by Claire Allan
“Darcy,” I said softly, as she stared into the cupboard and back again at the Ryvita.
“I fucking hate Ryvita,” she said.
“Darce . . .”
“Seriously. I always buy it, but I never eat it. Well, I eat one or two pieces and then it sits in the cupboard till it goes soggy and I throw it out and then I buy some more and the cycle repeats itself. You’d have thought I’d have learned by now. You’d have thought I had more sense, wouldn’t you?” She was still staring into the cupboard and her voice was starting to break. “I could go to the shop. In fact, I will go to the shop and get some nice biscuits and sure you sit there. It’s only down the street.”
“Darcy, I’ll be fine without biscuits. Honest.”
“No,” she said, turning to face me, her foundation streaked with her tears. “How can you say you’ll be fine without biscuits? You need a biscuit with your tea for the love of God! Everyone needs a biscuit. I need a fecking biscuit!” She was half-shouting by this time and I knew – in a rather proudly perceptive way – that she was not talking about fecking biscuits any more.
I stood up and walked to her and put my arms around her and hugged her as the sobs racked her body.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s not you who’s run out of biscuits,” she answered and all I could do was nod, although in fairness my biscuit barrel (metaphorical or not) was as empty as Darcy’s right now.
Darcy had gone to wash her face and I carried our teacups into the living room and sat them on the chunky whitewashed table in the middle of the room, between the two facing chocolate-leather sofas. I looked at the majestically gorgeous white marble fireplace and at the picture of Darcy and Gerry at the centre of it. He was standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her while she looked up at him. They were both laughing in the picture – it was gorgeous, like an advertisement for what love should be like. It was then I realised that the old song was right: sometimes love just wasn’t enough.
Darcy walked into the room and sat down opposite me, pulling a fluffy cushion onto her knee and taking a deep breath.
“It wasn’t horrible. Well, it was horrible. He cried. I cried. But it wasn’t angry. I told him how much I loved him but that I didn’t want to start hating him and that I was sorry I had changed.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he was sorry I had changed too and sorry that he didn’t feel he could. Kids had never, ever been on his radar and he said he loved me too much to end up hating me. It’s kind of crappy really – we’re splitting up because we love each other too much and we don’t want to hurt each other. But it still hurts.”
“Of course it does.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, twisting it and turning it in the way she always had done when she was nervous and on edge.
“Am I mad, Annie? Should I just have kept going?”
“Would it have been any easier to break up three weeks down the line, or three months, or three years?”
She shook her head. “But it’s hardly easy now.”
“Is it definitely over? I know that’s a shitty question to ask but, you know, is this it?” I suppose part of me just couldn’t start to fathom that they were actually done, even though I had seen the hysterical falling-out for myself.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh arse. Annie. Can you believe it? What am I going to do without him?”
It was one of those questions that I simply could not answer, even though my usual response would be to try and say something witty to lift the mood. I guessed that would not be appreciated just then.
“And now I have to find a man to have a baby with, when the truth is I’m not even sure I want one any more. I mean, it wasn’t just that I wanted a baby – I wanted his baby. I wanted us to be a family. I wanted me to be the mammy – and a nice, maternal one – and him to be the daddy. And we would have been great parents.”
She sipped from her tea and I could see the confusion etched across her face as if the events of the last twenty-four hours kept repeating on her, hitting her with a new wave of shock every time. Twenty-four hours ago she had been part of a loving, long-term relationship. She had got up in the morning and kissed her partner and cooked his breakfast and then she had dressed for work in their joint bedroom before making the bed and even fluffing his pillow. He had packed her something for her break at work and kissed her on the forehead as he left. She had phoned him, just like she always did, between lectures mid-morning, and they had laughed and planned what they would do that weekend. And they had been together – and even though of course she knew there were underlying problems in their relationship and one big problem had recently reared its head – she had reasonably believed that they would still be together twenty-four hours later.
But something had changed and then everything changed and now Darcy was planning an ad in the paper for a room-mate and thinking about packing up her old life into cardboard boxes.
“Will you stay here?” I asked.
“In this flat? Long-term? Not sure. Depends on whether or not I can get a lodger or cope with sharing with a near stranger.”
“No, in Dublin? Will you stay in Dublin? Would you come home?”
Darcy smiled. “Annie, pet, this is home to me. I didn’t come here to be with Gerry – and him leaving, us breaking up, won’t be the reason I leave. My life is here – my work, my friends, my flat. What would I do back up North? Derry isn’t actually famed for leading the way in the fashion industry and I’m experienced in buck-all else. And besides I would go off my head back up there – I’d miss the rush of the city, the noise, the nightlife.”
“If you change your mind, you can come and stay with me,” I offered and she laughed.
“And risk our mammoth rows again? I don’t think so, darling, but thanks anyway for the offer. It’s very kind of you, but us Delaney women are made of strong stuff and I’ll be fine here, honest.”
