On top of that, each one of the brothers are really into their big and blooming families, and all of the wives always seem to be forever pregnant. At the last count, there were something like twelve nieces and nephews, including twins, and I think Paul himself must have about four godchildren. It’s like they’re the most fertile family in Ireland, and according to Kate, the women they marry all have ovaries like Sten guns.
Anyway, lately in Paul’s line of work, things have started to shift. And not in a good way, either. The construction industry in Ireland, after years of being stretched to capacity, suddenly took a huge downturn. Polish workers, who almost single-handedly kept the building boom going, started going back home in their droves, as work here slowly began to dry up. Paul’s development company, thankfully, didn’t suffer too much, as he’d made most of his money by then, but for a workaholic like him, it’s hard to only have one or two building jobs in the pipeline per year, when not so long ago, they were beating his door down, and he could pretty much pick and choose what he wanted to do. So, tuning in to his side of the argument that’s blazing in front of me, it’s easy to see where he’s coming from. We’re in recession, work is scarce and he needs to be over in Galway with all the brothers for the next few days, and that’s all there is to it. Fair enough.
Then Kate gets going, and the gist of her counterargument, all conducted through the bathroom door by the way, is that, while she has no problem with him going to Galway to meet with a gang of other businessmen, can’t he just come straight back home to her afterwards? Does he really have to stay down for the extra night so he can practise with this band that he plays in?
This, by the way, would be the ‘pleasure’ part of Paul’s trip to the west. The band (a four-piece outfit with him on lead guitar) is a big part of Perfect Paul’s life, and they’re not half-bad either, in a traditional, ballady kind of way. Cover versions of Beatles classics, that kind of thing, all very easy listening and no one gets paid; whenever they play, it’s purely for the laugh, and people tend to show their appreciation by buying them drinks for the night. Either that or shouting out, ‘Ah, come on lads, do youse not know anything by The Dubliners?’ Anyway, apart from Paul, his brother Sean is the bass guitarist, his cousin Tommy is the drummer, and a local girl, who sounds a bit like a younger, huskier Dusty Springfield, is lead singer. Her name is Julie and although tipped for great things (there was even a rumour doing the rounds that Louis Walsh was interested in her), she seems perfectly happy to sing with the band at night and work in her dad’s pharmacy by day. Anyway, Paul loves playing with them, and is forever zipping off down to Galway just to work on new songs or play at neighbours’ birthdays/knees-ups/first Communions/ whatever you’re having yourself.
Back to the row, where Kate’s thrust is that, after what’s happened to me, she and Mum are under huge stress right now, and instead of sitting in some pub belting out ‘Yesterday’ for about the two-hundredth time, she needs him here, at home, where he belongs, taking care of her.
I keep forgetting. Thing is, I’ve probably spent more time around Mum and Kate in the last few days than I ever would normally, so I constantly have to remind myself that they haven’t a clue that I’m actually grand. Never been better. And right here. And just waiting for the chance to perform wondrous miracles for them. Although, mind you, I think Kate could prove to be my toughest case yet.
Just then, Perfect Paul emerges from the bathroom, with a cloud of steam from the shower behind him, and a lovely whiff of some musky, very male aftershave. He’s only wearing a towel around his waist, and in all the time I’ve known him, I never realized what a hot bod he was packing under all those Hugo Boss suits, which only adds to his general, all-round picture-perfectness. He’s one of those chunky, solid, rugby-playing guys who look more at home on a football pitch than in the Barbie palace Kate’s created. He’s not what you might call conventionally handsome, and he doesn’t have that WOW factor the minute you look at him either; no, he’d be more of a slow burner, looks-wise. Light brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and, like Kate, he doesn’t have a freckle in sight, the jammy bastard. So big, he’s roughly about the size of a barge, with a neck the approximate width of a small tree trunk. The human equivalent of a pint of Guinness, Fiona always says about him. After the first sip you wonder what the big deal is, it’s only when you acquire the taste for it that you realize what you’ve been missing out on all this time.
