CHAPTER SIX
Warm breath fanned her cheek. Aisling stretched her limbs under the duvet. She knew she had to get up. But… Just another few minutes on the warm, soft sheets, just a bit longer … Hold on a moment. Her brain switched on weakly. It’s Saturday. Why was Michael trying to wake her early on a Saturday morning, she wondered sleepily? And why did she have this leaden feeling in her head?
A waft of hot, fishy breath made her open gluey eyelids to gaze up at Flossie who was standing on Michael’s pillow. Push off, Aisling groaned, wishing Flossie would go away and let her have just a few more hours in bed. Why hadn’t Michael let the cat out? Couldn’t he do anything around the house?
She moved into a more comfortable position and pretended to be asleep, hoping the cat would be fooled and leave. Flossie didn’t budge and started up her secret weapon, a peculiar bad-tempered miaow which was simply impossible to ignore.
“All right, all right! I swear I’m getting you a cat-flap today!”
Aisling struggled up on the pillow. It felt as if an army band was rehearsing some horrible marching song, using her skull for drums. She squinted at the clock-radio 8.17 a.m. and Saturday. Where the hell was Michael? He couldn’t have gone to the office already, could he?
Then her brain made the unwelcome connection.
Michael hadn’t let the cat out because Michael wasn’t there. He had left her. Their marriage was over and she had a hangover roughly the size of France. She’d only just woken up and immediately she wanted to go right back to sleep, maybe for a hundred years.
Rolling over onto her stomach and abruptly dislodging Flossie, Aisling
laid her head heavily on the pillow and felt miserable. Sober and sick, she began to remember the day before with horrible clarity.
Underwear, expensive underwear. Oh God, she remembered.
She could dimly remember shopping with Fiona, her mind befuddled with Valium. And of course that slice of banoffi in the coffee shop which must have been at least 400 calories. Forget the bloody banoffi.
She could even recall arriving at Michael’s office, even though the picture in her head was Technicolor high drama, very Gone with the Wind and utterly removed from reality.
But after that… It was all hazy, like she had been utterly drunk and had blacked out.
Only she hadn’t got drunk until much later. She hadn’t got drunk until she arrived home and proceeded to drink everything in the house with an anguished Jo begging her to stop.
“You don’t know what he’s done she remembered saying as she sat at the kitchen table with the brandy bottle in one hand and a tissue in the other.
Of course Jo knew damn well what had happened. Aisling had explained everything in lurid detail, over and over again as she sank deeper into depression. And deeper into the brandy bottle. They’d discussed the whole sordid thing endlessly, from the Then stray, so what?” theory put forward by Jo when she still thought it would all blow over, to the “OK, he’s a bastard all men are bastards’ conclusion.
She remembered Jo telling her about the baby, and about Richard’s reaction.
“I couldn’t believe it, Ash,” Jo had said, staring into the depths of the mug of tea she was cradling in her hands.
“I just never thought he’d react like that.”
The funny thing is,” Jo continued, “I wasn’t really sure what I wanted myself at first. I kept wondering was I ready for motherhood and stuff like that. And then I did the test and I just knew, I knew I wanted the baby so badly.”
She paused and looked at Aisling, dark eyes brimming with unshed
“You know what I mean, you felt that way about the twins, I remember.
When you got pregnant, I really envied you. You were so happy, so content. Look at me,” she gave a sad little laugh, “I’m a bloody wreck.”
Swept up in her own misery and with three large brandies inside her to numb the pain, Aisling hadn’t really registered the awful state Jo was in.
“He’ll change his mind,” she’d declared confidently. What a stupid thing to say. Poor Jo, alone except for a drunken friend wallowing in self-pity. She must have been so drunk. She couldn’t even remember Jo leaving and she had no idea how she got into bed. Did she get into bed herself or did Jo help her?
How horrible. And what sort of a mother did that make her?
Too damn drunk to notice if the poor twins had been sick or needed her in the middle of the night. Who knew what terrible thing could have happened and she wouldn’t have been able to pull herself out of the bed to help them. She was just a useless, fat cow. No wonder Michael hadn’t wanted her.
Staring at the sulky lump which Flossie had curled herself into on the end of the bed, Aisling remembered the confrontation with the man she loved and she wanted to curl up catlike herself and die.
What had she done? Why had she given him the chance to leave? She should have said nothing and maybe everything would have been all right. As each moment passed, another agonising moment of the night before came back to her, little spiteful daggers shooting into her heart.
She remembered confronting Michael in front of everyone, screaming like a fishwife in her eye-catching red dress, baring her soul and her dirty laundry in public. And she remembered hearing his cold response.
