over, everyone groaned with relief. It was lunchtime, time to chill out, eat something, forget about work for an hour. Ruby had a yogurt in her bag, but she wasn’t sure she’d eat it. Half of it, maybe. Yes, she’d have half. The great thing about yogurts was that they didn’t talk back.
Stephen said it was only right that he and his son go suit shopping while the women were off looking for their dresses.
‘See if Robbie’s up for it,’ he said on the phone to Michael a few days before. ‘And perhaps a pint or two.’
‘Robbie’s up for everything,’ said Michael of his best man. ‘But he can’t come out in the evenings now, with the new baby.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said Stephen idly, ‘perhaps I might bring yourself, Katy, Fiona and your mother out to dinner in Bridgeport. Seeing as I’ll be down there.’
‘Cracking plan, Dad,’ said his son. ‘Just you, or Julia too? I haven’t seen her for ages. Work busy, huh?’
‘Yeah, very busy,’ said Stephen slowly. ‘I’ll phone your mum and ask her.’
Julia. The ache in his chest was back. What he’d done to her and how he’d never meant to hurt her.
All those years ago, Julia had seemed like the perfect antidote to what was wrong between him and Grace. She was child-free, in the same business, sexy and fun. There were never conversations about babysitting or getting one of the kids picked up from football/dancing/whatever. After the rows he’d had with Grace about moving to Dublin for his career, this new life was seductive.
It was like being young and single again, something he’d found very heady. He and Julia could go away for weekends easily, hop on a plane at the drop of a hat or go to a concert if the mood took them. He was there for Fiona and Michael when he was supposed to be, but when they were with Grace, he was a free agent, and he’d loved it.
And then his darling daughter-in-law-to-be had become pregnant, and suddenly, being the dashing advertising man around town had palled.
Everything Stephen thought he’d been happy to live without had exploded into living colour and he’d realised he’d been kidding himself all along. He’d had the family without the really hard stuff, the day-to-day hard stuff. Grace had done all of that.
Grace. The woman he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really stopped loving.
He’d never realised that before. Julia had seen it before he had. Poor, lovely Julia. She’d seen how he longed to be part of his old family again when he hadn’t had a clue.
Stephen wished he could turn back the clock for Julia, make it all like it had been, but he couldn’t and they both knew it. The big question for him now was what was he going to do about it?
He caught Grace on her mobile at the end of a long day devoted to her least favourite part of the job: dealing with all manner of financial matters including the school insurance – the policy price had gone up again.
‘Dinner on Saturday?’ she’d said, phone tucked between her chin and shoulder as she organised the papers on her desk. ‘That would be lovely – just not anywhere fancy …’ Then a thought occurred to her: ‘Why don’t I cook for us all?’
‘I don’t want you to go to any trouble, Grace,’ said Stephen. ‘I wanted to treat you all and make the weekend special. It’s not as if we’re paying for any part of the wedding; it’s the least I could do.’
‘No,’ said Grace, enthused over the idea. ‘I’d love it. I can’t tell you the last time I cooked a feast. It’ll be a pleasure.’
‘Well, I’ll bring the wine and mineral water,’ said her ex-husband. ‘You’re not to spend a ha’penny on drink. I can bring dessert too. There’s a bakery near me that does a nice pavlova, and I could bring berries and cream.’
‘No,’ said Grace decisively. ‘I’ll make Queen of Puddings. Katy loves it – assuming she’s up to eating it, what with the morning sickness. Lord, I don’t know the last time I made that …’
In Dublin, when Stephen finally hung up, he was smiling to himself at the thought of the lovely Saturday night ahead of him. Grace was a fabulous cook. Her roast beef and gravy was a thing of glory, and when she did that slow-cooked Moroccan lamb with pomegranates … He could feel his saliva glands going into overdrive at the thought.
And that was all it was: dinner, he promised himself.
In her office in the school, Grace hummed as she tidied up. How gorgeous it would be to have everyone together again. Lovely big family dinners were one of the many things she missed about being married and having the children living with her. Those family dinners she’d once taken for granted were among the happiest moments of her life, she’d realised when they were a thing of the past.
No pressure, just family around the table enjoying food and conversation. There was usually some mild argument over sports (Michael and Stephen), music (Michael and Fiona) and how nobody kept any part of the house tidy (Stephen and both kids), but they were good-humoured arguments.
She could recall Michael trying to slope off without doing hi
s share of the tidying in order to phone or text Katy. Fiona had always been wonderful about helping out, as had Stephen, and often he’d insist she sat down with the remains of her glass of wine and relax while he and Fiona tidied up.
