Locked Out of Heaven

by Shirley Benton

  “Can’t it wait until the next meeting?”

  “It honestly can’t, Luke. I’m sorry, I know you’re a very busy man and I wouldn’t ask, only . . .”

  Someone ran up to Luke.

  “Luke, the Taoiseach is still waiting for you. He doesn’t have much time.”

  “The Taoiseach?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  Luke nodded quickly. “We’re making a documentary on him.” He drew a business card out of an arse pocket in a manner I could only describe as dubious. “Look, call me on my mobile after five and we’ll sort something out, okay? I’m not sure yet if I can do later, but I’ll let you know.”

  I scurried out of the building in the opposite direction to Luke. I couldn’t have made more of a balls of that if I’d tried – and now I had to ask Susie to babysit tonight, even though I wasn’t sure if Luke was free to go or not. This was going to be fun.

  “You want me to pimp your life. Okay.”

  “I know you probably haven’t been asked to do anything like this before, but I have my reasons. Well, reason. Finances.”

  “In many ways, I have. Just not as blatantly as you’ve asked.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if there was an alternative, Luke.” I’d given him the short version of what had happened up to now as part of my pitch. “I need to start earning decent money fast and I’ll do anything and take any opportunity to achieve that goal. I just have no idea how to do it, so I’m abandoning all sense of shame and asking anyone I think might be able to help me.” I took a sip of my tap water to hide my embarrassment. I’d made myself sound like such a user. “I know you’re a very busy man. To be completely truthful, I’d have been way too intimidated of someone like you to ask for your help before. But now . . .”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Well, yes. You know what I mean.”

  He shook his head.

  “A bigwig. In the media, of all places. Everyone knows who you are – your face has been everywhere since you took over at the helm of Eire TV. And believe me, if I know who you are, you must be putting yourself out there, because I’ve had no life that hasn’t involved CBeebies or potty-training over the last few years.”

  “I see. It’s interesting to hear I’m being seen to be putting myself out there.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad sense. I’m not accusing you of whoring yourself around or anything!”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Well, Holly, I can tell you right now that I won’t have time to do any more than just keep you in mind for any opportunities I may hear of. But that’s not going to be enough for you and your predicament.”

  I frowned. “Is this your euphemistic way of telling me to bugger off?”

  He smiled. “No. We have an intern at the moment, Janice. She seems to think a job related to television is the career panacea and she’s chomping at the bit to prove herself. I’ll get her to start looking for moneymaking ventures for you, all right?”

  “That’d be great, Luke. I really appreciate it. I wouldn’t ask, only I’m desperate. But, sure, you know that – why else would I be on the show in the first place?”

  “You really love the show, don’t you?”

  Bigmouth strikes again.

  “You know what I mean, Luke.”

  Luke raised his eyebrows and reached for his coat.

  “I have to go. I’ll have that chat with Janice in the morning and get her to give you a buzz afterwards. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet in what I tell her. She doesn’t have to know what you’ve just told me about your financial situation.”

  “Thanks, Luke. I really appreciate . . .” You’ve already said that, Holly. “I mean, cheers. I’m very grateful. Much obliged. Bless you.”

  When was the last time I’d said “bless you” to anyone who hadn’t just sneezed? Had I ever? Christ.

  Luke laughed for the first time since he’d walked into the pub.

  “You’re welcome. Do you need a lift home?”

  “No, I have the car. Thanks. Bye now! Take care!”

  I slumped back into my seat and exhaled deeply as soon as he walked out of the door. Smooth, Holly. Smooth as fucking porridge.

  Chapter 14

  If my wedding ring hadn’t gone missing, I might never have found out about Terry. I was sure I’d left it in the fruit bowl in the middle of the occasional table in our sitting room, but when I went to retrieve it after doing some housework while Oran slept, it wasn’t there.

  “Debbie didn’t go near the fruit bowl, did she?” I asked Terry as he jiggled Oran on his lap.

  He shook his head, but his face was disinterested. I knew he was already thinking about work, which increased my frustration further.

  “It’ll show up. These things always do.”

  “These things? We’re talking about my wedding ring here!”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get it back.”

  Terry started to babble to Oran, the conversation over as far as he was concerned.

  When he went off to work later that day and Oran and Debbie were having a nap, I scoured the house again for the ring. Nothing. And that was when I remembered the CCTV. We’d had it installed on my insistence to guard against robberies, and it was both internal and external. Neither of us ever checked it, but it was there.

  We kept the recordings in the office. I navigated to today’s date and forwarded through the night footage. When I reached the point where we came downstairs in the morning, I slowed down the forwarding, intending to stop when I recognised the point where I started the housework.

  It wasn’t long before I was befuddled. Okay, so I’d been in a fog since Oran was born – between him not sleeping much for the first few weeks and then developing colic, I was a zombie – but this didn’t look like the pattern I’d remembered at all from a few hours earlier. Why was I putting on my coat at nine o’clock? Surely I hadn’t been going round the house wearing my coat unbeknown to myself? I had to look down at myself to check, just in case. With the way things had been since Oran was born, nothing would surprise me any more.

