Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  “Pish!” she interrupts. “I’ll not have him putting the blame on you.”

  “But he’s not. We just talked and I realise, God, Mammy, I’ve been a fecking eejit lately. Maybe I’ve been an eejit for a long time but we just stopped talking and I kind of took to running away. You may have noticed that.” She has the decency to nod, but her arms are still crossed over her chest. Her body language is not that of a relaxed mother-in-law. In fact, I’m pretty certain she is mentally imagining what horror she can inflict on him with her rolling pin.

  “Look, Grace, I don’t want you taking all this on yourself. You’ve not been well. You have been depressed. The last thing you need is someone foisting the blame on you.”

  “But that’s the thing, Mammy. I need to realise my role in all of this if I’m to get better. None of us has led a blameless life; we’ve all done things that have impacted on other people – whether or not we meant to.”

  Her face freezes. I know she thinks I’m talking about her, and I probably am a bit. I’m biting my tongue, because, as I’ve said, digging up past hurts isn’t going to help anyone, but I can’t let Aidan take all the blame for the mess my life has become. I’m to blame too, and Mammy, and Daisy, and Sinéad, and Jack and everyone else who ever spoke to me because they all influenced me in one way or another. Mostly they’ve been brilliant but sometimes, God, sometimes they have been a fecking nightmare.

  “Are you trying to say I’m not blameless?”

  I sigh and shake my head. “No, Mammy, I’m trying to say I’m not blameless. I have issues that have affected the way I’ve been around people. I need to take responsibility for those or nothing is ever going to change. Can’t you understand that?”

  She nods but she isn’t convinced, and neither am I – but to say anything else would destroy her and she has suffered enough. I’ve seen her cry too many tears over the children she never had – I don’t want to set her off over the one she does have.

  There is a certain benefit to having children. The main one being that they can provide the perfect out-clause to any uncomfortable situations. Just as Mammy is getting ready to needle some more details out of me, Jack runs into the room waving a drawing he has just done. Daddy isn’t too far behind him, his face a picture of pride.

  Mammy swoops him up into her arms and buries her face in his thick curls. He giggles loudly and the pair of them dance around the kitchen, just delighting in spending time with each other.

  How could I ever have been angry with this woman for wanting more? How, now seeing her and Jack together – joy dancing across their faces – could I ever have wondered why she wanted that feeling time and time again?

  I get up from my seat and join them in their mad dance – Daddy taking me and swirling me around the room in the way he used to when I was a little girl.

  Yes, there is a certain benefit to having children.

  Chapter 23

  It’s funny but between the months of October and May I never once find myself walking alongside the beaches of Donegal – but during the summer months I never seem to leave them.

  Again we are here, Jack building a sandcastle, Aidan helping him and me observing this little family scene before me.

  It was slightly awkward when Aidan picked us up. Having decided to give it another go, I don’t think either of us really understands why we are not living together under the same roof again yet. At the same time we know, we both know, that this time apart is doing us good. It is helping us to realise what we have, what we want and how we are going to get it.

  Seeing Aidan now, playing with his son, I realise that I’m one of the lucky ones. I realise, of course I do, that he is still a lumping great feckwit who drives me to distraction but that his heart, foolish as it is, is in the right place. He tries so much for me, and he does bloody well with Jack.

  “Look at this, Mammy!” Aidan cheers as Jack makes a nosedive for the elaborate sandcastle they have just built, sending the sand scattering in the light breeze.

  Jack sits up, his perfect two-year-old smile now hidden behind a mouthful of sand, and he laughs heartily as Aidan struggles to clear the sand from his face. I lift myself off my little perch and walk towards them to join in the fun.

  I don’t think I can remember the last time we did this. Yup, Aidan and I have gone together. Daisy and I have taken the kids, but it’s hard to remember the last time we, as a family, did something like this.

  Feeling daring, and more upbeat than I have done in weeks, I challenge Aidan to dip his toes in the icy Donegal waters. Walking towards the waves, with Jack threatening to run on to beat us to the shoreline, we hold hands and I’m starting to think this can work out.

