CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Where are you going?’ Barry yawned as he woke up to find his wife dressed in a grey trouser suit and a white cami and inserting a pair of gold earrings into her ears.
‘Work,’ Aimee informed him. ‘I’ve got that big McNulty christening in Howth. I want to throw an eye over things. Don’t worry – I’ll be back in plenty of time to bring Melissa and Sarah to the wedding, seeing as you’re not driving us.’ There was an edge of sarcasm to her tone, but he ignored it. Although she hadn’t said anything, he knew Aimee wasn’t at all impressed that he was driving his daughter and ex-wife to the wedding and leaving her and Melissa to fend for themselves.
‘What time will you be home at? I’ll be heading to Greystones around twelve. You’d want to have a taxi ordered for quarter past two by the latest to give yourself plenty of time to get into town for three,’ he advised.
‘Don’t worry about what time I leave at. I’ll be there,’ she said sharply and marched out the door.
He heard her high heels click-clack down the hall and scowled. He supposed he should be glad that she’d changed her mind and was coming to the wedding with him, but she wasn’t being particularly helpful.
He’d hardly seen her in the past few weeks; she’d been so consumed by work. She’d had a half-dozen Holy Communion bashes, each of them costing between twenty and fifty thousand, she’d told him, and there’d been two weddings as well as the O’Leary one, which was coming up the following week. With the arrival of the Celtic tiger, the nouveau riche had been splashing out lavishly on every conceivable occasion, and Aimee’s company, an up-and-coming player in the events and catering business, had been reaping the rewards. His wife was working far longer hours than when he’d first met her and earning far more money too.
When she’d arrived home from Milan two days after he’d had sex with Connie, he’d had a flash of disquiet when she’d walked in the door that evening. She’d gone straight to the office from the airport, anxious to catch up, and then got stuck in the Friday-evening rush hour, which left her snappish and in bad form when he’d spoken to her on the mobile to find out if she could pick Melissa up from a basketball match.
He was surprised at how little guilt he felt when he saw his wife face to face. For some strange reason, he couldn’t quite equate what he’d done with Connie as unfaithfulness. Had he slept with a stranger he’d probably have been riddled with guilt.
Aimee had given him a quick peck on the cheek and informed him she was going to have a shower, unable to hide her relief when he told her that he hadn’t been able to get a reservation in the Saddle Room and had tried several other popular restaurants with the same result. ‘Hardly surprising,’ he’d told her, ‘you didn’t give me much notice.’
‘We’ll do it another time. Stick the beef bourguignon and the chive mash from the Butler’s Pantry into the microwave and we’ll open a bottle of wine here,’ she’d suggested, taking out her phone to call one of her staff to remind them that the new Louise Kennedy crystal was not to be used at any event other than the O’Leary wedding. If her clients were paying a million and more smackers for this wedding they deserved brand-new crystal, Barry could hear her say in her sharp, no-nonsense manner. Personally, he felt that spending a massive amount of money on a high-society wedding, such as many of Aimee’s blue-chip clients were doing, made it more like a corporate occasion than an intimate ceremony where a man and woman made the most important commitment of their lives. The more lavish the affair, the less personal it became, and he was pleased that Debbie and Bryan had not gone down that route.
Aimee had turned up her nose when she’d heard about the barbecue proposal, and he knew she was expecting charred ribs and burnt sausages. He was somewhat concerned himself about what to expect and was quite relieved that none of his golf companions were coming to the wedding – they might think he was a cheapskate – but he had a sneaking regard for Debbie and Bryan that at least they’d stuck to their guns and not been influenced by the blatant consumerism that drove the wedding industry.
Debbie had been at her most prickly when she’d told him they were having a barbecue, and he hadn’t enquired about the menu in case she got even more bristly. Aimee had raised her eyebrows when he’d told her that they’d refused her offer of help and were planning a barbecue. ‘Hope they get the weather for it,’ she remarked tartly, clearly unimpressed.
