One Click

by Andrea Mara

  He’s just inches from me, and I have to step sideways to put some space between us.

  “Jonathan, hi, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, just about to do my weekly shop. Much quicker now Sorcha is gone.”

  Weekly shop? Here? Doesn’t he live in Clontarf or Sutton or somewhere on the northside of the city?

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you in your civvies,” he says.

  I fold my arms and take another step back.

  Rebecca is ambling over, looking at her phone, and suddenly I know I don’t want him to talk to her. He follows my gaze.

  “Is this your sister, Dr Elliot?”

  Rebecca looks up. “Mum, can I go to the cinema tonight?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Jonathan is standing at the open boot of my car and I can’t close it unless he moves. I reach up and make motions of pulling it slowly down, but still he stands there.

  “She’s not your daughter surely?” he says, then turns to Rebecca. “Is this your mum?”

  Rebecca nods and smiles, her manners instinctive, even in sulky teen mode. Jonathan takes a step back and turns his head sideways to look her up and down.

  “I can’t believe it – you must be, what, fifteen or sixteen?”

  Rebecca grins widely and her cheeks turn pink. “I’m thirteen, but I’ll be fourteen soon.”

  “Rebecca!” I say, louder than intended, and they both look at me.

  Rebecca is surprised, Jonathan amused. Fuckwit.

  “Rebecca, into the car, please.” I lead her by the arm around to the passenger side.

  Once she’s in, I turn back to him.

  “We need to go now, but it’s probably best if we keep things professional, even if we spot one another out and about. It’s better for your treatment, I mean.”

  He nods, still smiling, enjoying my discomfort I suspect.

  “Sure, I’ll see you soon at Steps to Wellness anyway,” he says, turning towards the entrance to the supermarket. Then he stops and looks back. “Goodness, I can’t remember what I need at all now. Isn’t that strange?”

  I’m already getting into the car, and I pretend I can’t hear his words or the glint of challenge in his voice. As I reverse slowly out of the narrow space, he stands, watching, then I see him walk towards a car. He’s not going to the supermarket after all.

  “Who was that, Mum?” Rebecca asks, not looking up from her phone.

  “Just someone from work. Let’s just say, not my favourite person.”

  “Is he the guy who knew we were in Italy?”

  I grip the steering wheel and slow down for an orange light ahead.

  “Well yes, it is, but where did you hear about him?”

  “Dad told us – he said one of your clients guessed you were in Italy because you put pictures of the holiday on Instagram and on your blog. He said it was a good lesson about over-sharing and why it’s a bad idea. Is it true?”

  Trust Dave to take a private conversation and turn it into a cautionary tale for our children. With me as the bad guy.

  “It’s true that someone at work seemed to know I was in Italy,” I tell her, choosing my words carefully, “but there are lots of ways he could have known. I had Lonely Planet Venice in my handbag shortly before the trip for example, and my bag was on the floor beside my desk. I had been chatting to Susan our receptionist about mosquitos and whether or not we’d need to take spray with us – it’s likely there were people in the waiting room who could hear us.” We’re still stopped at the lights, and I turn to look at her. “There are lots of ways he could have found out.”

  The lights change, and we pull off with the traffic. I can feel her looking at me.

  “Okay, but Dad seemed pretty sure it’s because of the photos. He said we needed to learn a lesson from your mistakes.”

  I shake my head. “Dad has his own ideas and I can see why he thought that – I’ll have a word with him later.”

  I’m going to kill him later.

  The lionhead knocker bangs smartly against the door when I try it a second time, wondering if they’re out.

  But someone’s here – footsteps sound inside, and the door swings open. Nadine’s arched eyebrows arch even higher when she realises it’s me.

  “Hi, is Dave here?”

  “Well, yes, but we’re just getting ready to go to a party. Is it urgent?”

  Give me strength.

  “It’s important, yes,” I tell her, biting down my irritation.

  She pulls the door wide and invites me into the hallway, then goes upstairs. I haven’t been here since the dinner party last April. It all seems so obvious now when I think back – the eye contact, the giggling. I remember thinking I was being foolish, and worrying I was turning into someone who doesn’t like her husband to have female friends.

  Muffled voices float from upstairs and Dave arrives down, followed closely by Nadine.

  “This is just between Dave and me, Nadine, if that’s okay.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but Dave says he’ll only be a minute and she goes back upstairs.

  “What’s up – nothing wrong with the girls, is there?”

  “The girls are fine, but I’ve just heard you told them about my client at work who knew I was in Italy.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Yeah, and it’s not okay. That was a private conversation between us – I confided something in you about my work, and then you went and said it to the girls, painting me as the villain.”

  Dave looks surprised. He’s used to compliant-me, the face-saving peacekeeper, and now for the second time in a week, he’s seeing another side.

  “Jesus, relax, Lauren. There was no villain. I just used it as an example for the girls. God knows what they’re snapchatting and posting online. I want them to understand that there are consequences, even for adults.”

