One Click

by Andrea Mara

  I hit send and sag back on the couch, stuffing the phone under a cushion. It feels like I’ve just run ten kilometres and done five hours of clinic sessions back to back. Dear Jesus, please let this be the end of it.

  It’s not though – within minutes there’s an email from VIN.

  Giulia. I like that. I’m not sure it’s likely though, from what I know about the woman on the beach, and I still need her surname – that’s more important. Are you telling me the truth, Lauren? I hope you are. Things will get very messy for you in your leafy South Dublin suburb if not. Those crumbling Georgian walls won’t protect you if you make me mad.

  I’ll be in touch.

  VIN

  Chapter 27

  “Mum, do we have to do this? I don’t think she’ll even remember,” Rebecca whispers as I knock on Nadine’s door on Wednesday afternoon.

  “We do. Well, you do,” I whisper back. “I didn’t raise you to treat someone differently just because they clean houses for a living.” Getting a glimpse of life inside the house when Dave and Nadine aren’t here is appealing too, but I brush that thought aside. It sounds a little too much like spying.

  A small, dark-haired woman opens the door. She’s wearing a wipe-clean housecoat like my granny used to wear to protect her clothes – I haven’t seen one in years. She looks surprised at first, then her face lights up with recognition.

  “Ah Rebecca love, your dad’s not here – do you want to come in out of the cold and wait?”

  She pulls the door back and we step in.

  “I’m Lauren, Rebecca’s mother,” I tell her, putting out my hand. She shakes it.

  “I thought as much – you can see the likeness. I’m Grace. Come on in – it’s chilly out there this afternoon.”

  The house is warm and, most unusually, there’s a smell of baking. Grace beckons us through to the kitchen. I haven’t been further than the hall since Dave moved in – this feels illicit, but I don’t hesitate.

  The kitchen is huge, bigger than I remember, and I can’t help looking around for signs of Dave. But there’s nothing – not just nothing belonging to Dave, nothing anywhere. The counters are clean and clear, there’s none of the clutter I have in my kitchen. It’s pristine and soulless. I wonder if Dave notices the difference, and which he prefers. The only personal touch of any kind is a painting on the wall above the table – I recognise the mud-coloured fields and grey sea from Rebecca’s description of Nadine’s artwork. It is indeed uninspiring.

  “I’ve a tea brack that’s just out of the oven – will you have a bit?” Grace asks us, pulling me from my thoughts.

  Rebecca nods and reaches for plates, then boils the kettle and takes out three expensive-looking cups and saucers, while Grace cuts the brack.

  This isn’t how I pictured our apology going.

  I clear my throat.

  “Grace, you’re probably wondering why we’re here . . .”

  Soft brown eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

  “Rebecca has something she wants to say.”

  Grace looks over at Rebecca who has her back to us, busy with teabags. I will her to at least turn to face us, and she does.

  “Sorry,” she whispers. Then a little louder, “Sorry for what I said on Saturday morning – I didn’t mean it.”

  “Not at all! Sure I knew you didn’t, love. Don’t mind it.” Grace puts a plate of sliced tea brack on the table.

  I’m not as quick as she is to let my daughter off the hook.

  “She wasn’t brought up to leave other people to clean up her spills, it really isn’t okay.”

  “Oh listen, don’t worry – sure it was a welcome break from dusting light-bulbs or whatever it was I was doing.” There’s a twinkle in her eye and I wonder if Nadine really gets her to dust the light bulbs. “Sit down and have some tea and brack, and we’ll have a chance to chat while the house is quiet.”

  “So Dave and Nadine are both at work, I guess?” I ask as I pull out a chair, though I already know they are.

  “They are indeed. He works long hours – but sure you’d know that yourself. She has it a bit easier – none of the late nights he does, though you’d think working in computers would mean longer days. She’s right too – isn’t that the way we’d all have it if we could?”

  She has a lovely accent. I can’t place it – somewhere in the south-east of the country maybe – I could listen to it all day.

  “God, yes. I work half days but I feel like I’m always on, running between work and kids and house.”

  Rebecca puts tea in front of us, then wanders off with her own cup and her phone, bored already. Instinctively I want to follow, to see more of Dave’s new home, but I stay put.

  “Do you work in other houses too?” I ask Grace, while trying to guess her age. She looks older than me, but it’s hard to tell if her weathered skin is down to lifestyle or the passage of time.

  “I do, and a few small offices, but this is my biggest job – Nadine likes me to come as often as she needs me, sometimes at short notice, so I have to be able to move other things around.”

  That sounds like Nadine all right, everyone at her beck and call.

  “God, that must be difficult to organise?”

  “Ah, it is and it isn’t. But Nadine pays well, so I can’t complain. My husband has a bad back and can’t work – I’m not going to turn down good money. Even from someone who likes her radiators polished and her skirting boards shone twice a week.”

  There’s that twinkle again and I still can’t tell if she’s joking or serious.

  “You should see my skirting boards, they could do with a shine.” As soon as the words are out, my cheeks start to feel hot. Does it sound like I want her to clean my house too? But she looks unperturbed.