He didn’t love her, he couldn’t bear to be in the same house as her, for God’s sake. She had been discarded like an old pair of shoes, used and dumped when they started letting rain in and were no longer fashionable. His horrible cutting words came flooding back into her mind and she finally stopped fighting the misery. Hot, hopeless tears soaked into the pillow as her predicament became clear: she was alone,
alone for always. The thought made her cry harder, so she didn’t hear Paul run into the bedroom, shouting: “Mum, Mum. Look what Phillip did! Mum? Mum?”
Despite her misery, Aisling’s mummy autopilot cranked into action and she buried her swollen eyes in the pillow so that he wouldn’t see how wretched she looked.
“I’m sick, darling. I think I’ve got that awful cold Aunt Fiona had and my eyes hurt. But you can help, Paul. Would you let Flossie out and … get me some milk?”
It was a calculated move. Phillip would have demanded to know why. Why was she sick, why wasn’t Daddy there, why did he have to get the milk, why couldn’t he have the money for rollerblades? Luckily, Paul was less cerebral. Not as clever at school as his twin, he was much easier to handle and could be told what to do, as long as Phillip wasn’t with
Getting milk was a mission from Mum and he was a special agent, ready to spring into action. Full of delighted self importance and with his brother’s misdemeanour forgotten, Paul was already swinging down the banisters, eager to prove himself manly enough to look after his mother.
God, the lies adultery generated, Aisling thought morosely.
Well, I can’t tell two ten-year-olds that their father has run off with another woman and that their mother is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Hah! There was a film about that:
Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown.
She’d seen it in the video shop although she’d never got it out. Perhaps now was the time to watch it. Maybe it had hints on how to get a life. Like ‘lose two stone, get a great job, get yourself a toy boy and murder your cheating husband’. Easier said than done, of course.
Grimacing at the dull ache in her head, Aisling hauled herself out of bed and stood in front of the mirror, not exactly delighted with what she saw. Her eyelids were swollen and pink like pigs’ trotters, her face was an unbecoming shade of beige with grey highlights and her hair was greasy after a night of sweating out more gin and brandy than was
good for your liver. Even the cute Honey Bunny picture on her nightie was faded and misshapen after years in the sixty-degree hot wash.
Just like me, she mouthed silently. Wonderful. How come Danielle Steel’s heroines never looked like they’d spent the night under a bush in the park when their lovers walked out on them, she thought miserably, picking up her brush.
They always looked even more fragile and doll-like than ever, with every bit of Estee Lauder still in its rightful place and not a hair escaping from the artful chignon they’d been taught to do in their Swiss finishing school.
They didn’t let themselves go, reach for the gin and scrub their skin raw from using kitchen roll to wipe away the tears.
Deep in dreamland, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang, its blistering peal assaulting her already painful head. She let out a deep breath, wondering whether she’d be able to face answering it. What would she say if it was her mother ringing up for a chat?
Hi, Mum. Yes, I’m fine. I’ve had a pretty normal week, y’know. The twins love summer camp, I’ve finished redecorating the downstairs toilet and Michael has left me, that’s all really. How about you?
The phone continued to ring. Go on, do it, she muttered.
You can’t hide for ever. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the receiver and she didn’t know whether she was shaking with delayed shock or hangover.
“I was nearly going to hang up,” exclaimed Jo, sounding worried.
“How do you feel?”
“Delirious. Except for the fact that my head is about to explode with a hangover and my life is in pieces.”
“Join the club,” Jo said mournfully.
“I’ve been going over everything in my head and wondering what I’ve done wrong.”
She sniffled.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to moan at you. It’s not your fault that my bloody lover has abandoned me and my bump.”
“It’s not your fault either, Jo. I’ve been thinking about you and how useless I was last night. I’m sorry. All I could do was cry about my problems. You must be in bits, you poor thing.”
Back in her familiar role as comforter, Aisling began to feel
marginally better all of a sudden. Someone else’s troubles made her momentarily forget her own and she could wallow in Jo’s misery instead.
After all, she was married to Michael and nobody could take that away from her, whereas Jo was left with nothing but an extra toothbrush in her bathroom and an unborn child whose feckless father had disowned him her What could be worse than having one of the most wonderful times of your life ruined when you were left to go through it all on your own. Then again, what help had being married been to her? Damn all. Married or unmarried, no commitment was worth the paper it was written on unless the other person meant it.
“I was awake half the night thinking just that: that it was all my fault,” Jo was saying.
“My fault for getting pregnant and my fault for blithely assuming that Richard would want to be a father, as opposed to being just a sperm donor, of course.” Her voice was bitter and harsh.
“Not that he minded being a sperm donor from the fun point of view
..”
“None of them do,” interrupted Aisling drily.
“Too bloody true. But at least most men can accept their responsibilities. Richard certainly doesn’t want to. Oh damn.
There’s my doorbell.” Jo sounded flustered.
