The Importance of Being Me

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  The waitress comes over and we order a bottle of Merlot and two steaks, medium rare, with all the trimmings. I go for pepper sauce, Claire garlic butter.

  “Eh, welcome to the club!” She lifts her water glass. She has lost weight in the short space of a week. She looks so pale and deflated. It’s like her fun side has disappeared.

  “Please, Claire . . . I know how hard it is, but what’s happening with Martin?” I ask about the big elephant in our conversation when I have tested the wine and nodded for the waitress to fill our glasses. We have both been trying to skirt the topic until we were settled. That’s how well we know one another. The time is right to ask.

  “It’s done. It’s over, Courtney. My marriage is finished.” She swallows hard and lifts her glass to her mouth with a slightly shaking hand.

  “Oh no, Claire, really?” My mouth falls open. I’m devastated for her, though I didn’t expect any other answer really.

  “Oh I can’t, Courtney . . . I just can’t . . . It’s not like he’s telling me it was a one-off affair and he’s so sorry and that he will never do it again. It’s not like I can scream and shout and smash glasses and try to get over it. He’s asking me to accept him for who he is.” She shakes her head in confusion. “How can I do that, Courtney?”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I ask her, confused. That he just continues to live his life the way he has been? Surely not.

  “It means he sat me down and told me how very sorry he was. That his intention was never to hurt me. Martin said he knew when we were teenagers that he liked boys, but he just suppressed it.” Her chin wobbles and I reach across for her hand now. She nods and takes a deep breath. “Long story short, a day-long conversation ended with him admitting that he felt freed. He said he felt like a tonne weight had been lifted off his shoulders. I had listened all day to him talking about how sorry he was and all that, so I just stood up and said, ‘What happens now, Martin?’ and he said, very matter-of-factly, that he wants to continue to have relationships with men, that he wants to live his life as a bisexual man while remaining married to me. He ended by saying he’s committed to being faithful to me as his only female lover.” She clearly hears how stupid it sounds, because despite the words she half laughs at the absurdity of it all. Dropping my head into my hands, I decide I have no other choice but to be honest with her.

  “That’s insane . . . I’m sorry.” I lift my head now and agree with her wholeheartedly that the marriage is over. “How were you during the conversation exactly?” I sit back, ready to listen with as open a mind as I possibly can. Judging has never been a part of my make-up, but fairness always has.

  “So we sat in the kitchen up on the high stools at the island. I’d made us tea and double chocolate-biscuit cake. Ready to talk. The night before I had cried myself to sleep but had hoped that he would be dreadfully remorseful and promise not to do it again. Stupid, right? He told me that when he watched The Sound of Music as a little boy he knew he felt something different. He fell in love with Captain Von Trapp. But when he saw Dirty Dancing, he was besotted with Baby.” She takes stock and takes a sip. I sit in silence. “He admitted he asked me on our first date because he wanted to hold my hand. He wanted to prove to himself that he liked girls. I thought he liked me, Courtney.” She lets her eyes fill with tears and sniffs.

  “He did, Claire,” I say softly.

  “Not really . . . I mean, he was the super-crush of all the girls in my class. No one understood why he liked me. I was so average: slightly overweight, spotty. And I never questioned it. He was gorgeous, popular and sporty. Martin had it all going on. Stupidly, it gave me unbelievable confidence and I thought, ‘Well, I must be gorgeous!’” She laughs and runny snot rushes out her nose. She grabs a napkin.

  “Don’t . . .” I try, but she raises her hand to stop me.

  “Sorry . . . So I said, ‘Did you ever fancy me, Martin?’” She steadies her chin. “And he said yes, very much so. He insisted that he loved me. He said I made him laugh so much and that I was such a fabulous person, kind, loyal. So I said again, slower this time, ‘But did you ever fancy me, Martin?’ He couldn’t look at me. He just picked at imaginary fluff on his robe and looked to the floor. So I asked him a third time and this time he looked at me and said he was really confused. He said yeah, he fancied me, but that I’d indulged him in his favourite type of movies . . . I’m not going into it with you. You think you know all there is about me, but you so don’t, Courtney.”

