by Claire Allan
The second thing that annoys me is that she is right. Máire will be in her element. She will be sidling up to the ladies in the Chat’N’Chew and telling them how her feckless daughter-in-law has gone and left her wee son. She will probably be telling them that I’m ‘bad wi’ me nerves’ and on tablets and everything and totally unable to look after that baby of mine.
The third thing is that she has attacked Aidan and while I know he is a useless bastard at times, he is still my useless bastard. It is okay for me to be annoyed with him – I accepted the ‘for better or worse’ part in my marriage vows – but I can’t bear other people implying that I’ve made a mistake and that he is no good. I click my email shut, vowing to reply later, and I’m just about to walk out the door again when my phone rings.
A sing-song voice chirps at me: “Helllloooo, is that Grace Adams? It’s Lesley here at City Couture. Are you ready for your telephone consultation?”
Fuck. I had forgotten about that. “Yes,” I reply half- heartedly, sounding like an ungrateful baggage not one bit interested in the oodles of free clothes and junk jewellery she is going to heap on me.
“Great!” she says, bursting with enthusiasm I was sure she would have lost by now.
You see, the first time I encountered Lesley was two years ago when I was pregnant with Jack and feeling blooming awful as opposed to blooming marvellous. As a treat to my fat and pregnant self, Sinéad had sent me to a Mummy-To-Be-Makeover at City Couture and bubbly Lesley had fussed about me, trussing me up in all sorts of the over-the-bump, under-the-bump and skimming-the- bump creations which made me look like a manic combination of Mr Blobby and Humpty from Playschool.
In fairness to her she was fairly new to the game then and finding her feet in the whole image-consultant basis. She was of the opinion that expensive or designer automatically meant tasteful.
A brush with bankruptcy and a night class in Body Image had, so her reputation would have you believe, made her buck up her ideas. She was now exceptionally sought after by the local LWL (Ladies Who Lunch).
But, I now realise, while the years have sorted out her business sense, the hyperness has obviously lasted.
“What do you need to know?” I ask.
“Well, just your vital statistics, your basic lifestyle issues.”
Lifestyle issues? I suddenly feel as though I should be confessing that I like to swing from the chandeliers at the weekend or dress up in leather.
“What exactly do you mean by lifestyle issues?” I ask. “Oh, you, are you a fitness freak? A business lady? A yummy mummy? What do you do in your time off? What is practical for you?”
I’m tempted to reply that my current penchant for trackie bottoms and semi-fitted T-shirts is practical for me right now but I decide I need to be gracious. “I’m not sure, Lesley. I suppose I could do with some smartening up for the office.”
“Yes,” she enthuses, “Louise did say that might be on the cards.”
“And I’d like to look smarter when I’m out and about with my son,” I add.
“All good,” says Lesley and I can hear the tip-tapping of her keyboard in the background. She is obviously taking notes. “What about trying something a little sexy for the man in your life?” she adds, and I just agree because I don’t think I can take some overly enthusiastic sympathy from her just now.
After the ritual humiliation of revealing my dress size (18 on top, 20 on bottom) she informs me she will see me next Wednesday for the grand transformation and that we will have the “most fun ever”. I’m not convinced but I lie and tell her I’m looking forward to it anyway and then, finally, at two thirty-five, I get away for my lunch. Only now I’m not so hungry any more.
Despite it now being considerably colder and wetter, the thermostat in the doctor’s waiting room still seems to be set at ‘Tropical Heatwave’. I’m trying to fan myself with a battered copy of Woman but it isn’t really doing the job. I feel, and probably look, exceptionally tired and I know my make-up is now residing somewhere around my knee-caps. All I want to do is go home (well, Daisy’s home, as mine is strictly out of bounds) and go to sleep again.
I’m a little annoyed at Dr Dishy for making me see him every week. I mean, does he really expect a week to have cured me? Fecking men! They think they can shake their magic wands and it’s all better.
The buzzer goes and the light tells me it’s time for my consultation. Gruffly I walk to the room, open the door without knocking (I’m not in the mood for being polite) and plonk myself down on the chair beside his desk like a petulant schoolgirl. I’ve had a shite day. I figure I deserve the right to be petulant.