  “Oh listen, same in my house – I’m so busy cleaning everywhere else, I’ve no time for my own.”

  Immediately I feel better. And I see the parallel – I’m so busy helping clients with their woes, I have no time for my own either.

  “Do you have far to come?” I ask. “From home, I mean?”

  “No, just down the way in Dún Laoghaire, near the centre.”

  “Oh that’s handy for work – I take it you grew up somewhere outside Dublin though? I’ve been trying to place your lovely accent.”

  Her cheeks pinken and she smiles. “I don’t know about ‘lovely’ – I grew up in a tiny village in Waterford. A one-shop, one-pub place. Blackthorn Bay. I do miss it sometimes.” She looks wistful for a moment.

  “Especially when Nadine’s got you polishing radiators?” I chance, grinning at her.

  She lets out a burst of laughter.

  “Now, you’re a woman after my own heart,” she says, pushing the plate of brack towards me.

  I take a piece and bite in – it’s divine. What would Nadine think if she could see me now?

  “So, do you see much of Dave and Nadine,” I venture, “or are they usually at work?” I wonder how much I can ask without sounding nosy.

  “Oh, I’d see them a fair bit – her more than him now, but I’d be here on a Saturday morning sometimes, especially if they’re having people over for dinner. I do a lot of the cooking.”

  My jaw drops. My God, all those nights I slaved over dinners for Dave’s friends. Now he pays someone to do it.

  “Ah now, nothing fancy,” Grace says, reading my reaction. “But Nadine isn’t confident about cooking, especially for big groups, and your husband can’t boil an egg, if you don’t mind me saying so. I just do up a curry or a stroganoff – something they can heat up that night and pretend they made themselves. With the homemade mango chutney from the jar and the homemade raita dressing from the deli.”

  That makes me laugh.

  “And what about during the week – I thought she was all into gnocchi bakes and aubergines?”

  “She knows how to open jars and throw everything together in a pot all right,” Grace says. “He’s never home till late anyway so she eat
s on her own a lot of the time.”

  That’s interesting. He used to be home relatively early when he lived with us. I wonder what’s changed.

  Grace reads my mind. “You’d nearly think he was avoiding her sometimes,” she says, giving me a wink. “Ah no, he works hard, no doubt that’s all there is to it. But if I was living with someone who was as exacting as she is, I might work late more often too.”

  “Oh really! So she’s tough on him, is she?” I ask, ignoring the little voice telling me this isn’t quite ethical.

  “I’m probably not being fair now. She likes the house neat and he’s a bit messy – leaves his cups of tea all over the place and it drives her mad. He likes the TV volume up loud but she doesn’t and she always gets her way. Sure it’s her home really, isn’t it? Hard to get past that. But the house is like a morgue sometimes when they’re both here – she’s not one for small talk either. Sometimes I feel a bit sorry for him.” She looks up at me. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

  I shake my head. “Not at all. I nearly feel sorry for him myself now!” Nearly, but not quite.

  “Will you have another cup of tea?” she asks.

  I tell her I’ll make it.

  And I know it’s childish, but as I walk over to the kettle I can’t help feeling a little gleeful about sitting in Nadine’s kitchen, drinking Nadine’s tea, listening to gossip from Nadine’s cleaner about the man who is still technically my husband, and may not be quite as happy with his new life as it appears.

  Chapter 28

  Three minutes to ten. I straighten my shoulders, ready for Jonathan. It’s warm in my office but I put back on my suit jacket. Armour.

  There’s a knock, and Susan shows him in.

  “Hi, Dr Elliot,” he says, smiling, and takes a seat. “I’m feeling really positive about everything and I think I’m finally starting to process that Sorcha has left me. I’m ready to do some good work here today.”

  The session is far and away the most productive we’ve had to date. Instead of skirting around issues, he’s open and constructive; he says he’s accepted that Sorcha is gone, and he’s not as angry anymore. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve completely misjudged him. Maybe the raw stage he was at made him act like a dick, and this is the real Jonathan. Jesus, separation can really screw people up.

  When our session comes to an end, I walk him to the door and suggest he leaves it two weeks before booking his next appointment. He turns back to me and smiles.

  “You know, you remind me of her.”

  “Who?”

  “You remind me of Sorcha. She was always accusing me of following her too. Bitch.”

  He walks off then, and I’m reeling and spinning, wondering which one is the real Jonathan, and who he is calling a bitch.

  “I need to get my winter coat,” Dave says, hopping from one foot to the other on the doorstep, pulling his light jacket around him for full effect. I’m tempted to tell him it’s not convenient and that he should have texted first, but I pull the door wide.

  “Cheers, are the girls here?” he asks, walking ahead of me into the kitchen as though nothing has changed.

  “Yes, both upstairs doing homework. Or at least that’s what they’re supposed to be doing – they’re probably on Snapchat. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  “Bloody Snapchat – I just don’t get it,” Dave says, shaking his head and looking suddenly like an old man.

