Friends Like Us

by Siân O'Gorman

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I have nothing to apologize for. You should say sorry to me.’ Why did I say that? she thought. Just get away from him. She began to move for the door.

  ‘Me? To you? You?’ He laughed. ‘You are nothing. Just a little stay-at-home. What exactly do you contribute? I think we should stop the pretence, don’t you?’

  ‘What pretence?’

  ‘That you are a good mother, that you are such a good mother.’ He laughed. ‘We all know the truth. And the house! There’s things everywhere. Your mess! Your shoes in the hall, bits on the work surface. I came home earlier and the house was a tip.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ she said, but wishing she had put away her shoes. But the house was always immaculate, she knew. He always did this, mentioned how good or bad a mother she was or talked about the state of the house. It was the latent or blatant misogynist in him. He was pathetic. You have no right to do this to me, she thought. She summoned her inner strength, raising herself up.

  ‘You’re sleeping with Miriam,’ she hissed. ‘And Angeline. And I am sure some other poor deluded woman who thinks you’re the bee’s knees.’

  ‘So?’ he said, giving her a death stare, not unlike the one Rachel was able to flash at times.

  ‘So,’ she said, faltering a moment, ‘you shouldn’t be. You’re married.’

  ‘To you, yes.’ He came right up to her and pressed his face into hers. She could see the sweat glistening on his forehead. ‘Waste of fucking space you are. No wonder I seek pleasure elsewhere. Any sane, red-blooded man would. You are a disappointment. And it’s not just me who would say it.’ He didn’t laugh but stared at her, his face grimacing, looking at her as though she disgusted him, but she could smell the beer on his breath, see his high colour in his face.

  She turned to go. Ignoring this verbal abuse was the only to handle it, wondering what else he would throw at her to keep her emotionally engaged in this dysfunctional marriage. But then she turned to him. ‘Miriam?’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, Rick. She’s our neighbour, the mother of our daughter’s best friend. Are you so desperate? Are you so sad?’

  For a moment, he looked shocked. She watched his face change from surprise to anger and then he shrugged. ‘You’re the one who’s desperate,’ he slurred. ‘And you made the biggest show of yourself in Rome. Everyone was laughing at you. You stupid cow.’ He stood right up against her to do what? Was he trying to intimidate her? Was he trying to show her that he could hurt her if he wanted to?

  Steph took both his hands and pushed his shoulders away from her with as much force she could manage. He staggered back against the wall and then, suddenly, like a cobra, he was right in her face again. He grabbed her and thrust her full-force downwards so she hit herself against the corner of the radiator and landed sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Don’t you ever fucking touch me again, you little bitch,’ he said. ‘Just don’t.’

  And then he was gone, back into his study.

  Never again, she vowed, as she stood up. Never again will he talk to me like that. She felt as though her whole marriage had been clouded by insanity and confusion and suddenly, beyond there was her future, one for her and Rachel, which was filled with clarity and sanity. It was within touching distance.

  31

  Melissa

  ‘How EU are you?’ Melissa read out. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘Does drinking wine count?’ said Jimbo. ‘If it does, then I am. Very. And what’s more, I don’t care what country it comes from. That’s how EU I am.’

  ‘And, look, brilliantly, it tells you what character you are most like, depending on your answers: Amelie, Heidi or Fionnuala? Who the hell is Fionnuala? Is she a thing?’

  ‘Connemara Central, you know, the Irish language version of The Wire? Everyone is watching it. Apart from you.’ Jimbo shrugged nonchalantly. ‘And me.’

  ‘Jimbo, this is serious,’ said Melissa. ‘Answer the question. When going out on a date,’ she read, ‘do you a) wear Birkenstocks and drink beer, b) wear matching lingerie and order a glass of champagne, or c) feck what you wear and drink everyone under the table?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on dates. Whatever they are.’

  If there was any residual awkwardness between them, they were both good at hiding it. They both behaved as though nothing had happened. Obviously, thought Melissa, they both valued that roles as office confidents and allies far more than dealing with an awkward sexual encounter.