  Dare I say it, but I feel happy – so I’m hoping against hope this is not one of the typical Grace Adams things when I feel happy only to have it all blow up in my face afterwards.

  As we drive home, Jack sleeping soundly in his car seat, Aidan and I sit in companionable silence – and therein lies the key – because it is not an awkward silence – it is a fine silence, perfectly fine. I’m not waiting for him to tell me I’m fecking unbearable again.

  As we reach Daisy’s he looks at me and I look at him. I feel as shy as a seventeen-year-old. I mean, what is the protocol right now? Do I invite him in for ‘coffee’? Do we have a quick smooch at the garden gate? Do we run off home and have an almighty shag-fest?

  I’m simply not sure. Aidan takes my hand, and places my locket in it – the locket he gave me to tell me that he believed in me, the locket I tore off when I left him, and I can feel happy tears threatening to trickle down my cheeks. “I have another surprise for you, Grace,” he says and I wonder just what he could possibly have in store. “I’ve booked you into a dance class. I want you to find your rhythm again.”

  And I can’t speak for crying.

  When Daisy sees me she wonders if things have once again gone drastically wrong. My eyes are red from crying and I’m speaking in gulping phrases – most of which are unintelligible to the average human. She stands, looking at me strangely, trying to make sense while between my sobs I’m trying to mime that I’m going to learn to dance. My arms are flapping, my toes are tapping and try as she might to look concerned, Daisy starts to laugh.

  Luckily I do too. “Fuck!” I eventually manage. “He has booked me dancing lessons!”

  “He has what?”

  “Booked dancing lessons. He said he knew I could be good and he was going to make me prove to myself that I was.”

  “Oh my God, Grace, that’s amazing! Are you going to do it?”

  “I think so. I mean it’s about time I faced my dancing demons.”

  “Didn’t Abba write a song about them?” she says, her eyebrow raised and a sly smile creeping across her face.

  “Very funny, lady, but you’ll be smiling at the other side of your face come Thursday night.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, you have so much to learn! Don’t you know I never do anything without you there to hold my hand?”

  “I should have known,” she sighs, while putting on the kettle to make a cup of tea. She is quiet for a while then turns to me, broadly grinning. “Does this mean we get to buy new shoes?”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  It’s halfway through the month and it’s about time the October issue of Northern People should be shaping up nicely. It’s not quite panic stations – not yet anyway – but I know this is probably going to be the most important issue of my life. Worryingly, Louise is still in an almighty huff which makes it very difficult to co-write the articles with her.

  I’m left to my own devices. My article plans are done. I’m focusing on different areas, on my emotional life, my physical life and my social life. I’m pretty much on top of it all. Dishy is all set to produce his health tips. Lesley at City Couture has offered to write a general piece on how not to dress like a buck-ugly eejit and Cathy is writing something on healing your heart and your head. When I think abo
ut it like that, there isn’t much for Louise to do – but nonetheless as Health and Beauty Editor she should at least fake an interest – if for no other reason than for me to tell her about Aidan and me working things out. She can stick that in her pipe and smoke it.

  Sinéad walks into The Pit in a fug of cigarette smoke. Throwing the doughnuts on the desk she does not even say hello before wandering into her office and slamming the door rather violently behind.

  I sense, and call me psychic if you will, that she is not in a good mood. In fact as I look around me there seems to be a general attitude of feck-offedness in the office. Louise has her phone to her ear and is jabbering away nineteen to the dozen with an expression like thunder on her face. John is battering something on his keyboard so loudly that I can practically hear the words jumping onto the screen. Liam is sitting opposite John – having emerged from his sanctuary – and he is screaming down the phone that somebody had better fecking fix his camera before he shoves it up their arse.

