Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

  On her better days – days when she was feeling that bit stronger, a bit more like her old self – she could even bring herself to wonder what Simon’s life was like these days. It had been two long years; was his life completely different now? Would he go out that evening? How had he spent last night? What would he do this weekend coming? And if she really wanted to torture herself, she’d allow herself to wonder who he’d actually go out with. It intrigued her, wondering who he was hanging round with these days. Did he still see any of her old pals, Sarah or Jeff maybe? Or had he gone back to palling around with that intellectually snobby, career-obsessed gang from his company that she used to call a crowd of stodgy old farts? To his face, the cheek of her.

  But you don’t understand, this shower drive me round the bollocking bend! She was always moaning at him on the nights they’d have to go to yet another one of Simon’s excruciating work dinner parties. And if you think I’m putting on tights or a fecking dress to meet them, then you’ve another thing coming, mate. Listen, love, I know they’re not the easiest, he’d patiently tell her, hauling himself out of the shower and towelling down that gorgeous body she loved so much, still glistening from the water and smelling divine. But then, Simon always smelled divine.

  ’Course he’d invariably try to stick up for all his work crowd, agreeing that they could sometimes be a bit of a challenge, but gently reminding her that at the end of the day, they were his colleagues and, like it or not, he was obliged to do the occasional bit of socialising with them.

  But then that was Simon for you; her handsome, kind-hearted, loyal Simon who was physically incapable of hearing a bad word said about anyone. Just one of the things she loved so much about him. One of many. Just remember, though, he used to say to her, it means everything to me that you’ll be there tonight. That you’ll be there as my partner.

  Note, use of the word partner, not just date. God Almighty, she should have been down on her hands and knees kissing the feet of a man who loved her so much, after everything she’d been through! But instead of being grateful to have such a loving boyfriend, what had she gone and done instead? Continued on and on with her bloody whinge-fest, that’s what. How had the poor guy ever put up with her at all? There must have been times – and plenty of them – when she’d been a living nightmare to be around!

  But in the middle of digging all this back up again, Jean would suddenly catch herself and glow a bit as one warmer memory did surface. The way Simon would look lovingly over at her when they were in the car en route to whatever night of torture happened to lie ahead. She remembered the gentle way he’d take her hand, lightly kiss the tips of her fingers and tell her how delighted he was that she’d come with him at all. Yeah, OK, so this lot can be a bit boring, he’d smile down at her, but you’re not, are you? You’ll liven tonight up, wait and see. Sure, you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could liven up a funeral parlour!

  And so she’d tease him right back. When the car was stopped at lights, she’d lean into him, gently bite on his bottom lip in a way she knew drove him mental, and tell him that he’d just better make it worth her while when she dragged him back home afterwards. Because you owe me after this, big time, she’d tell him flirtatiously.

  Because in spite of all her grousing, truth was it gave her a warm glow inside to think of just how much he genuinely must have wanted her to be there. The pride written all over his face when he’d introduced her to his colleagues, the way he barely left her side all evening. Never one to shy away from Public Displays of Affection, he’d always have a supportive arm around her whenever he could, playing absent-mindedly with a strand of her long, curly black hair. Showing her off, letting everyone see just how happy he was to be with her, even though she so obviously didn’t fit in with any of them. This is the woman I love, he may as well have been signposting to the whole shagging lot of them.

  Deal with it.

  And then there was Angie, who she thought of incessantly, day and night. Her own warm-hearted, funny, big, bosomy, gorgeously insecure Angie. Sometimes, when she was grabbing a quick bite of lunch, she’d think about how Angie always loved her food and say to herself, look at me, Ange! Here we both are, both still doing exactly the same thing at the same time! Ergo, not as far apart as you’d think! Might have seemed a bit daft as a coping mechanism, but on the bad days, it helped.