  I shift uncomfortably but, again, let her talk.

  “‘So I enabled you, did I?’ I asked him, and he said yeah, and that’s when he said he presumed I must have known that men turned him on.” She throws her hands out into the air and shakes them up and down as though she’s trying to dry them. Completely incredulous. “How the hell could he think that? I mean, if two married consenting heterosexual adults are watching an adult movie, you’re not guessing it’s the fella your husband is being turned on by, are you? Or am I a complete fool?” she asks me.

  I won’t lie: I am desperately uncomfortable. I’m also very angry with Martin Carney – not because of his sexuality, just because he cheated Claire for so long.

  “Take a bloody big drink.” I tell her, as I hand her the wine glass. She obliges me. “Look, it’s not my world, Claire . . . David used to ask me about movies when our sex life dried up, but I said no because—”

  “I’m not a bloody pervert, Courtney!” Her green eyes blaze at me now and her face turns a deep red.

  “I never said that, Claire, and I so don’t think that; I’m just trying to understand—”

  She slams the wine down now. “What is there to understand? I’ll spell it out: Martin married me so he could hide his sexuality, because he wasn’t comfortable with it. Adult movies helped him perform in the bedroom. His alias was safe. But I adored him. I’d have done anything to make him love me for ever. But now it’s all a great big lie and I just want to cry . . . then I want to curl up and die.” She isn’t emotional; she’s a matter of fact. “All cried out” I think the term is.

  “Stop.” That’s all I have.

  “What have I got? Nothing. No home, no real job, no children.” I just know the last thought is the one that must be hurting her the most.

  “What you have is me!” I lean in, slightly concerned that the elderly couple at the next table are basically in our conversation. “And what you have is the opportunity to change your life. You are only thirty-eight. Like you keep telling me, the world is your oyster! Practise what you preach, woman!” I bang the table with my fist.

  “But I love him, Courtney! I love him . . . It isn’t that simple. I can’t just switch off my emotions that easily!” She hits the word “love” hard both times.

  “Well, he doesn’t love you enough. He can’t have loved you enough, because, be it man or woman, he cheated on you, Claire, and he put your health at risk, for crying out loud.” I’m sick and tired of people shitting on other people.

  “I can’t help how I feel. I married him; we had a life, friends, hobbies. He was a good husband!”

  “Oh, listen to yourself! Hobbies?” I push my wine glass to one side. “No, he wasn’t a good husband. He was a cheat and he lied to you about who he really was. That was so unfair on you. That’s the bit that’s unforgivable. Don’t get me wrong, Martin can’t help who he is, but he can’t make your life a lie because his is. That’s unforgivable,” I declare unapologetically.

  She takes minutes to answer me now. She is lost in deep thought and I leave her there. I know she will be okay. She’s a very strong person.

  “I asked him to go to counselling, you know, but he’s like a different person now that he isn’t living a lie any more. It’s like I never really knew who he was. He’s asking for a leave of absence from the school for a year. When I said it was over, he informed me without drawing breath that he wanted to travel the world. His eyes lit up. It’s why kids were never an option for him, Courtney, I see it all so clea
rly now . . . He knew this day would come sooner rather than later. Honestly, I think he was trying to protect me in his own weird way.”

  “It’s kind of unbelievable, isn’t it?” I say. “I don’t hate Martin, Claire, but he’s made a complete cock-up of his life for so many years and taken you along with him.”

  “You’re telling me. Look, I know you are right: I have to move on. I loved him so much and, yes, that’s why I agreed to never have children. I loved him that much. That’s a lot of love to have for someone. I need you to respect that.” She sits up straight, flicking her white linen napkin over her knees, as though all her crying is done.

  “I do! Of course I do. Children . . . Well, every cloud.” I try a joke. Claire and I love a joke in a moment of crisis. We both laugh and then tip glasses.

  “I dodged the cock-up joke,” I tell her, and she says, “I wondered if you would.” We laugh again.

