If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back

by Claudia Carroll

  Companionably, of course.

  ‘So, how are things with you?’ he asks politely, but I’m guessing that he can’t get off the subject quick enough.

  Fi does what we all do on dates: lies stoutly about her life, over-exaggerating the fabulousness of it by about eighty per cent.

  ‘Seeing anyone?’ says Tim casually.

  No she’s not, no she’s not, no she’s not . . .

  ‘Oh, you know, I’m out there, dating, but no one special,’ she says, airily.

  Perfect answer. Makes it sound like she’s hordes of fellas after her, and that it’s just a matter of picking the most eligible one, nothing more.

  ‘Mind you, these days I use the word “boyfriend” to be synonymous with “it’ll all end in tears”.’

  But then she had to go and blow it.

  Fi, stop using comedy to hide heartache, that’s my department!

  ‘Fair play to you,’ he smiles. ‘I really admire anyone who can brave the whole dating, clubbing, pubbing scene. Would you like to settle down, though? Be married, have a family, I mean?’

  ‘One day,’ she answers, doing a great Mona Lisa smile.

  Oh, this couldn’t be going better!

  ‘Fiona, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Did you ever take a good, long, third-person audit of your life and wonder exactly how you got to where you are now?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is . . . did you ever stop and say to yourself, hang on a sec, my life was supposed to turn out completely differently?’

  Oh, yes, here we go, and far sooner than I would have predicted! Cue Tim confessing the horrible mistake he made by marrying Ayesha, queen of the spray-tan, when his true soulmate was under his nose the whole time. I’m sitting right in between them, hands cupped around my chin, like I’m watching the most romantic soap opera unfold right before my very eyes.

  ‘Go on,’ says Fi, the eyes full of . . . I’m not quite sure what. Apprehension? Hope?

  Yeah, go on, you’ve a wider audience than you might be aware of, sitting here with bated breath, waiting to see what you’re going to say!

  He takes a long sip of wine and looks into the middle distance, carefully formulating the next sentence in his head.

  ‘I’m nearly thirty,’ he eventually says. ‘And I’m supposed to be happily married, living with my beautiful wife and two gorgeous daughters in our family home that we paid a fortune for. And instead, I’m stuck in a shoebox apartment down in the IFSC, with a bedroom so tiny that if I sit up I can actually touch all four walls. I’m paying rent I can’t afford on top of a huge mortgage on the home that I should be living in, which Ayesha’s new man just ups and moves himself into, without a second thought. Did I tell you that she’s seeing someone? And the other day, Sorcha, that’s my youngest, actually called him Dad. I felt like someone had ripped my heart out through my gut. I wanted to kill him, actually kill him. I’m not messing, Fiona, I’d do time for the bastard, and no jury in the land would convict me, either.’

  OK, so maybe not what I was hoping he’d come out with, but, hey, the night is young.

  ‘He’s called Rick, so I’ve christened him Rick the Prick.’

  And . . . clearly, on top of that, Tim has a lot of anger issues to resolve, but then, isn’t that perfectly natural, given what he’s been through?

  ‘He calls himself a golfing coach, which as far as I can see involves him sitting around on my sofa all day watching DVDs of the Ryder Cup, then arsing off at weekends to play with his mates. Wanker. Doesn’t pay a bean towards bills, so basically I’m supporting him. I mean, what kind of a guy does that? Just walks into another man’s shoes and expects his lifestyle to be completely subsidized by him? I could strangle him, I really could.’

  ‘That’s just terrible,’ says Fi, nodding her head sympathetically.

  ‘She was having an affair with him for about a year before we broke up, you know,’ Tim goes on, white-faced with bitterness now. ‘But of course, the husband is always the last to know. I don’t know how, but I kind of smelled something was up for a while, and you know how I finally found out?’

  ‘Emm . . . no.’