“Hold on a minute, will you.”
Poor, poor Jo, Aisling reflected, automatically starting to pull up the duvet and plump the pillows with the phone wedged in the crook of her neck.
Remembering her own pregnancy made her smile to herself as she worked: that magic moment when she told Michael they were having a baby that was before she knew she was carrying twins, of course. Buying the cots and the double buggy, reading Penelope Leach as they sat together in front of the fire, stroking her rounded belly proudly and waiting for baby kicks.
Whatever happened, she’d had that togetherness. But Jo didn’t. From
believing that she was one half of an expectant couple, Jo had abruptly become a one-parent family. That’s what I am too, she realised.
A deserted wife with two kids, no career prospects and a washing machine on the verge of packing it in. Another bloody statistic. Add one to the deserted wives’ register, one to the single mothers’ register and one to the woman ising bastard list, she thought bitterly.
Tears stung her eyes. Don’t be such a wimp. You don’t know that for sure. You don’t know what’ll happen, so don’t think about it. He’ll change his mind, you know he will, he has to. He can’t give up on us after all we’ve been through and he won’t give up the twins, will he?
Would another woman give him enough to make him forget everything he’d once treasured? She thought of the woman Fiona had described to her, a glamorous career woman who was doubtless much more interesting to talk to than a harassed housewife. IH Was it her fault for making that seduction too easy? Should she have abandoned the ironing, hoovering and cooking to read the Karma Sutra, picking up hints to spice up their sex life and waxing, painting and oiling herself in an effort to turn into a siren who could keep any man glued to the bedroom?
What was it model Jerry Hall had said about keeping Mick Jagger by her side: be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the dining room and a whore in the bedroom.
Why wasn’t it enough to be an ordinary wife and mother?
Oh God, it all seemed so hopeless.
She swallowed hard and ran a harsh hand over her eyes, trying to obliterate the tears and the misery which was about to creep up on her again. Reaching into her bedside drawer, her fingers found the small plastic jar of pills Fiona had given her the day before. Years of dosing herself on vitamin pills meant she could just put two of the tiny tablets in her mouth and swallow without water. Screwing up her face at the acrid taste, she covered the mouthpiece with one hand, and yelled.
“Paul, love, are you coming with that milk?”
Her answer was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs as her black-haired firstborn Phillip arrived ten minutes later raced upstairs, across the landing and into her room bearing a plastic tumbler of milk. It was one of the green plastic tumblers the twins drank out of when they were small. Paul had always loved his one and the way it gave everything a special, plastic taste.
“I spilled a bit,” he said unnecessarily, handing her the tumbler with two inches of milk sloshing around in the bottom and milk splashes clinging to the side.
“But I cleaned it up.”
Thank you,” Aisling said gravely, wondering what item of clothing her untidy son had ripped off the radiator to clean up with. Still, cleaning up at all was a start.
“Have you got a headache, Mum?” he asked, spotting the tablets with eagle-eyed ten-year-old’s eyes.
“Why were you crying?”
“I didn’t sleep, darling, and I’ve got a dreadful headache. But the milk will help.” She rumpled his hair affectionately and he grinned at her, his eyes crinkling up just like his father’s.
Other mothers had talked about their sons hitting twelve and suddenly shrugging off each affectionate gesture, furious if their mothers hugged them the way they’d been doing for years. Thank God she still had a few years of nighttime cuddles before the twins became too grown-up for hair rumpling and tickling sessions.
“Mum, can we have money for McDonald’s today?” Paul asked.
“Mr. Breslin is bringing us all to Stillorgan after the match and we can go into McDonald’s if you let us.”
“Yes. But no milkshakes. You know how sick they make
“I promise.”
He was out the door and yelling for his brother in a flash and Aisling felt the tension leave her body as another normal day in the Moran family home began to unfold. Everything was going to be fine, she just knew it. Last night was just a glitch, a bad patch that had to come out into the open. They shared so much: the boys, their life, their
home. How could Michael give all that up? The man who had cried in her arms when the boys were born wouldn’t be able to leave them for some floozie. He’d come back. It was just a matter of time.
“Sorry about that Jo said.
“My next-door neighbour’s alarm went off and she couldn’t remember the code, so we had to ring her son and … oh, it took ages.”
“What are you doing today?” Aisling asked briskly, her new-found optimism giving her strength.
“I don’t know.” Jo sounded forlorn.
“I had planned to hit Mothercare and look at baby clothes before buying some ” books on pregnancy … But I don’t know if I’d be able to face it now.” “Well, that’s just what we’re going to do,” Aisling said firmly.
