The Week I Ruined My Life

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  ‘With Demi Moore and Robert Redford?’ I can’t stop drinking this wine. I refill my glass already. In fairness, the waitress only poured me a dribble. Not an Irish mummies’ measure at all, at all.

  ‘Yeah, where he pays the husband, Woody Harrelson, one million dollars to sleep with his wife.’

  ‘Yeah, great film.’ I push my fringe out of my eyes again to focus on him.

  We look at each other.

  ‘Is it De-mee or Demi?’ I could care less but I’m not sure where he’s going with this. The ambience of the moment is all too sexy. I drink.

  ‘If I had a million, I’d offer it to Colin, right now.’ He bangs the table gently with a fist.

  My mouth falls open. I compose myself.

  ‘You, Ali Devlin, make me want to paint.’ He says this as though it’s a revelation. Perhaps it is.

  ‘I can think of better things you could do with a million,’ I say, flattered and slightly brave again as I think of Colin’s last text.

  GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.

  And this man in front of me would give a million dollars for one night with me. Ha! This man in front of me likes talking to me. This man in front of me never gets on my last nerve. This man in front of me never riles me to the point where I lose control and then I hate myself.

  No. You go to hell, you stupid arsehole, I think.

  ‘Money can’t buy me love, right? Just as well, as I don’t have any.’ He smirks.

  We both refill and drink.

  ‘You will one day. You will sell wonderful, meaningful paintings to the rich and famous. I’ll open a credit union account and save for years, just for a piece of your art—’

  He interrupts me.

  ‘This is starting to kill me, Ali, I …’ He shuts his eyes tight.

  I know what he’s about to say and I don’t want him to admit it. I don’t want him to say it out loud. I put the glass down.

  ‘Oh, don’t go there. I thought we weren’t—’

  ‘I have to, I didn’t want to say this when we were so stoned, but I’m …’ He stops and shakes his head from side to side. ‘Arghhh!’ He throws his head back and looks up to the dark winter sky, then exhales very, very slowly, gathering himself.

  ‘What I want to say is that …’ He slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand now, ‘OK, try again, arsehole.’ He laughs.

  He’s not the arsehole. Colin is the arsehole. I should stop him but I don’t. I drink.

  ‘I can’t get you out of my head … I painted two pieces last week because of where my head is with you. From the moment I laid eyes on you in the Beans eating spaghetti bolognese I was like, wow, look at that girl. It was that really hot Friday in June when Colette was showing me around. You were wearing a white vest T-shirt and a denim mini-skirt with black flip-flops. Your hair was cut really tight and you were the only person I could see in the entire cafe. You were illuminated in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t stop looking at you. The first thing I asked Michael was your name and what you did. All he told me was that you were married with kids and I deflated. And then I got to know you … It’s the first time I’ve ever been so entertained and challenged by a female friend who I wasn’t trying to impress, and you’re just amazingly kind and care about people. That’s a rare quality. I know we can’t be together but I wanted to tell you that anyway.’

  I lean my head in my hands but my eyes are still on him. He pulls the collar of his leather motorbike jacket up. My very own Danny Zuko. Draining my wine glass, I’m aware of this feeling, this feeling I haven’t had for so long. I feel alive again. This is dangerous. The cake is rising.

  ‘That’s so nice.’ I take my head from my hands and sit up straight.

  GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.

  After I told him I’d give up my job, just for him. Just to make him happy.

  All the horrible things he’s said to me over the last few days repeat slowly in my mind. The scenes play out in black-and-white inside my head, as if on a shaky old projector. The way he mocks me for daring to be friends with Corina, the way he tells me I’m a bad mother. I see him twirling the faulty apple in his hand and scorning my purchase before throwing it at the bin, missing and leaving me to clean it up.

  Life is so hard for you, isn’t it poor Ali?

  The film is shaky.

  Enjoy your gossip.

  I see his hand clapping together, mocking my time with my wonderful friend.

  Crazy winky woman.

  I blink and the projector ends. Lights come up.

  ‘Maybe we pretend we made a payment into Colin’s account of a million dollars or euros, whatever, and we go back to room 141. We have permission … imagine?’ I giggle

  Fuck it. I want it. I may as well be honest with myself.