  “That’s fine, but not at my expense. Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean you can hold me up as a bad example.”

  Leaning against the wall at the end of the stairs, Dave folds his arms and purses his lips. There’s a reek of high-horse coming from him, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  “Lauren, it’s not that long since you were dealing with that guy Leon tormenting you online. Surely that whole ordeal taught you something?”

  “This has nothing to do with that. Leon was an internet troll – I still don’t know who he was. Jonathan is a real-life client – it’s completely different. Anyway, that’s not the point. There are many ways we can co-parent, but making examples of one another isn’t one of them. All right?”

  Dave holds his hands up. “Fine, got it. I won’t mention your work again.”

  “Thank you.” I turn to leave, just as Nadine comes back down the stairs.

  “For what it’s worth,” she says, “Dave was just trying to help. He was being a good dad.”

  Swivelling around, I open my mouth to tell her to butt out, then stop to choose my words more carefully.

  “Nadine, this is between Dave and me. There’s no reason for you to worry about it.”

  Dave looks like he’s about to say something, but Nadine jumps in first.

  “Lauren, I know you don’t like hearing this, but I’m with Dave now, and I’m involved in every area of his life, including his relationship with his daughters. And as I’m closer in age to them, I think I can help with some of the issues that come up.”

  I can feel the heat in my face and on some level I’m aware that my mouth is hanging open but no words are coming out. I look over at Dave, who seems as surprised as I am to hear about Nadine’s sudden interest in parenting. Surely he’ll say something? But he doesn’t. And I’m still standing there with my mouth half-open, and the moment has passed. Nadine ends it by turning on her heel and going back upstairs. I give Dave the most withering look I can muster and march out without saying goodbye.

  Next door, Clare is watering two tubs of dead flowers and looks up as I fl
ounce down the steps.

  “Lauren, are you okay?” she asks, putting down the watering can and walking over to the dividing wall. She’s wearing a long, black jersey dress, which is completely at odds with the purple tie-dye bandana in her hair and the grey slipper-boots on her feet. She catches my look.

  “We’re going out for dinner, but we’re not leaving for an hour, and I have high hopes of bringing these flowers back to life. So tell me – what’s up?”

  I don’t want to stop in Nadine’s driveway, so I suggest tea in my house. Clare puts her front door on the latch, calling back to her husband that she’s popping in to me, and follows me out. Clare is the only person who has reacted in any kind of normal, human way to the mess with Dave. We’ve spent many hours analysing and dissecting the affair over the last two months, usually in my kitchen. Clare doesn’t have kids and maybe that’s why she has the headspace to lend me an ear for my problems, or maybe she’s just one of those really good people you come across every now and then.

  Inside, once the kettle is boiling, I tell her about the conversation with Dave. When I get to the bit about Nadine saying she’s closer in age to the girls, Clare’s brown eyes widen.

  “She’s a complete wenchbag, Lauren, and always has been, and as soon as the Botox stops working and the hair turns to straw she’ll be kicking herself that Dave is gone, she has no friends, and the only people left listening to her whinging will be her personal trainer, her life coach and her cleaner.”

  I snort at the last bit. This is why I love Clare.

  “And only because they have no choice,” she continues. “They’re paid to put up with her.”

  “Hang on, I thought you were messing – does she really have a personal trainer?”

  “Oh God yes – you hardly think Nadine would be bothered getting to the gym herself or just going out for a run. And same with the life coach and the cleaner – they’re all in and out of the house, looking after the Queen.”

  “Jesus, that’s kind of bugging me. For years I’ve been saying to Dave we should get a cleaner in to help with the house, even just once a fortnight, but he always said we didn’t need it. Talk about double standards. And your one’s house is always gleaming – why does she even need a cleaner? I’m the one who needs help.” I glance down at skirting boards that haven’t been washed in months. If even.

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it,” Clare says. “She has a cleaner, so her house is gleaming. And when Dave is gone, her house will still be gleaming. But will she be happy?”

  I’m curious about her certainty that Dave’s not in it for the long haul.

  “Do you really think he’ll leave her? He seems so disgustingly besotted.”

  “He will. Absolutely. He’ll keep looking for younger ones – though he’ll find it harder to do. That’s the consensus among the neighbours anyway.”

  This catches me by surprise. “Really? Who? What are they saying?”

  Clare slides the bandana off her head and shakes her hair free, running her fingers through her dark curls.

  “It was at the Residents’ Association meeting. So help me God, if I don’t get off that association soon I’ll end up in an institution. But yes, they were all commenting last week on how well you’re looking and how the split seems to suit you, and that it’s gone the other way for Dave. There was a certain amount of barely suppressed glee in the room. And – wait for this – two of them were wondering if you’re the one who damaged Dave’s car, and they said they wouldn’t blame you if you did!”

  “Wait, what damage? I didn’t do anything to Dave’s car!”

