It was late. She’d go to bed. She’d put on her sexiest nightie instead of the old tracksuit she’d got used to sleeping in. Maybe Simon would want to make mad passionate love to her when he got home. She was his wife. She was young. She was pretty. Still. And
they said women hit their sexual
pe
ak sometime
in
their thirties. This was not
the time to let herself go.
She popped into the baby room. Andrew was breathing softly. Claire smiled. It was a
miracle that herself and Simon had produced this incredible little being. She had
to make this marriage
work for An
drew’s sake. She shut the door
quietly.
Slipping on a flimsy nightie, Claire sank onto the huge bed with feather pillows and sumptuous duvet. She remembere
d buying this bed. The mari
tal bed. She’d felt so grown up in the furniture shop discussing the different types of beds with the salesman. The mattress couldn’t be too soft because Simon’s back wasn’t the best. And the bed with the shelves underneath would probably be the best-buy. Nothing too fancy or too fashionable. Because they didn’t intend replacing it every couple of years. And nothing too ridiculous
either, like a four-
poster, say.
They’d had a lot of fun in that bed
, Claire gave a little smile. Of course, these day
s it was used for sleeping and not much else. Andrew’s arrival
had made sure of that.
It was funny, the baby had dominated every waking hour of his first few months in the world. Claire’s
unobtainable
dream had been an uninter
rupted night’s sleep. Now she longed for something else. A bit of passion. Some spice. She remembered an article she’d read in the dentist’s waiting room. It was all about jazzing up your sex life. It wasn’t the type of thing you’d like people to see you reading. Some of the tips were bizarre. Like dressing up as a maid. Claire knew that that was out of the question. Sure if Simon saw her in an apron and a frilly white hat, he’d presume she was doing a massive spring clean. If she messed around with chocolate sauce, Simon would be furious for soiling the bed clothes. There’d been a number that you could ring to
order a catalogue. But suppose they delivered it to Mrs Murphy next door
by mistake?
Anyway, surely the tips were for people married a long time? Or weird people. Not for a normal healthy young couple. No, there had to be a better solution than resorting to shameful sex toys. Suppose they had a fire that burned everything except the glow-in-the-dark dildo? Or suppose Anna called over one night when they were away to feed Blackie and stumbled acros
s a box of canary-coloured con
doms. After all people couldn’t help having a little snoop around. Even though they’d rather die than admit it.
Claire had to start
re-igniting the flames of pas
sion. Simon would then see her as a woman once more. Not just the mother of his son. She’d have to stop talking about nappies et cetera. ‘There’s nothing as dull as a woman who can talk about nothing other than her offspring,’ her mother had once said. She’d been right.
Claire awoke in the darkness to the sound of rain thundering on the roof. She sat bolt upright in the bed. Where was Simon? A wave of cold perspiration engulfed her. Her mind was racing. What had happened to him? Why hadn’t he come home? She leapt from the bed and tore into the spare room. The neatly made single bed hadn’t been touched. She ran to the window and pulled back the curtains. The car was gone. Oh God, suppose he’d crashed? Suppose he was lying in a ditch somewhere covered in blood? Caught in a whirlwind of panic she thought about ringing the police. But they might laugh at her paranoia. They probably knew about husbands who stayed away for the night. She returned to the main bedroom and tried Simon’s mobile. ‘The customer you are calling is unavailable. Please try again.’
Anna was single again.
Steve had sat up in the bed on Saturday morning and decided the relationship was affecting his studies. Anna also sat up and lit a cigarette. A spring dawn was creeping through the curtains making the room look yellow. She in
haled the smoke deeply and won
dered how she could leave the room with her dignity still intact.