  ‘This is hypothetical,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s meant to be fun. You should be enjoying yourself. Aren’t you? Try again.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Jimbo gave it real consideration. ‘B?’

  Melissa made a mark on the page. ‘Question two. When,’ she read on, ‘on a night out do you a) go to see a strange experimental film in some dark and forgotten part of town, b) sip a glass of wine and get in bed by ten or c) find a lock-in and forget your own name? But how could you forget your own name,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s written at the top, it’s either Heidi, Amelie or Fionnuala. Oh, I’m taking this way too seriously.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, anyway?’ said Jimbo. ‘Are you not impressed and joyous about our latest edition? Are you not celebrating this departure into the land of levity and brevity?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’ She was thinking about Cormac, really. On her way to work, she had bumped into Nora, Walter’s wife. Nora massively pregnant was with little Axel bashing things with a small wooden sword. Small but deadly, as it turned out.

  ‘So you’ve heard about the amazing Erica, then,’ said Nora. ‘The yoga queen.’ Axel jabbed the sword into Melissa’s calf. It may as well be my heart, she thought, dully.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling through the pain. ‘Wish I could do yoga but I never got the flexible gene.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Nora. ‘I can’t pick up anything from the floor. And it’s not just this.’ She pointed to her massive belly. ‘This is just from eating,’ she said. ‘I’ve been mainlining cheese and onion for eight months now. I think the baby is going to come out with a bag of crisps in its hand. That’s not going to go down well in hospital.’

  ‘Just pretend they’re organic. Then it’s all right, isn’t it?’ Melissa said. ‘So, this Erica, what exactly is amazing about her?’ she said, casually.

  ‘Well, she’s kind of not of this planet. I know she’s American and all that, but she just makes me feel all mortal and ordinary.’

  ‘Wow.’ Melissa didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘You’ll like her,’ said Nora. ‘And Cormac seems happy.’

  ‘That’s great, that’s really great.’ Melissa was working hard to try and appear normal but she felt terrible. Was it too dramatic to feel as though her heart was being wrenched out and eaten by some monster?

  ‘So, listen,’ said Nora, ‘what’s new with you?’

  Apart from no longer having a heart and lying here bleeding to death in the middle of town? Melissa shrugged, unable to think of anything that she could impart standing in the middle of Grafton Street, surrounded by buskers, shoppers, moving statues and being repeatedly jabbed by a tiny sword. ‘Something will come to me, I promise,’ she said, making a joke of her silence. ‘Um…’

  Nora laughed. ‘I’m like that. By the way,’ she said, ‘will you come to our fortieth? Walt and I are having a joint one. You know, before the baby comes… there’ll be cheese and onion crisps,’ she added winningly. ‘And cocktail sausages. I’ll text you the details. But please come and you’ll get to meet Erica.’

  ‘I would love to meet Eric. I mean Erica,’ said Melissa. ‘I could show her a few of my yoga moves. It involves balancing a crisp on my nose and then letting it drop into my mouth. Takes years of practice that does. I had to go to India to learn it.’

  They said goodbye, with Melissa promising to be there but not knowing if she would or could. After all, she and Cormac weren’t friends,
anymore, were they? They were officially over, even though they were never officially under.

  She wandered along to work, deep in thought. Who was this Erica? She was lucky, that’s who she was. She had Cormac and Melissa didn’t. She was the one who received funny little texts from him during the day, went to the cinema with him, ate ice creams on the pier with him. She missed him, so dreadfully.

  She was struck by how selfish she had been. She had tried to section Cormac off and claim him as hers and no one else’s. And it had worked for a time, but it hadn’t been fair on him, keeping him close but not too close and now he had slipped his moorings. And he was right to do it, to get away from her. And he might be happy with this Erica. She might be the most wonderful person in the world and he might be ecstatically happy. Didn’t she want that for Cormac?

  Yes, she thought. I want him to be happy. Whoever this Erica is, then please let her be the most amazing woman on earth, that’s what he deserves.