Fiona’s very fond of her tortured metaphors. Typical English teacher.
‘Look, it’s only for a night or two, that’s all,’ Paul says, reasonably. ‘If you don’t want to be here on your own, then come with me.’
‘No,’ she says, sulkily. ‘And don’t stand on the carpet in your bare feet, you’ll leave water marks.’
‘I don’t get it. Why not?’ he asks, but gently, usually the best way to handle Kate.
‘Because . . . you know perfectly well why. Besides, I can’t leave Mum.’
‘Your mum is going to be fine for forty-eight hours . . .’
‘Suppose she isn’t? Suppose something happens and I’m not around? You know how she worries. She was bad enough before, well . . . before what happened, but now it’s like every time I’m driving, her new worry is that I’ll end up in a car crash, too.’
Oh Kate. If you could only see me, lying on the bed beside you, absolutely nothing wrong with me. Well, nothing apart from being dead, that is.
Mind you, if she saw me sprawled out on her good Frette sheets, she’d probably drag me off to be dipped in a bathtub of disinfectant, like they do on veterinary programmes with animals who have fleas.
‘Kate, we’ve been over and over this. You know I have to go, it’s as simple as that,’ Perfect Paul insists, pulling open a shirt drawer, with all his shirts perfectly ironed, starched, folded and . . . I’m not kidding . . . actually arranged in descending colour order, darker ones at the bottom, white ones at the top, like in Benetton.
‘We need this contract too badly,’ he goes on, as I stare at him, mesmerized, half-willing him to whip off the towel that’s covering his modesty so I can get a proper look at him in all his glory, if you’re with me. Christ Alive, Kate must be made of marble to be able to look at him and not want to drag him on to the bed beside her and shag him senseless.
‘If we land this deal in the bag, it could set us up for another year, at least. You know that.’
‘Of course I know that, but why can’t you just come straight home after your meetings? Why do you have to stay on for bloody band practice? Isn’t what Mum and I are going through more important?’
‘It’s not just band practice, we’re playing at a fortieth-birthday do in Sheehan’s pub.’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’
‘I told you the other day.’
‘Well, excuse me for being a bit distracted. I’ve other things going through my mind at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Well, if you don’t want to be here on your own, why don’t you just pack your bag and come too? What’s wrong with that? Jesus knows, Kate, you’ve earned the break.’
‘I just . . . don’t really feel that . . .’
Suddenly I get the feeling that she’s faffing, searching around for another excuse, and I don’t quite know why. Paul cops it, too.
‘I don’t get it,’ he says. ‘I mean, of course I know what you and your mum are dealing with right now, after . . . well, you know . . . poor old Charlotte . . .’
I gulp. Still not used to being talked about, when they don’t know I’m here. Beyond weird.
‘. . . but sometimes it’s like you never want to spend any time with my family, Kate. Ever.’
‘Stop bringing Charlotte into it. Are you aware of how insensitive you’re being right now?’
‘Now you’re just being unfair. Christ, it’s like treading on eggshells around you these days. I can’t seem to say or do the right thing . . .’
‘That is not true . . .’
&nbs
p; ‘So how come every time I suggest we go down to the west, you come up with some excuse?’
‘If you’re suggesting that my not wanting to leave Mum at a time like this to swan off down the country with you is some kind of excuse to get out of seeing your family, then you’d better apologize for that remark right now.’
‘So what about last Christmas, then? And the Christmas before that? And my niece’s Communion? And Connor’s housewarming? And my godson’s first soccer match? You always manage to get out of coming, and then the lads at home want to know why, and I’m left standing there like an eejit not knowing what to tell them any more. You’re starting to run out of excuses, Kate.’
‘Can’t you stop thinking about yourself for one minute?’
‘Actually, you’re the one who needs to stop thinking about herself, for a change. I know what’s happening now is rough, but what you’re going through is ongoing, and you can’t expect everyone around you to put their lives on hold for you. Life goes on, Kate. All I’m asking for is two days of your time. If you don’t want to come with me, fine, but don’t make me feel guilty for going, because I’ve made promises that I don’t intend to break.’