  I, on the other hand, am smiling to myself. Dare I say it? I’m even feeling smug. Perhaps if I had paid attention to these people over the last two years I would have realized that it is par for the course at the middle of the month when the pressure is just stepping up that wee bit. Instead I’ve hidden behind my computer screen, trying to be as invisible as possible. (Which, trust me, was no mean feat for a 15-stone woman, I can tell you.)

  Within a few minutes Sinéad has barked orders from her office that we are to congregate in the inner sanctum for the weekly editorial conference. I make my way through, holding my notebook of ideas and feature plans to me. This month isn’t just meaningless crap about bowls full of jelly and colic. This month has helped me find my way again – kind of.

  Taking my seat, I wait for my colleagues to join me. Sinéad sits back in her chair, stubbing out her cigarette and putting her feet on her desk. “Impress me,” she says and the younger staff take a deep breath before nervously listing their ideas and giving progress reports on page layouts, photo shoots and advertising tie-ins.

  Sinéad reaches me and I start telling her everything. I’m dying to tell her about what has happened with Aidan and myself but I don’t think this is the appropriate time. Sinéad, nods and even (half) smiles at times. When I finish, resisting the urge to bow, she turns to Louise for her approval.

  Sitting there, a look of utter lack of interest planted firmly on her face, Louise is filing her nails.

  “Well, Louise? Any ideas? Any input?” Sinéad asks. “Oh sorry,” she drawls, “I didn’t realise this had anything to do with me. After all, I’m only the lowly Health and Beauty Editor.” Her voice is thick with sarcasm.

  I should be angry. I should be having my ‘stapling of her head’ fantasy again, but I’m not. I feel sorry for her. She is being sarky with Sinéad, who is obviously behind the feature 100%.

  One thing I learned very early on with Sinéad Flynn was that histrionics don’t work with her. She is not impressed with the tortured-artist routine. She doesn’t care if you are feeling a wee bit put out by office politics. She didn’t get to the top of her profession with the softly, softly approach. That’s not to say she isn’t there when you need her. Lord knows she has been there for me over the last few weeks, but that is because my problems have been genuine. I’ve not just had a severe case of the huffs.

  “Oh, for fuck sake, Louise! Grow up! If you can’t act like a professional then maybe you need to think about your profession.”

  With that Sinéad moves on to Erin and her ideas about the showbiz column. She does not wait to hear what else Louise may have to offer. She does not care. I look at Louise and she is dumbstruck. I can tell she is trying to think of a witty put-down – some barbed remark to put Sinéad in her place. She needn’t bother. No one could put Sinéad in her place. That’s another thing Louise would need to realise.

  The meeting ends and nothing is resolved between Louise and me. As I walk back to my desk she follows me. Sitting down the edge of my desk, she narrows her eyes – glares at me and whispers – in a voice not too dissimilar to Don Corleone’s, “I’ve your card marked, Grace Adams. You think you’re something special. You think you’re some big shakes with your counselling and your piddling weight- loss, but don’t ever forget you would never have got where you are without me!”

  She is almost snarling. If she were a Rottweiler, her top lip would be curled and saliva would be dripping down her designer white blouse.

  “I was the one who suggested you would be good for this. I was the one who felt sorry for you. I was the one who saw your pathetic fat arse waddle in here day after day. I was the one who came up with this idea. I mean, Grace, seriously – do you think you would have done anything about your sorry excuse for a life if I hadn’t pushed you in the right direction in the first place? You were the office joke, Grace. A big fat joke. Don’t forget that when you go into editorial conferences all full of yourself, licking Sinéad’s arse!”

  I look at Louise and suddenly she isn’t pretty any more. She is ugly. Dog ugly. Nasty and vile. I realise all this time that I’ve felt sorry for her, that I’ve been ignoring the fact she is a god-awful bitch. She is the adult version of Lizzie O’Dowd and her barbed put-downs. And my God, I might be fat. I have issues. I might be wondering what will happen in my life, but I’m not a bitch. I’m a good person.

  Fuck it, I’m a talented person.