  I wish it was me, she thought. I want to be his and I want him to be mine. I want to hold his hand, put my arms around him and feel his body close to mine. I want to love him, but I had my chance and I blew it. So, please, make Erica amazing. For Cormac, even if it broke Melissa’s heart.

  ‘Earth calling Smelissa!’ It was Jimbo. ‘Too dazzled by the brilliance of the new-look paper to connect with real human beings?’

  She plugged back in and deployed the indignation button. ‘You’re a real human being?’ she said, shocked. ‘Is that right?’

  Jimbo took a slurp of tea. ‘I bet you did it, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The quiz. I bet you completed the quiz.’

  ‘Of course I fecking did! On Saturday. It was the first thing I did! But that’s not the point.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  He sighed patiently. ‘And just how EU are you? Which are you?’

  Melissa mumbled her reply. She had done it.

  ‘What was that? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Fionnuala.’

  Jimbo laughed. ‘I knew you’d been the Irish colleen. And there you pretend to be a woman of the world.’

  ‘Melissa!’ It was Liam, calling from across the office. ‘A word, please!’

  She rolled her eyes at Jimbo, walked over and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in! Come in! Sit yourself down.’ Liam was in a particularly ebullient mood. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Heidi or Amelie? Which one?’

  ‘What?’ Melissa pretended to look utterly perplexed.

  ‘The quiz! Our weekend splash! Our new fun-loving weekend paper!’ He was laughing now he had seen through her bad acting.

  ‘Neither.’ Melissa spoke quietly. It was a bit bloody disappointing to be Fionnuala, whoever she was. She would, however, have been quite pleased to be Amelie, nice and French.

  ‘You’re Fionnuala?’ laughed Liam. ‘Ha! Dublin 4, my arse. You see, we’ve all got a bit of the West of Ireland in us, there’s a bit of Connemara in you, I can tell.’

  ‘It’s hardly scientific, though, is it?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the fecking point. It is what you might call a bit of fun.’

  Melissa tried to look bored and began studying a picture on the wall. It was a framed yellowing page from the Farmer’s Journal. The headline was: ‘Cow gives birth to triplets’.

  Liam followed her gaze. ‘My dad,’ he said. ‘1984 that was. We were famous.’

  Melissa nodded. ‘Triplets. Impressive. Did you name them?’

  ‘Myself and my sister called then Keren, Siobhan and Sara.’

  ‘Nice names.’

  ‘Bananarama, you see.’

  ‘I too was around for that golden age of music, you know.’

  ‘We were fans, you see.’

  ‘Obviously. And did your dad like the names?’

  ‘No. But eventually he began calling them Keren, Siobhan and Sara. Persuasive we were, my sister and I.’

  ‘I bet you were.’ He hadn’t called her in to talk about calf triplets, had he?

  ‘She’s worse than I am,’ he said. ‘In Silicon Valley now. Making millions with some start-up.’ He shrugged. ‘But I wouldn’t swap grimy old Dublin for the sunshine of California for anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m lying, of course. I would sell my own mother for a bit of Californ-i-a.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve yet to receive the invitation. But it’s imminent. I can feel it. It’s in the post.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Melissa. ‘Anyway, you’re the type that just goes lobster in the sun. You wouldn’t blend in with the beautiful people.’

  He pretended to look hurt. ‘Melissa! Ouch.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Back to the quiz. Now, let’s move on from last week’s edition, diverting and fascinating as it was, there are some changes on the horizon.’

  ‘More changes? What’s next? Knitting patterns? Free relic of the True Cross for every reader? Cut out and wear mask of Colin Farrell on one side, the Pope on the other, depending on age and preferences?’

  ‘Now, those are ideas,’ said Liam. ‘Why on earth don’t you come up with good ideas like those at the editorial meetings, instead of all that worthy shite?’

  Melissa threw her eyes to heaven and tutted while Liam, blithely, carried on. ‘Now, I wanted to talk to you about the paper… and our direction.’