Then Fiona would wander off and Stephen would sit with Grace. She’d have her shoes off and her feet up on another of the chairs with the red cushions. They’d talk for ages, discussing life, the children, work, that funny thing someone in his office had done, how a new mother with a child in junior infants was still arriving at school in the morning in three-inch heels and a tight skirt because she desperately fancied the gym teacher, who in turn had sat in Grace’s office insisting he hadn’t spoken more than a word to her and what if his fiancée found out or people thought he was that sort of man?
She might look for some nice spring lamb, she decided. Stephen and Michael had always adored her lamb, and she’d do some jewelled couscous and salads too, in case Katy – who wasn’t a great meat-eater – was still off red meat with her morning sickness. And her favourite pudding. She left the office with a spring in her step.
She had something nice for her gratitude diary: the wonderful relationship she had with her ex-husband. How many people had that?
‘Please come on Saturday,’ Katy said to Susie on the phone. ‘We need you, we’re the Three Musketeers after all.’
She’d rung as late as she dared, when she knew Susie would have settled Jack into bed and would probably be hurrying round the apartment organising his clothes and his packed lunch for school.
Susie was a brilliant cook now, which Katy admired. She’d been hopeless once; Leila had been the chef in the Martin house, for all that she said she lived off ready-meals now. But Susie had changed once she’d had Jack.
‘Proper food is so important,’ she’d said, diligently puréeing carrots while Leila and Katy played with baby Jack.
‘Oh, Katy,’ Susie said now, tiredness in every syllable. ‘You don’t need me, honestly. Just get a dress in my size—’
‘No,’ said Katy decisively. ‘You need some time to have silly, girlie fun with no responsibilities. It will be great. You need shoes, underwear, a necklace … Doesn’t that all sound nice? Michael’s mother is making a dinner for us, which will be gorgeous, and if you think Jack is too small to stay up late with all of us, then Morag, who works for Mum, you’ve met her, will mind him in her house and let him snooze until you pick him up. She has three kids under ten and a house full of Thomas the Tank Engine stuff. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. She’s the perfect minder, Jack will love her, and …’ she paused, ‘you need to spend some time with Leila.’
There was silence.
‘You love each other to bits, and all this rubbish about who said what about Tynan is crazy. She was a daft cow to marry him and we both know that.’
Susie laughed. ‘Gee, you need to stop beating around the bush, Katy.’
‘I’ve said it to her face, Susie,’ Katy pointed out. ‘I’m not going behind her back with this. Leila knows exactly what I feel about Tynan. But she needs us now. And yes, I know being with Tynan meant she wasn’t really there for you, but life is a bit of a learning curve. I think she knows it now. Plus, I need you. Who else is going to tell me how to be a modern mother? The books make it all sound so easy and I know it’s not: I want the real deal, the real story of giving birth, the pain, everything …’
This time Susie’s laughter was deeper, more real.
‘I could always check with Mollsie if she could mind Jack for that Saturday morning,’ she admitted. ‘It might be nice to go shopping …’
‘Yay! Fun, here we come,’ said Katy happily.
On the morning of the great bridesmaid dress hunt, Katy and Birdie were the first to reach Milady’s Salon, the bridal boutique Katy had most liked the sound of after an Internet trawl.
They’d walked slowly arm in arm towards it, chatting happily about pregnancy and feeling tired, how it was the most incredible feeling in the world, and yet morning sickness: why?
‘I threw up every morning religiously for three months when I was carrying you,’ Birdie said as they walked.
‘I never knew that,’ Katy said, shocked. ‘You poor thing. It’s awful, isn’t it? I’m not too bad, not every morning, but sometimes in the afternoon it hits me and I have to munch on something.’
‘Ginger biscuits.’
‘Yes! Ginger biscuits. I hate ginger normally. Especially Gran’s sticky gingerbread cake.’
‘Me too,’ said Birdie, ‘but I have to eat it. She might whack me with her walking aid otherwise.’
The two women laughed conspiratorially.
‘Gran can be a bit of a tyrant,’ Katy agreed. ‘Was she helpful when you were pregnant, seeing as your own mum wasn’t around?’
It was a risky question, one that Katy had never thought to ask before. Her maternal grandmother had been long dead when Birdie was pregnant, and it was only now that Katy could appreciate how hard that must have been. Nobody but your own mother could possibly have that intense interest in every aspect, but Birdie had been denied that. Her parents were dead, her two brothers living abroad – leaving her to be subsumed into the Desmond family like a veritable orphan.