‘I don’t want to be around your family right now because it’s very difficult for me . . .’
‘There you go again. You before everyone. Why don’t you just say what this is really about?’
‘PAUL!’ She’s really shrieking at him now, and it’s getting uncomfortable to watch. To put it mildly. Kate’s a great one for keeping up a perfect shopfront, so to see her now, screaming her head off and tearing lumps out of Paul, is really disconcerting. Kind of like seeing the Queen suddenly losing her temper and flinging a Dresden china plate across a room at a corgi.
‘Do you really want to know what this is about?’ she hollers, scarlet in the face, while he just blanks her and keeps on getting dressed, with his back to her. ‘Fine, I’ll tell you. Have you the first clue what it’s like for me to spend time with your brothers and all their wives and ALL their two bloody dozen kids, or whatever it was at the last count? It’s OK for you – the boys drag you off to look at a site, or to the pub to play with the band, or to some match that one of their kids is in – but I’m left sitting with all the women, while they eye me up and down and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. All they can ask me is, now that we have the big house, when will I have news for them all? And then they prattle on about how I can inherit all their buggies and Babygros and strollers. And don’t get me started on your father, who actually said to me that after we start a family, we should consider moving back to the west so that our child can grow up among all his or her cousins. That it’s totally ridiculous you and I living in Dublin, so far away from them all . . .’
‘Well, now that you’ve said it, it is a bit crazy my having to drive up and down every time there’s the sniff of a building job. If you ask me, it would make a lot more sense for us to at least have a base in Galway . . .’
‘And leave Mum here on her own?’
‘Don’t jump down my throat. I wasn’t suggesting we move lock, stock and barrel, all I said was that maybe, just maybe, we should consider getting some kind of bolt-hole down there, that’s all. So I wouldn’t have to crash out in my brother’s spare room whenever I need to be there.’
‘For God’s sake, Paul, there are times I think you’re like some kind of Mafia family who all have to live on top of each other, and you’re Tony Soprano. Honestly, could you blame me for feeling like I’m married to the bloody mob . . . ?’
Kate, you need to shut up right now, while you still can. And did you really have to compare his family to the Sopranos? I mean, wouldn’t the Waltons have done just as well?
‘I’m going to stop you right there, Kate,’ Paul eventually says, with an expression in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Icy fury. Very frightening. ‘Before you really start crossing lines. My family are just trying to include you in their lives, and I apologize if we’re not good enough for you.’
‘Now you’re deliberately twisting it. I never said they weren’t good enough, you’re completely missing the point . . .’
‘You know, I think it’s probably best if I just leave now, before you say anything else you mightn’t be able to take back later on. I’ll be back in two days, and I’ll see you then. Tell your mum I’m thinking of her.’ And with that, he’s out the door and gone.
‘Kate,’ I blurt out loud, unable to sit here and see two people I love so much tearing shreds out of each other. ‘Go after him. Just get up off your arse and chase him to his car, and hug him and tell him it’s all a big misunderstanding. Tell him it’s not that you think you’re too good for his family; it’s that you think they’re all too good for you, because they have big boisterous families and you don’t. At least, not yet you don’t. And that’s what’s making you insecure and petty and wanting to snipe at him all the time. What’s tragic here isn’t that you don’t have kids, because you will in time, I’m sure of it; it’s that you’re letting it drive a wedge between you and the loveliest, gentlest, kindest husband any woman could ask for. Why can’t you just appreciate how lucky you are to have a decent bloke who’d do anything for you? Now go, Kate, go after him. Right now, just do it.’
Great speech, I think, pausing for breath. Shame she never heard a single word of it.
‘OK then, suppose he was in a car crash and ended up like me? Bet you’d be sorry then.’