“Lounging around crying won’t solve anything. I’ve got to get the boys ready for soccer and then I’ll meet you in the Ilac Centre outside Dunnes at…” she glanced at her watch, ‘half ten and we can start shopping. Oh, and I’ll bring some of my pregnancy books it’s not as if Michael and I are going to decide to have another child right now.”
Jo said nothing, mainly because she didn’t know what to say to such a bizarrely blinkered idea.
That’s settled,” Aisling declared.
“I’ll see you then.”
Hanging up, Jo sat for a moment on the couch in her small living room, thinking about her friend’s sudden change of mood. Last night she had been scared. that Aisling would drink herself into unconsciousness; now it seemed as if the previous day’s events had never happened.
Was Aisling blotting everything out or was she really as well as she sounded? Leaning back against a cushion, Jo contemplated the whole messy situation. Which of us is worse off, she asked herself.
Gratefully sitting down on a bench in the centre of the busy shopping centre at twenty-five minutes past ten, Jo was still thinking about Aisling’s predicament. Leaning back against the wooden bench, she looped her handbag strap around her wrist and tried to relax. Casually
dressed in jeans and a cream cotton cricket sweater with her hair curling around her shoulders and a smattering of freckles on her face, Jo was the picture of health and casual chic. That was on the outside, of course.
On the inside, her stomach was gurgling away volcanically, considering whether to send her second breakfast up the way it came or not. Nausea came over her in waves and she wondered how long she could last without having to race for the loo which was, naturally, at the other end of the centre.
Please don’t let me be sick, she prayed silently. I promise never to eat muesli ever again. She closed her eyes and willed her stomach away from the notion of morning sickness. Just let me be OK long enough to meet Aisling and then you can be as sick as you want, right?
Amazingly, her stomach obeyed and the nausea subsided. It must be all those stomach-toning classes, she thought proudly, opening her eyes with relief. Now I can even control the insides as well as the outsides!
Six minutes later, she watched Aisling emerge from the car-park exit, her well-rounded figure hidden in a long navy and cream striped shirt worn over navy ski pants.
“Sorry I’m late,” she gasped, sitting down on a corner of the bench, her face flushed from rushing down six flights of stairs.
“Everyone and their granny were ahead of me looking for parking spaces so I had to keep going up and up. You look lovely,” she finished.
“Make-up is a wonderful thing,” Jo remarked.
“You should have seen me an hour ago. This morning sickness thing is not funny, not bloody funny at all.”
“You poor thing Aisling said comfortingly.
“It is horrible.
But you’re looking all right now, aren’t you?”
“I think so,” Jo stood up gingerly, took a deep breath and found that she didn’t feel sick any more.
“Right. Let’s shop.”
Twenty pounds’ worth of pregnancy books and a pair of elastic-wasted trousers later, both women were tired of shopping. They’d been in what felt like every shop in Dublin and the Eason’s bag was growing heavier
with every step. Deciding that she was now ravenously hungry, Jo suggested an early pub lunch.
They make the most amazing toasted sandwiches in here she said, leading the way into a small pub on Mary Street.
Like an oasis in the middle of one of the city’s busiest shopping districts, the inside of the quaint, atmospheric pub was cool and welcoming. The pub’s trademark dark wooden chairs and stools were already occupied by regulars who knew better than to saunter into Keating’s during the lunchtime rush if they wanted a seat.
Aromatic smells of barbecued chicken, toasted cheese and garlicky potatoes filled the air and, by the time she led Aisling upstairs to sit in two huge armchairs in the tiny gallery, Jo was hungry enough to eat for three, never mind two.
“Listen to this,” she murmured, scouring the handwritten menu hungrily. Toasted BLTs on garlic bread or cajun chicken with sauteed mushrooms mmm. The food is just amazing here. I could eat two of everything right now! But I’ll have … the chicken. Yes, chicken.”
The cheese salad sandwich sounds nice,” said Aisling, wondering why she didn’t feel hungrier.
“Cheese salad on brown,” she smiled at the casually dressed young waiter who’d appeared pen in hand beside them.
And a little bottle of white wine, if you have icy-cold ones, thanks.” She smiled at him ‘again, but he was already gazing warmly at Jo, eager to please the attractive brunette who was biting her full lips tentatively as she considered what to have.
Wouldn’t it be nice to have that effect on men, Aisling mused, watching the waiter watching Jo. She was used to being ignored when she was out with Jo, although she had never been jealous of her friend’s ability to attract men effortlessly. Aisling had simply never considered herself attractive enough to compete with Jo’s potent sex appeal.
It had been exactly the same when they shared the flat. No matter how long Aisling had spent curling her eyelashes with the, horrible metal
curler or applying judicious amounts of blusher to where her cheekbones should have been, she always felt a little dowdy beside Jo.