  It hit me when I saw myself walking out of the house – wasn’t that yesterday’s footage? I checked the calendar and instantly felt like a fool. Good thing that I’d grown used to that feeling in the last few months, struggling from sleep deprivation to the degree where even matching a pair of socks seemed hard. I was just about to navigate to the morning’s footage, when I saw Oran begin to cry on the footage in the sitting room. I could clearly see his face puckering up in his Moses basket.

  Then I saw Terry approaching and lifting him up before patting his back and jiggling him around the way we’d been doing for months. It never seemed to ease his colic, but we did it anyway. And then, just as I was about to click off, Terry put him down.

  I decided to watch to see how he’d settled after that. Terry had told me that he’d been fine when I’d been in town for a few hours buying presents for family members who had birthdays coming up, but I hoped now that he hadn’t just been trying to save me from the reality that he’d had an awful time of it with Oran the previous day.

  That line of thought left my head promptly when I saw what happened next. A woman walked in, one who I’d never seen before. She was tall, ridiculously slim, blonde and ludicrously attractive. She looked rich. I hated using people’s wealth or lack thereof as a point of reference about them, but “rich” was the word that came to mind when I saw her and I couldn’t help my instant reaction. I imagined that if I heard her speak, I’d hear a cut-glass accent. All this went through my head at the same time as the unspoken question that was threatening to deafen the inside of my head – what was she doing in my home?

  As I continued to watch, I found out. And my entire world was blown apart right in front of my eyes as my husband got down to business with this woman as my visibly distressed child lay crying for help in his Moses basket.

  All the stories I’d ever read in magazines simultaneously came whooshing back into my head as if they’
d been imprinted on my brain without me knowing it, ready for the time when I’d need them for empathy purposes. “Never in a million years did I think he’d ever betray me,” a 29-year-old woman named Jenny from Stoke-on-Trent said. “He was always so devoted to me,” a forty-something named Belinda from Wales had said further down the page in the same article. “I couldn’t go for a piss without him there beside me, handing me the toilet paper.”

  I remembered where I read that article – I’d actually been waiting for my induction for Oran’s birth at the time and had laughed to myself at the thought that someone, somewhere had probably made that up. But now, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe Belinda had been real, after all. Because although he stopped short of following me to the bathroom, I’d always thought Terry had been devoted to me, too. In fact, it had been something of a bugbear in all the time we’d been together. I almost found his love suffocating sometimes. But now I realised that it had all been a lie. And to do what he’d just done while our son lay right beside him . . .

  I took it back. Something had surprised me.

  Anger exploded inside me, as much for Oran as for myself. It was promptly followed by fear – not as much about my own future as about the kids’.

  Then I started to pack.

  Chapter 15

  The following morning I went back to Eire TV again to be interviewed for the next episode of Diary of a Boomeranger. Poor Susie was busy with the babysitting and I felt very bad about it because it wasn’t as if I could afford to pay her. In fairness to her, after she was allowed to moan about me taking advantage for a good five uninterrupted minutes, she was very happy to do it. I even heard her telling Willie how much she was enjoying getting to know her grandchildren properly “at last” when she didn’t know I was listening. Still, though, I wished I could pay her. If it wasn’t for Willie and her, I had no idea how the kids or me would have got from one day to the next.

  For this episode, the focus was going to be on the aftermath of my interview with Kelvin. While I hoped that what I’d said about getting myself sorted in six months would go under the radar, I’d known that realistically, there wasn’t a hope of that happening. The plan was that an excerpt of the interview with Kelvin would be included in the show, followed by an interview with me in which I said exactly how I was planning on getting myself on my feet. I intended to repeat what I’d said to Luke – that I was looking for spin-off opportunities from the show and hoped I’d find them. What else could I say when I had no idea how to get myself out of this pickle?

  After the interview, a woefully painful one in which I mumbled and stumbled through the little I had to say, I went home and sorted out my kids before doing something I’d meant to do since I found my diary and old pictures: I googled Sammy. She turned out to be a lot easier to find than I’d anticipated. I entered her full name and the word “Offaly” with a link to a Facebook page for Sammy was the first listing. When I clicked on it and logged in to my own Facebook account, there was only a limited amount of information available, but the profile picture immediately identified the account as Sammy’s. She looked exactly the same.

  I sent her a friend request instantly. If I took too long to think about it, I’d lose my nerve.

  About fifteen seconds later, I got a notification that Sammy had accepted my friend request. Seconds later, I saw I’d received a private message:

  Sammy: Hi, stranger . . .

  Suddenly, I was very nervous. I’d wanted to find her, but the reason why our friendship died was still there. Was she messaging me to give out or was she over it after all these years?

  Me: Hi, Sammy. How are you? Great to hear from you!