  “Oh listen, I know you didn’t – someone tipped off his wing-mirror and it’s hanging loose and, honestly, I don’t think the RA gang thought you did it – it was a bit of craic more than anything. But nice to know about the solidarity, isn’t it? They’re rooting for you.”

  It doesn’t tally at all with what I’ve experienced – polite nods, skeletal small talk, and no mention of the split.

  “But that’s because they’re feeling awkward,” Clare says when I tell her this. “They’re not used to neighbours having affairs with other neighbours. And they think you’d be embarrassed if they brought it up. That’s all.”

  It takes a moment to absorb this.

  “I see your point,” I tell her, “but it would be nice if just once someone asked me how I was doing.”

  “But, Lauren love, you don’t give off that impression. People around here admire you, but they don’t feel they know you well enough to ask how you’re really doing. You always seem to have everything under control. What’s the word . . .” She stops for a minute. “Poised. That’s it. And you don’t give off an air of inviting questions.” She stops again. “Have I hurt your feelings?”

  “No,” I say slowly, getting up to make tea. “That’s fine, it makes sense. I just hadn’t thought of it like that. The way I was brought up, you don’t air your dirty linen in public, so I guess I can’t have it both ways.”

  “That’s it. I think if you want people to ask you about it, you need to bring it up yourself. It can’t be healthy to keep everything bottled up – you need to let it out of your system sometimes.” She sees what must be a look of horror on my face at the idea of spilling all to our neighbours, and rushes to clarify. “I don’t mean to everyone and anyone, but I’m always here if you want to have a bitch about Nadine. And I can fill you in on the nice things – like the RA discussion on how well you’re looking. Best of both worlds then, isn’t it?”

  I nod and place a mug of tea in front of her, grateful for one ally on a day that hasn’t gone very well at all.

  CLEO

  Chapter 22

  Click, click, click, then nothing. Cleo tries again, but there’s no spark. Dammit. She moves the pan of soup to the ring at the back of the stove-top, the only one still working. It’s beyond crappy, but there’s no way she’s calling the landlord again. There’s something deeply unpalatable about him, and the way he pauses to lick his lips when he’s talking to her. Like he’s about to devour a burger.

  She checks the time on the microwave clock. 18:11 say the bright green digits, stark and uninspiring against their black background. She misses her vintage wall clock now, with its reassuring pink roses. Actually she misses everything about her New York apartment – the cheery green sofa, the beaded cushions, the kitchen table that always seemed so small until she moved here and discovered what a small table really looks like.

  Her Mac chirps to life and she opens it up to answer the call. Her mom likes to think she’s very with it, but it took her a while to get used to Skype when Cleo moved here. She’s getting better at the technical side but still marvels that she’s able to see right into the apartment from thousands of miles away, and says so every time.

  “Let me look at you,” she says when Cleo picks up. “Step back from the screen so I can see you better. I need to make sure you’re not fading away.”

  “Mom, they have food in Ireland too, and I’m thirty, remember?”

  “Sure, honey, but you know when you’re busy you forget to eat. Now, walk me around your apartment.”

  Cleo holds up the laptop and shows Delphine the saggy brown sofa, the ring-marked coffee table, and the boxy TV set like something from That Seventies Show. Delphine is impressed at how tidy the kitchen is, and happy to see the pan of soup bubbling on the stove. If she asks to look inside the fridge Cleo is in trouble – there’s a bottle of white Zinfandel, a hunk of Brie, and a lemon. But she’s satisfied with her cursory tour and Cleo flops down on the sofa to fill her in on what’s going on.

  “So how is work – are you still in that bar?”

  “Yep, still in Nocturn. I’m working tonight, so I’ll need to go get ready in a few minutes.”

  “Saturday night – tips will be good?”

  “Nah, I mostly tend bar, and people here don’t tip bartenders. But I like it.”

  Delphine nods and tilts her head to the side, which means she
’s working up to a question.

  “And do you like it enough to stay?” she asks, twisting her watch on her wrist.

  “It’s fine for keeping me in money while I’m here, but it’s not what I want to do forever. I’ll be back, Mom – I just need a little more time to explore.”

  “But there’s a whole world to explore,” Delphine says, twisting her watch faster. “Why get stuck somewhere tiny and backwards like Ireland?”

  “Backwards – that’s a little harsh! Where did that come from?”

  Delphine purses her lips. “Well, there are better places you could be.”

  Cleo looks into her mother’s eyes, three thousand miles away, trying to work out where this antipathy towards Ireland is coming from. But today they’re impossible to read.

  “Well, sure, I intend to explore other places,” she says eventually. “I’d like to try living further south too – maybe Spain.”

  Delphine stops twisting her watch and nods. “I think you’d love Spain.”

  “And don’t worry. I’ll be back to New York eventually. You know this is something I’ve always wanted to do and, after everything that happened with Marcus, I realised I needed to stop dragging my feet. Carpe Diem and all that, right?”