by Ber Carroll
Tim saw her struggle and came to his own conclusion.
‘You don’t really want a baby at all, do you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sarah. It’s as plain as day. A baby would mess up your career . . .’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It is true.’
Tim pushed his plate away. He stood up, his face dark with rage. Normally he was even-tempered to a fault. Twice, maybe three times, she’d seen him lose his cool. Once at a careless poacher who had accidentally shot one of the farm dogs. Another time, when the tractor wouldn’t start, he jumped off and kicked the wheel several times in frustration before laughing at himself.
But he had never so much as raised his voice to her. Many a Friday night she’d come home cranky from the terrible traffic and spoiling for a fight. He’d never rise to the bait. He’d absorb her biting remarks without retaliation. Eventually his calmness would calm her. He was a very peaceful man, much more suited to this life in the elements than the cutthroat banking world.
‘Please, Tim,’ she beseeched him. ‘Please, sit down.’
He ignored her. His expression thunderous, he walked to the door where he pulled on his boots.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all along. I can’t bear to look at you right now, I really can’t . . .’
The slam of the door behind him was the last word of the conversation.
*
Sarah methodically signed the pile of outgoing letters on her desk while Linda, her secretary, looked on. Over the years her signature had condensed to a brief scrawl. It was required on all manner of documents in any one day. Her eyes were alert as she skimmed through the content of each letter. She spotted an error and put the document in question to one side.
‘You’ll have to redo that one,’ she said to Linda. ‘You forgot to put a full stop at the end of the second sentence.’
Sarah firmly believed that the bank’s clients deserved the very best of service, right down to the absence of grammatical errors in written communications.
Finally, all the letters were signed and Linda departed. Sarah emitted an involuntary yawn. She was exhausted. She’d slept very badly last night. And the night before. And all the other nights since the fight with Tim.
Damn him.
They’d hardly spoken for the remainder of the weekend. Tim had slept in one of the spare rooms: it seemed he was telling the truth when he’d said he couldn’t bear to look at her. Sarah had returned to Dublin on the Sunday afternoon, seeing no point in staying another night if they weren’t talking.
At the start, she’d felt terribly guilty about the bitter argument and thought the fault was all hers. But once she was away from Tim and back to her office, she saw things differently.
I have a right to say no to IVF. How dare he bully me into having a baby!
It seemed that there was a side to Tim she hadn’t seen before now.
Go to the doctor and get a referral.
Have IVF, get pregnant.
Deliver my baby.
Who did he think he was dealing with? A little wife who would do exactly as commanded?
Sarah’s mouth tightened stubbornly and her shoulders straightened with resolve as she sat behind her desk.
I won’t allow you to bully me, Tim Brennan. I haven’t got to this level in my career without some backbone. A lot of backbone!
It was this defiant train of thought that made her decide to stay in Dublin the following weekend.
Time slowed without the rush to start the drive down to Cork. Sarah glanced at the miniature Waterford Crystal clock on her desk countless times: 10 am; 11.30 am; 12.05 pm. The day was crawling; an unfamiliar sensation for her.
Yet, despite the slow pace of the day, she dilly-dallied in the office until 10 pm. She even stopped to chat to the security guard on the way out.
‘Miserable evening, miss.’
‘I’m glad I have the car downstairs,’ she smiled.
‘Not heading off to Cork at this hour, are you?’
Her mouth tightened. ‘No. Not this weekend. Goodnight, Frank.’
Frank was right: it was indeed a miserable evening. Rain streamed down the windscreen, making futile the wipers’ attempts to flick it away. Traffic was heavy for the late hour but Sarah didn’t feel the anxiousness she usually did when hindered by slow traffic. In fact, she hadn’t felt anxious all week. Just increasingly angry.
She drove along the slick roads towards her apartment in Blackrock. The apartment was a recent addition to her ever-growing property portfolio. In a rundown condition when she’d first acquired it, the renovations had cost a small fortune and caused a lot of frustration. Now, to see the restored fireplace, the smooth walls, the elegant velour sofa and armchair, Sarah was of the opinion that the costly builder and interior designer’s fees had been worth every penny.
The rain didn’t relent as she drove along the broad sweep of Dublin Bay. If anything, it intensified. She turned past the stately grounds of Blackrock College and, a short while later, she was home. The only downside of the apartment was that it didn’t have off-street parking. Sarah turned off the ignition and reached across to the passenger seat for her black leather briefcase. Then she swung the car door open and ran as quickly as possible, her head bowed against the driving rain.
The phone was ringing as she unlocked the door of the ground-floor apartment. She shook the rain from her hair, ignoring the phone. It wouldn’t be Emma or Nuala: they’d expect her to be at the farm. It would be Tim, wondering where she was. She wasn’t ready to talk to him just yet. She’d call him back later on.