  There’s no red wine left.

  I think he thinks I’m joking. I am and I am not.

  He looks very confused, and then he says, ‘Right … that didn’t last long.’ He waves the empty bottle in the air. ‘Well, we gotta … get … we gotta get outta here, grab something to eat at the hotel or something to walk with maybe?’ he says looking at his watch but I now see his eyes are heavy with desire.

  I don’t care.

  I don’t care.

  I don’t care.

  I don’t care about anything or anyone any more, only me. I only care about me. Fuck it. When was the last time I cared about me? About Ali Devlin? Previously Ali O’ Dwyer. I give no time to myself. I don’t even know why. I like Ali Devlin. She’s a nice, decent person who deserves to be happy. All she wants is to be a great mother and have a job. It’s not a lot. Don’t judge me right now, because I’m angry. I’m lost. I’m desperate to find an answer to all my problems. But not right now. I’m doing this. What have I got to lose?

  Everything.

  The little voice is suddenly back. My conscience poking at my maternal brain. My numskulls are sitting bolt upright. Absolutely everything.

  You have two kids at home! It snaps at me. Biting at my decisions. I shake it off. I hum Taylor Swift. Leave me alone, guilt and responsibilities. This is a one-off. No one has to know. Ever. Our secret. A stolen afternoon of pure passion. Just like in the movies. And then I adopt the philosophy of ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’, am I right?

  We hail a cab from a long line right outside the museum. As we arrive back at the hotel, Owen tips the driver.

  ‘Stop here, please … eh … alsjeblieft.’ He pays again.

  As we exit, I implore, ‘Will you stop paying for everything!’

  ‘Soakage.’ He points into the distance.

  He takes me by the hand and pulls me towards a street vender selling hot dogs and coffee.

  ‘What?’ Is he serious? Street food? I want to eat him! I stop in the middle of the street angering pedestrians who walk into the back of me. Bicycles swerve to avoid me. Amsterdam is just too busy for my nonsense.

  ‘Hot dogs … off the street. Are they safe?’ I ask.

  ‘You need another cake!’ He laughs.

  He’s right. We buy two hot dogs and stand on the corner. It’s just buying us more time.

  * * *

  ‘I have never tasted anything like this in my life. I am sooo hungry,’ I say, face splattered with mustard and ketchup.

  ‘Me too,’ he mutters.

  He reaches over with his little white square paper napkin and wipes my face.

  ‘There you go.’ His hand lingers for a moment too long.

  Our eyes pour into one another. There is no need for words

  ‘I want you to have a breather, some food … Let’s just think about this, shall we?’

  So he is on the same page.

  ‘Are we really going to do this?’ I say and I can’t look at him now. We are going to have sex.

  ‘I hope so … I hope not … oh, Ali, I dunno.’ He breathes heavily.

  I look into his eyes now. No words needed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  We dump our unfinished hot
dogs in the nearest bin and Owen takes my clammy hand. We walk fast but in silence the short distance to the hotel. I’m excited yet sick with nerves.

  13

  Early Friday evening. Amsterdam. Inside room 141.

  As we enter the hotel I linger by the twinkling reception desk and Owen does a quick spot check. I take a sly sniff at my previously wet armpits, not too bad. He beckons me and I hoof the strap of my bag over my left shoulder as we take the stairs up to the third floor two at a time. The lift is too risky in case we bump into Colette or Michael. We look tousled, unkempt, lived-in! Both of us are still giggling as I find my purse and remove my key card. My hand is shaking. Owen steadies it with his and the green light appears as key card clicks its approval of us and the heavy door to my destiny swings open. Green to go.

  The room is warm and the light is fading outside.

  I stand with my back against the closed door now. Owen walks ahead towards the window.

  Turning, he removes his biker jacket, never taking his eyes off me. He throws it on the bed. The zips rattle along with the loose change in his pockets.

  Slowly he walks towards me and starts unbuttoning my brown leather jacket. It seems to take for ever. His hands are cold and the buttons in fairness are hard to undo at the best of times. He fumbles.

  ‘Y’ok?’ he whispers to me.

