Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  “Okay then, chick. Do you want some breakfast? I think I have some soda farls in the breadbin.”

  “Funnily enough, I’m not hungry, Dais. I’ll get something later. I’ve given Lily some Cheerios and Mr Fussy Breakfast Pants can have the same.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  By the time two o’clock rolls around both the children are ready to climb the walls with cabin fever. The rain hasn’t abated any and my mood is still pretty grumblesome. Daisy has resorted to a DVD and bags of crisps to keep the children from wrecking her house and I’m sitting on the squashy armchair in the kitchen drinking my twenty-fifth cup of coffee.

  “Are you nervous?” Daisy asks from her counter-top position.

  “Naw, I think it’s just the coffee giving me the shakes. I’m grand,” I say, trying to find some kind of humour in the situation. My husband (or should that be ex, now that we are officially separated and all?) will be picking my child up in approximately five minutes for a visit. I have no idea if my marriage still exists or if I have just thrown away the last eight years of my life. Every time I want to forgive him, a wee voice roars at me to wise up and a quieter voice, a wee sneaky fecker of a thing, whispers in my ear reminding me that I have no idea if Aidan wants to be forgiven. Maybe this has been his breaking-point as well as mine?

  Just then the doorbell rings and my heart jumps into my throat. I hear Jack run towards the door screaming, “Daddy, Daddy!” excitedly and I want to be sick.

  “Do you want me to deal with this, Grace?” Daisy asks, jumping down from the counter.

  “Nope, if there is one thing I’ve learned in the last two weeks it’s that I need to start taking responsibility for my own actions, and Aidan needs to start taking responsibility for his too.”

  I walk to the hall and see him standing there, unshaven, with his hair wet and hanging limply around his face. I’m almost pleased to notice that he looks tired – there are distinct bags under his eyes – and his T-shirt is wrinkled as if he has slept in it. I’m almost about to get cocky when I realise I’m still in my pyjamas and my hair hasn’t been brushed either.

  “Hello, Aidan.”

  “Grace,” he says, a one-word hello.

  And he looks at me and I can’t for the life of me read what is going on in his head. Usually his eyes give it all away but they are emotionless.

  “Where are you taking him?” I ask, stepping a little closer to try and see him better, and if I’m honest just to be closer to him. I want so much to hit him now – to tell him he has hurt me but at the same time, God, I just want to be in his arms, to have them soothing me and making it all better.

  “My mum’s,” he replies, reaching for the changing bag by the door. “We shouldn’t be too late.”

  “Okay,” I answer and feel my voice start to tremble. I’m about to melt, about to give in and beg him to stay but the door is already closed and both Jack and Aidan are gone. My family are gone.

  “If you don’t mind, Daisy, I’m a little tired now. I think I will go and have that sleep.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  I’m not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that I slept through Aidan returning with Jack. In some ways I wanted so badly to see him again, but at the same time I wanted to avoid him as if he had some medieval lurgy. All I know is that I have just woken up to Jack bouncing on the bed and shouting: “Wake up, Mummy! Time for din-dins!” I reach out and give him the hugest hug and then I get up because, let’s face it, I don’t really have much of a choice. I need to get up – to keep moving – or I fear I will spend the rest of my life in this bed in this lovely room until I die.

  I walk down the stairs and Daisy has gone all out to lift my mood. In her dining-room (yes, she is very posh – she has a dining-room as well as a kitchen table), she has set out her best crockery and crystal glasses which are already topped up with wine. A traditional Sunday lunch, with all the trimmings, is waiting for me and while I know I should be hungry, and I know such a meal would normally have me salivating at the very thought, I find myself just pushing the food around on my plate and ignoring the wineglass for some water.

