Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  Lindsay looked a complete fright and they were constantly trying to distract her.

  ‘I know, what about a girlie night in: face packs, hot oil conditioner, a long soak with one of those heavenly bath bombs and a large glass of chilled Sancerre? You go first.’

  ‘I’ve got it, now is the perfect time to do that evening class in carpentry, and we’re sure to meet a few men. OK, forget the last bit’ (as Lindsay started to sniffle and Tara threw a withering glance). Even Charlie knew a bad idea when he heard one!

  ‘We’re going into town and buying you that amazing black dress in Platform, our treat.’

  Nothing worked, nothing could because all Lindsay could feel was a big black hole sucking her in and swirling her round and the thought of shopping or laughing or even surviving the day was hideous. When they eventually left in the small hours of the morning, she fell into bed, fully dressed, only to wake a few hours later when the alcohol had worn off. She paced the floor, dialled his number, hung up, cursed, dialled and hung up again, kissed his picture, kicked his presents and keeled over crying until both she and Charlie fell asleep on the sofa with one of them hoping for a walk in the morning and one praying that it wouldn’t come.

  Debbie and Tara had a routine all worked out. Tara was a solicitor and was up early every morning, so she phoned Lindsay immediately she’d had a shower and a smoothie. Better to wake her up, she thought, so she doesn’t have any time to think. She’d been in a similar situation herself, although the circumstances were very different. Even now, years later, she shuddered at the thought of what her friend was going through. God, she was going to get revenge somehow, she thought, as she mixed the fruit and yoghurt concoction, added wheatgerm and ginseng and blended it to within an inch of its life. She took a sip and grimaced, sure this was good for her but not at all sure it was worth it. She certainly needed something with vitamins these mornings, though, to counteract the self-inflicted liver damage.

  Oh well, she thought, as she downed two Solpadeine to try and cure a particularly nasty headache, there’ll be time enough for a real health kick later. Just as soon as they got through this. Meanwhile, if Lindsay wanted to get sloshed every day for a year, then she and Debs were going to be right there with her every step of the way. She picked up the cordless phone and speed-dialled and didn’t even realize that Lindsay only pretended she had just woken because she knew her friend was a real worrier.

  Chapter Three

  AS SOON AS she’d finished listening to every new thought and scheme that Lindsay had had since two a.m., Tara hung up and dialled Debbie.

  ‘Debs, no change, can you cover this morning? I think today she’s just broken-hearted.’

  Debbie, in her little two-bedroomed semi on the South Circular Road, felt her insides knot. ‘Sure, I’m off today.’

  ‘Actually, I’m due a couple of hours off myself, so if you shop for goodies I’ll collect you later,’ Tara suddenly decided. After a few words they hung up. They had little to say these days, it was all the shorthand of people who know each other very well and don’t need to waste time on trivialities.

  Debbie, who didn’t have to pretend that she’d been fast asleep when Tara rang, leapt out of bed and threw herself into the shower. She had long since decided that she was allergic to mornings so this was the only option, otherwise she’d be back asleep in ten seconds. God, she didn’t look too healthy but compared to her best friend she knew she looked like Liz Hurley. She had a cute face, people always told her, with a mass of red brown curls and eyes like good coffee, rich and velvety. She was just a little bit too curvy for her own liking – child-bearing hips her mother often said. Well fed was her Uncle Mike’s favourite phrase. Blobby was her sister’s word for it.

  She worked as a member of the cabin crew with Aer Lingus and she loved it, mainly because she was a people person and enjoyed solving problems. She always meant to start the day with a smoothie but as usual she pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and headed to the Bretzel for bagels and croissants. She vowed to have just one with cream cheese and bring the rest over to Lindsay’s house after she’d made some effort to tidy the bomb-site she was living in.

  She also picked up everything she could think of to try and tempt her friend. Fresh OJ, strawberries, organic yoghurt, Rice Krispies, all the favourites, even though she knew that Charlie was bursting with goodies and Lindsay was looking more gaunt each day. It was now almost a week and Debbie felt as if time had stood still for the three of them, wrapped as they were in their very own isolation ward in the Intensive Care Unit marked ‘Coronary Care – broken hearts – silence please – no visitors’. She couldn’t understand how anyone would knowingly hurt her friend and she didn’t even begin to imagine what she’d say if she ever came face to face with the bastard.

  As soon as she opened her eyes on the Friday morning, Lindsay knew she had to do something. It was exactly a week since her world had fallen apart and although she almost wished she had the courage to do something drastic she knew she never would, so she had to make some effort, however small, to try to get on with her life. She owed it to her friends, if nothing else. All this crying and not eating and drinking herself to death wasn’t working, besides the girls must be sick of her by now.

  Struggling out of bed, she splashed her face with cold water and brushed her teeth. Someone had painted two halogen hobs on her face for a joke, she thought, as she caught sight of her swollen cheeks.

  Her face was grey and dingy and she hoped that the old wives’ tale about not washing your hair being good for it was true because she now had enough natural oil to cook chips for a month. She knew she had to think the whole thing through once more and then make a rational decision. She’d talked her way into the Guinness Book of Records this past week and it still felt hopeless. However hard it was going to be she knew she couldn’t go on as she was and maybe, just maybe that was the first step.