  Sammy: I’m good. Glad you found me. I often wondered how things were going for you, but I found out a lot about your life from the papers anyway.

  Me: No need to fill you in on what’s going on with me, so!

  Sammy: When exactly did you and Terry separate?

  Me: A few weeks ago.

  Sammy: What took you so long?

  I couldn’t help smiling. Still the same old Sammy.

  Me: Sometimes the truth can be well hidden.

  Sammy: Oh well, better late than never.

  Me: How has your life been over the past fifteen years?

  Sammy: No idea. I have five kids under five – two of whom are nine-month-old twins – and I can’t remember to put my knickers on these days. Should have kept them on in the first place and I might be able to answer your question.

  My heart soared. Sammy was up to her tits in children, too! I couldn’t quite imagine her as a mother, though. I thought she’d travel the world and live the wild life for years, then meet her soul mate in her late thirties and have two perfect children back to back. She’d have a nanny, of course, because her soul mate would be rich.

  Jesus – five kids. What were you supposed to say to that? I thought I was busy!

  Me: Five kids? Congratulations.

  Sammy: Congratulations, my arse. You’re thinking God love that poor bitch.

  Me: Of course not. But I am thinking that you must need a good support network with five kids.

  Sammy: Oh, I do. I walk around the house with a bag of dry flaxseed shoved into the front of my jeans and I tilt a mouthful into my gob every few hours. Keeps me alive. I don’t get time to eat, you see. Then I have a hip flask of Irish coffee in my arse pocket to wash the whole thing down with. What more support would you need?

  I thought of my Berocca tablets and smiled. Sammy and I had always operated on the same frequency back in the day.

  Me: Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a helpful hubby and maybe babysitters . . .

  Sammy: I have a hubby, but it’s been a few years since I last saw him.

  Oh, God. He mustn’t have been able to handle the kids and did a runner.

  Me: I’m sorry to hear that, Sammy. When did you split up? Is he paying maintenance?

  Sammy: Oh, he’s still around. I just can’t remember the last time I actually saw him properly or had an uninterrupted conversation with him. And don’t worry, I take his pay packet from him the second he gets it. Three of my five kids are boys and they eat us out of house and home – even the babies. As for babysitters, they have more sense than to come near our house.

  Me: That’s terrible. Surely you have friends who’ll take the kids sometimes?

  Sammy: Are you offering?

  My fingers hovered over the keyboard. So what did that mean? That she still saw me as a friend? She was probably taking the mickey. Sammy had always been a mick-taker years ago. Was she even living in Dublin? She just had “From Offaly” in her profile . . .

  Sammy: I’m serious, by the way. Hurry up there and let me know, will you? I’d kill to go out for a drink tonight.

  Me: Whereabouts are you?

  Sammy: I’m living on the north side of Dublin, too. You’d get here in no time.

  Me: What about my lot? You probably know from the media that I have kids, too.

  Sammy: Bring them over, too. As for mine, just do enough to keep them alive and that’ll do. Actually, if you accidentally want to leave the front door open and let a few of them go missing, that’s fine, too.

  Me: Sammy!

  Sammy: Don’t you Sammy me until you spend a few hours with them. Are you in or not?

  This was all moving fast. It certainly wasn’t your typical “getting to know you again after fifteen years” chat. But the urge to become part of Sammy’s life again was overwhelming and Susie would probably mind my kids if I promised her an autograph from the Eire TV weatherman – she fancied the pants off him.

  Me: Are you sure you want someone you don’t even know any more minding your kids?

  Sammy: I know who you are, Holly. You’re not the type who’d put a plastic bag round one of my children’s heads when they’re being a pain in the arse like many babysitters would. Anyway, how well does anyone really know their babysitter when it comes down to it? And look, you’ve broken up with your husba
nd, so at least I know you won’t be shagging someone on my bed. Do me a favour and get your arse over here.

  My heart raced. Despite my new experiences on TV, I was in such a rut mentally and Sammy had always energised me. All right, so she didn’t exactly sound energetic at the moment, but I still wanted to see her. And I didn’t truly believe she wanted me to mind her kids. This was her letting me back into her life.

  I hoped.

  Me: Can you give me a minute? I need to check something with my mother.

  It took at least five minutes but, after practically promising Susie my soul as well as the weatherman’s autograph, I had a babysitter. I omitted to mention that I’d be meeting Sammy, though. I didn’t think Susie would approve somehow, so I told her Luke wanted to introduce me to someone in the pub who might have a financial opportunity for me. I’d have to remember to say it came to nothing further down the line.

  Me: Give me your address there, so. I can’t guarantee they’ll all have their limbs intact when you get back – I’m only used to managing three at a time – but if you’re okay with that, I’ll come over.

  Sammy: I’m not fussy about minor details like intact limbs. Over you come.

  She gave me her address while I wondered how exactly all of that had just happened. We agreed that I’d call over at eight, when some of the children would be in bed – although Sammy did warn me that they probably wouldn’t stay there.