‘If I say no to Canada, is the proposal withdrawn?’
‘Of course not. I’ve wanted to marry you since the day we met. I’d like to take this job in Vancouver, but if you don’t want to move there, we’ll come up with a Plan B.’
‘Do the Canadians have a good sense of humour?’
‘I’m sure they do.’
‘Where will we live?’
‘The university will provide us with a house.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t accepted the job yet. So, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Marry me, come to Vancouver and spend the rest of your life with me.’
‘Yes, yes, and most definitely yes.’ I laughed and leant in to kiss my husband-to-be.
13
Once the shock of Vancouver and the marriage proposal had worn off, my mind began to de-fog.
‘We really don’t have much time. Your parents are over next week and then I’ll have to go home and do some bomb-dropping. Actually, it could work out well. I’ll go home for St Patrick’s weekend and tell them then.’
‘We’ll go together,’ said Pierre.
‘No. Let me pave the way first, then you fly over and meet everyone.’
‘All right.’
‘I just need to ask you one more time. Are you absolutely sure you want to marry me? You’ll be taking on my family and it’s not going to be easy.’
‘Yes, I am. Besides, I’m marrying you, not your family.’
‘Technically, yes, but in my family’s case they tend to get very involved.’
‘Niamh, we’re getting married and moving to Vancouver, which is a long way away so your family won’t really be a problem.’
‘They’ll come and visit, believe me,’ I said, remembering the time my cousin had moved to New York and a steady stream of relatives, friends of relatives, colleagues of relatives, neighbours of relatives and pretty much anyone his relatives had ever spoken to arrived on his doorstep every week. He’d gone to New York to get away for a while and ended up running an Irish B-and-B.
‘Great. I hope they do,’ said Pierre.
‘Do you know anything about Vancouver?’ I asked.
‘I looked it up last night. It has a population of almost two million people, you can ski and sail in the same day. It has great restaurants, shops and galleries. The population is extremely diverse, so we’ll fit right in.’
‘Does it get to minus forty in the winter? Will we have to live underground for months at a time wearing Puffa jackets to bed?’
Pierre grinned. ‘As attractive as that sounds, no, we won’t. Apparently it rarely goes below zero because it’s on the coast. But it’s close to Whistler, which is supposed to be incredible for skiing.’
‘I don’t know how to ski.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘I have really bad co-ordination.’
‘You’ll be fine. I’ll help you.’
‘Pierre.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine.’
‘What if I can’t get a job and I end up sitting in the house all day waiting for you to come home and being resentful of you because my career is down the toilet and I’ve no friends and no one to talk to, while you’re out teaching ski-toned, leggy Canadian young ones about linguistics?’
‘I’ve already asked the dean of the university to put out feelers for you with local editors. Once they read your columns, they’ll snap you up.’
‘I hope so. I’ll go mad with nothing to do.’
‘Actually, darling, I was hoping we could start a family sooner rather than later,’ Pierre admitted.
‘Already?’
‘I’m forty-two. I don’t want to be too old to kick a ball around with my kids. I’ll be sixty-three when they turn twenty-one. That’s old.’
‘So that’s why you’re taking me to Canada. To get me barefoot and pregnant.’
‘It’d be nice to have children.’
‘Yes, but I’m still trying to get my head round marriage and emigration to another continent. I don’t have the head space for kids.’
‘But you wouldn’t be against having them quickly?’
‘No. But you’re not that old and I’m young, so we don’t need to panic yet. Can I enjoy my honeymoon first?’
‘All right. You can have those two weeks off, but after that it’s down to making babies.’
‘Two weeks? Where are we off to?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Have you booked it yet?’
‘I was waiting to propose first.’
‘Wise move.’
‘Thanks.’
‘A few pointers for you. I don’t like humidity, creepy-crawlies, any kind of trekking, climbing or mountaineering. I don’t like really intense heat because I get heat rash. I’m not a fan of camping. I think spas are overrated. How many massages can a person get? I like a bit of culture but not too much, because then you feel guilty if you haven’t gone to see all the museums and galleries. I prefer pools to beaches – I find sand high maintenance. I prefer small, family-type hotels to big flashy ones. A fishing village an hour’s drive from a cool city would be great.’ I grinned.