  Yes, I’m chatting. I’m joking with Jack, making him giggle hysterically and as Lily joins in I find myself laughing – but behind it all I want to scream. I want to wind the clock back two weeks. I want to decide not to tell Aidan about Louise’s proposals and then none of this will have happened. Aidan and I would still be moseying along at our usual rate – in blissful ignorance with our pecks on the cheek, our occasional fumbles and the insincerity of our ‘I love you’s’. I could be putting my son to bed in his own room tonight and sleeping under my own duvet (not that Daisy’s isn’t lovely, but the bed just doesn’t mould around my body in the way my own does).

  Chapter 15

  It’s not surprising that when I go to bed I don’t sleep well. I think my body clock has gone into some weird shock and I no longer know the difference between night and day. The only problem with the whole non- sleeping malarkey however is that today, Monday, I can’t just go back to bed when the inevitable tiredness does kick in. Nope, I have a full day’s work ahead – starting with the weekly editorial conference and ending with an appointment with Dr Dishy to check on my mental state.

  In between times I am to phone Lesley at City Couture and reveal to my eternal shame and embarrassment my vital statistics so she can get prepared for next week’s consultation. I also have an interview lined up with a Stay- At-Home Mum who will give me the low-down on how hard her life is and I will have to bite my tongue so as not to say ‘Swapsies!’ and list my own particular maternal gripes.

  I’ve at least managed to put some make-up on. Lily informed me this morning that I looked very scary, and after a quick look in the mirror I agreed that the lack of sleep overnight was not conducive to a radiant complexion. I offer a silent prayer of thanks upwards that today is going to be one of the only days in the working month when Liam won’t be tasked with taking my picture.

  I nibble at the fruit salad I’ve brought with me for breakfast and sip at my water while looking over my emails and old files on the computer. I find a message from Jill, an old university acquaintance (one of the aforementioned five-foot bridesmaids) who I haven’t heard from in ages. She asks after me, Aidan and Jack, and I mentally decide to leave it a month or two before replying to her email because, after all, I don’t want to scare the poor girl when she was probably just sending the message to be polite and she no longer actually really cares what the hell is going on in my life.

  Sinéad walks in, cursing the persistent rain (or “fucking pishing weather”, if I’m to be accurate) and offers a quick glance in my direction before continuing to her office. I’m just starting to congratulate myself on getting away with looking, for all intents and purposes, half-normal when another email pops up from my screen – an internal memo from Sinéad.

  “Get your arse in here now, Grace. You look like shit!” I get up off my desk, bringing my bottle of water with me, and make my way into the office. Sinéad is already sitting on the sofa and I feel my eyes well up with this so very simple act of kindness. You see, by sitting there, by not facing me from behind her desk, she is showing that she actually gives a damn what is wrong with me.

  “If it’s none of my business then tell me to fuck off,” Sinéad starts, “but I’m guessing the white face and the bottle of water aren’t down to a hangover and you look like a bag of bones.”

  I raise a smile, if for no other reason than I’m happy to hear that I look like a bag of bones, and then I start to blub. I have no idea where these tears are coming from because I swear I can’t actually have any left. All I have done is sob and snotter my way through the past two days. I wonder if that is why I’m so fecking thirsty?

  “Sit down,” she says and throws her arms around me.

  I feel uneasy at her warmth, but unable to stop myself from giving in to it. I just need this hug, need to feel that I don’t have to keep this a secret – not from Sinéad.


  “I’ve left Aidan,” I mutter, when the sobs have subsided. I don’t know whether it is a good thing or not that she doesn’t look shocked. “I don’t think he understands what I’m going through right now.”

  “Do you understand it?” Sinéad asks, cutting through the bullshit in her own inimitable style.

  “Honestly? No, I don’t think I do.” “Then how can you expect him to?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t expect him to understand. I just want him to try,” I say petulantly.