He looks at me, or rather over my shoulder, and smiles. “Is ‘Daisy who comes for moral support’ not with you today?” he asks and I suddenly get yet another case of the ‘sorry for myselves’.
Yes, I’d rather be home than here but why is it that my doctor would rather see my friend than me? Am I not sick enough? Or worthy enough of his time?
“No,” I mutter, “she’s minding my son.”
“Right,” he says, a look of disappointment dancing across his face. “I’m sensing you aren’t feeling too great today, Grace.”
“Ten out of ten for observation, doctor,” I reply sulkily. “I feel a little out of control at the moment.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve left Aidan,” I say, sighing because I just don’t think I physically can cry any more.
Dr Dishy leans forward, looks me in the eye and tells me he is sorry to hear that. “Do you think it’s for keeps?” he asks.
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I just don’t know anything at the moment. I don’t know my arse from my elbow. I don’t know if it is a shite or a haircut I want.”
He smiles, not in a patronising way, but in a warm and caring way and I have to resist the urge to ask him for a hug.
“So, the Movement and Mood didn’t really help then, did it?”
“We got thrown out,” I say, suddenly embarrassed, and he starts to laugh.
“Good for you,” he says. “It shows you have a bit of fight in you still.”
“I probably have a bit too much fight at the moment.” “No such thing when you are battling depression, Grace,” he says, “no such thing.”
We talk through my options. He says it is too early for me to feel the full benefit of the happy pills just yet and I’m to keep taking them for another week before we reassess the situation. He says I need to rest more and I offer to introduce him to Jack and Lily. He tells me that I need to be good to myself – perhaps pamper myself a bit – and I offer to show him my bank statements. I am officially in Sulk Mode 10 – imminent meltdown.
“Okay then, Grace,” he smiles, “I think it’s time to think about working through whatever is making you feel like this.”
“I thought that is what we’re doing?”
“No, at the moment we’re treating the symptoms. Your mood is low and we are working to raise it a level where you feel stable again. That is when we have to look at what was making you feel low in the first place.”
“Ah,” I say, “you see, Shaun, you told me this already. You told me all about serotonin depletion and all that malarkey. It’s a chemical thing, and the tablets fix the chemical thing so that should make me better, shouldn’t it?”
He sighs. In fairness it’s only a matter of time before he starts losing the rag with me too.
“In theory, yes, it should fix it. But you obviously have issues, Grace. You didn’t run away to Donegal for the night because you had a chemical depletion – and don’t tell me you thought that was the reason, because you are more intelligent than that. Likewise you didn’t leave Aidan because the tablets aren’t working yet.”
“You are right there,” I smile, “I left him because he is a feckwit.”
I leave with the number of a counsellor – although I’m still not quite sure what I need to be counselled about. Dr Dishy has said he will pull some strings to get me seen soo
n. As the lady in question is a private practitioner, and as I’m going to be writing about her for a big magazine, Dishy doesn’t see it will be a problem.
Dishy is concerned that I’m not making as much progress as he would have hoped – which seems in my eyes to contradict the notion that it is early days and ‘all good’ and all I have to do is mellow and wait for the proverbial sunshine to come flooding through. So I decide I’ll humour him because, well, I’ve nothing to lose, do I? I’m not exactly overflowing with joy and luck right now.
❃ ❃ ❃
Pulling into the driveway of Daisy’s house, I see the windows are open and I can hear the children laughing. I paint on my smile and go in and Daisy shouts from the kitchen that dinner won’t be long.
Once again I’m amazed at her energy. I doubt very much that I would have the energy to cook after a day running after kids. I scoop a giggly Jack up in my arms and give him a huge hug – enjoying the smell of him. He wriggles against my arm, calling out that he wants to play with Lily so I let him and walk into the living room where Daisy is grating cheese into a bowl. I can smell the garlic bread warming in the oven and see the pasta bubbling on the stove.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you are that way inclined,” she says without looking up.