  Last Christmas Eve, for instance, on Angie’s birthday, she couldn’t stop the tears from spouting every time she thought about what that girl must have gone through on exactly that same day, the previous year. What must Angie think of her now? Could she ever forgive her? Probably not, and in all honesty, you could hardly blame the girl. She was the closest thing to a best friend Jean had ever known and what she’d done to her and to all of them was monstrous, by any standards. She must have put everyone she loved and cared about through a living nightmare. She’d had to, for her own survival, she had absolutely no choice, but who’d ever understand that?

  And who’d ever even want to speak to her again, even if by some miracle she ever could?

  Jean checked her watch once more. Just seven in the morning here. Meant it was six at home. Perfect. Early morning edition of the papers should be already online. Hauling herself up, she slid open the patio doors, stuck her head inside to the living room and had a good listen. Total silence. Which was even better. Meant her flatmate, Paige, had already left for work, miraculously on time for once. Which meant she had a tiny window of privacy.

  ‘Paige, you there?’ She strained for the sounds of her in the shower, but no, still nothing. Paige Van der Kadavwe, to call her flatmate by her impressively unpronounceable full name, was also her supervisor at the Cape Grace Hotel while Jean herself worked as a chambermaid. Almost ten years younger than her, only twenty-four years old, and yet already working as a supervisor. And the way she was going, give her another year and she’d be a duty manager. Easily. Paige was one of those women who came with a naturally bossy streak and could probably do the job in her sleep.

  ‘You know, I just don’t get you,’ Paige was always saying, crinkling up her forehead in puzzlement, the way she always did whenever she thought Jean was disappearing deep into herself again. ‘You’ve been working at the hotel for well over eighteen months now, why won’t you go for the supervisor’s grade yourself? Everyone likes you in there, you know. You’re really popular. You’d walk it!’

  A tough one to wriggle her way out, so instead Jean would just laugh about her night job at The Monkey Bar on the waterfront, claiming the dosh there was far, far better, when you factored in tips. If you didn’t mind working late night shifts that was, or dealing with nineteen-year-old students drunk out of their minds on Red Bull and alcopops. All of whom, by the way, had a fondness for discussing women’s breast sizes and seemed to have a pathological deafness to the words, ‘Drink up now, lads, it’s closing time.’

  And if Paige ever guessed that she was being lied to, she never let on.

  But the truth was, someone like Jean was lucky to get casual work at all, and the lower a grade she worked at, the better. A supervisor’s job was better paid, true, but it would have meant all sorts of interviews, background checks, a whole new set of visa requirements, not to mention a barrage of questions about all the glaring gaps on her CV. No, better to stay nice and low under the radar like she was right now. Safer by far. It was a mantra that ran round her head all the time these days, safetysafetysafetysafetysafety.

  At all costs, no one must ever start asking questions.

  And if that meant not advancing up career ladders or earning as much as she might otherwise have done, then wasn’t it a price worth paying?

  Besides, another lovely thing about this place: Cape Town was bloody cheap to live in. Took next to nothing to live like a lord, even on a humble waitress/chambermaid’s salary. This jaw-droppingly luxurious flat, for starters. Rent about a quarter of what you’d expect to pay for somewhere with two bedrooms, both with ensuites, a living room you coul
d comfortably play soccer in and a wrap-around balcony big enough to throw a party on, and still have plenty of room to avoid anyone who drove you mental. You’re one lucky, lucky woman, Jean had to tell herself daily. A very lucky and a very safe woman. Helped her no end to get through bad days and, God knows, she certainly had enough of them to contend with.

  Barefoot and silent, Jean slid open the patio doors, padded off to her bedroom and even though she’d the whole place to herself, she still took the precaution of closing over her door. What she was about to do took privacy.

  The old, familiar surge of adrenalin as she grabbed her laptop from her bedside table, hopped up onto the bed, stretched her long, suntanned legs out in front of her and logged on.