Even in those awful secondhand dungarees of hers with her hair tumbling around her shoulders like she’d just been standing in a wind tunnel, Jo still looked good. Men flocked to her as though hypnotised or, as Jo liked to joke, ‘like slugs drawn to begonias’.
“Chicken with garlic potatoes,” Jo said firmly.
“And a cup of coffee. Do you have decaffeinated?”
“Of course,” murmured the waiter.
“Do you want anything else?”
“No.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t offer you a full massage and champagne,” Aisling remarked when he’d gone, full of twenty something unfulfilled lust.
“Young guys are all the same,” Jo said dismissively, settling back into her armchair.
“Give them one smile and they’re already imagining you with your clothes off.”
“Not in my experience, they aren’t. The last time I smiled at a young man he was packing my shopping in Dunnes and he looked at me like I was on day release from John of God’s.”
Aisling sighed heavily.
“But how can I expect strangers to fancy me if my husband doesn’t.” Now the Valium was wearing off, she felt miserable again, miserable and hopeless.
“Come on, Ash,” soothed Jo, patting her on the knee.
“There’s no point torturing yourself. It’s not your fault.”
“But it is,” she wailed.
“It is. It’s all my fault. I pushed him away. No wonder he wanted someone else.” She started to cry silently, her body shaking as the tears started rolling down her
Jo could do nothing except clasp Aisling’s hand between her own. That bastard, thought Jo vehemently.
“Salad sandwich and wine,” announced the waiter, planting a small plate, a wine glass and a small green bottle on the table in front of Aisling without looking at her, ‘and chicken.” The timbre of his voice
changed as he gently placed a large heaped dinner plate before Jo.
“Your coffee is coming,” he added, gazing at her hopefully.
Jo ignored him.
“Ash, you can’t go to pieces, you can’t,” she said gently.
“He’s gone, but the boys aren’t. They need you now and you can’t let them down.”
She grabbed the paper napkin the waiter had laid reverently in front of her and handed it to Aisling.
“Blow,” she commanded. Aisling blew.
“Listen, I wish it was different, but it isn’t. We’ve both been dumped, nothing’s going to change that, Ash. So we’ve got two choices: we could both go to pieces, cry all day, beg them to come back and bawl in front of anyone who’ll listen.” Jo took a deep breath.
“We could decide to be victims. My baby would be born totally screwed up because I’d be totally screwed up having her, and the twins would turn into little brats from being dragged back and forth between you and Michael.
“We can’t do that to them, can we, Ash?”
Aisling shook her head silently.
“Or we can fight back, survive on our own,” Jo emphasised the words heavily, determined to get her message past the wall of misery Aisling was erecting around herself.
“Maybe Michael will come running back to you, but you can’t rely on that. You have to be strong on your own and so do I. Who knows,” she added wryly, “Richard could be frantically speaking to my answering machine as we speak, begging forgiveness” She broke off with a sarcastic chuckle.
She could just picture his face the night before, furious that he wasn’t getting his own way for once. The chances of him changing his mind about the baby were slimmer than her chances of fitting into her jeans in about six months’ time.
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right.” Aisling opened her eyes abruptly and rubbed the napkin over her cheeks. Then she sat up in her chair and picked up the wine bottle. She poured most of the contents into her glass and took a deep draught.
“I know he’s not coming back, you know.” Her voice shook as she said it.
“I just don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to believe it. I want to exist in the happy place in my head where everything’s all right, where he’s just at work and where he’ll be home tonight.”
“I know.” Jo stared back at Aisling. Picking up her fork, Jo stuck it into a steaming pile of slivered golden potatoes oozing with garlic.
“Despite everything, despite what Richard said about the baby, I’d still take him back,” she said quietly.
“But he’s not coming back though, is he? So it’s up to me now. It’s up to us.
We have to get on with it, Ash,” she urged.
“You’ve got to get some sort of a life for yourself, get a job and
..”
“Get a job now. I can barely think straight, never mind actually do something I’ve been terrified of for years!” Almost crying again, Aisling stared at her friend in horror.
Jo went on eating.
“You can’t be serious?” Aisling demanded.
“Of course I am the other woman answered with her mouth full.
“Realistically, you’re now a one-parent family and, even if Michael is so wracked with guilt that he pays you huge amounts of maintenance for the boys for the next couple of months, it will inevitably change.” She knew she was being brutal, but Aisling had to face facts.
“You don’t know what he’s going to do now, and he could, well they could, have a family and …” she paused to fork up more chicken, spearing a delicious-looking bit of potato as well.
Aisling stared dully at her untouched sandwich, her eyes red-rimmed and sad. God this was difficult, Jo thought.
“I’m sorry, Ash. I’m trying to help, but I’m not making a very good job of it, am I?”
Aisling took another large slug of wine and prodded her sandwich listlessly. She wasn’t even vaguely hungry now, although Jo’s chicken was disappearing faster than 99p knickers in a sale.