  Dressing quickly in jeans and a big sloppy denim shirt she pulled her listless, greasy hair into a ponytail and went downstairs. She took a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge, ignoring the week-old tomatoes with their matching white, fluffy, angora sweaters. Charlie couldn’t believe his luck when she picked up his lead and practically gave himself a hernia as he tore out of the door in case she changed her mind.

  She didn’t let herself think until she was on the beach and then she decided to let it all sweep over her, closing her eyes as the memories flooded in with a force that almost knocked her over and left her with a salty, sick taste in her mouth. Stretching her heavy limbs on the deserted sand she walked slowly – Charlie barking at her now and then as if to guide her way – and remembered how she’d felt when it happened.

  How could she have been so stupid, she berated herself for the hundredth time. She wasn’t naïve or easily taken in. She knew others never felt sorry for her – saw her as well sussed and streetwise. She was one of those lucky females you sometimes spotted at parties, and envied without really knowing why – one who just seemed to have it all, or at least something no one else in the room had. Now she felt small and worthless and very, very stupid. Worst of all, at that moment, alone on the gusty, deserted beach, she felt that without him it was all sort of pointless.

  How had she ended up like this? She of all people who constantly warned her friends against letting anyone else be responsible for their happiness. What a laugh that was. She supposed that somewhere deep inside she’d always wanted to be rescued and he’d been her white knight. How pathetic does that sound, she chided herself.

  Life had been perfect since she’d met him. Gorgeous, funny, laughing Paul, with the huge Malteser eyes and shiny black hair, with flecks of grey he pretended he’d had put in specially so he’d look more like George Clooney. Thirty-seven years old, a talented and successful architect, Lindsay still couldn’t believe that she’d ever been lucky enough to find him. Or unlucky enough to lose him.

  They’d met when she’d almost finished an advanced course in inter
ior design, which she’d been taking two evenings a week and which hopefully would make her the most senior designer in her company and the only one with a recognized international qualification, a major factor when dealing with their American clients. Paul came to talk to them, as a favour to his sister Rosie, who was their tutor.

  Afterwards, they all went for a drink and she knew he had to be married – they always were, these ones who’d walked straight off the set of ER and caught the first plane to Dublin, just to tease all the silly, unsuspecting Irish girls. She remembered how startled she’d felt the first time she’d seen him laugh, how spellbound she’d been the first time he kissed her and how completely captivated she was the first time she saw him sleeping.

  And perfect got even better. When he asked her to marry him she wanted to do a Julie Andrews on him. She knew she would never forget that feeling that comes so rarely in a life – utter and total happiness.

  ‘The things we do come back to us, as if they know the way,’ her granny had quoted to her once and that night, as she hugged herself with joy, she’d thought stupidly that maybe all her childish good deeds were being repaid.

  Debbie and Tara christened her ‘Ronald McDonald’, because she walked around like a clown with a permanent grin, for months. Everyone, at least those who liked her, said she deserved it.

  So what happened? What had she ever done to upset God so much that he had picked her out to sample this particular version of hell on earth? How could he let her feel what it was like to have it all and then drop her through that big fat roll of hospital cotton wool to this place she now found herself, in one of those big American-style fridge-freezers where things looked healthy and normal, no tell-tale icicles to warn you that everything inside was frozen solid?

  Did she have any idea it would end like this? Not in a million years.

  Liar, be honest, a little voice taunted. There were a few things – tiny, minuscule little shreds that the office assistant in her brain filed away in the pending folder, for future consideration. Like the way he sometimes didn’t listen to his telephone messages if she was in his house, or forgot to give her the name of his hotel when he went away on business. ‘Get me on the mobile, hon, I’m never here anyway.’

  But he had asked her to marry him, it was all arranged, she reasoned. When was he going to tell her that he had met someone else? Would he have gone ahead with it? She felt sick, scalded by the red-hot kettle of thought that rushed through her mind. She sat down quickly on the damp sand where Charlie came to keep her warm, because she was shivering and sweating and snivelling in an effort not to cry.

  She couldn’t bear to think about the night it had ended – when she rang him at his London apartment and a girl with a snooty accent had told her that he’d gone to collect some food and could he call her tomorrow morning because, well, they were having an early night. Lindsay could almost hear her smiling. What a coincidence, she’d thought uneasily. She must have dialled a wrong number and got through to a house where there was another Paul. Ridiculous. Just as she was about to say so, she heard him, in the background, as clearly as if he was standing beside her. ‘I’m back, have you opened the wine? Who’s on the phone?’

  Just when she was sure her heart was going to explode, she had heard his voice. ‘Hi?’ She couldn’t speak, even if she’d wanted to. He knew.

  ‘Can I call you back?’ casually, as if he’d been half expecting her to ring.

  She’d dropped the receiver and sunk to the floor where she stayed, huddled up, cold and frightened.

  Five minutes later the phone rang. She desperately wanted not to answer it but she was afraid of what would happen to her if she didn’t find out. The not knowing was the worst bit. Maybe there was a simple explanation, it was all a joke, it wasn’t him . . .