  Entered the password. Then clicked on the Irish Times webpage, like she faithfully did first thing every morning. Getting to be like her drug hit at this stage. Funny to think that back home she hardly ever glanced at a paper, and on the rare occasion when she did, it was either to read her horoscope or check out the TV listings. And now you couldn’t stop her. What was it about news from home, however inconsequential, that still gripped her? Made her feel like she was still in touch in some way, she guessed, with … well, with everyone.

  That she would or ever could go back home again was impossible, that much was certain, but even just keeping abreast of what was going on made her feel slightly less of an outcast. Somehow it put her in good form, made her feel that bit less isolated from everyone and everything, just by keeping up to speed with the news. Even when it was all boring as arse stuff about treaty referendums and the Euro and septic tank charges. It still helped.

  The Times, she found was terrific for all hard news from home, but lamentably low on gossip or trivia. Greedily her eye scanned down the page, absorbing every tiny detail like she was on some kind of a read-and-destroy mission. Another glance down to the clock at the very bottom of the screen. Still only seven fifteen and her shift didn’t start till nine; she’d plenty of time. So she logged onto the Chronicle website next, always reliably good for celeb shite-ology; who was seen out where and with who, that kind of thing. And from time to time she’d indirectly catch references of people she used to know. ‘So and so, photographed with his new lady friend at the opening night of such and such at the Abbey Theatre.’ And she’d smile and think, that smarmy git came into Byrne & Sacetti’s once and hit on me, then never tipped.

  A while ago, in the business section, she’d even seen a tiny mention of her old pal Sarah O’Reilly. Something about her sandwich bar chain now expanding into chocolate bars and getting some jammy big franchise out at the airport. Gave her a warm glow of pride, but then everyone knew Sarah of all people was going to do well. Sarah was the type who was born to run the world. It was practically bred into her, and the girl probably would have caused murder if she hadn’t been making at least a six-figure salary by the time she turned thirty.

  Once, only once, she’d caught a mention of Simon’s company in the home news section of the paper. Not even a mention of him, just his company. There it was, in black and white, Crosbie Holdings. Something about one of their subsidiaries going into receivership. Took her two full days to get over it. Paige had to give her sick days off work and she’d been obliged to explain it all away with some lame excuse about suffering from panic attacks.

  Incredible to think that just seeing the name of where he worked could have such an effect on her, even after all this time.

  But then if it was one thing she’d learned, distance was nothing, silence was nothing, even two long years were nothing. Not to a heart still in smithereens.

  She put on a pretty good act, though, most of the time. She could be tough, resilient even, outwardly at least. Could school herself to the way her life had turned out and keep reminding herself of the unthinkable alternative. But then some random landmark date would come along and set her back days, weeks, even, and yet again, Paige would have to give her time off work. His birthday, 17 August, for one. And 4 June, the date they first met. Christmas was always guaranteed to be a killer, Christmas Eve, especially, when she thought of Angie, her own warm-hearted, adorable, gorgeous Angie, and wondered if the poor girl could ever bring herself to forgive her.

  Then one sobering thought would hit her square in the face. By now, both Angie and Simon would know everything there was to know about her. Absolutely everything. And she was certain of one thing: even if they did ever get to hear her side of the story, never in a million years would they understand how much it nearly destroyed her to have to leave them both. Because who could possibly begin to comprehend that? Who’d ever realise that much as it killed her, she had to do what she did?

  Back to the papers and she clicked onto the Post next, a pretty evenly balanced paper when it came to news versus gossip. Big piece on last night’s episode of Britain’s Got Talent; apparently some lunatic had an act that involved him putting a saucepan on his head and doing an impression of a Dalek. Yawn. Kate Middleton visited a factory and wore yet another high street outfit. Oh, and had got thinner still. Double yawn. Justin Bieber, now on a tour of Germany, and girls are still screeching at him. Feck’s sake, she wondered, had anything new happened at all since she left?

  And just then, like a sign from up above, her eye chanced to fall on it.

  A tiny notice in the far left-hand corner of the computer screen. Buried deep on page eighteen of the Post, on the classified page. So easy to miss, it was a bloody miracle she even spotted it in the first place. She blinked in disbelief; read it again, made sure she wasn’t seeing things.

