‘Jackie and I were just looking at each other, shaking our heads, and all I could think about was that I had been thinking about getting a cat. I never liked them, but suddenly they seem like the perfect addition to my life. I mean, I used to like to buy new things. But now all I’m fantasising about is having a little cat to welcome me home at night. But obviously I didn’t tell her that.’ She sighed. ‘And Max has given her an extra minute. Lucinda is furious.’
‘Surely there’s not enough actual weather?’ Ireland was decidedly unexciting in its meteorological conditions. The whole country would become hysterical with excitement if it snowed for more than half an hour or if the sun came out and it was properly hot in the summer so that people left work early to clear the supermarket shelves of charcoal and sausages. Mainly, things were pretty boring weather-wise.
‘She’s so popular with the viewers, apparently, that they want less news and more weather. Well, more Bridget, really. She told me today, while I was still reeling from the getting old and cat comment and self-soothing with an apricot yogurt. Said she wondered why Max hadn’t told me and thought I would have known. And then she said she hoped I wouldn’t be too upset by it and she has admired me since she was tiny. When she was leaping around the living room learning her Irish dancing steps, I’d be on in the corner. I am the reason she got into broadcasting.’ Clodagh let out a snort. ‘Broadcasting! Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts Irish dancing tomorrow. Riverdances onto the set, playing the tin whistle. And I’ve just got to roll with it.’
‘What does Max say?’
‘He won’t talk about it with me. He says that his conversations with the talent…’
‘The talent?’
‘Those of us on air… he says they’re private. Between him and their agents. In Bridget’s case, her terrifying mother.’
‘But Max must be on your side… surely he must be aware of how precarious you feel…’
‘He is all about figures and ratings and approval panels and focus groups. He doesn’t do emotions or feelings. He’s all about the job. Which is why, supposedly, he’s such a brilliant manager. And so terrible at showing empathy.’
I shook my head. ‘What are you doing with all these lunatics, Clodagh? Why don’t you give it all up, do a nice knitting course, get into basket weaving?’ I didn’t understand why she put up with this crazy world and with Max. But then, she didn’t understand why I put up with Michael.
‘You’ll meet the lunatics at my party,’ she said. ‘Now…’ she paused. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Red’s coming. I met him the other day and mentioned it. How are you too getting along?’
‘Fine. It’s weird but it’s almost as though it would be so easy to slip back into something. Every time we talk, we find ourselves talking so normally, as though nothing ever happened, but then we both pull back as soon as we remember.’
Clodagh contemplated me for a moment.
‘You still love him,’ she said.
‘Leave it Clodagh,’ I said. ‘Please. It’s complicated, I won’t deny that but…’ She was right, though. I still loved him and there was nothing I could do.
‘Mid-life crisis,’ Clodagh deduced. ‘Not to worry, I’m having one too.’
‘Are women allowed to have them? I thought they were strictly the preserve of men.’
‘What are we allowed to have then?’ she said,
‘Funny turns, hot flushes, menopausal meltdowns, mental breakdowns…’
‘Well, whatever I’m having, it feels like I need to do something different.’ She looked at me. ‘We could get a flat together, like the old days. You move out. Rosie will be in college soon and we could hang out in our pyjamas, eat toast… just like we used to. Come on, what’s stopping you? Think about it,’ she persisted, ‘you would never have to see Celia ever again.’
‘Now I’m tempted. A life without my mother-in-law is something I would seriously contemplate.’ I laughed. ‘But really, there’s nothing wrong. Michael and I rub along…’
‘Rub along?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘When was the last time you rubbed along?’
‘Listen, there is nothing unusual about us. It’s just your common or garden lacklustre marriage, nothing for you to worry about.’ But I was thinking about Red when I spoke. What would he say if he knew things between me and Michael were cool to the point of freezing? Would he pleased that my marriage hadn’t quite worked out for me or would he be sorry that I threw him and us away for lacklustre?
‘And that’s good enough for you?’
‘It hasn’t been that bad,’ I insisted. ‘Michael’s a good person.’
‘With good teeth,’ said Clodagh. ‘You forgot the teeth.’
‘Blinding,’ I agreed.
‘His teeth alone would get you home on a dark night in a power cut,’ she said.
‘But what about you Clodagh? What’s it been… six months? When is Maximus moving in? Or are you having cold feet?’ I hoped she was. What if she married him out of sheer loneliness, shackled to him for the rest of his life. ‘Are you hoping to be Mrs Max Pratt? Clodagh Pratt?’
‘It doesn’t go well, does it?’ she grinned. ‘But no. Not yet. Maybe never. Sometimes you need to be in a relationship to remember all the good things about being single.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like never compromising, not having to share your bed. Never explaining.’ She sighed. ‘I Miss that. And it means that I can eat yogurts for dinner and watch Game of Thrones and wear my old Waterboys’ T-shirt and no one can judge.’
‘And is there any one you would give your Waterboys’ T-shirt up for?’
‘Apart from Mike Scott himself,’ she said, ‘no. Anyway, I don’t think Max has ever knowingly eaten a yogurt, or seen Game of Thrones or worn a T-shirt. He’s on the uptight spectrum. Rarely smiles. The only thing that makes him happy is work.’
I laughed. ‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.’
‘I can’t work out if he has some kind of facial paralysis and actually can’t, or doesn’t find anything I say remotely amusing or, perhaps, never learned how to. Grew up with fundamentalists or whatever.’ She stopped. ‘Actually, do you have any yogurts?’ she said. ‘I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since the morning. I know you have those nice ones. You always do.’
I stood up and fetched one and a spoon. ‘You’ve got to eat more than a yogurt, you know. It’s not good for you.’
‘Of course it’s not good for me! Of course this is wrong and terrible, but I can’t remember the last time I derived any pleasure in any food that wasn’t a yogurt since… since we were students and always stopped for a kebab on the way home. Do you remember? God, they were nice.’
‘So buy a kebab.’
She shook her head at me. ‘You think this is easy, don’t you? You try being on television every night. You wouldn’t believe the letters I get. From women! They hate my hair, or my blouse, or my earrings. Or I look like I’ve put on weight. Or my make-up was all weird. Or that blue is not my colour or my mouth is a funny shape. And, if you were subjected to that, you’d be starving yourself as well. And looking at your mouth in the mirror all the time to see if it was wonky.’ She paused. ‘It’s not, is it?’
*
The sound of a key in the door. ‘Yoo-hoo! Mammy!’
‘Mammy?’ she mouthed, shaking her head. ‘When are you going to leave?’
I shrugged helplessly.
‘There you are!’ Michael opened the kitchen door. ‘And Clodagh…’ His smile died on his face. Unlike the farming community of Ireland, he was no fan of Clodagh. She was too brash for his liking, too loud. And she wasn’t much of a sycophant. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘Again.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Clodagh, pleasantly. ‘And what brings you home,’ she said. ‘Brussels closed for business?’
‘Well, Clodagh,’ he said patiently, ‘Brussels is a city and therefore can’t technically shut. But if you are referring to the European Parliament then it is still open but I’m just not there. I have Dublin business to take care of.’ He went over to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk and drank it down in one. ‘Now milk is a drink, wouldn’t you say Clodagh?’
‘Yes, it’s a drink, you could say that Michael.’
‘No, but it’s a drink. It’s the kind of drink that men don’t drink.’