Jumping in Puddles

by Claire Allan

  Funny, she thought to herself, he never had any concern with melted chocolate on the bedsheets when she brought out the chocolate body paint and covered his doodah in it. She flushed as she remembered their long, slow nights of lovemaking, how they had explored every inch of each other’s bodies, how they loved experimenting. It was just a shame he liked experimenting outside of the bedroom, and outside of their marriage, as well.

  She shook away any negative thoughts and took a deep breath, reminding herself she was a strong, confident woman. She had survived the worst that could happen to her (chocolate doodahs aside) and the following day she would put her remaining demons to rest. Her kick-ass boots were sitting ready for action, her jeans and her figure-hugging top were primed as well. Appointments were made for her hair and make-up and the children would be with her parents.

  It was unfortunate that Robyn hadn’t agreed to meet her for a pre-confrontation drink. She didn’t relish facing it all alone, and she knew that she would need a touch of Dutch courage before she would do what she had to. Still, if Robyn wasn’t there she wouldn’t at least try to talk her out of it for the 156th time. That had to be a bonus.

  She sipped from her wine, selected the most delicious-looking chocolate from the box, lay back and breathed in and out – slowly.

  This would be fine. This would all be fine and she was doing the right thing. She was convinced of it.

  * * *

  “You’ll love him. He’s perfect for you. Gorgeous too. And, best of all, rich!” Caitlin had been buzzing as she sipped from a glass of champagne while she toasted at securing the interview.

  “It’s a job interview, not a date!” Niamh had groaned.

  “But he is very single and you know that a ‘man in possession of a fortune must be desperate for a wife to spend it for him’ or whatever that Austen woman said.”

  “Yes, but I’m more in need of a job than a man at the moment.”

  “Well, you are only saying that because you haven’t seen him yet – you will change your mind. I’m sure of it.”

  “If he’s so perfect, why haven’t you pursued him yourself?” Niamh had asked, biting into a strawberry.

  “Because I’ve heard he’s the settling-down kind, Niamh, and you know me – the oldest swinger in town.”

  “You’re still young!”

  “And with no intention of settling down and becoming a frumpy wife.”

  “And you want me to settle down to frumpy wife-dom instead then?”

  Caitlin had laughed. “Niamh, my darling, you’ve always been a wife in waiting. But I doubt you will ever be frumpy, I just want you to be happy. And to get some regular, decent, sex and by all accounts Seán Quigley is the very man to fill the gaps.”

  “My gap is just fine, thank you very much,” Niamh had laughed loudly.

  Still, once she had seen Seán in the flesh, and he had flirted with her on her first day in the office, she had started to warm to the idea of life with her boss in a strictly unprofessional capacity.

  She was aware, the whole time, she was living out the biggest cliché in the book – dashing young PA falls for boss and humps on his desk after hours. But she hadn’t cared because in all those pastel-coloured books telling of office romances the heroine always got her happy ending and she was convinced she was going to get hers too.

  Their wedding day had certainly been fairytale. Although she had shunned the acres of tulle in favour of a slip of figure-hugging satin which showed off her curves almost indecently, the day had been fairytale all the same. Caitlin had been her bridesmaid – dressed in even more figure-hugging cerise pink. Her mother had joked that they were more suited to Sex and the City than a wedding ceremony in St Eugene’s Cathedral and they had laughed. Mary would have had a minor stroke if she realised the cost of Niamh’s coveted Jimmy Choo wedding sandals. Her mother knew they had been expensive, just not quite how expensive they were. And of course she had treated Caitlin to an equally gorgeous pair which they had bought on her hen weekend in New York. Seán had insisted on paying for it all – treating his best girls – and she had lapped it up.

  * * *

  She woke up: 3.34 a.m. The house was in silence apart from the gentle buzz of the baby-monitor from the twins’ room. It was pitch dark, only the red glow of the alarm clock let her know the time. Treating his best girls. Seán was always treating his best girls. No expense spared. Nothing was too good.

  She felt like doing a Homer Simpson – smacking her hand to her forehead and giving out about her own stupidity – but then she had wanted to believe it all along and she had been prepared to overlook some of the more obvious flaws in their relationship.

  Because when it was good, it was very, very good but when it was bad . . .

  She shook the thoughts away as she stepped out of bed and walked to her designer walk-in wardrobe. She knew they were there somewhere – among the boxes and the bags of gorgeous clothes that he had lavished on her. She pulled them out, one by one, box after box all carefully labelled, until she found what it was she wanted. Sitting down on the floor, in her pyjamas and with her hair like a scarecrow from tossing and turning in bed, she opened the box and slipped on the two dainty Jimmy Choo sandals, in delicate satin with jewelled detailing and heels so high it was a wonder she could ever walk in them without tipping over. And she clacked her way down to the kitchen, made a hot chocolate and contemplated the last five years of her life.

  41

  Ruth had made a conscious effort that night to go back into the kitchen, to invite all the children down to sit round the table so that the room, and what had happened there, didn’t become like some big horror floating over them.