I decline – after all, tomorrow is weigh-in day at Weightloss Wonders and, if I’m honest, I’m thinking if I start drinking I might get stupid drunk and say or do something I regret.
I pour a cool glass of water and add some ice cubes before starting to set the table.
“Everything okay?” Daisy asks and I reply that it is because I figure the fact that I’ve not cried in at least four hours has to be positive.
“How was Dr Dishy?”
“He asked after you,” I smile and she blushes. It’s not often you can embarrass Daisy Cassidy so I’m quite proud of myself for managing it.
“That’s nice to know,” she smiles, “but I was more wondering how you got on.”
“He wants me to see a counsellor.” “That’s good, isn’t it?” Daisy asks.
I shrug my shoulders. “Not sure I have anything I need to be counselled about but I’ll give it a go.”
“Grace, we all have things we need to be counselled about. We just don’t realise it half the time. Anyway, it will be cool. You will be in therapy – it will make you sound all windswept and interesting.”
“First time for everything, eh?” I grin and call the children through for their tea.
Jack clings on tightly at bedtime. He asks for Daddy and I fob him off with a lie that Daddy is working. I don’t think a two-year-old would really understand the intricacies of marital strife. He looks at me suspiciously – his innocent blue eyes trying to suss me out and then he clings on tight to me and his Fifi doll and whimpers a bit before falling asleep.
I should go downstairs and keep Daisy company, but I decide to lie there and just fall asleep myself. For the most part dreams are a lot more enjoyable than real life at the moment.
Chapter 16
It’s Tuesday and the rain has lifted a bit. I landed into work this morning to an email from Máiréad – just the same as yesterday with an extra note saying she wondered had I got the first one. I made a mental note to answer it today, but it’s four thirty now and I’ve not managed it. I am really experiencing a full-on case of couldn’t-be-arseditis.
Sinéad walked past my desk this morning and gave me a knowing wink. I could see Louise’s gossip and paranoia antennae pick up the vibes and she looked very disconcerted by it all. It dawned on me, about that time, that she hadn’t plonked her skinny arse on my desk in two whole days. Would it be too much to hope for that she was giving me a wide berth?
I’ve spent the day writing up my ‘Stay-at-Home Mummy’ feature on Betsy’s mammy and searching the internet for advice on what to expect from a counsellor.
I really should have made that phone call for the appointment. Dishy had even emailed me to remind me of the number – just in case I would have forgotten or thrown it in the bin or something typically ‘me’ like that.
I had lifted the phone a couple of times. I’d even dialled the number but I just couldn’t bring myself to make the appointment. I felt that even by talking to someone over the phone I would be branding myself a mentalist. I didn’t want to be judged – well, not more than I had already been of late. I mean tonight I will have to face the dreaded scales again. Surely that is enough judgement for any woman to take on a Tuesday evening in August?
Aidan is picking Jack up from Susie’s today. I had a curt email informing me of the arrangements where he said he was sure I wouldn’t mind as I had my ‘slimming club thingy’. I am to pick Jack up after class, something I’m not overly happy about because I know taking him out of his house at bedtime will only serve to confuse him further. Nonetheless, with Máire breathing down my neck like a crazy woman, I’m not sure I can do anything at the moment which could possibly be deemed as obstructing the relationship between father and son – if for no other reason than not to give herself more fuel for her gossipy fire.
The phone rings and I already know it is going to be Daisy before I answer it. Breathlessly, as if the hunger pains are claiming her life as we speak she mutters: “After this weigh-in we are stopping at the chipper and getting the biggest, dirtiest, greasiest pile of food you could ever imagine. We are going to eat it straight out of the wrapper and wash it down with Bacardi Breezers and enjoy every last morsel until we are as fat as pigs and have to get a stair lift jobby to take us up to bed.”
“C’mon, Daisy,” I tease, “that is not in the spirit of transforming yourself to the You you want to be.”
“Fuck that!” she laughs. “The Me I want to be right now is a big full-up lard-arse who has chip-fat dripping down her chin. I’m berluddy starving. I’ve only eaten an apple and a yoghurt all day to try and trick the scales.”