  ‘Lindsay, I’m sorry, I should have told you, I didn’t really know how to explain . . . I’ve met someone else in London, we’re, er, hoping to get married . . .’

  And she knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

  She remembered staying where she was, without moving or making a sound, until long after the room was rendered pitch-black.

  He never called back.

  Even now, a week later, the enormity of that night was still fresh in her mind but somewhere, deep down, she knew that she would never feel quite as bad as she had then. All she had to do now was survive.

  When the girls called at her house later that morning, with the usual supplies, all ready for another session, they found her wearing a Hallowe’en mask, in September. Quite a good likeness, mind you, except when you looked at the eyes.

  She was dressed and washed, even wearing make-up, but gaunt and grey and utterly unlike the girl they knew and loved.

  And as they stood in the hallway, all false smiles and brown bags, not asking, not quite knowing what to say, the phone rang.

  She’d got the job.

  Chapter Four

  IT TOOK LINDSAY half an hour to calm them down.

  ‘It’s not strictly speaking a job yet, it’s subject to successfully completing the training course and a medical and an audio-visual test and a million other stipulations . . .’

  They couldn’t hear her over the noise of champagne corks and, besides, Debbie was laughing hysterically and Tara was dancing Charlie around the kitchen. A couple of glasses of bubbly later and Tara was on the phone to her sister-in-law in Rome, while Debbie ran up her mobile bill checking flight availability to the Italian capital the following weekend.

  ‘I’ve no money, none of my summer clothes fit me, there’s no one to mind Charlie’ all fell on deaf ears and even the real reason ‘he might ring’ was met with ‘it’ll do him good’ – Debbie, stonily – and ‘he’ll leave a message’ – Tara, sadly.

  Their ‘brainwave’ – which she was convinced had already been plotted before they’d arrived at the house – worked, mainly because she knew she had to kick-start the survival plan somehow and also because Debbie had tactfully pointed out that she looked ‘grotty and blotchy and pasty and unfit for the glamorous world of TV’. Hard to resist that one!

  Lindsay was lucky in that her company agreed to let her go more or less straightaway. She had masses of leave due to her anyway and once she’d explained her personal situation to Joe Egan, the C.E.O. and a good friend, he agreed to her immediate release, which was just as well as the TV station wanted to start the training course pretty quickly.

  So it was that Lindsay found herself panicking as she began a much-needed but unwanted break in the sun, still afraid of life without Paul and desperately hoping he’d somehow find out that she’d gone away and miss her and want her back.

  The rain was pelting down when they returned to Dublin.

  ‘What a surprise,’ Debbie grumbled. It was eleven o’clock on a chilly autumn night and after a last drink at the airport the girls shared a taxi, dropping Lindsay off first.

  ‘We’ll miss you,’ they shouted as she bundled herself and her bags out of the taxi.

  ‘Call you in the morning.’

  She felt lonely leaving them. She knew they’d be wondering. As she was.

  ‘Do you suppose there’ll be a message?’

  ‘No, I think he’s too much of a coward.’

  ‘She’ll still be devastated, even though she knows, deep down, that he won’t call now.’

  ‘Bastard, I really hope I meet him first.’

  ‘That makes me almost feel sorry for him, having to face you sometime.’ Tara smiled at her friend. ‘Almost.’ They were quiet for the rest of the journey, each lost in the same thoughts as the taxi sped through the dark, wet, deserted, late-night Dublin streets.

  Lindsay let herself in quickly, shivering in the cold, damp atmosphere. Her heart began to thump as she saw the little red light winking furiously, teasing and torturing. I’m not going to let this bloody machine rule my life – she was angry with herself – I’ll check it later, as soon as I’ve got m
yself organized. Two seconds later she pressed the play button.

  First up, her sister Anne, wondering if she’d like to join them for lunch next Sunday and shouts from the boys in the background, telling her they’d missed her.

  Next, the same sharp voice she remembered from Channel 6, reminding her to report to the Training Centre at nine-thirty a.m. on Monday.

  ‘Hi, it’s only me,’ a male voice caused her heart to explode, even though it took only a second to recognize it as that of her neighbour John, calling to say he’d taken delivery of a package that wouldn’t fit through her letter box.

  Then her mother wondering what time she’d be collecting Charlie. A pause, a lifetime, before the machine clicked off. She cursed herself silently, dreading the now familiar rush of loneliness. She realized that she’d survived the break partly because she’d convinced herself that there would be several frantic messages begging her forgiveness when she got home. She hated herself for still missing him so much. Deflated, she brushed her teeth, slapped some cream on her now healthy, lightly tanned face and fell into a troubled, demon-filled sleep.

  She woke to the familiar church bells, jumped out of bed immediately and fell over her suitcase.

  God, this place is a tip. She looked around the normally pretty cottage. There were dead flowers, over-flowing waste bins and enough empty wine bottles for them to name a bottle bank after her. She made some black coffee, the only option as the milk looked more like cottage cheese, pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and got to work, having first called her sister to thank her for the offer of lunch and begged her mother to drop Charlie home to save her time.