  “I think you need to be easier on yourself, and on Aidan,” Sinéad says. “I’ve read your first drafts, Grace. I know you are trying to make out this is no big shakes for you but I know it’s a struggle. Don’t forget I’ve been here a long time. I saw the ballsy young reporter who walked through the doors. I saw you wearing your designer clothes and dolling about here like a thinking man’s version of Louise – and equally I’ve seen you fade a bit. I’m not saying I’m unhappy with your work. You’re one of the most valuable members of this team and you do whatever is asked of you, but I don’t see so much of the passion any more. And I hate to state the obvious, and please, listen to this knowing that I have a fucking stupid habit of saying things the wrong way and sounding offensive when I don’t mean to be, but I have seen you let yourself go. Grace O’Donnell would not have dared come in here without her hair styled and her make-up perfect. Grace Adams doesn’t seem to care all that much any more.”

  I’m about to mutter my apologies – to promise to try harder – to book an appointment at the Clarins counter for that very afternoon when Sinéad continues. She is obviously on a roll.

  “Now I don’t want you walking out of here thinking all I’ve said is bad. Think about my words, take the positive out of it, and use it to your advantage. It’s too fucking easy to get stuck in a rut, Gracie. I’ve been there.” She sidles closer, lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag on it, exhaling slowly, and then she continues: “After Aoibheann was born I almost gave up, on me, on her, on my relationship. I can see that in you, Grace, and I wouldn’t wish what I went through on my worst enemy. Say the word and we pull the plug on the Change Your Life feature. It’s fucking brilliant stuff, but say the word and it’s a non-starter. No one needs their life exposed in this way.” I take a deep breath and answer. “I do, Sinéad. I need this because everything you have just said makes perfect sense. The only difference is, I’m a lazy fecker. If I don’t do something now, I’m afraid we will never see Grace O’Donnell again – not that she was perfect by a long shot – but she was better than this.”

  “That’s my girl,” Sinéad says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now, you are ordered out of the office for half an hour. Get yourself freshened up, reapply that make-up, get a cup of tea to steady your nerves and get back here and give ’em hell.”

  “I will,” I say and something in me knows that I mean it.

  Deciding Sinéad may have a point about me taking time out to compose myself, I walk to my desk to grab my car keys. Then I’m distracted by the shrill ringing of my phone. I know I shouldn’t answer it. I know in my heart this call will bring no joy to my life, but I also know it’s my job to lift the receiver and it could always be my Stay-At- Home Mammy telling me little Betsy has glued herself to the floor and they won’t be able to come along for the interview and photo shoot.

  So I give in to curiosity and answer it and, just as predicted, it brought no good. It is Máire on the phone – the Mother-in-Law. No sooner do I say hello but she is ranting at me in a high-pitched squeak, talking about how she knew I was no good from the start and how I had broken her ‘wee son’s heart’. My mouth is opening and closing, trying to say something, but she is cutting me off at every opportunity. Her voice is increasing an octave approximately every ten seconds and I’m pretty sure that within the next thirty to forty seconds only dogs will be able to hear her.

  She is wittering on now about marriage counselling, Relate, visiting the wee priest and then she says I’d better not fucking think that I can take Jack out of her life and I’m shocked at her swear-word but also mildly amused. She hangs up before I utter a single word and I take a deep breath. Yes, a drive would be just perfect around now.

  Máire and I have a weird kind of relationship, one I usually refer to as mutual toleration. She thinks the sun shines out of her precious first-born’s rear end. Aidan’s sister, the lovely but ridiculously skinny Máiréad (they weren’t very creative with names – Aidan’s da is called Aidan Senior by the way) never really had a look in. She could win the Nobel Prize, the Pulitzer Prize and a fecking Blue Peter Badge and none of these would match the achievements of the Golden One – he who got six GCSES and two A Levels. Is it any wonder Máiréad, the other of the skinny bridesmaids, chose to move to London as soon as she could, where she has carved out a lovely little career for herself away from the interference and judging eyes of her mother.

  Máire has never openly disapproved of me (not until now anyway), but she never really took me under her wing either. I suppose when I was younger I never thought about it much – after all, I had Mammy and that was all the mammy a woman needed – or indeed could handle. But after Jack was born I would notice her beady eyes examining everything I did with him, and how Aidan and I interacted together as parents. I became more and more aware that she was not going to found my fan club any time soon. I guess it wasn’t exactly devastating to have my fears confirmed.