She sniffed and sat back before declaring she was off for a soak in the bath. That was her stress relief – an hour in the bath, soaking in the bubbles – and I figured that, even while she didn’t want to be alone, she needed some time to herself.
“I’ll cook some dinner while you soak.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“You will be, in a while. I’ll just make something to tide us over. Anything you need, honey, just shout.”
“Thanks,” she said and sloped off to run the taps and even though she ran them at full power I could still hear her sobs echo around the gorgeous high ceilings of her flat.
Looking at my watch, I saw it had gone six and realised Fionn would be wondering where I was. Lifting my phone I called her and waited for her answer. As she picked up I could hear the chatter of the Marble Bar in the background. She answered cheerily.
“Hey, doll, how are things?” she asked.
“Not so good,” I replied. “I’m going to stay here.”
“I thought you might,” she said.
“You don’t mind?”
“Course not. You need to be there for Darcy and, besides, I have some news of my own.”
Although I knew she was concerned for my sister, I also could hear the excitement in her voice.
“What is it? Found something delicious and wedding-y in one of the boutiques? Survived a day on your heels? Won the Lotto? Bumped into Colin Farrell in Stephen’s Green?”
She laughed, a deep throaty laugh. “Who needs Colin Farrell when I have my very own hunk driving down the M1 right now to spend a night with me in the Westbury? I hope you don’t mind but I just knew you wouldn’t be back and, well, he is paying for it. And he said he couldn’t wait any longer to see me and I thought that since he is paying for the room – and indeed for the disgustingly sexy underwear I bought today – he might as well have the benefit of it. I figured you need time alone with Darcy now without me ploughing in and no doubt saying the wrong thing so Alex is going to drive me back up North tomorrow and we are goin
g to sort this whole situation out once and for all.”
She sounded hopeful and happy and filled with excitement and that cheered me up. Lord knows we all needed some cheering-up just now.
“I’ll send your bag round in a taxi, and I’ll even pay the fare,” she went on. “You just take it easy and come back when you can and you know where I am if you need me at all – for anything.”
“Except for later tonight when you’ll be indulging in all sorts of make-up sex?”
I could practically feel her blush down the phone line.
“Well, maybe. Actually, I really hope so. I’ve ordered some champagne for our room and I’m determined to make the most of that gorgeous bath.”
“Too much information, my sweet,” I said before telling her I was delighted for her really.
“And Darcy – is she okay?”
I shrugged. “You know Darcy. She gets her practical head on so she is being very matter of fact but she is hurting. A lot.”
“Give her my love,” Fionn said and we said our goodbyes.
So here I was, back in the gorgeous flat at Waterloo Road, feeling about as much use as a chocolate fireguard – although the thought of all that deliciously melty chocolate was actually quite appealing right now. This was a crisis, after all.
So I took my life in my hands – and my purse with my collection of unfamiliar notes and coins – and headed to the shop. This called for emergency supplies – wine, chocolate, carbohydrates galore in whatever form I could find them. There was no way we were going to start sorting through Darcy’s love life without these essential supplies – not a fecking chance. Oh and tissues, we would need some tissues even though Darcy was anal about such things and always had a supply. It would have been utterly remiss of me as a sister and friend not to stand in the Eurospar counting out my coins, like a five-year-old learning to count, so that I could buy tissues in a crisis.
As I walked back, laden down with shopping, I felt my ankle ache and I thought of Owen and the text he had sent that morning. I should really reply, I thought. After all, he had saved my life. But not tonight – tonight had to be all about helping Darcy – that and trying not to think about what exactly Fionn would be getting up to in that hotel room.
When I got back to the flat Darcy had dressed in a T-shirt and Capri pants. Her hair was pulled back off her flawless face and I felt a momentary pang of jealousy. She could even do “heartbroken and devastated” with grace.
“We’ll just sort through some photos and the like. He can do the rest tomorrow,” she said.
I waved the bag of goodies in her face. “I brought supplies,” I offered.
“There isn’t enough wine or chocolate in the world,” she replied, lifting the bottle out and taking it to the kitchen to get two glasses.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“What, drink? I’m pretty sure that, of all the things I have to do right now, drinking is right up there on the list.”
“No, sort things out. There’s no rush.”
“But it needs doing, and we might as well start. I could put it off but it won’t fix things. Me sitting here and moping won’t make him decide that he was wrong after all and actually he does really, really want to have children with me.”
I shrugged. She was right of course and maybe it was me who was putting it off. Lord knows I didn’t do relationship break-up well. I had ended up back in bed with Pearse, with him thinking we were destined for a permanent reconciliation and I kept ending up in bed with Ant even though I doubted his motives were entirely honourable. In fact, I was shite at making a clean break and I didn’t really understand how anyone could do it. I was a clinger-on-er. I think I had watched too many romantic comedies in my time. I truly believed that, even when the leading man had exited stage left and the heroine was sobbing in her bed, it could still all turn around and be okay. I had real issues separating that from real life. Maybe I did need therapising after all? Although unless I was able to express those feelings through crayoned drawings and playing with dolls, it was unlikely Owen Reilly was going to be able to help me. And besides, I didn’t want him to help me. I wanted to sort this out in my own head for once. I mean, if Darcy could be all grown up and just get on with things, then wasn’t it about time that I did the same? I mentally made myself up another, very compact Life Plan: cop myself on and get my life in order.