He’d gone for a game of golf that evening, since they weren’t dining out, and had been relieved when she had fallen asleep as soon as her head had hit the pillow that night. He was too resentful to make love, but she didn’t even seem to notice, and it had been almost a week before she’d turned to him in bed one night and begun to kiss and caress him in the dark. It had been over quickly, and that too had made him feel hard done by. She was probably ovulating and feeling horny was his first thought but, perhaps not, he’d decided the next morning. She’d said they didn’t need to use a condom. It must have been PMT horniness; it wasn’t because she had any great desire for him, he thought resentfully. She might as well have said, ‘Service me,’ because that’s what he felt he was doing. He’d made love to her mechanically and, when she’d fallen asleep immediately afterwards, he’d lain beside her feeling aggrieved and full of self-pity.
It was all about her these days, and he was getting fed up with it. No wonder he’d turned to his ex-wife. Why should he feel guilty? Aimee was excluding him from her life and, even worse, Melissa was seeing very little of her. He’d gradually become the primary care-giver and his wife didn’t even seem to notice.
She’d bought Melissa make-up and exclusive jeans from Milan which had sent their daughter into a state of ecstasy, but she’d hardly seen her for the next week. She’d had to fly to Galway to oversee an awards gala and that had entailed an overnight stay. Then she’d had to travel to Kildare for another big society wedding. It was an extremely busy time of the year for her, and she was too exhausted to do much more than flop on the sofa when she got home, any time between nine and ten at night.
They’d even had to cancel a planned trip to Paris for Melissa’s mid-term break because of Aimee’s busy schedule. Once Debbie’s wedding and the O’Leary one that was taking up so much of her time were over, he was going to have a serious talk with his wife and let her know exactly how he was feeling.
The sun sparkled on the Liffey as Aimee slowed to throw her coins into the toll basket on the East Link. The traffic was light, thankfully, and she drove through without having to queue. She’d often spent an hour queuing to get through the toll bridge in rush hour. It really was a glorious morning, and she lowered her window to let the breeze drift into the car. Debbie would be pleased. It was a perfect day for a wedding after all the rain they’d endured. It would be over by tomorrow and hopefully Barry would relax and stop being so moody because, by heavens, he was moody these days, she thought ruefully.
He didn’t even seem to be appreciative of the fact that she’d changed her mind and told him she’d go to the wedding with him. She’d felt she should be at his side, seeing as he seemed to think it was so important that she and Melissa should be there. Melissa was all excited about going now, especially since Debbie’s visit. Aimee couldn’t quite figure out what had caused Debbie’s change of heart, especially where Melissa was concerned, but it made her daughter happy, and that was all that mattered. Then she’d been informed that Barry intended driving Debbie and Connie to the church. Had she realized that she wouldn’t have bothered going to the wedding, she thought crossly as she swung up Alfie Byrne Road and headed for Clontarf.
Could Debbie not have hired a wedding car like most normal brides? She wouldn’t let Barry walk her up the aisle – what was she doing letting him drive her to the church? Using him, that’s what she was doing, and Aimee’s fool of a husband couldn’t see it.
Once this wedding was over he’d be dropped like a hot potato and then he’d be crying on her shoulder about it. Step-families were such a drag. She’d
Googled a website for second wives one day while she’d been waiting on the phone to get through to an insurance company and had identified with a lot of the women who found the demands of the wives and children of the first marriage impossible to put up with. Some of them couldn’t take the strain imposed by the first family and the second marriage also cracked.
She supposed she had been luckier than most. She’d never had to make a huge effort to get to know Debbie like some of her acquaintances had had to with their step-children. Aimee had got away lightly until the wedding. And it was only the lead-up to it that had caused her irritation.
In fairness to Connie, apart from the wedding, her financial demands had not been unreasonable and, once Debbie had started working, Barry had ceased to pay maintenance. Connie had never looked for spousal maintenance – at least she’d had the self-respect to support herself and not leech off her ex-husband. Some ex-wives had no qualms or conscience and bled their long-suffering ex-spouses dry. Of course, she knew, too, that there were lone wives with children who barely scraped a living because of their husband’s meanness. If she and Barry ever split up, she’d at least have the satisfaction of knowing that she could depend on herself for all her financial requirements. She would never, ever be dependent on a man to support her.