  I look Louise straight in the eye and tell her exactly what I should have told Lizzie O’Dowd all those years ago. “Fuck off!” I say, turning my back to her, picking the phone up and getting on with my work. I’m shocked when I find that I’m smiling as I carry on with my writing. This is an achievement worthy of an entire page of editorial in itself.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  I am smiling broadly as I walk into the doctor’s surgery. I’m pretty sure the receptionist behind the counter doesn’t recognise this smiling, cheerful version of me before her and she looks at me suspiciously when I tell her my name. I can tell what she is thinking. She is thinking, “Grace Adams doesn’t look like that. Grace Adams scares me. Grace Adams looks as though she is 5.3 seconds away from taking a rifle to the watchtower and gunning us all down.” With a spring in my step, I make my way down the corridor for my weekly appointment with Dishy (Daisy’s boyfriend – how Daisy and I have giggled over the fact she now has a ‘boyfriend’ – at twenty-eight! It sounds so decadent and youthful). The waiting room is filled with its usual mix of sick children, grumpy-looking pensioners and surly schoolchildren annoyed that their summer holidays have been interrupted by a serious case of the lurgy.

  I take my seat and watch for the buzzing of the light which will invite me into Dishy’s inner sanctum. Daisy has informed me that I’m not, under any circumstances whatsoever, to discuss her date or Dishy’s feelings towards her. Instead I am, she says, to focus this precious ten minutes of Himself’s time on making me feel better. Pah! Daisy is a killjoy.

  The light beeps and I walk to his office, my smile not hiding the excitement I feel at the latest development in his life.

  Must. Not. Talk. About. It. “Hi, Grace, please have a seat.”

  I plonk myself down, cross my legs and look at him with a silly grin on my face.

  Must. Not. Talk. About. It.

  “How are things?” he says, looking at me intently, the usual look of caring and compassion belying any feelings he may have about my best friend.

  Must. Remember. He. Is. A. Professional.

  “Fine,” I say, pausing before my brain finally kicks in to tell me that I’m supposed to be talking about me right now. “Things are going well. I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel – and it’s not an oncoming train.” I giggle girlishly. Remembering that Dishy kisses like a sixteen- year-old.

  “And did you see Cathy?”

  “Oh yes, she was great. I mean, it was hard. I realised that the things I didn’t think were annoying me were driving me to distraction.”

  “Are
you going to see her again?”

  “Yes, this week. This week we get to talk about Aidan.” “And how are things there?” He pushes a box of tissues toward me ever so slightly. A movement most would not even notice but which lets me know I’ve done an awful lot of crying there over the last month.

  Pushing them back again, I smile. “Fine,” I say. “We are talking. Really talking.” My hand moves to the necklace I’m wearing, my locket back where it should be. “And he has booked me dance lessons.”

  “Yes, Daisy told me,” he says, and my eyes widen and I have to fight every urge in my body not to shout ‘I win, I win! You broke the rules first!’.

  He blushes slightly, so I decide to keep schtoom. We say our goodbyes, agreeing to maintain my dose on the Cipramil for another two weeks and I leave the office – for once smiling as I leave. I can tell the receptionist is confused. Very confused.

  Chapter 24

  Tuesday morning. I’m lying, dozing comfortably, while Jack does tiny baby snores beside me. The sun is battling its way through the blinds, and the room is already warm. I’m relaxed. I’m chilled out, I’m smiling to myself and then I remember it is Tuesday. The day of the makeover. The day when a woman I have met but once before will put an array of clothes out for me to wear. She knows my size. She will most probably open a curtain while I’m midway through changing and see me in my bra and pants looking like a refugee from the Roly Polys, that old comedy troupe of tap-dancing fat women.

  Liam is going to be there too. Not in the changing room of course, that would be going too far, but he will show up for the great transformation and see me in whatever combination Lesley has chosen for me. My heart sinks slightly – but only slightly. Yes, I will have to show someone me in my best pants, but I should also become a beautiful butterfly emerging from a cocoon – the ugly duckling transformed to a beautiful swan.