She knew Jo was speaking the truth. Hideous to imagine Michael setting up another home with that woman and having more children.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said slowly, twisting her wine glass around by its thin stem. There’s one slight problem.
What am I going to do?”
“Work in an office, of course. What you did before.”
That was eleven years ago. Everything’s computerised now and I haven’t a clue how to work a computer. Anyway, who’s going to employ me?” Aisling asked. There are three hundred thousand unemployed people in this country, so who the hell is going to take on a housewife with two kids, no experience, no skills and no confidence?”
Jo stirred three packets of sugar into her coffee, poured in milk and took a sip.
“When Michael met you, you were virtually running the entire motor department, not to mention studying for your Insurance Institute exams at night. You did all that when you were just twenty-two and you’re trying to tell me that you couldn’t do it now, when you’re older and more experienced?”
“It’s because I’m older that it seems impossible,” said Aisling weakly.
“We thought we could do anything when we were!
twenty-two, for God’s sake. It’s all totally different now, Jo.
You don’t understand!”.
“Understand what?”
“Just because you’ve a brilliant job at the magazine and’ buckets of confidence, doesn’t mean that everyone else is the same. Look at you,” Aisling cried.
“You’re a successful journalist, you’ve got your own car, your own apartment, your own bank account and independence.
“Maybe you think that’s nothing because most of your friends are journalists. But not everyone is talented and clever and able to walk into any job anywhere. I’m not afraid to work, Jo, but I’m afraid of looking for work and being told I’m too old or unskilled or useless.” She stopped miserably.
“Ash, when we met, what is it… fourteen, no, fifteen years ago, you were the one who was going to make something of her life,” said Jo passionately.
“I was absolutely terrified of being in Dublin, of going to college, of
having no one to go home to at night and talk about what went wrong that day. It was awful, you know what I was like.” She gulped down some more coffee.
“You gave me the confidence to stick it out in college when I really wanted to run home to my mother, and you kept me from falling for every asshole who asked me out. You were so strong Jo added gently.
“You still are. It’s just that you’ve forgotten.”
Had she forgotten, or was Jo just being kind, Aisling wondered? Had she ever been sure of herself, ready to stick her neck out because she knew she could do anything?
For a moment she remembered sitting in the kitchen at home, all dressed up in clothes from her first proper pay packet and telling a fascinated Sorcha what the department head had said to her that evening. Mum had been cooking dinner, eyes on the soup she was stirring on the spotless cooker but listening to every word about the motor department and how Margaret Synnott thought Aisling should start studying for the Insurance Institute exams as soon as possible.
“She said loads of people say they’re going to do them, but most of them don’t actually bother. But you get a bonus for each part of the exams you pass and she said if I want to get on, it would be worth it,” Aisling said, basking in Sorcha’s admiration of her new black leather boots.
“I know I said I was never going to study again in my whole life after the Leaving, but I don’t mind this. What do you think, Mum?”
Her mother stopped stirring and turned around, a warm smile on her face. Eithne Maguire had never been to a beauty parlour in her life, she got her hair inexpertly cut at the tiny hairdressing salon over the butcher’s shop and never spent money on her wardrobe when she could buy something for her children. But when she smiled, her whole face lit up and her blue eyes shone.
“I’m so proud of you, Aisling. I’ve always known you could do anything you put your mind to. Where did I get such a bright daughter she said fondly, hugging her firstborn.
“We’re all so proud of you. “This wasn’t strictly true and they both knew it. Nothing Aisling could do would ever be enough for her father but, for a few hours, that didn’t matter. Her mother, the one who’d always protected her from her strict and puritanical father and from his mother’s constant sniping, was proud of her daughter. That was enough.
There were tears in Aisling’s eyes as she leaned over and hugged Jo, but they weren’t sad tears.
Thank you. Nobody but Mum has said anything like that to me in years.”
“Well they should have,” replied Jo, forking up another mouthful of food.
“Since your bloody control freak of a father ripped every shred of confidence out of you when you were a kid, I’m not surprised that you still feel that way. Michael ought to have given you a pep talk every day to make sure you didn’t sink back into the mire of insecurity, but she shrugged expressively, ‘he’s a man, so why would he bother?
Ash, you can do it without him, I know you can.”
“I’m still hungry,” she added, scooping up the last bits of chicken off her plate.
“Here.” Aisling pushed her untouched sandwich over to her friend and waved to the waiter.
Another coffee and another bottle of wine,” she said sharply. She wasn’t going to waste her time smiling at him this time. Career women didn’t have time to worry about rude waiters.
It was nearly half one by the time they’d walked back to the Ilac Centre and said goodbye beside the lifts to the car park.