First, however, I would have to help Darcy.
Gerry was a keen photographer and it seemed that he had snapped almost every moment of their time together. There were shots of him, shots of her, shots of them both. There were shots of the flat – looking more than a little seventies-tastic when they moved in before they had a chance to make it their own. There were pictures of stunning Italian sunsets and African sunrises. There was a picture of a sleeping Darcy, slumbering under a mosquito net, her hair wild on the pillow and her skin dewy as if her skin naturally secreted Clarins Beauty Flash Balm. She was wearing a plain white camisole and the cotton sheets were ruffled around her. That picture – the moment frozen in time – said everything to me that there was to say about love. And it made me cry. Darcy handed me a tissue, refuelled my wineglass and assured me it would be fine.
My mission to help her was failing miserably.
“Do you remember when we were little and Mammy and Daddy used to dance around the living room?”
“God, yes, I thought they were the best dancers in the world.”
“And Mammy was the best singer?”
“Christ, yes. I thought she was better than Madonna. Less slutty of course, but better all the same.”
Darcy laughed. “I used to be jealous of them, in a way.”
“Don’t be getting all Freudian on me,” I cringed.
“Not in that way, for God’s sake! They just seemed so happy and all they needed was each other. Do you think they ever really needed or wanted us?”
“I’m pretty sure they loved us. They still do. You’ll always be Daddy’s Girl, Darce. But did they need us? I’m not sure.”
“I miss them. Ya know. At times like these. I wish Daddy was here to get all enraged and threaten to knock Gerry’s block off. I even miss Mum and her annoying little ways. She would be out researching sperm-banks and buying turkey-basters and telling me it was all for the best.”
“Do you think it is? All for the best, I mean? I can go and buy you a turkey-baster if you really feel the need?”
“I don’t know, pet, if it’s for the best. But it’s happened and that is that. All done and dusted.”
She looked down at the pile of photographs placed in a file-box and closed the lid – but not before I noticed she had taken the picture of her sleeping in some African boudoir and slipped it into the pocket of her trousers.
I woke in the early hours, as the sun rose over Dublin, and walked into the kitchen. Darcy was still sleeping. She had cried herself to sleep and I had stayed beside her in her bed in case she woke – but now I got up and did what all good Derry ones do in a crisis: tidied. I loaded the dishwasher with the remains of the day before and brushed the floors. I pulled open the large sash windows in the living room to allow the cool morning air in and I made myself a cup of tea.
Sitting on the sofa I lifted my phone and tapped out a message.
“My ankle is getting better. Thanks for asking – and thanks for helping” and I pressed Send.
Then I picked up my phone – and against all better judgement – typed out another message. “I miss you. Do you miss me?” and also pressed Send.
28
The cavalry arrived shortly after nine. A procession of exceptionally fashionable girls – and a few men who looked like girls – traipsed into the flat on Waterloo Road and hugged Darcy in a very solemn fashion before taking over the kitchen and making some fancy egg dish with Bucks Fizz.
Contrary to her previous belief, Darcy would not be going to work today. Work had come to her and they were going on an emergency team-building trip to the p
ub – just as soon as it was a respectable hour to swan in and get hammered.
I felt a little like a spare piece – not to mention I felt woefully underdressed. Even though I was in my best River Island skinny jeans with a funky floral top from Monsoon (via eBay), I still looked like I had fallen off the table at a jumble sale in comparison to the assembled fashionistas. It was slightly mortifying – I might as well have had some straw sticking out of pockets and a sunhat with the word “Doofus” written across it in big letters.
Darcy introduced me to various people with exotic and interesting names – some of which I was sure were made up and to a man named Dermot (I was pretty sure he hadn’t made his name up) who was as flamboyant as any of the women in the room.
I smiled back and declared, without invitation, that I worked in PR – just so that they knew that under my vanilla exterior I did actually have quite a trendy job. I offered to put the kettle on, but they pooh-poohed the very notion.
“We have fizz. That’s needed more on occasions such as these,” someone called Summer told me.
So I stood back and watched them swarm around my sister, soothing and chatting and hugging and shaking their heads. She didn’t tell them, of course, the reason behind the break-up. She just told them there had been irreconcilable differences which she figured they could interpret in whatever way they saw fit. They tried though – Summer and Dermot and some people with names I could barely pronounce, never mind spell. But I knew she would never tell them. All the same she lapped up the sympathy and while to my yokel eyes it at first seemed a bit OTT and insincere, it was clear that Darcy felt at home with these people. And while their dress, their mannerisms and their very names were impressively exuberant, they did at least seem to care about her. No wonder she felt at home here. If you’re going to have anyone nurse you through a crisis, it might as well be exceptionally hip and happening young folks.