‘Could you be more specific?’ said Pierre.
‘Seeing as this is probably my last holiday before I get pregnant and my life is over, I think I’m entitled to be fussy.’
‘No donkey-trekking in the Himalayas?’
‘Not unless you want to go to Vancouver alone.’
‘So, you’re OK about having children soon?’
‘How many were you planning on having?’
‘Six.’
‘Well, you need to propose to someone else.’
‘Four?’
‘Let’s start with one and see how we go.’
‘I don’t want an only child. I’d like them to have siblings.’
‘You turned out OK.’
‘I was lonely.’
‘OK, two kids.’
‘Let’s keep an open mind.’
‘Three is my final offer. Take it or leave it.’
‘I prefer even numbers but I’ll take it.’
‘How magnanimous of you.’
‘I try to be.’
‘Hey.’
‘What?’
‘Thanks for asking.’
‘Isn’t it fairly normal practice for a man to ask his wife-to-be if she wants to have children?’
‘I mean the marriage proposal.’
‘Even though I botched it up?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re very welcome. And thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For saying yes.’
The next day we went to several jewellers and picked out a beautiful solitaire. I couldn’t stop staring at it. The ring made the whole thing so real. I was Pierre’s fiancée! His wife-to-be! I was in seventh heaven and dying to tell my family the good news, but I couldn’t. It would have to wait until St Patrick’s weekend when I went home.
In the meantime I had to starve myself for my in-laws’ imminent visit, keep up with current affairs… and write a column.
Irish Daily News
‘The new girlfriend’
Niamh O’Flaherty
When a man’s best friend turns up in the pub with a new young girlfriend, who is drop-dead gorgeous, his friend whoops. He high-fives him, says how the hell did a dog like you manage to pick up a babe like that, and then he goes home that night dying to tell his wife all about her.
HUSBAND: ‘I just met Tim’s new girlfriend. She’s a young one.’
WIFE: ‘How young?’
HUSBAND: ‘I dunno, about twenty-four, twenty-five. A total fox, fair play to him.’
WIFE, BUTTONING UP HER FLEECY PYJAMAS: ‘What do you mean “fox”?’
HUSBAND: ‘A cracking-looking girl.’
/> WIFE, GETTING GRUMPY: ‘In what way?What’s so amazing about her?’
HUSBAND: ‘She’s a six-foot blonde with legs up to her neck. She looks like your one, Cameron Diaz.’
WIFE: ‘What?There is no way. Tim’s going out with someone who looks like Cameron Diaz? You’ve had too much to drink. You’ve got your beer goggles on.’
HUSBAND: ‘No, I don’t, I said it to Tim and he said people come up to her and say it all the time. She’s the image of her.’
WIFE, FEELING IRRATIONALLY THREATENED BY A GIRL SHE’S NEVER EVEN MET: ‘I bet she’s only using him for his money.’
HUSBAND: ‘Apparently she’s loaded. She runs her own recruitment agency.’
WIFE: ‘I bet you she’s one of those high-class hookers. They always have good cover stories. I bet you Tim met her on the Internet.’
HUSBAND: ‘That’s a terrible accusation. He met her in the gym. They have the same personal trainer.’
WIFE, FURIOUS WITH HERSELF FOR BEING SUCH A JEALOUS WENCH, BUT EVEN MORE ANNOYED WITH TIM FOR GOING OUT WITH A YOUNG STICK-INSECT: ‘So, she has to work at keeping the weight off?’
HUSBAND: ‘No, she’s training for a triathlon.’
Wife now feels violent hatred for this super-fit, super-rich supermodel.
HUSBAND: ‘Tim wants us to meet up for a meal on Friday.’
WIFE: ‘Tell him we’re busy.’
HUSBAND: ‘I’ve already told him we’re free.’
WIFE: ‘I’ve nothing to wear, I hate all my clothes.’