Jo wanted to go home via the office and pick up some work she had to finish before Monday, Aisling needed to get some groceries before the boys got home from football at three. She only needed bread and milk and she could get that at the news agent
She’d spent her last tenner on lunch so she walked back towards the Ilac’s cash dispenser and slid her card in. She was just punching in her PIN number when a thought struck her how much money did they have
in the cash save account? Michael topped up their current account with his salary, but he put anything left over in the cash save account.
“If we put everything in the current account, we’ll just keep writing cheques,” he said.
“We’ve got to save something. You never know when you’re going to need a lump sum, Aisling.”
Aisling never pointed out that she was anything but reckless when it came to money. Years of listening to her grandmother drone on about wasting money had instilled in her a sense of economy. When they were first married, she bought her fruit and vegetables from a tiny greengrocer, bought meat cheaply from a small, family-run butcher and wouldn’t have dreamed of buying bread when she could bake it herself.
Now that Michael was earning a good salary, she’d stopped the time-consuming trekking around buying cheap fruit and vegetables and bought everything in the supermarket. But she still carefully cut out money-off coupons, turned her old Tshirts into dusters and made her own soup, bread and marmalade. Nobody could accuse her of frittering away the family’s money.
She pressed the ‘account inquiry’ button, chose the cash save account and waited. There’d been at least three thousand pounds in there the last time she’d looked. Michael kept saying he was going to transfer it into the building society account, their ‘holiday’ fund.
But when she’d asked him about taking a holiday the previous month, Michael had been very vague about when he could take time off. The supplement had changed everything, he muttered, he couldn’t just leave the country a month after getting it off the ground.
No wonder he hadn’t been keen to look at the brochures she’d picked up from the travel agency, Aisling thought grimly. Three weeks camping in France with the family obviously paled beside the thought of a scorching week in the sun rubbing Ambre Solaire into that bitch!
She scowled as she looked at the small green numbers on the cash dispenser screen. Jesus. What was wrong? Three hundred and thirty
pounds was all that was left in the cash save account. Aisling stared at the figures intently. That couldn’t be right.
She was sure he hadn’t moved the money, or maybe he had and just hadn’t told her? Flustered, she pushed the button to check the current account. They were nearly two hundred pounds overdrawn. Aisling looked at the little ‘dr’ beside the total and felt weak. What the hell was going on? Why were they overdrawn? She hadn’t spent very much lately, apart from the dress she’d bought yesterday.
“Do you want more time?” demanded the little green letters on the screen. Just more money, thought Aisling, feeling the faint stirrings of temper. She quickly withdrew two hundred pounds, as much as she could take out in one day. Snatching her money from the machine, she stuffed it into her purse and turned round rapidly, cannoning into a young man waiting behind her.
“Watch out, missus!” he said to her departing back. Aisling didn’t even hear him. She was already halfway to the lifts, her growing rage giving her a fierce, angry energy. All the lifts were on the upper floors and a small crowd of shoppers waited for them, idling away the time examining their shopping bags and chatting.
Normally, Aisling would have waited for the lift, not keen on panting up endless flights of stairs. Today, she ran up the stairs, her heart pumping and her temper boiling. How dare he take everything out of the account! How dare he!
What sort of a bastard was he to leave her and the boys, and then take all their bloody money into the bargain!
What the hell were she and the twins supposed to live on?
How were they going to pay the mortgage or buy food without any money? What a bastard! She could kill him, would kill him.
Wait until I get my hands on you, Michael Moran, she growled under her breath as she marched towards her car.
You’ll be sorry you ever heard of bloody Jennifer Carroll, I’ll see to that! Aisling dragged open the car door and threw her handbag in. I
never thought he’d stoop so low as to take money from his kids’ mouths, she thought, grinding that gearshift into first.
She’d never driven out of the city centre so fast. Barely noticing amber lights, she wove in and out of different lanes, gritting her teeth and swearing at other drivers.
No matter how terrible the previous day had been, no matter how devastated she’d felt when Michael told her he didn’t love her, she’d had one consolation. The boys. If Michael wanted some high-flying career woman with legs up to her armpits and a wardrobe full of basques and suspender belts, then he could have her.
But Aisling would always have the boys, their beloved boys.
And if Michael ever got bored with Ms Carroll, he could always come home for Phillip and Paul’s sakes. And for hers.
She wouldn’t turn him away, couldn’t turn him away. She loved him, despite everything. a That thought had consoled her, knowing that Michael would find it hard to be apart from his children and that he’d have to come home. Eventually.
Or so she’d thought. Obviously, she’d been wrong. If he could callously strip their bank account, knowing that Aisling had no other means to support the twins, then he’d gone too far. He could discard her, but not Phillip and Paul. Damn him, but she’d fight him tooth and nail for every penny the boys needed!