“You’re mad,” I say. “You know Charlotte says we have to be sensible about this whole thing.”
“Aye, well, Charlotte doesn’t know about my biscuit- fest over the weekend thanks to your trauma.”
“Don’t blame me for your indiscretions,” I laugh. “going to blame you. I’m hardly going to take the rap myself, am I?” she laughs before arranging to meet me outside the school hall at six thirty. “We want to be there before the uber-dieters arrive to make us feel like big lumps.”
❃ ❃ ❃
The school hall is quiet when I arrive. Remarkably Daisy is already there and has a face like thunder on her.
“Two pounds on,” she grumbles. “Two fecking pounds on, and I’m still bloody starving!”
“But you did eat nearly a full garlic bread to yourself last night,” I soothe gently.
“I know, but still, God, I hoped for something. It was a Healthy Eating garlic bread after all.”
I smile at her, trying to ignore the wee voice in my head that tells me 2lbs on top of Daisy’s weight is still a lot lighter than my eventual goal.
Charlotte smiles at me from across the room. “Grace, lovely to see you! Let’s get you weighed.”
I take my jacket off, drop my bag on a chair and breathe in, as if that will make me lighter, and then I step on the scales and look straight ahead of me until Charlotte says I’m safe to stand off. Sitting down, I compose my face into an expression of complete nonchalance to avoid the outbursts of last time and Charlotte takes my little purple chart and starts to write down my vital statistics.
“Well, whatever you have done this week, Grace, it’s worked. You’ve lost 7lbs! Keep it up.”
Realising it is highly unlikely that I will leave another spouse between now and next week I realise this is probably a one-off fluke, but nonetheless I’m delighted. I’m no longer a 15-stone frump! I’m 14 stone and 12 lbs of gorgeousness.
“How have you found the diet?” Charlotte asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Well, to be honest, I’ve had a lot on my mind so I’ve not been thinking about food
all that much.”
“Great,” she replies, “and what about exercise? Have you managed any?”
I think about it. I’ve slept a lot, and had a good long walk around Glenveagh but I’ve not really been inspired to feel the burn. “Not really,” I say.
Sensing my unease, she replies: “Look, it doesn’t have to be an exercise class, or a swimming lesson. All you need to do is move about until you are breathless. Even a good session in the sack could do wonders,” she laughs, winking at me.
“I’ll remember that,” I say wryly and go to take my seat beside Daisy, who still has that disgusted look on her face. “Two fecking pounds,” she mutters, grabbing her non- existent spare tyre and trying to pinch a non-existent inch. I sit down, saying nothing, and look ahead of me. A wee bubble of excitement is starting to build. I’ve lost seven pounds. Half a stone. Fourteen packets of sausages. I smile, despite myself. I smile even though there is no prospect of me going home and burning off some calories with a session of hot, passionate lovemaking with Himself. “Gah!” Daisy mutters, crossing her legs in a huff. “Well then, how did you get on? Are you raging too?”
“Not exactly,” I reply. “I lost seven pounds,” grinning ear from ear.
A momentary look of jealous shock dances across her face before she grins, hugs me and tells me she loves me – then we settle down for our motivational talk on how to keep at it for another week.
Of course, the bubble of excitement doesn’t last long – or to be more accurate it is replaced by a bigger and scarier bubble of dread at having to pick Jack up from Aidan.
I’m sitting outside my own house, looking at my own front door, and I’m wondering whether it is okay for me to use my own keys to open it. I’m so not au fait with the manners surrounding a relationship breakdown that I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. This is the house I pay for – the house I first saw on a property website and was immediately drawn to owing to its promise of original cornicing and a marble fireplace. This is the house I moved into with barely a stick of furniture to my name – where we spent our second night as husband and wife. This is the house we bought new flooring for and felt simultaneously childish and grown-up as we looked at the shag-pile carpets in the showroom and giggled at the name. This is the home we brought Jack back to – where we both lay awake all night listening to make sure he was breathing. This is where Jack took his first steps, where he fell for the first time, where Aidan and I smiled proudly on his first birthday.