  When I return, the editorial conference has been and gone. Louise is looking at me suspiciously because it is more or less against the law to leave the office when a conference is scheduled. Sinéad has left a doughnut on my desk with a wee note telling me to enjoy and when I check my email my daily message from lifecoaches.com says ‘Don’t forget you CAN make it happen’. I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it, it’s all down to me. So I offer the doughnut to Liam in the vain hope it will act as some sort of bribery when he wants to print some of those less than flattering photographs of me. I’m about to lift the phone to call Betsy’s mother when it rings, half-scaring me and my sleep- deprived self witless. Again I take a deep breath and lift it.

  “Grace,” Aidan says and my heart starts thumping. “Yes,” I reply and I’m not sure how to play this.

  “I hear my mum phoned you,” he says and I smile because I can hear the embarrassment in his voice from here.

  I’m almost about to laugh with him about it and tell him about her swearing. He would, I know, find that hilarious – but I’m not sure if it is appropriate to be joshing with one’s estranged spouse.

  “She did,” I reply, choosing to keep my cards close to my chest.

  “I’m just apologising on her behalf because if I know Mum like I think I know Mum then I’m guessing an apology is in order.”

  “’Sokay,” I say. “She’s pissed off. That’s allowed.”

  “As long as you don’t think that is coming from me,” he says and sighs.

  I can hear the tiredness in his voice and I suddenly long to soothe him, and make him feel better. Of course it doesn’t take long for my brain to kick into gear and remind me that I’m the one needs soothing now, not him.

  “I didn’t, Aidan,” I say.

  “Grand. Well, I bet you are busy so I’ll talk to you later.”

  He hangs up and I lift the car keys and go for another drive. Sinéad will understand.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  By the time two o’clock has come around I have got myself together and have spent a joyous half hour listening to Betsy’s mother rave on about how fabulous it is to spend all day, every day with her rugrat and how they never run out of things to do together. Betsy sits like a Stepford Baby in the corner and it crosses my mind that some form of Baby Valium must come into play to make Betsy’s mother’s day so painless. I’ve managed to get Liam to take some pretty lovely shots of the two of them together and I’ve even managed to make an article out of the train-wreck that was the Movement and Mood class.

 
I’m not sure said article is in English because the entire time I’m writing it I’m playing the conversation with Aidan over and over in my head and trying to find any hidden meanings, any hints that he is desperately sorry for his piss- poor treatment of me and ready to welcome me back into his arms and kill a fatted calf in my honour. My brain really does not feel that it can deal with much more of this today.

  I’m just about to step out for lunch when the email icon pops up on my desktop and, being incredibly nosey I, of course, can’t leave it until after lunch. I open my mailbox and there it is, an email from Máiréad, Aidan’s sister.

  To: grace.adams@northernpeople.co.uk

  Subject: My mum is a fruitcake.

  Sweetie

  Mum has been on the phone spouting some shite about you and Aidan heading for the divorce courts.

  I’m not sure what the fuck is going on but I know how Mum loves a drama. Don’t be fooled into thinking she is genuinely annoyed about this. This is like an episode of EastEnders to her where she is the star of the whole thing.

  This will keep her going in the martyr stakes for the next year. She is in her element. Ignore her ranting. I always just block it out by singing to myself.

  Seriously, sweetie, I’m not sure what is going on but I know you won’t have walked out without good reason. I also lived with Aidan long enough to know what a gobshite he can be and to be honest I’m surprised you haven’t kicked his arse to the kerb long before now.

  You know where I am if you need to chat. I hope the pair of you sort things out, but I don’t blame you if you decide you’ve had enough.

  M

  x

  Bizarrely I’m exceptionally annoyed by Máiréad’s email. The first thing that annoys me is that she equates the cesspit that my life is becoming to an episode of EastEnders. I could have handled a reference to Desperate Housewives or even Coronation Street but my life is depressing enough without putting it on a par with Albert Square.