What sort of man would get up early the morning after leaving his wife, and drain their bank account? Suddenly it all made sense. Aisling, you fool! If you could only withdraw two hundred pounds with your bank card in one day, that’s all he could take out too. Which meant that he hadn’t just grabbed the money this morning, he’d been siphoning it out for a few weeks! What a pig!
She’d never forgive him. If he thought she was going to be a pushover, crying every time she saw him and begging him to come back, he was wrong. She was going to be as hard as nails and every bit as cunning as he had been to protect her children. Watch out you bastard, she
hissed. When she opened the front door, she immediately knew he’d been there. Flyers for a pizza company were thrown casually on the hall table, the way only Michael left them. That always drove her mad. Why couldn’t he bring them into the kitchen and either stick them in the basket where she put the bills or put them in the bin? Because tidying up was her job, of course.
She didn’t even bother to pick up the flyers, but ran upstairs to their bedroom. His side of the wardrobe was open, a couple of metal hangers lay on the bottom shelf where Michael usually kept his shoes.
He’d taken everything, suits, trousers, and the shirts she ironed so carefully, leaving nothing but a forgotten belt hanging forlornly from the tie rack inside the door. She checked the drawers and their en suite bathroom. Everything of Michael’s was gone. Only a damp ring remained beside the sink as proof that his aftershave had stood there, the big bottle of Eternity for Men she’d bought him for Christmas, thinking that forty quid a bottle was a bit pricey.
He’d even remembered to take his shower gel, the tangy lemon-scented one he preferred to her coconut version.
He’d remembered everything, she thought bitterly. He’d never managed to do that during their twelve years of marriage. Packing for holidays had always been a nightmare, as she had to remember everything Michael and the boys needed. If she didn’t stick his shaving kit in the suitcase, he was quite likely to forget it. Not so today. This time Michael wasn’t coming back after two weeks.
Good. She didn’t want him back. But she damn well wanted to know where their money was. In the bedroom, she picked up the phone and dialled the News.
The deputy editor’s office,” she snapped.
“Hello.” His voice sounded the same as it had the night before. Calm and relaxed. She was going to knock that out of him, that was for sure.
“What the hell have you done with the money from the cash save
account?” she demanded. “Aisling?”
“No, it’s Cindy-bloody-Crawford. Of course it’s me, your poor bewildered wife, the one who never noticed you taking all our money from our joint account. How did you do it, huh? Take out two hundred with your card every day in anticipation of dumping me?”
“Stop screaming down the phone, Aisling,” he said coldly.
“And stop making wild accusations. I didn’t steal anything.”
“Where’s the money then?”
“In a separate account, your account.”
“What account?” she demanded.
“Didn’t you read my note?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s on the bed, on your side.”
It was all her side now.
“Listen,” Michael said wearily, “I opened an account for you last month. I knew this would all come to a head and I wanted to sort out things financially. I’m not going to let the kids starve just because we’ve split up, so I talked to a solicitor about the best way to handle things, and he advised me to open an account for you.”
Aisling was dumbstruck. He’d talked to a solicitor over a month ago. He must have been planning this for months.
What a bastard.
“Are you listening, Aisling?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. There’s one thousand five hundred in the account. I left the details on the dressing table. I’m going to close the current and cash save accounts. We don’t need joint accounts any more.”
She sat down on the bed, only half listening. He’d consulted a solicitor over a month ago, that was how sure he was that their marriage was over.
“I can’t believe you’ve been coldbloodedly planning this without telling me,” she said slowly.
“I haven’t time to discuss it,” he said harshly.
“I’ll look after the boys financially, but I’m not keeping you in luxury for the rest of your life. I’m not a bottomless pit, Aisling.
You’ll have to get a job. You’ve always said you wanted one, anyway.”
“And you never wanted me to get one she screamed.
“You absolute bastard! I’d like to kill you!”
“I don’t have time to listen to your insults,” Michael said coldly.
“I’ve a job to do. Unlike you.” With that, he hung up, I leaving Aisling mouthing furiously at the dialling tone.
The note was on her pillow, a page ripped from a notebook and covered with Michael’s distinctive scrawl. A small, blue lodgement receipt was under it.
“Aisling, I’m sorry you aren’t here. I wanted to talk to you about money and about the boys. I’ve opened an account for you and put half of the holiday money in it. I’d like to talk to the boys myself, it’s important that they hear it from both of us. I’ll ring you later about coming over this evening.”
That was it. No ‘love, Michael’. Well, he didn’t, did he? Damn him. He even expected her to wait patiently for him to turn up in the evening so they could tell the boys together. He could bloody well stuff his idea of dropping in when he wanted. He’d have to consult her before he set foot in the house. If Michael wanted to fight, she’d fight back!