HUSBAND: ‘Wear your red dress, you always look nice in that.’
WIFE: ‘I can’t bloody well fit into it. I’m not going out with some rich, successful beanpole, who’ll make me look like an old, fat, unsuccessful hag.’
HUSBAND: ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not old or fat and you’re not unsuccessful.’
WIFE: ‘I’m at least ten years older than this new girl and I’d say a good two stone heavier.’
HUSBAND: ‘You look much younger than you are. Besides, she’s not that thin.’
WIFE, RAISING AN EYEBROW: ‘I thought she had an incredible figure.’
HUSBAND: ‘Actually I think her legs are a bit chunky from all the training.’
WIFE: ‘Really?’
HUSBAND: ‘Yes, and she doesn’t look like Cameron Diaz close up, only from a distance.’
WIFE: ‘Do you know who I look like from a distance?’
HUSBAND: ‘Who?’
WIFE: ‘Humpty bloody Dumpty. And do you know who I look like from close up?’
HUSBAND: ‘Who?’
WIFE: ‘Humpty Dumpty with boobs.’
HUSBAND: ‘You’re being silly now.’
WIFE: ‘No, I’m being honest. Tell Tim we’ll go out with them next month. It’ll give me time to lose a stone.’
HUSBAND: ‘Do you want me to get the name of their personal trainer?’
Wife glares at husband in manic, serial-killer type way. Husband makes himself scarce.
The new boyfriend
When a woman’s best friend turns up in the pub with a new young boyfriend, who is drop-dead gorgeous, she whoops. She high-fives her friend, says, where did you meet him, he’s amazing, and goes home that night dying to tell her husband all about him.
WIFE: ‘You’re not going to believe this. Tara has a new boyfriend and he’s six years younger than her!’
HUSBAND, GLANCING UP FROM WATCHING Match of the Day: ‘Cool.’
WIFE: ‘He looks like Brad Pitt. I swear he’s the image of him.’
HUSBAND: ‘Bit like myself then.’ He laughs, patting his beer belly.
WIFE: ‘They want us to go for dinner with them on Friday.’
HUSBAND: ‘No can do. I’ll be shagging Angelina now she’s a free woman.’
14
London, September 1985
When Liam’s parents found out that Siobhan was pregnant, they went ballistic. Mr O’Loughlin called my father late that night and an emergency meeting was arranged in our house the following morning to discuss the sorry state of affairs.
The O’Loughlins lived in a big, detached house on Brewer Avenue. Mr O’Loughlin was a very successful lawyer and Mrs O’Loughlin was a lady who lunched. They both had fake English accents. They sounded like they were doing really bad imitations of the Queen. They spent their time trying desperately to socialize with other English professionals, but could never shake their Irishness enough to fit in. They had to make do with being king and queen of the Irish professional set.
They were members of the Irish-owned Westbrook Golf Club (having tried unsuccessfully for ten years to gain admission to Greenlawn Golf Club, where all the public-schoolboys hung out smoking cigars and talking about the fun old days at Eton, being buggered in the showers by the upper sixth). The O’Loughlins only deigned to speak to other successful professionals and sneered at those who had not cast off their Irishness. They drank Earl Grey, shopped in Harrods, ate from Wedgwood plates.
Liam was the youngest of four. His love of and natural talent for Irish dancing were a great source of embarrassment for the O’Loughlins, who abhorred Irish dancing and everyone involved in it. Liam’s three older sisters were clones of their mother and the eldest had married a posh English boy, much to her parents’ delight – despite the fact that he had no job, and that although his family claimed to be landed gentry they appeared to have no money at all. He was bona fide English and the O’Loughlins were beside themselves. He even had a double-barrelled name! They paid for a lavish wedding, paid for the groom’s suit, paid for his family to be put up at the Savoy, paid for Mr and Mrs Thompson-Black’s wedding outfits, the honeymoon and a house for the happy couple to live in.