A flash of bitterness darkened her face. Her father might not have rated her very highly compared to her brothers, but she’d shown him and proved herself more capable than any of them. Even to this day she could still remember overhearing his dismissive words to a colleague who had asked what she intended to do when she left school.
‘Well, she won’t be keeping me in my old age, she’s a bit of a dunce, you know, failed physics and science, barely passed maths. The best she can expect is to do some secretarial course and go and find a husband to keep her.’
His flippant, unkind words had wounded her to her core. He’d always put great emphasis on being good at maths and had insisted she study physics and science in secondary school despite the fact that she’d shown no aptitude for them whatsoever.
Ken Davenport was a heart consultant and had wanted his children to follow in his footsteps in the medical field. Her two older brothers had resisted fiercely, wanting to follow their own paths, and so he had invested all his hopes in her, but she had failed the science subjects badly and had had to repeat her Leaving Cert to get the necessary points to do a catering course in a third-level college.
Her father thought it a frivolous, lightweight career option and usually had some smart comment to make whenever they got together. He wasn’t impressed either when she’d got married to a divorced man with whom she had had a child out of wedlock. Her mother, Juliet, quiet and reserved in contrast to her husband’s bombast, encouraged Aimee to live her own life and not allow herself to be browbeaten.
Watching how Juliet had had to put her needs and desires aside to devote herself to her husband and his career, Aimee had been determined never ever to be dependent on any man. Ken Davenport had me me me down to a fine art and Juliet came a very poor second. It drove Aimee mad watching her mother subjugate all her needs so that her husband could be the centre of attention.
Aimee had only agreed to marry Barry when she’d felt she was his financial equal, and the way she was progressing in her career it was quite on the cards that she would pass him out in terms of salary in the long term. She’d earned more than he had the previous year. If he couldn’t cope with that, she wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. Why couldn’t men be pleased for women when they did well? Why did they feel threatened or that it was a slight against their masculinity? When she’d first started dating Barry he’d been hugely impressed by her drive and ambition and had encouraged her enormously. But lately he was complaining about how much time she spent at the office or on her BlackBerry, almost as if he begrudged her her career success. Were all men the same? she wondered crossly as she drove past St Anne’s Park and observed the early morning walkers out with their dogs. It was a nice area, she noted approvingly as she sped towards Howth.
Her mobile rang and the Bluetooth connected. ‘Aimee, there’s been a disaster – the idiot who delivered the cake tripped, and the whole thing is a complete mess. A write-off!’ The frantic tones of her assistant echoed around the car.
‘For crying out loud, Mandy, shove his mush in it and tell the cretin he or his company will be paying for it. I’ll pull in and make a few phone calls. Say nothing to the clients for the moment until I see if I can sort something. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Aimee pulled into a lay-by and, completely focused, began to make the necessary phone calls.
‘I’m sending my PA over in a taxi, she’ll be there at one thirty. Give her the black Mark Jacobs dress, the little black and gold Pierre Cardin clutch bag and the Jimmy Choo black slingbacks. The bag and the shoes are laid out beside my dressing table; the dress is hanging in my wardrobe. And take the cerise silk embroidered wrap out of the drawer where I keep them, fold it in tissue paper and give her that as well, OK?’
‘OK,’ Melissa agreed dutifully.
‘Then get a taxi to the Shelbourne and meet me there at two thirty and we’ll walk over to the church together. Right?’
‘OK, Mom, no problem. See you.’
‘And go easy on the make-up,’ Aimee warned.
‘Sure. See ya, Mom.’ Melissa couldn’t wait to hang up and tell Sarah the great news. What a stroke of luck that her mom wasn’t going to make it in time to pick them up in Dun Laoghaire and then get back into town. And if she wasn’t here, she couldn’t dictate what she should wear to the wedding. Melissa did a little twirl around the lounge before hurrying out to the balcony, where Sarah was lying on a lounger sipping a Bacardi Breezer, listening to the Kaiser Chiefs.
‘Great news – Mom’s not coming back to pick us up. We’ve to get a taxi. We can wear what we liiikkkeeee!’ she yelled.