  I nod. I swallow hard. He prises opens the last button and slides my hands out from the safety of my jacket sleeves. Then he lays my jacket carefully over the back of the chair, on top of my red winter coat.

  He leans his forehead against mine. His breathing is paced but hot and heavy. We are conjoined by foreheads. Then he takes his right hand and pushes my fringe from my eyes and tucks it gently behind my left ear. He lowers his forehead. Our mouths are inches apart. Agonisingly slowly he drops his hand and unbuttons the two top buttons on my white shirt. His fingers feeling the material as he goes. Our breath is synchronised now. Inches from my mouth. He lifts my chin with his right thumb, he tilts his head and as he is about to lock his lips on mine, I see it all.

  They say your life flashes before your eyes if you are in a life-or-death situation. If you are on a runaway tractor say, with failing brakes, heading towards a treacherous cliff. It’s not your life in pictures. It’s not memories. It’s your brain finding moments like these for reference. Trying to figure out what to do, what memory helped you the last time you were in a dangerous situation? How did you survive? Flash! Flash! Flash! The images gallop towards me.

  Colin.

  Colin.

  Colin.

  And they are beautiful. The khaki bag. The loose school tie. Our engagement party. Our wedding day. Pregnancy. Holding Jade as a newborn. Holding Mark as a newborn. The first times. Smiles. Tears. Laughter. Love. My children. Jade. Mark. My world.

  I push Owen away. Hard as I can. He goes flying and stumbles back onto the bed.

  ‘I can’t do this!’ I can’t do this! I throw my hand over my mouth. I actually think I’m going to throw up. Bile rises into my mouth as I swallow it down hard. I can’t breathe. I bend over and put my head between my legs.

  ‘OK, OK, OK, it’s fine … Relax, breathe, Ali, it’s OK …’ He is over to me. ‘I understand, I get it … I should never … This is ludicrous.’ He is beaten.

  I stare at his runners.

  When I lift my head up after several minutes I walk away from him and stand in front of the mirror. Sexy, I am not. Hair all messy, panda eyes, huge sweat stains and my shirt hanging open fresh from aborting the biggest mistake of my life. I could have ruined it all.

  But you didn’t.

  You didn’t.

  GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH.

  What have I done to deserve that? What could I have possibly done to make Colin hate me so much?

  ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ Owen appears behind me in the mirror.

  ‘Please,’ I mouth but the word doesn’t make a sound.

  He slips back the mirrored wardrobe door and pulls out a sliding tray with a kettle and cups on it. He rummages for a moment before saying, ‘Ahh, you have no coffee sachets either … neither did my room.’ He moves to the phone on the desk and picks up the receiver.

  ‘Hi, this is room 141, we have no tea or coffee, can we get some up, like, right now? We need to leave for a meeting soon … Great … Yes, both please … Also, I have no coffee in room 142 … Great … Oh, can we get extra milk? Thank you, dank je.’ He replaces the receiver.

  I flop, flat on the bed and kick off my runners and peel off my sports socks.

  ‘Don’t lie down!’ he says softly. ‘We will need to start getting ready for the meeting down in the bar soon.’

  ‘I’m up, I’m up!’ I sit up.

  ‘Sorry, Ali.’ He sits on the edge and I roll towards him as the bed dips under his weight. I edge away.

  ‘It’s completely my fault,’ I say and I mean it. It is. He’s not married. I am.

  ‘Probably wasn’t the best of idea for us to get stoned,’ he mutters.

  I shake my head.

  Shake it off.

  ‘No, probably not. You know I fancy you, Owen, I know you fancy me … I shouldn’t have come on this trip at all, especially not after me telling you my marriage is in a crisis state and then sending you half-naked pictures of myself, I mean, what did I expect?’ My two hands shoot up and cover my panda eyes.

  ‘It takes two to tango, Ali, I’m as much to blame. I never thought I was this kind of guy either. But look, maybe this needed to almost happen, maybe now we can forget this chemistry thing and just go back to being friends?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I remove my hands and give him a milky weak smile.

  ‘Right, come on, straight into the shower with you,’ he says and he gets up and moves into the bathroom. His tone is cheery but I know he is feeling like crap too. I hear him turning on the shower. There is a soft knock at the door.