A wasted guilt trip. She just lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling, looking about as bleak as it’s possible for any person to look. A loud thud as Paul bangs the front door behind him, and she still doesn’t flinch. She just lies mutely on the bed for a sec, then, rubbing her tummy like she’s suddenly got a sharp cramp, she hauls herself up and heads for the bathroom. I don’t follow her, because even angels have to respect other people’s boundaries and, let’s face it, she could be doing more than just a wee in there. A minute later, I hear the loo flushing, then the bathroom door opens as she comes back into the bedroom, opens up a locker drawer, rummages around and produces a big box of Tampax.
Ahhhhh, now I see. So that’s what’s really up with her. She’s just got her period.
And suddenly, in a flash, I know exactly what to do.
She makes it so, so easy for me. Like shooting fish. Still rubbing her tummy, she goes back to the bathroom and bangs the door shut. A minute later, she comes back, opens a drawer in her bedside table, takes out a couple of paracetamol, then hops into bed, knocking back the pills with a glass of water. Minutes later, she’s dozing fitfully.
Right. That’d be my cue then.
Next thing, I’m back at home. In Mum’s house that is, except it’s her house as it was about eleven or so years ago. The giveaway being the revolting sludge-brown carpet that’s long since gone, and the woodchip wallpaper and actual stippling on the ceiling. Eughhh. Throw in the revolting sheepskin rug in front of the fire and you’ll get the picture: this is the house that taste forgot. Pride of place, though, just above the telly, is a 3D Sacred Heart lamp with a blood-red flame flickering in front of it, a souvenir of Mum’s trip to Rome, years ago, on the famous occasion when she and her parish church group managed to get an actual audience with the Pope. Mum, of course, bragged to the entire road before she went, thinking that this meant they all sat down with John Paul the Second in his living room and had a lovely chat while he poured them all tea, handed out Jaffa cakes and asked them how they were enjoying their holidays. The reality was they were shoved into a conference hall with about three thousand other pilgrims, and got a blessing from this tiny white dot on the horizon who they presumed was the Pope, but turned out to be just some aide. Then her pal Nuala got pinched in the bum by person or persons unknown, so every time Mum looks at the offensive lamp with the Sacred Heart glowering down at her, she sighs and says, ‘’Course I bought that the day poor Nuala was goosed up in St Peter’s Square. Terrible randy race, the Italians.’
Anyway, I’m in my scho
ol uniform trying to watch an episode of Sex and the City, and Mum is wrestling the remote control from me, because it clashes with Midsomer Murders, her favourite programme.
‘Ah go on, you’d all day to watch telly,’ I’m pleading my case with her. ‘I’ve my Irish oral exam in the morning, and this’ll help me switch off. Don’t you want me to do well in the exam so you can bask in reflected glory? Don’t you at least want me to do better than Nuala’s daughter, she of the straight As in her mocks?’
When I was living at home, this slightly below-the-belt tactic never failed to work, mainly because Nuala is Mum’s most competitive friend, and her daughter is my age and a right cow.
‘No, Charlotte. I refuse to watch four women sitting around talking about their unmentionables. Suppose your father walks in and they’re all using the c word? He’d be mortified, and I wouldn’t blame the poor man, either.’
The door bursts open, but it’s not Dad, it’s Kate, at least the younger version of her, fresh from a first date with some fella she met in college. She marches in, flings her handbag on to the coffee table, hurls her little pump shoes as far away from her as she can, and slumps into her favourite seat on the sofa beside me. All this done wordlessly and furiously, with Mum and I looking on, both of us dying for the full juice.
‘Well then, love,’ Mum eventually says, after a lot of ‘oh dear God, it mustn’t have gone well’ loaded looks thrown in my direction. ‘How did it go with . . . emm . . . Luke, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t want to talk about it.’ Kate’s standard answer for when she’s so pissed off she can barely restrain herself from flinging things around the place.
‘Well then . . .’ says Mum, fishing, and honestly, you can nearly see curiosity getting the better of her. ‘Just say he rings here looking for you, love, what’ll I tell him?’
‘That I’ve emigrated.’
‘Oh, OK then.’
‘Suppose we tell him you’ve emigrated, then he spots you out and about somewhere?’ I ask, giving a surreptitious half-wink to Mum. ‘What then?’
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 14