  ‘Is this quiz where we are going?’ asked Melissa. ‘Okay, so I get your point about fun but it’s not exactly journalism. What about my Breadline Lives? They are getting some amazing reactions. They are illuminating the real issues in this country.’

  ‘Melissa, sweetheart, we work in a business. No one pays us to write worthy fucking articles that no one reads. Your last Breadline Life thing was, dare I say it, a little bit dull. Worthy, yes. Important, undoubtedly. Well-written. Of course. But, let’s face it? A fun read over the old cornflakes it maketh not.’

  He ignored her eye-roll of irritation. ‘Right! So, I have news. The feature section is reducing in size. We are going to be a tabloid pull-out every Saturday. There will be no room for worthiness on the paper, I’m afraid. I like your work and we want opinions and strong arguments. But I don’t want any of that soft shite anymore. Well, not on the front page. Okay?’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by soft shite?’

  ‘We’re changing, Melissa. We have to. Our circulation went down seven whole per cent last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. We are losing readers big time. This is serious. No one wants worthy stuff about hermaphrodites or multi-sexuals or whatever. But we do know what people do like and what they want to read; fun, gossip, food, cakes, what’s on TV, who is shagging who, who has the fattest dog, who ate too many pies, who doesn’t eat enough, that kind of thing.’

  Melissa said nothing.

  ‘So,’ said Liam, ‘I can see that you are overwhelmed by the brilliance of all this. So, are you in?’

  ‘Or what? Out?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘Don’t say anything now,’ he said. ‘But is this part of your future? Are you willing to change?’

  ‘Do I have a deadline?’

  ‘See, what I love about you, Melissa. You are a born journalist. Just mull it over, take your time. Try writing differently. Melissa, what about “Me and My Dog – celebs and their pooches”.’

  Melissa was speechless. ‘Pooches?’

  ‘What would you like to write about? What’s this week’s fascinator?’

  ‘It’s… it’s about a woman…’

  ‘Of course!’ He punched the air.

  ‘…who is suffering from mental health issues.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s deaf.’

  ‘And that, my dear, is exactly why you won’t be on page one of features this Saturday because no one wants to read about deaf, depressed, un-famous lesbians.’

&
nbsp; ‘She’s not a lesbian!’

  ‘She, my dear, very probably is,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll bet my house on it.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Yes?’ He smiled maddeningly.

  ‘I’m going!’ Melissa pulled the door of his office in a half slam which she thought better of and caught her fingers in the handle.

  She stood there. Oh My God, the man was an idiot. A total eejit. But from inside the office, Liam was whistling. Melissa could have sworn it was ‘Robert De Niro’s Waiting’.

  32

  Eilis

  At last the holiday had arrived. Two weeks away, in the sun, just the two of them. Since the garden club, she had done quite well in banishing all her silly fantasies of Charlie from her head and instead dedicated herself to thinking lovingly of Rob, how good he was and how lucky she had been to have such a steadfast companion all these years. He may be spreading his wings and socializing more but then so was she, meeting up with Melissa and Steph, and her solitary gardening sessions. But just that morning her good intentions had slipped and she had driven past O’Malley’s Garden, simultaneously peering out while trying to slide down in the seat. It was a miracle she wasn’t arrested. Charlie was nowhere to be seen. A sign, she thought, a sign that I have been foolish in my fantasies. Right, she thought. Greece, here we come.

  She spent the afternoon getting ready; washing, ironing, packing, loading up her Kindle. She allowed herself to feel excited. However, Rob was acting as if it wasn’t happening, as though he had all the time in the world.

  ‘Have you got everything ready, Rob?’ she said. ‘I can wash things for you. I need to put another load in.’

  ‘I’ll sort it later.’ He sounded tetchy. But this was becoming normal. The middling of age, perhaps?

  ‘I can’t wait for the holiday,’ she said, trying to get him to smile and soften. ‘It’s just what we need. A break from everything, from work and…’

  ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘It should be nice.’

  ‘A bit of sun… and some good books, I can’t wait.’ She pointed to her tower of paperbacks. ‘I can’t remember the last time I read a whole book. I think I might have forgotten how to read.’