  But no, there it was in black and white. She read it, re-read it, checked it again. Printed it off her computer, as though reading it on a sheet of A4 paper instead of on the screen might somehow make it not true.

  Half a beat later, shock seemed to set in and she surprised herself by not being able to feel anything. Not yet, at least.

  Still numb, almost creepily calm, she logged off, packed her laptop away and started to get into her work uniform. Neat white shirt, crisp blue shift dress over it, white runners. Got dressed as though she were on autopilot, surprising herself that just by the simple act of focusing on the tiny mechanics, like pulling on a pair of socks and trainers, she could somehow function. You were supposed to wear tights the exact colour of Elastoplast into work as well, which she never did. Her own personal little rebellion.

  She caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror when she was dressed. Her hair, the same hair that Simon used to love so much, was short now, cropped to the nape of her neck so the curls kind of grew outwards, which gave her more than a passing resemblance to Sideshow Bob in The Simpsons. She hated it and always winced whenever she passed a mirror, but it made her look completely different, which could only be a good thing.

  No wincing this morning, though; she was too shocked, too catatonic to care.

  She got her work bag together as usual, checked she’d her bus pass and swipe card for work, like she always did.

  She took her usual bus to the Cape Grace Hotel, got a seat to herself and took out the A4 printout, reading it over and over again in the hope that somehow there was a mistake, that she was seeing things. But no, there it was in just a handful of terse sentences. Not even a particularly long piece, just a couple of lines at most.

  No one could possibly know the effect those words would have on her. That one, single thing she’d been dreading for all these years.

  But it was true. The worst, the very worst had actually come to pass.

  And in the space of just a few minutes, the carefully ordered, secure existence she’d worked so hard to build up around her, started to crumble.

  The following evening, Jean was at Cape Town International airport, strapping herself into her seat as the plane slowly began to taxi down the runway. Scarcely able to believe that she was really doing this. That she was actually, physically going home. Home. When she’d told herself so many times it was impossible.

  God knows, just
getting through check-in and security had been ordeal enough. She’d booked herself on a standard British Airways flight from Cape Town right through to London Heathrow, but she’d already overheard the odd Irish accent at check-in; the sound had filtered back down the queue to where she was standing.

  Oh Christ, she thought, her resolve suddenly weakening, suppose she was recognised? Ireland was such a bloody village, everyone knew not only everyone else, but their first cousin and their neighbour’s cat as well. Supposing there was someone here who she’d met before, or who’d recognise her from her old job at the restaurant back home? Or even worse, from all of that publicity there’d been after … well, after. Her heart seized, but then she bitterly reminded herself she better get used to it; there’d be a helluva lot more of that to come, on her connecting flight from Heathrow back to Ireland.

  It had made her panicky, though, and for a long time she looked longingly back at the departures hall, wondering if she wasn’t just about to make a horrible mistake. She was always doing mad, impetuous stuff on the spur of the moment. Had this just been some kind of insane blood rush to her head caused by delayed shock? Should she just bolt for it, now while she still had the chance?

  But she didn’t. Instead, she steeled herself to get as far as the check-in desk, telling herself that she could do it and that there was nothing to be afraid of, every time the queue inched forward. Just another few steps, she’d told herself, that’s all. Take it nice and handy, one thing at a time. And eventually, step by step, she somehow made it all the way up to the top of the line. She handed over her passport, collected her boarding pass, then slipped off into the ladies loo, so she could splash a bit of cool water on her face and regroup.

  It’s been two long years, she told herself. Now just cop yourself on. As if anyone would even remember you after all that length of time! You think you’re so unforgettable? Get over yourself. Besides, she thought, having a good stare at herself in the mirror of the ladies, just look at you now. Practically unrecognisable. It was only a lightning-quick, whirlwind trip, nothing more. She’d arrive back in Ireland, do what she needed to do, then hop back on the first flight out of there and back to safety.