‘Your gran was great,’ said Birdie, which wasn’t true at all, but she had always tried to make sure that Katy had a good relationship with her one surviving grandparent.
‘It’s better to have your own mum, though,’ said Katy, squeezing her mother’s arm happily.
Milady’s Salon saw brides by appointment, and the proprietress, Madeleine, a smiling, chic woman in her fifties, let them in. Katy, Birdie and Leila had already been to see her about Katy’s dress. Today she was going to have her first fitting, which was exciting. But really the focus was on Leila, Susie and Fiona.
‘We have three bridesmaids coming,’ Katy explained.
‘Three is a nice number,’ said Madeleine, who had happily told a bride only the previous day that one was the ideal number. People got worried at weddings and calming them down was part and parcel of her job.
‘Do you think so?’ said Katy. ‘There’s Leila, who you met before, and who can wear any colour. But Fiona – well, she’s not a dressy kind of girl.’
‘It will be no problem,’ Madeleine said cheerfully. ‘How are you feeling today, Katy? Up to a nice cup of tea?’
‘Yes please,’ said Katy.
‘Tea would be lovely,’ agreed Birdie, sitting down and watching her beautiful daughter walking along the rails, hands out, stroking the dresses.
Nothing could be nicer than the creamy silk gown Katy had chosen: with a covering of antique-looking lace, and an empire line so that it would fall elegantly from her bust no matter how her baby bump developed, it was an exquisite dress.
Madeleine watched her for a moment, thinking that this had been an easy bride to dress, with no interfering mother: Birdie would have been happy whatever her daughter had chosen. If only all brides were as trouble-free.
Leila and Fiona shared a companionable drive from Dublin to Waterford. Through Michael and Katy they’d known each other well for at least fifteen years and were at ease in each other’s company. They talked about the wedding and how lovely it was to be involved in one where the couple were so gloriously matched and happy.
‘How are you doing since the Cretin left?’ Fiona asked the moment she got in the car, unzipping her boots and sliding her seat as far back as it could go so she could rest her feet on the dashboard.
‘For a while, pretty horribly, I have to admit,’ said Leila, who knew there was no point in doing the ‘it’s all fine, honestly’ schtick with her current passenger. ‘I kept Facebooking him.’ No need to mention that she was no longer doing this with anything like the same interest, and was instead thinking non-stop about her boss: how it had all gone wrong in Rome and how she was hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, Devlin did like her and might say so again one day.
Did this mean she was over Tynan? She hope
d so. It was like one of those toothaches where you were in agony for ages and then it lessened over time until one day it was gone and you didn’t even realise it until someone asked how you were.
‘Facebook – ouch,’ said Fiona, wincing. ‘Dangerous territory, that. A girl at work who’d been dumped – sorry,’ she added, ‘started a Facebook campaign where she went to all these cool parties and gigs simply so she could post the photos of herself and say how happy she was. She got every good-looking bloke she met to pose with her. It was pretty impressive, I have to say. If you didn’t know she was still sobbing over the first guy, you’d think she was glad to be rid of him so she could hang out with all these other gorgeous single men.’
Leila laughed. ‘Was she was too broken-hearted to take advantage of these fabulous guys?’
‘Surprisingly, no. She’s going out with this incredible man from Sligo. He has a sort of Johnny Depp thing going for him, without the eyeliner and the Captain Jack necklaces, but he reeks of sex. When he’s in the room, you can’t take your eyes off him. I think,’ Fiona said thoughtfully, ‘that they fell for each other because she wasn’t hung up about how she looked or how she was behaving or whether he liked her – all the usual stuff that holds you back. She just wanted to look as if she was having a good time – and she forgot herself and did have a good time. She’s totally happy now.’ She reached down for her bag, found the chocolate bars she’d brought and offered one to Leila.
‘Thank you.’ Leila took it gratefully. All this talk of happy-ever-after was making her hungry in a way only chocolate could assuage. ‘Do you think that’s it?’ she asked. ‘Stop worrying if he’s happy or if you’re behaving the right way or not? Then if it’s going to work, it has a better chance because you’re not pressuring the hell out of yourself trying to be something you’re not?’
She’d been guilty of that when she was with Tynan, Leila thought with shame. Not at first. But afterwards, when they became serious and she was truly in love with him, she’d desperately wanted it to be perfect, she’d wanted to be perfect. At some point, she’d stopped being Leila and had become the Leila who wanted to match Tynan’s needs. She shuddered: she hated when women did that. How had she become one of them?