  “It’s not too late for you to have children, you do know that,” I tell her in all seriousness.

  “It is. I’m running downhill towards forty, and no way would I be able to afford to support a child. I just have to give myself time to get over all this. To heal.”

  “And you will: that I promise you.”

  “Speaking of children . . . what is going on there?” Claire kindly asks me.

  “Oh, today isn’t about me and Susan,” I tell her.

  “It is . . . We are shit-sharing today, buddy.” She refills the glasses.

  “She’s moved in with them,” I tell her, and the relief is great. I watch Claire’s eyes pop out of her head.

  “What? Really? Already?” she gasps.

  “Yeah. It’s what she wants, Claire. She doesn’t want to be with me. I just don’t get her right now, she’s right . . . I really have no idea who this young girl is any more. I had to cancel the surprise party I’d organised because she said it sounded like her worst nightmare: that’s how well I know my own teenage daughter right now. They went up to Belfast. She is sixteen. I can’t make her miserable any more. I have to let her have some freedom.” The words pour out of me.

  “So you will take the job in Cornwall then?”

  “Stop . . . I can’t bear how much I love that place,” I say quietly.

  “So take the job!” she says.

  “No. I can’t. I’m going to give it to yucky Yvonne on a bitter plate,” I say, and I pull a sad face.

  “What? Why?” Claire slaps her hand off the table.

  “I can’t not see my daughter for three months, Claire! If she’s not living with me I’ll have to take her to dinner or to the cinema or just spend time with her. I don’t know what I want any more . . . I’m thirty-eight years old and all I’ve ever known for sure was that I wanted to be a mother, and look how that’s turned out. Oh, I know I must have issues, of course I do, that’s why I wanted to get married and have a family so young. I never had parents and I guess I wanted that norm, even though Alice was both mother and father to me.” I lean back as the waitress delivers the food. I thank her and order another bottle of wine. We are getting through it fast. It’s most welcome.

  “I always thought you’d have more kids, Courtney.” Claire peers at me quizzically.

  “Just didn’t happen,” I admit.

  “You were so desperate to conceive Susan, so how come you didn’t pull out all the stops if it wasn’t happening? IVF, that sort of thing . . . Intervention . . . I mean, so you could have another?” She twists the rock-salt cellar over her meat, scattering it like the first fall of snow.

  “Susan was always enough, somehow. Sounds mad now when I say it out loud, but she was. It never happened naturally and, to be honest, the desire wasn’t as strong once I had her. I was a mother. I’d achieved my goal, if you will.”

  “I get it,” Claire says, but I don’t think she really does. I don’t really get it myself. The topic of conversation isn’t something I’m sure of, so I change it.

  “Well, here’s to Granny Alice again!” I say, and I fill up our glasses and we toast.

  The steaks look incredible, and we add the seasonal vegetables and buttered baby potatoes. I haven’t eaten properly in about a week. Hungrily, I cut through the steak with ease and pop a small piece into my mouth. It’s delicious. Claire pushes her food around her plate somewhat, I notice.

  “So . . . Martin’s going to leave for a year then, is that the plan?” I ask her.

  She adds some garlic butter to her steak and shrugs her shoulders. “I guess so . . . End of the year now. He’s working on himself first, he informed me.” Claire uses finger quotation marks on the word “himself”.

  “How will he still pay his half of the mortgage when he’s on leave? Is it paid leave?” I ask, assuming her answer will be yes.

  “We’re selling the house, Courtney,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “You are? What?” I ask. “Jesus, Claire, this is like an episode of Dynasty!” We both burst out laughing despite our current desperate situations.

  “When?” I ask. I know how much Claire adores that house in Sandymount.

  “After I take the weekend to recover from this well-earned hangover! Monday morning the auctioneer comes and we’ll discuss when to put up the For Sale sign. It’s all been agreed.” She holds her fork aloft, piece of steak attached.