  ‘Last October bank-holiday weekend, she told me she was going to the K Club with the girls for a hen weekend, so I said fine. Then I was in our bedroom and I noticed her packing all this new underwear she’d bought. Really sexy stuff, basques and thongs, all kinds of things that she never wears. At least, not for me. At least, not any more. I got suspicious, but, eejit that I was, I trusted her and gave her the benefit of the doubt. Next day, Heather, my oldest, got a really bad tummy bug, high fever, the works, so I called Ayesha’s mobile I don’t know how many times, but it was always switched off, which in itself was odd. Then I tried ringing the hotel to let her know what was going on, and that I was taking Heather to the hospital. There was a “Do Not Disturb” on her bedroom phone, so I figured she left it on by accident, and I asked to talk to her best friend, who I’d been told was on the hen weekend, too. ’Course, the receptionist had no such person staying there, which really got me suspicious. Eventually, hours later, I finally managed to get through to Ayesha’s room, and Rick the Prick answers the phone, cool as you like. And that’s how I found out that my marriage was over. Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m in Temple Street Children’s Hospital trying to take care of a sick little child who just wants her mum, while she’s off shagging someone else in a five-star hotel.’

  ‘Tim, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.’

  Poor Fiona looks devastated for him.

  ‘It’s nothing compared to what happened next. When we separated, I thought the best thing for the kids was to stay on in the family home, so I moved out and let her have the house.’

  ‘Which was really decent of you . . . well, considering.’

  ‘The kids come first, in the middle of all of this hell, that’s the one thing I kept coming back to. So I move into the shoebox flat – where, by the way, I can actually hear conversations in full swing from the couple living next door, not raised voices, mind you, just normal, ordinary conversations – and I figured, at least my girls are OK and I can see them whenever I like. I thought, OK, I may be at rock bottom, with my whole life in shreds, but I do have something to live for. My kids. Who are still at home, so if nothing else, at least the disruption to their little lives is minimal.’

  Fiona’s nodding away approvingly.

  ‘Then I get a solicitor’s letter summoning me to the family courts.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Do you think I’d joke about something like this?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, no, no, of course not.’

  ‘I almost threw up when I got the letter. She was actually taking me to court, so the times that I got to see my own kids could be laid down by some bloody eighty-year-old judge who hasn’t a clue what I’ve been put through.’

  ‘So what was the outcome? What did the judge say?’

  ‘That I can see them one evening a week and for, big swinging deal, a full day at weekends. We have to go back to court regularly for progress reports, and get this, it’ll take about another two years before I’ll actually be able to take them for overnight access. When I’d been used to seeing them all the time, the way any normal dad does. Now I’m reduced to picking them up and dropping them back at court-appointed times, while Rick the Prick gets to see them every night of the week. I’m lying awake in my shoebox apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much more of this hell I can take, while that freeloader is tucking my kids into bed in my home, with my wife beside him. I can’t tell you how that feels, Fiona, but I’ll say this. If ever I was close to suicide, these last few months were it.’

  The waiter interrupts to take their order, and they both regroup a bit. Me included.

  OK, so maybe Tim has a long way to go to heal and maybe get his head around seeing someone new, but at least we’re ki
nd of, sort of, on the right track here. Aren’t we?

  Fiona tops up their wine glasses.

  ‘Tim, I really don’t know what to say. What you’re going through is . . . painful beyond words, but . . . well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

  He looks at her, and for a minute I think he might actually start getting teary.

  ‘You were always such a good friend,’ he says. ‘I know we haven’t been as close in recent years, since I got married, but you know . . . kids and all.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I mean, all your priorities shift when you have a family, and it’s easy to lose touch with people from your past . . .’

  ‘Sure, I understand . . .’

  ‘You’ll have kids of your own one day, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  She blushes a bit before answering him.