Sarah made herself a salad sandwich in the compact kitchen with its heavy white doors and polished wooden counter. The interior designer had thought it appropriate to restore the entire apartment, even the kitchen, in line with the period in which the property had been built. The result was a luxurious yet unique kitchen area. All the mod cons, like the fridge with its ice-making functions and the pull-out pantry, were hidden behind the old-style white doors. Everything was spotlessly clean. Just like Joanne down in Cork, a local woman came in here to clean and stock the apartment. With the salary and bonuses Sarah now earned, she could afford all kinds of hired help to make her life easier. However, tonight she wished that everything wasn’t so perfect and she could busy herself with wiping down the counter, or washing the dishes, or doing some other mundane chore that might help take her mind off Tim.
Sarah took the sandwich to the living area and switched on Sky News. A British reporter stood outside the Irish Central Bank, and discussed the imminent demise of the Irish pound.
‘The Irish pound ceased to be an independent currency at the start of 1999 with an irrevocably fixed exchange rate to the Euro, then a virtual currency, and all the other currencies of the participating member states. However, the general public are only now coming to terms with the fact that the notes and coins will no longer be accepted as legal tender from 1 January 2002 and the Euro will become real. The extent of the change covers the conversions of all bank balances, ATM machines, and ensuring that the retailers at the frontline of the conversion are properly equipped . . .’
Sarah listened carefully. Disappointingly, the reporter merely glanced over the issue and didn’t address some of the more significant impacts. He made no mention of the monetary policy instruments that had to be brought into line with the other member states, or that inflation was going to be extremely hard to control. Sarah was very well read on the matter. She had to be. As general manager, she was fully responsible for the Irish profits of EquiBank and any impacts the currency conversion would have on those profits.
The phone rang again. Sarah bit into her sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. Then finally got up to answer.
‘I’ve been worried sick about you . . .’
Sarah felt a twinge of guilt when she heard the concern in Tim’s voice.
‘The weather is too bad for driving down to Cork,�
�� she said. ‘The rain is torrential here.’
‘Why didn’t you call to say so?’ he asked tersely. ‘I’ve spent the last two hours imagining the worst.’
‘I got caught up in the office,’ she replied lamely.
An awkward pause followed. Sarah suddenly wished that he wasn’t at the end of the phone. That he was here, or she was there. That they could touch as they talked over their differences.
‘Look,’ she heard him sigh, ‘I’m sorry I got so angry last weekend . . .’
She resisted the urge to rush in with an apology of her own.
Hold tight, she cautioned herself. You have the upper hand now.
Marriages were fundamentally the same as business, she realised. Two people negotiating to get the best deal. If you showed too much softness, you lost power and respect.
‘But I felt you had been deliberately dishonest with me,’ he went on, ‘that you’ve just been humouring me, that you’re not really committed to the idea of having a baby.’
Sarah held her tongue. But it was hard. Every fibre of her being wanted to break down, apologise, tell him her terrible secret and seek his forgiveness.
No. You don’t have to tell him everything. You’re allowed secrets. He has no right to bully you into this . . .
‘This conversation is feeling rather one-sided,’ he commented.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘That you’re sorry too?’ he suggested with a hint of sarcasm.
‘No, Tim,’ she said in her firmest tone. ‘I’m not of the opinion that this is my fault. You’re the one who flew into a temper last weekend. You’re the one who tried to force me to go to the GP –’
‘I did not try to force you,’ he protested. ‘I was –’
She cut in over him. ‘I won’t allow you to push me around like that.’
Once again there was silence. And once again Tim was the first to break that silence.
‘It makes me sad to hear that you think I push you around . . .’
There was something in his tone that chilled Sarah’s heart. She felt his withdrawal and the balance of power tilt in his favour.
‘Look, Tim, I’ve had a long day. I’m tired. I just want to go to bed now.’
His response was resigned. ‘Goodnight, Sarah.’
Sarah put the phone down. She kept her hand on the receiver, as if she might pick it back up at any minute. She had a horrible feeling she’d crossed a line with Tim. Gone too far.
Despite her misgivings, Sarah didn’t pick the phone back up. The dismal weather lingered on for the rest of the weekend. She slouched around the apartment and tried, in vain, to unravel her mixed-up feelings. About Tim. About having a baby.
She tried to visualise herself as a mother: nursing, feeding, changing nappies, singing nursery rhymes, pushing a pram around the local shopping centre. Which brought about the question of which shopping centre she’d be pushing the pram around. Would it be in Cork or Dublin? How could a baby fit into their current lifestyle? They lived separately for the greater part of the week. Who would the baby live with? Mum in Dublin, or Dad in Cork?
By Sunday night Sarah had reached only one conclusion: she’d spent the last three years trying for something she wasn’t fully sure she wanted. Yes, she’d been all clucky with Nuala’s and Laura’s babies. But in hindsight that seemed like a flimsy basis on which to proceed. Emma and Jason were at the other end of the spectrum. They had gone against popular trend and decided not to have children. They liked their lifestyle just as it was; no need for any complicated additions. Maybe she was more like them.
Finally, when she was ready for bed and exhausted from all the self-analysis, Sarah phoned Tim.
‘Hello,’ she said warily.
‘Hi.’
She smoothed down an imaginary crease in her pyjama pants.
‘Tim, I’m not really sure what I want any more . . .’
He didn’t comment, evidently waiting for her to continue.