  She had made them all hot chocolate and opened a packet of fancy chocolate biscuits – the ones usually reserved for guests – and they had started talking.

  Of course it had been stilted at first. Thomas didn’t want to meet her eyes while Matthew had wanted to sit on her knee. Eimear had stopped sobbing, just, but was dabbing her red eyes much too frequently with a battered tissue.

  “Okay, you lot, well, we know what happened. And I’m so sorry you had to hear that and see that, but I promise you now you will never have to again.”

  “How do you know?” Thomas had asked, and while there was a defiance about him Ruth could see something in him that looked just as young and innocent as his baby brother.

  “Because it won’t. You know the Guards were here and they’ve taken a statement and they’ll warn Daddy not to do that any more.”

  “Will my daddy go to jail?” Matthew asked, his eyes wide.

  Ruth didn’t know. Maybe? Probably not. Did she want him to go to jail? Maybe? Probably not. She just wanted him to stop – to never hurt her or anyone again.

  “I don’t know, pet. I’m not sure.”

  “But if he did something bad he should go to jail,” Matthew said softly.

  That started Eimear off sobbing again.

  “I know this is a very confusing time,” Ruth said, taking a deep breath, “but we’ll get through it if we stick together. We’re a family now and your daddy, well, what he did was wrong, very wrong. But he is your daddy and, if you want to still have contact with him, we’ll try and sort something out. But you know it will have to be different now, don’t you?”

  It would have been easier for her if they could have broken all contact, of course. She wanted to keep them from him forever, but she had to be realistic. They had to make their own choices, even if the thought of them with him made her skin crawl.

  “I never want to see him again,” Eimear said. “I hate him.”

  “Hate is a very strong word.”

  “How can you defend him, Mum?” Thomas asked. “Admit it. You’ve always protected him!”

  “I haven’t, darling,” Ruth said, tears springing to her eyes, knowing that what Thomas said was partly true.

  This was so hard to talk about. It was hard to explain to her children how she could have safeguarded James’s s
ecret all these years.

  Once upon a time she used to think, like most people, that it was black and white. Man hits you, you walk away. Simple as that. But what if man hits you, and you have a baby together, and you are both tired and then he apologises. And you forgive him. But he hits you again, and you tell him – again and again – that this is the absolute last time he can act like that until he starts to make you feel like you deserve it. If you don’t do things the wrong way then you won’t get hit, so there is something inside you that is making this happen and as much as you want to blame the man – because the books tell you that you should – you believe that you are at fault too.

  Or so you think.

  And then you find yourself trying to help your three children make sense of it all when you don’t understand it yourself.

  “Whatever I did in the past, I’m not defending him now,” she went on. “I know what your daddy did was wrong. God knows, I do. And I don’t ever want him to do it again. But you have to think about this now, yourselves, and decide what you want. I promise I’ll support you, I promise that with all my heart.”

  The following day the children had been allowed to stay off school and had been delighted with their sneaky day off. Eimear and Thomas had remained quieter than usual, while Matthew was that little bit clingier but they also milked it in their own way too – getting treats of sweets and chocolates.

  Dr Donnelly had visited, telling her to take as much time off work as she needed and pressing a leaflet for Women’s Aid into her hands. “Hopefully now you’ll get the help you need,” she said and Ruth felt suitably embarrassed.

  In fact the flush had only been starting to leave her cheeks when the doorbell rang again. Matthew lifted himself from the floor where he was drawing a hundred and one pictures – which Ruth feared a child psychologist would have a field day with – to answer it, but she jumped ahead of him. Her heart was in her mouth now – every time the phone rang or the door went just in case James had the balls to come back.

  Feeling a little like Quasimodo or the Phantom of the Opera revealing herself to the world for the first time she opened the door to find Lorraine standing there nervously.

  “I brought some biscuits and some flowers,” Lorraine said, awkwardly. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

  Ruth was touched, even though she was surrounded with people to talk to. She knew that apart from her nights out with the girls from work once a week Lorraine didn’t really mix much. And she had sensed Lorraine had felt as awkward as she had earlier in the week when she had given her a lift.

  “Thanks, come in. I’ll boil the kettle. Although to be honest, it’s probably close to blowing its fuse at this stage. It’s been like a bloody wake house here.”

  Lorraine smiled faintly and followed Ruth through to the kitchen. Ruth could tell she was trying not to picture what had happened there the night before. The rest of her guests that day had almost sent themselves cross-eyed trying not to look around the room for traces of blood, or bone, or DNA. She blamed CSI. Everyone thought they were a crime-scene investigator these days.

  “It must be strange all right,” Lorraine said. “Now I’m not here to be nosy, and tell me to bog off, but you know I just thought you might need a friend and if I’m honest Ciara has been putting me to shame these last weeks. She’s been out there making friends while I’ve been stuck in my wee status quo.”