  I suppress a smile.

  “Shouldn’t you make them leave their phones down here?” he says.

  “I’m only joking. They’re doing homework.”

  He shakes his head again. “And what about you and your man from work – any more trouble there? All okay?”

  And because it’s been on my mind since the session this morning, and because nobody has asked me how I’m doing all day, I let it out.

  “Yeah . . . no, not really. He’s still . . . unpredictable. At the end of our session today, he said something that freaked me out a bit, and now I can’t figure him out at all. Some psychologist I am.”

  “What did he say?”

  I pull out a chair and sit down heavily.

  “I think he obliquely called me a bitch. Except he might have meant his ex-wife. I don’t know.”

  Dave shakes his head. “Jesus, that’s awful.”

  “I know. I wish I could tell you the full story, but even letting out a bit of it, I do feel better. I need to talk to Brian about organising a session with a therapist myself I think, if I can find the time.”

  “But, Lauren, you know you brought this on yourself. He saw your photos online and now when he’s crossing boundaries you’re surprised.”

  “Jesus, Dave, I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am, but surely you can see this is your own fault? This is exactly like it was when that guy Leon was harassing you. You have to ask yourself is it them or is it you?”

  “Dave.”

  He doesn’t pick up on the coiled spring in my voice; he’s too busy being right.

  “Remember what it was like back then, Lauren – you were miserable. And we still don’t know who Leon was. Maybe he’s not gone away. I don’t understand why you didn’t shut down all your accounts back then. Always on that bloody phone, always chatting to your friends online. What’s so bad about the real world?”

  I walk to the sink to fill a glass of water. If I answer him now, I’ll say something I can never take back. I watch as water rises in the glass, then spill it out and go again. Only when I’m sure I’m in control do I turn to face him.

  “The reason I didn’t shut everything down is because that’s giving in. People need to stand up to bullies. You don’t understand that, because you’ve never taken a minute to think about anything more important than where your next beer or your next shag is coming from.” I slam the glass of water down on the counter. So much for being in control.

  Dave stares, eyes wide. Then he turns towards the hall. “I’ll get my winter coat when you’re not so bloody cranky,” he says, and walks out.

  I slam the water down a second time though there’s nobody there to hear it, and grab my laptop from my bag. On Twitter, I go straight to search for @CarolineMcGahernJournlist and my fingers fly over the keys to tap out my question.

  Are you still looking for people to interview about trolls?

  While I wait I go into VIN’s Twitter account, and that’s when I spot something new. His account bio has a link to a website – that definitely wasn’t there the last time I looked. Vinhorus.com. My finger hovers over the link for just a second before pressing it, and then I’m through to what looks like a standard blog. Except it’s not a standard blog, it’s VIN’s. My breath is coming a little faster now as I scan the home page for information. There’s no biographical detail, but there is a blog post, just one, titled The Beginning.

  My stomach tightens as I start to read.

  Would you like to hear a story? A history really – a history of actions and consequences and the sins of the father. Pay attention now – there may be a quiz.

  Back then, even though I was young, I always knew when it started again – I’d see it in my mother’s tight lips and red-flecked cheeks, and her voice that sounded like nothing. He hadn’t been home. He was with her. The Whore. That was a word I’d only ever heard the older kids in school using, and I never knew what it meant until she came into our lives.

  Of course he’d come back each time, and they’d sit in silence, my mother’s eyes red and my father’s face white. And I used to listen after they sent me to bed to hear the front door. Or the bedroom door.

  Sometimes he’d stay a week, then he’d be gone again. And they thought nobody knew, but of course people knew. The lady who who lived next door used to whisper to her daughter when I’d walk by. People in school knew too. The older kids used to laugh at me. I knew because they’d stop when I got near, then start again when I’d gone past.

  I remember towards the beginning of the end
there was one night when everything was okay again. He was back from a business trip and I heard them talking and laughing in the living room after I went to bed. I crept down the stairs to listen, but the laughing had stopped by then. My dad’s bag was still in the hall – a brown holdall he used when he went on sales trips. I opened it quietly and put my hand inside to feel around. My hand closed around a small, flat box, wrapped in silver paper. Jewellery. It could only be jewellery in a box this size. If he’d brought my mother a present, maybe he was staying. Carefully I opened the wrapping to look inside. I didn’t know anything about jewellery but I reckoned she’d like it, and she’d smile again. I put it back the way I found it and ran up the stairs before they heard me.

  The next day, my mother didn’t have the present and she wasn’t smiling. I checked her room, but there was nothing there. I looked in the bag while he was having his breakfast and the box was still in it, zipped into the side pocket. He took the bag with him when he went to work, and said it might be a few days this time. And then I understood – the present was for the Whore. That was the beginning, and this, dear reader, is the end.

  My chest feels tight and my breath is short as I read it a second time. Is this VIN’s life? Or just a story – an attempt to freak me out? I’m about to read it a third time when Ava comes into the kitchen looking for food. Snapping the laptop shut, I force a smile and start dinner.