  ‘All I’m saying, Tim, is that I’m here if you need me.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  I’m on the edge of my chair now, holding my breath, waiting on him, willing him to tell her how seeing her has made him realize just how huge a mistake he made in marrying the wrong woman. How much he’s pined for her all this time, how incredible it is that she’s come back into his life right now, when he’s at his lowest ebb and needs her most.

  ‘I mean it,’ she adds sincerely.

  ‘I know you do. And I also know that you’re one of the few people who I can rely on to help me through this.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know, I couldn’t believe it when you called me out of the blue like that. You were like some kind of angel being sent to me in my hour of need.’

  OK, here it comes. Here’s the part where he gently introduces the idea that, in time, down the road, when he’s a little less raw, that maybe, just maybe, she’ll consider taking things to another whole new, wonderful level. Suddenly all the background noise in the restaurant, the chatter, the clinking of glasses and the laughter is really starting to annoy me. I just want to yell at everyone to shut up so I can focus on what’s coming next.

  ‘Hey, I’m here for you. Anytime you need me, just pick up the phone,’ Fi says, blushing like a forest fire.

  ‘You know what, Fiona? Seeing you has really made me realize something.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  I hold my breath. The waiter at the table behind us is going through today’s specials so loudly that I want to clock him one for shattering the mood here.

  ‘I look at you and there you are, single, out there, dating . . .’

  ‘Yes? And?’

  ‘And I think, I can’t go back to living that life. I don’t even want that life any more.’

  ‘So, you said that seeing me made you realize something. Em . . . what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Emm . . . you tell me.’

  ‘That I want to be married, of course.’

  ‘Ehh . . . to . . . ehh . . . who?’

  ‘Well, to Ayesha, of course. Who else?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  KATE

  I’m worried sick about Kate, so as soon as Fiona’s date ends, I go straight to see her. It’s still earlyish, and she’s in the living, sorry I mean drawing room, with the TV on, flicking through the channels but not really taking anything in. I know by the glazed look on her face and the way she keeps glancing at her watch every thirty seconds. She looks washed-out and exhausted, tense and strained, and, I’m not joking, you can practically feel the nerves ricocheting off her.

  Which can only mean one thing.

  I run over to the living-room window, look out and . . . confirmation in bold capitals, if I even needed it. Even though it’s pitch dark, I can see that there’s only one car parked in the driveway . . . Kate’s. Which means Paul never came home. Not in the last twenty-four hours. After everything: the awful row they had back in Galway, Kate finding out that he lied to her about meeting all his developer contacts, when the whole time he was out drinking with Robbie, Briar Rose . . . and Julie. And because I was with Fiona all evening, I’ve no idea what’s been going on in the meantime, if he’s phoned her to explain, or even if he’s on his way home to her now.

  But judging by how fraught and strung-out Kate looks, I’d hazard a wild guess that the answer’s no.

  Just then, she suddenly springs up, strides to the window and squints out, up and down the avenue where they live. She’s standing right beside me now, and, instinctively, I put my arm around her shoulders. No reaction, which you’d think I’d be kind of used to by now, but I’m not. She just looks so edgy and over-wrought, and it’s killing me that I’m not here for her. Really here, I mean. In the physical sense. Here’s my big sister, really needing me, and all I can do is look on.

  Being dead would drive you mental, it really would. Times like this I find myself thinking, what did I have to go and die for, anyway?

  Kate goes over to her mobile and hits the redial button. Paul’s mobile I’m guessing. She listens, waits for a bit, then clicks her tongue as it goes straight through to voicemail.

  ‘Paul, it’s me. Again. This is about the tenth time I’ve tried calling you, and I can’t believe you haven’t got back to me. It’s past ten at night, I’m worried out of my mind here, you have GOT to call and let me know where you are and what’s going on.’

  She sounds wobbly and strained and then comes the time-honoured phrase which might as well come with subtitles saying, ‘You’re in big trouble.’

  ‘We have to talk.’