  ‘Coffees are here,’ I call, but he can’t hear me over the gushing running water so I pad barefoot across the room and pull the heavy door in towards me. For a moment it feels like time has stopped. It takes me what feels like minutes but in fact are nanoseconds to process the fact it’s Colin, standing in front of me at the door. Colin Devlin is here. He pushes me inside. The door slams behind us.

  ‘W-w-w-what the—?’ I stutter.

  ‘Where is he?’ Colin screams as he spins around the bedroom. Owen emerges from the shower, shaking his wet hands. It all happens so fast I cannot even make a sound. Colin grabs him by the neck and flings him back into the bathroom. Owen tries to fight him off but Colin is too strong.

  ‘You fucking prick … you’re fucking my wife, are you?’ He drops Owen to the tiled floor and kicks him in the stomach. Owen grunts like an animal with the impact. I still can’t scream. I move. I grab Colin from behind, pulling at his winter coat as I try to drag him across the room. He shakes me off. He’s too strong. Too angry. Owen turns onto his knees, rocking on all fours as Colin’s foot comes up and kicks him hard in the stomach. This time Owen vomits everywhere. Huge chunks of red undigested hot dog all over the floor.

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill you!’ Colin grabs him up now and drags him into the bedroom, by the bed, and presses him up against the wall. Colin’s elbow is across Owen’s throat.

  I finally find my voice.

  ‘Please, Colin, stop … stop … it’s not what you think! Nothing has happened!’ I beg him.

  He turns to me, his right arm still pinned across Owen’s throat. Owen’s eyes beg me for help. I am helpless.

  ‘Nothing? Here, is this nothing?’ He still has Owen pinned to the wall as he removes his phone from his back pocket with his free hand. He has a screen grab of me in my sexy underwear.

  ‘Always log out of Facebook, you stupid cunt!’ He spits in my face.

  Oh, this can’t be happening.

  ‘Fucking prricccckk!’ His temper goes again but this time Owen ducks out of Colin’s hold and hits him smack on the nose with a head butt. C
olin’s nose explodes open. Blood sprays everywhere. My white shirt is dotted. Blobs on a canvas. I am paralysed watching this unfold. They fight. A proper punching battle. I find some sense and grab the phone and try to call reception. I press every number, nothing. Then I run out into the corridor and scream for help through the fire doors.

  ‘Help, help, help! Third Floor. HELP!’ I run back but Colin has Owen in a headlock outside the door. One hand on the handle of the door and the other again around Owen’s neck. Then I watch in slow motion, the next horrors unfold as I listen to Owen’s screams.

  ‘Paint this, you prick!’ Colin drags Owen’s right hand and puts it into the jamb of the door. Owen fights to pull his hand back but it’s too late. Colin slams the heavy door shut on his fingers. Owen howls in pain and slides to the ground screaming and writhing just as three uniformed police run down the corridor towards us. Owen still has his hand pinned in the door jamb. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow.

  The police grab Colin and push him up against the wall. They are shouting in a foreign language we cannot understand. I drop to my knees to Owen. He is writhing in pain, his hand still jammed in between the frame of the door. Bizarrely I look for fingers on the carpeted ground but I see none. Impossible? Gently I pull it free. His index finger seems to be barely hanging on by skin and blood oozes in a puddle around us. It’s hard to tell what state the rest of his fingers are in, there is so much blood.

  ‘Hospitaal,’ a policeman says to Owen before he turns to me.

  ‘Waar kom jij vandaan … where are you from?’ His approach is gentle and he places his hand on my lower back.

  ‘I-I-Ireland … I—’ I say. Then I rant: ‘That is my husband and this is a … a guy … a man I work with, we are here to see shows …’

  His eyes tell me he understands nothing about this situation, it is all lost in translation.

  ‘We will take him to hospital.’

  I nod as another policeman helps Owen up and they get his jacket from the room, wrap a white towel around his bleeding hand and leave through the fire door. I don’t say a word to him. I can hardly offer to go with him.

  ‘Happy now, Ali? Got what you wanted?’ Colin turns to me, his hands now pinned behind his back in handcuffs.