  “She’s a credit to you,” Ruth said. “She’s a fine young woman.”

  Lorraine began to laugh. “God, can you believe it? Us old enough to have young women for daughters? Seems like only yesterday we were at school!”

  Ruth smiled and nodded. Although they hadn’t been in the same class, or even the same year, she remembered Lorraine from back then – bolshy and full of life – a bit like Eimear if the truth be told.

  “I appreciate you coming here,” she said softly. “And yes, I could do with a few friends at the moment, so thanks.”

  She reached her hand gingerly across the table and held Lorraine’s and for the first time since James had walked out – or been pushed out – of her house the night before she allowed herself to break down and cry.

  * * *

  And now Detta wanted her to put all those awkward conversations and bizarre memories behind her and get dressed up to go to some fancy waterfront bar in Derry and sip Cosmopolitans and champagne as if everything was just fine and dandy.

  Then again she would be going there with the purpose of helping Niamh put her own demons to rest and so it wasn’t going to be just your average night on the tiles.

  Detta had come up with a grand plan altogether that they should all, as a group, head up to Derry to join Niamh for pre-confrontation drinks, and also, Detta had said, to make sure Niamh didn’t get herself into any trouble. “Those arse-kicking boots look like lethal weapons,” she had smiled and Ruth joined in – a smile spreading across her face for the first time in three days.

  “I’m just not sure I’m up for it yet. And I’m not sure I want to leave the children.”

  “The children will be just fine,” Detta soothed. “Eimear is a grand girl with a great head on her shoulders. I wouldn’t worry about that one at all and besides James would have to have some brass neck on him to come near the house with the non-molestation order in place.”

  But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? James did have a brass neck. And brass fists and steel-capped boots to match.

  “Besides, Ciara has even offered to come down for an hour or two and keep them company,” Detta continued. “Shame we can’t smuggle her into the bar but we’ll only draw attention to ourselves drinking with an underager.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Still nothing. Ruth, you can’t mope about all your life.”

  But Ruth wasn’t planning on moping about all her life. Moping about was not her style – but much as she tried to deny her vanity she was very aware of the large bruise on her cheek and she knew everyone else would be too. She swore if you looked close enough you could see the imprint of a hand.

  “I’m not moping,” she said, and she wanted to find the words to adequately explain that she felt vulnerable – as if she were leaving the house with no clothes or no shoes like in one of her nightmares.

  And she was scared – funny that. She’d lived with it for sixteen years but it was only now, when he was gone and the police were preparing a file, that she felt scared.

  “No,” Detta said softly. “I know you aren’t moping. Sorry. I just want to make sure you don’t start to mope. It’s too easy, you know – and you have nothing on earth to be ashamed of. You’re not the nasty bully here. And I want this to be a mope-free zone.”

  “But I’m the walkover. Sure didn’t I let him do it?” She touched her hand to her cheek tenderly.

  “No. No, you didn’t. I don’t think he asked for permission.”

  The pair sat in silence for a bit, sipping tea over the rickety kitchen table. See, Ruth thought defiantly, I’m not moping. If she had been moping she wouldn’t be sitting in the very corner of the room James had thrown her in.

  “Have you any make-up I can borrow?” she asked and Detta smiled.

  “Of course I do. Just call me a one-woman Clarins counter.”

  Ruth looked at Detta. She didn’t seem the type to slather on make-up – in fact she didn’t think she had ever seen her wear more than a slick of lipstick and the finest lick of mascara. Her skin didn’t need it – it was perfectly porcelain as it was. There were no dirty big bruises to hide and no wrinkles either.

  Then again maybe she was a Botox addict. No one really knew anything about her – she didn’t let anything of herself out. She was all about helping other people – but that was kind of infectious.

  “Okay then,” Ruth said, “count me in.”

  42

  As he dressed Liam made sure he looked his best. He even slapped on some hair gel – some that Laura had bought him a long time ago to try and encourage him t
o update his look. He put on his good shoes – which again Laura had bought – and his suit, the one he usually wore when he was trying to secure a big contract or the like. He was more a jeans, shirt and heavy boots type of guy.

  He phoned one of the lads at the site and told them he would be late and then he set off down towards the Main Street to meet with Laura.

  He realised some people might think he was out to impress Laura. She might think it herself, but there was nothing further from the truth. He just wanted to go in there not looking so much of a mess. He wanted to be taken seriously. Still, he thought, he didn’t want to give her any reason to think he still held a candle for her – so he took off his tie and opened his shirt button. He even flattened his hair down a little too – even if it gave him a greasy-haired look that definitely was not attractive.

  When he walked through the doors of the solicitor’s office, Clodagh eyed him suspiciously. It was clear she knew what was going on – it was a fair bet that everyone in Rathinch knew by now. For all Liam knew one of the solicitors upstairs could this very moment be preparing a defence for James the wife-beater.

  “Hi there, Clodagh.”

  “Liam,” Clodagh stated, her face slightly tinged with red.