  She clicks off the phone, and goes back to channel-hopping on the TV, with me slumped down beside her, desperately trying to get my head around all this. That he hasn’t come home, and hasn’t even bothered to pick up the phone to his wife. Perfect Paul. The guy I used to hold up as an example of how gentlemanly and adoring some fellas could be. All the years I spent looking at Kate’s life from the outside, and envying her flawless marriage. I’ll tell you something, whoever said that before you judge someone walk a mile in their shoes wasn’t messing.

  But then, I find myself reasoning, whatever’s going on with Paul, there is at least one tiny granule of hope that I can cling to: maybe this is just a blip, nothing more. I mean, don’t all marriages go through rocky patches? Isn’t it possible, just possible that that’s all that’s going on here? Then I look across at Kate’s stressed face, and it kills me all over again that I can’t be here for her. One hundred per cent here, I mean.

  She channel-surfs to the Late Late Show where the chat is all about a luxury holiday for two they’re giving away to the Maldives for some lucky competition winners. Suddenly, I get an instant brainwave: oh my God, sure, this is so obvious! Sure, that’s all that Kate and Paul need, a bit of time away together, away from grieving and work and all of her horrors-in-law, and Paul’s obsession with his bloody band! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

  I wait till she eventually switches off the telly, locks up and hauls herself wearily upstairs to bed. Alone. I’m seeing it all so clearly in my mind’s eye: I’ll plant a seed in her head so she dreams about her and Paul on a secluded five-star beach resort, the kind that you only ever read about in the über-posh travel supplements. Her with a cocktail in one hand and a trashy novel in the other, him in very tight Speedos looking divinely sexy. Throw in hot sun, a Jacuzzi for two, room service and champagne and you’ve a recipe for the most wonderful setting where they can, I dunno, reconnect with each other and remember why they fell in love in the first place. I haven’t the first clue what’s going on with him, and why he’s behaving the way he is towards Kate, but wouldn’t a second honeymoon set their marriage straight again? That’s all they need, you know, I’d put money on it.

  And then I swing back to feeling helpless and useless and utterly frustrated all over again. I mean, why can’t I send her a proper, decent sign? Something that would gently guide her towards, in no particular order, a travel agency, a lingerie shop and som
ewhere she can get her legs waxed? No joy, though. In fact, poor Kate spends so much of the night tossing and turning I don’t think she gets a wink of sleep at all. I stay with her, watching over her.

  Watching and worrying. Eventually, very early the next morning, she does manage to drift off a bit, so I hastily jump in.

  Right then, here goes.

  Next thing, she opens her eyes and finds herself on a sunlounger, looking out towards a crystal blue sea. It’s baking hot, and she’s wearing big face-covering Posh Spice shades, with a pretty white linen sundress, sipping a cocktail that starts off green at the bottom and changes to peach at the top. She’s also wearing a floppy straw hat, why, I don’t know, because the jammy cow can actually take the sun and doesn’t end up looking like a burnt, gingery, freckly, Duchess of York lookalike, as I do after about four seconds on a beach.

  That aside, this is a good start.

  Looking bored, she tosses her book aside, sits back and starts looking around her. Then, in that surreal way that dreams have, she starts to hear music. She listens for a bit, then realizes that it’s Paul singing ‘Something’ by the Beatles, her all-time favourite song, the one they had as their first dance at their wedding.

  Better still.

  She gets up and strolls back to the hotel, which is huge, so she wanders down marble corridor after marble corridor, trying to find him, looking into room after room, calling out his name. The corridor she’s on now suddenly stretches out to about five times its length, with door after door on either side. She’s breaking into a run now, starting to get panicky, flinging each door open, calling out his name, but, somehow, every room she sticks her head into is completely empty. So she goes on running, sprinting, getting faster and faster. The only sound is Paul’s singing getting louder, and the flip, flop of her sandals on the marble floor, racing still more rapidly. But now the marble floor has changed, so it looks like that brown, swirly carpet in the horror film The Shining . . .