The O’Loughlins had done everything in their power to persuade Liam to stop dancing, but he loved it. He was a real natural. His parents never attended any of his performances so mine had felt sorry for him and taken him under their wing. Then he had fallen for Siobhan and the rest is history. My parents were very fond of Liam, but were not fans of his parents. His parents thought Siobhan was a peasant. This was going to be some show-down.
My mother disliked Mrs O’Loughlin intensely. She hated snobs, but she was also a little intimidated by her and her Harrods clothes. She changed ten times and made my father put on his best suit, then change his shirt and tie twice. Finally he exploded. ‘What difference does it bloody well make what I’m wearing? Their son has got my daughter pregnant and he’s going to marry her or I’ll skin him alive.’
‘Is it too much to ask that you look respectable when they arrive, and not answer the door in your dusty workboots? Do we have to look like tinkers?’
‘I’m not dressing up for those snobs. I am what I am and I’m proud of it.’
‘Will you shut up and change that shirt? I won’t have them looking down their noses at us, saying Siobhan isn’t good enough for them.’
‘She’s worth twenty of them and you’re worth fifty of that stupid woman,’ said my father. ‘We’re a respectable, honest family doing its best to get on. We’ve never pretended to be anything we’re not and I’m not going to start now. We’re good people, Annie.’
‘I know, sweetheart, I know. You’re right, we are what we are. To hell with the O’Loughlins.’
My mother never called my father ‘sweetheart’, and he only called her mushy names when he was drunk. It was nice, though. It was comforting.
‘Oh Danny Boy…’ The doorbell tinkled. My father stood on the stairs for a few minutes until my mother hissed at him to stop being so childish and let them in.
They stood in the hall, Mr O’Loughlin looking furious, Liam looking terrified and Mrs O’Loughlin looking around with her nose turned up like she’d smelt something nasty.
‘Come in and sit down,’ my mother urged, in a stilted voice.
They went into the good room. Siobhan came downstairs in her best green dress, her hair tied back in a green bow. She looked really young and really scared. I wished her luck as she went in
to face the scary O’Loughlins.
I snuck round the back through the dining room and glued my eye to the crack in the folding doors. I could see Mrs O’Loughlin perched on the edge of the good chair in her expensive suit, reeking of perfume and plastered with makeup.
My father was pouring drinks into the good glasses we only ever used on Christmas Day. Liam and Siobhan were sitting on the couch holding hands, and my mother was beside them, very stiff and awkward. Mr O’Loughlin was standing by the fire. My father handed him a drink.
‘Well, Mr O’Flaherty, what’s to be done about this terrible situation?’ said Mr O’Loughlin, in his finest English accent.
My father took a sip of his drink and said firmly, ‘There is only one solution, as I see it. Your son marries my daughter and makes an honest woman of her.’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Mrs O’Loughlin. ‘I have a friend who knows of a place in France where Siobhan can go and have the baby. They’ll find a nice home for the child, she can come back here and no one will ever find out what happened. It’ll be expensive, they don’t take just any girls, but you needn’t worry about money. We’ll look after it.’
I could see my mother’s face slowly turning scarlet.
‘Yes, well, we think it’s for the best,’ said Mr O’Loughlin. ‘It will cause the least fuss and disruption and Liam can get on with his studies. As my wife said, we’ll be happy to cover the expenses.’
‘I don’t want Siobhan to be sent to France,’ Liam blurted out, coming to life at last.
‘Liam.’ Mr O’Loughlin scowled at his son. ‘We discussed this last night. It’s the best solution all round. It will save us a lot of embarrassment.’
‘It seems to me that your solution is a little subjective,’ my mother said, a little too loudly. I could see she was struggling to keep calm. ‘You are suggesting that we send our seventeen-year-old daughter away to some strange place in France to give birth to a child, then hand it over for adoption, come back and pretend nothing has happened. Why don’t we ask Siobhan what she thinks of this wonderful idea?’
Siobhan was glaring at Liam. ‘How could you? You promised you wouldn’t leave me. I don’t want to go to France on my own and give up our baby. You promised we’d get married, Liam. You promised.’ She started to cry. ‘Don’t send me away, Dad, please.’
Whose Life is it Anyway? Page 9