  I pour my pepper sauce all over my steak now. “Flipping Nora.” I replace the porcelain ramekin beside my plate, my eyes never leaving hers. “How’s that going to work? I mean . . . what are your plans?” I ask, worried now. Though Claire does make some money with her baking at home for special occasions, it’s not that much. Martin’s teachering wage and private English grinds made up the big income in their household.

  “I have no idea, Courtney, none at all. I mean, I won’t even have a job when the house is sold because I bake from home . . . So I’m not sure where my life is going to go either. I can’t stand living in the house with Martin any more, so I gotta rent somewhere now, but I won’t have any money until the house is sold, and anyway I can’t exactly take over a shared kitchen, can I? While the house is on the market being viewed, I’ll be baking like a woman possessed, freezing a gazillion cakes to try to up my income. My plan is to make as many christening cakes and Christmas ones as I can.” She doesn’t put the steak into her mouth; she rests the fork on the side of the plate and picks up her glass instead, digesting what she has just told me for a minute.

  “What does Mrs Carney have to say?” I remember now how she told me that Martin’s mother had always known about his sexuality.

  “She called me and just said she was sorry. To be honest, probably for the first time since I married her son, she was actually nice to me, Courtney. She said she’d known for years and she had begged him to be honest with me. He’d always denied it.”

  “That’s just mad.” I pause. “What is the house worth, by the way?” I ask her. Sandymount is a prime, sought-after location. Even during the recession, property held its value.

  “Six hundred thousand euros, we think. We had a Google after the marathon talk. I put the kettle on and he whipped cream for the chocolate-biscuit cake and we acted like it was all very normal,” she says.

  “Wow . . . insane . . . but okay, that’s three hundred thousand each.”

  “But it’s only money! I’m totally broken-hearted!” She bites her quivering lip.

  “I know that you are. But I will be here for you. We will get you through this, Claire, I promise you that. I mean, you can’t stay with him. It’s not fair on you. It’s not fair of him to even ask you to.”

  “What’s worse is that he’s not as bloody unhappy as I am . . . He says he will miss me, and I know he will, but it’s not the same way I will miss him.” She gulps.

  “We have each other,” I say. I’ve made up my mind I’m going to go on bended knee and ask David if Claire can rent a room off him in Dun Laoghaire for the summer until Susan comes back home. If Susan ever comes back home . . . That little voice inside my head pokes it
s pitchfork into my thoughts. I look at Claire. She’s always been there for me. Her kind green eyes are twinkling again due to the Merlot, I’d say, more than anything. Her red hair is freshly washed and a cream grip holds her fringe off her face. Her freckles peep out cheekily behind her make-up. I love her so much.

  “Thanks, Courtney.”

  “For what?” I say. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You have: you were honest with me. I needed that. A small part of cowardice in me was saying, ‘Tell him that’s all right, Claire! Tell him we can stay married, Claire! Stay in your beautiful home, Claire! Who else will ever want you?’ I was considering closing my eyes to his extracurricular activities.” Claire looks at the steak on her fork and then pops it into her mouth. I’m glad to see her eating properly.

  “Isn’t it funny how you think your life is going one way and then all of a sudden – BOOM – it’s shifted. Just like that, the world is a scary place,” I say.

  “That it is. I think now – in fact, I know now – I want to be more spontaneous, I want to really live.” She sits up straight. A light bulb has gone on.

  “Me too,” I say, and I mean it. “Life is for living.”

  “Too right. Dublin is too small for me now, Martin’s everywhere . . . Nowhere’s perfect, I guess but—”

  I interrupt her. “St Ives, that’s perfect! God, what I wouldn’t give to live there for the summer.”

  Claire is silent for a while. Then: “What have we got to lose?” she says.

  “Huh?” I say, confused.

  “What are we waiting for, Courtney? Where’s this sense of adventure we are talking about? We should go to Cornwall! Not for ever – you have Susan to think of, obviously – but what about for this summer? Three months, you and me, babe?” Her eyes light up for the first time all evening.

  “Stop, will you? I wish!” I say, my hand over my mouth, squeezing my cheeks together. We stare at one another, telepathically reading one another’s innermost thoughts.