‘Random!’ Sarah shot up from her lounger. ‘So are you going to wear your jeans and the green Paris Hilton top?’
‘You bet,’ grinned Melissa.
‘Your mom will freak.’
‘I know, but she won’t be able to do anything about it and it will be worth getting grounded not having to wear that . . . that scabby dress she wants me to wear.’
Aimee had bought her an expensive dress in Miss BT with a zigzag pattern that she assured Melissa was very fashionable. Melissa had seen Kate Moss wear a dress like it and it had looked cool but, somehow, it made her look like a demented green and black zebra. They’d had a huge row and Aimee had accused her of being a selfish, ungrateful brat. That had hurt. She’d gone into a sulk and had barely spoken to her mother for a week afterwards. Aimee had somewhat made up for things by buying her a fabulous pair of Rock & Republic jeans when she’d been in Milan, as well as all the MAC cosmetics she’d asked for. To make up for not bringing her to Paris for her mid-term, she’d said. Lots of the girls in her class had gone abroad that week, to Marbella or Tuscany to their parents’ villas and apartments, and she’d felt fed up having to stay at home, hanging around Dun Laoghaire, but the Rock & Republic jeans were a very welcome substitute for her Paris trip.
She’d known better than to suggest wearing them to the wedding. Aimee would have said no outright. But Aimee wasn’t here and wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
‘Quick – let’s get over to yours and get your white jeans and nick your sister’s studded cami. I’ll wear my stilettos, the Lindsay Lohan ones,’ Melissa suggested excitedly.
‘Cool, cool, let’s go. Here – finish this with me.’ Sarah handed her friend the drink and she took a swig of it. They’d treated themselves to two Bacardi Breezers each to calm their nerves and give themselves a nice buzz before the wedding, seeing as they were alone in the penthouse. Barry had gone to get the car washed and valeted and was going directly to Greystones when he was finished.
‘We need to get a move on. Come on – and pinch your sister’s GHD as well so you can do your hair the same time as I’m
doing mine,’ Melissa urged, on an absolute high of excitement.
Giggling, they hurried into the lounge, grabbed their bags and keys and raced out to the lift to go and get Sarah’s change of costume before the PA arrived.
An hour and a half later they stared at their reflections in the mirror on the back of Melissa’s wardrobe door. Melissa did a pirouette so the beaded halter jersey top swung with her to reveal the distinctive Rock & Republic logo on the back pockets of her jeans. They were a size fourteen and she was poured into them. She’d had to lie on the floor and, with Sarah’s help, pull the zip up with a shoelace. It had been a struggle, but she’d got them closed. Fortunately, the halter-top covered the bulge of fat that oozed out over the waistband.
‘You’re so skinny,’ she exclaimed enviously as she looked at her friend, a vision in skin-tight white jeans, a gorgeous black studded cami with spaghetti straps, and white peeptoe stilettos that made her look even taller and skinnier than she was.
‘You’ve lovely boobs,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘I’ve got fried eggs.’
‘I hope these Lifttits stay in place, or I’ll be drooping all over the place,’ Melissa said worriedly, giving a little tug at her boob aids.
‘Leave them alone and stop fiddling. Are you sure my hair’s OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ Melissa assured her, running her fingers through her own dead straight black tresses, the result of frantic hair-straightening that had threatened to go awry. She stared down at her zebra-print stilettos. She’d seen Lindsay Lohan wear a pair almost exactly the same style, had fallen in love with them and had been on the look-out for yonks for a pair. She’d seen them one day when she’d been shopping with her mother.
‘Darling, they look cheap even though they’re not,’ Aimee said dismissively when she’d pointed them out, and she’d known better than to pursue it, but she’d gone back into town on her own two days later and bought them. She’d nicked fifty euro out of one of her mother’s handbags and another twenty out of her dad’s wallet when he’d been on the phone, and had made up the rest with her pocket money. She thought they were fabulous, and Amanda O’Connell, the girl she most disliked at school, had been pea-green with envy when she’d worn them to Wesley one Friday night with a pair of black leggings and a smock top.
Forgive and Forget Page 27