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Maybe I don’t want a baby . . . I need time out . . . to think through what I really want.’
‘Okay,’ was all he said.
That was the end of the discussion. And possibly the end of their marriage.
Chapter 33
Jodi, London, 2001
‘Yes, the price does sound good.’ Jodi tapped her pen on her desk, impatient for the call to end. ‘But let’s give the company a closer look before jumping in . . .’
‘It’s a guaranteed winner,’ claimed the caller, Steve Sanchez, a hotshot trader who had come across from CorpBank’s New York office a few months ago. ‘I’d only have to hold the bonds for a couple of weeks . . .’
Jodi’s response was measured. ‘There are no guarantees in this business, Steve. You know that as well as I.’
‘Those bonds will be snapped up by someone else.’ Frustration loudened Steve’s voice. ‘Goddamn it, this is no time to sit on our ass . . .’
Jodi didn’t as much as flinch. Sadly, she was used to it. Verbal abuse was part of the culture, all the way from the trainees to the executives, and Jodi had been well aware of this fact when she had been appointed as head of the capital investment division eight months ago. She was quietly convinced that a positive, respectful, team-orientated environment would boost the profitability not only of her division but of the entire organisation, and had implemented some changes straight away to encourage that kind of behaviour. However, she was realistic enough to realise that it would take more than eight months to achieve such a fundamental change in attitude.
‘Let me check with valuations.’ Her voice was cool. ‘I’ll be back to you when I’ve established if the bonds are worth their money.’
‘When will I hear from you?’ he demanded. With Wall Street under his belt, he was clearly very anxious to prove himself on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘Tonight? Tomorrow? Next month?’
‘Shortly,’ she replied and hung up the phone.
She sat still for some time after the call, lost in thought. Steve was only one of the two-hundred-odd staff under her management. He spoke with a different accent to the rest, but other than that he was, disturbingly, just the same as his colleagues: impatient, conceited, disrespectful and too used to getting his own way. Somewhere along the line someone had told Steve, and all the others, that a bad attitude was good. Now Jodi had an uphill battle on her hands to get them to change.
She sighed deeply and rubbed the stirrings of a headache from her forehead. Most days she didn’t doubt her capability. But doubt was weighing her down today. Did she have the right to be sitting here in this ultramodern office? Was she correct in her assumption that the lack of teamwork and general respect was detrimental to the overall profitability? Was she tough enough to pull off such a mammoth change to the culture?
Yes, she told herself as she straightened. I can do it. I’m just feeling a little deflated after last night.
Across the Thames, James would be in his office too. Was he, like her, not giving it his all today? Was he replaying their argument? Regretting what he’d said? Or, more worryingly, had he put it right out of his head, regarding the subject as closed?
Ten out of ten to Shirley, who had predicted this would happen. What words had she used? ‘He’s had his family. He won’t want to do it all again.’
James most definitely didn’t want to do it all again; he’d been explicitly clear about that last night. Jodi had come home especially early to make beef bourguignon, his favourite dish. She’d uncorked a soft-bodied merlot and decanted it, allowing the wine to breathe amongst the mood-setting candles that flickered at the centre of the table.
James was surprised and pleased when he came in from work.
‘She’s home before me!’ he exclaimed, looking upwards, as if to thank the gods for their benevolence. ‘And cooking dinner!’ He planted a kiss on her lips. ‘What’s the special occasion? Another promotion?’
‘No. I still have my hands ful
l with the last one.’ She smiled and threw him the oven mitts. ‘Just make yourself useful by getting the casserole dish from the oven.’
During the meal he told her about his day and she told him about hers. The beef was tender and the sauce rich. Jodi resolved that she would do this more often: come home early and cook. James usually made dinner. In fact, he did most of the domestic chores around their chic two-bedroom apartment. His job was less demanding than hers.
‘My career is in decline as yours is on the rise,’ he would often joke. ‘But it’s nice to know that you’ll have the means to keep me in style in my old age.’
He always made disparaging remarks about his age. He didn’t listen when she said he looked much younger than his years. His hair was still mostly black and his face relatively unlined. He was far more attractive than any of the younger men Jodi worked with.
Now, his plate scraped clean, he looked relaxed and open to wherever the conversation might take them. Still the academic at heart, he was very well informed about current affairs and their dinnertime conversations often became hearty debates. He had no idea that world news was far from Jodi’s mind this evening.
‘James, what do you think about us having a baby?’
A frown instantly descended on his face. ‘Are you saying you’re pregnant?’
‘No,’ she laughed uneasily. ‘I’m just thinking about it, that’s all.’
‘I’m fifty-four years old, Jodi.’ His tone was as austere as his expression. He looked every bit the professor he used to be, and she felt like the wayward student. ‘Too old for bawling babies and tantrummy toddlers.’
Jodi set down her cutlery and reached across the table to rest her hand on his. ‘But I’m only thirty-three, James . . .’
His frown only deepened. ‘I already have two children. My age aside, I have no desire to be a father again.’
‘Please, James,’ she beseeched him in a tone that would usually have him acquiesce to whatever it was she wanted. ‘Can’t you just consider it? Is that too much to ask?’