A little something in Anna had died, as it did when any man suddenly decided he didn’t want to share his life with her any more. It was an ego thing. It bruis
ed her. She knew the whole ‘studying’ thing was rubbish. Women weren’t as naı¨ve as men thought. But thankfully she wasn’t
that
cut up. Perhaps the fact that Steve had given her the boot before made it easier. At least she didn’t have t
hat terrible sense of despair she’d felt in the past – that she’d never ever again find someone else to love. Realistically she knew she didn’t love Steve.
He was a nice guy, a nice young guy who simply had neither the time, the money nor the interest to take her out.
Life went on. She’d learned that much over the years. She was ma
ture now. No more bombard
ing her ex-loves with frantic phone calls, telling them she thought they were different, as if guilt could somehow make them come back. No more slamming down phones hysterically, mourning for days and then going out and repeating the process all over again.
She was all grown up now, or so she liked to think. She wouldn’t be twenty again for anything. How had she walked around with so little self-respect? God, it seemed like ye
sterday. Those days spent hang
ing around student bars throwing herself at guys who showed zero interest. Guys who’d eventually got off with her because they were so drunk and she’d just happened to be there. A horrible thought struck her. If twenty seemed like yesterday, then forty was like . . . like tomorrow. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
‘I agree with you,’ she told Steve, reaching for an empty coke can to deposit her cigarette butt.
‘If you don’t start slogging now, you’ve a lousy life ahead of you.’
Steve didn’t seem too delighted by her enthusiasm.
‘You sound like you wanted this too,’ he said.
‘You’re right.’ Anna reached for her T-shirt and yanked it over her head. Her smile was practically sellotaped on. ‘I’ve kind of moved on . . . met s
ome
one else . . . someone older,’ she grinned plastically, knowing how much that would hurt.
‘Right,’ said Steve.
‘Right,’ said Anna. ‘Now where are my socks?’
Like a warrior bracing for battle Claire pushed Andrew’s bu
ggy down Dún
Laoighaire pier. She didn’t see the young couples strolling arm in arm alongside her. Didn’t notice the kids racing in circles around her or the excited dogs barking joyfully, delighted with their weekly dose of fresh air. She saw only the pale Irish sky and bleak uncertainty ahead. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Simon had arrived home this morning. At seven.
He’d showered wordlessly and left again. No explanations.
She’d thrown his shirt, tinged with cigarette smoke and beer stains in the wash along with Andrew’s soiled bibs. How in the world could their marriage survive this kind of carry on?
Reaching the end of the pier, she settled herself on one of the benches and resumed normal breathing. The wind was playing havoc with her hair and she punished it by trapping it in a scrunchie. As usual the sun was dancing over the hills at Howth. Why didn’t she just go and live there, she thought wearily.
‘Still here?’ A hand on her shoulder made her start.
‘Tom!’ Her face br
oke into a smile upon recog
nizing him. ‘How’s it going? It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Ditto,’ he laughed and patted Andrew’s curly head.
She hadn’t honestly expected to bump into him again so soon. Though she had to admit, the meeting wasn’t totally unexpected. He’d told her he walked the pier regularly.
He sat down beside her.
‘Guess what? I spoke to Emma yesterday. She’s made it to Australia and is loving it.’
‘Great.’ His face lit up. ‘I’m delighted for her.’
‘Yeah, it makes me feel jealous. I should have taken the plunge and done it myself.’
‘Oz is great. I think the climate has a lot to do with it. The sun puts people in a great mood.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever get there now.’ Claire twiddled her ponytail. ‘I’m too old.’
‘Would you go away out of that? Sure, you’re only a young thing,’ Tom said generously.
‘Thanks. The fresh air out here makes me feel young.’
‘It certainly does blow away those work cob
-
webs.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘I’m a computer analyst.’
‘God. No wonder you spend half your life here.’
‘Well it pays the bills. But it’s far from fascinating. Ideally I’d like to paint full time. I’m mad about art . . . but that won’t keep the wolf from the door. What do you do yourself ?’
‘I’m a housewife.’ Claire felt herself go crimson. Christ, she felt so old-fashioned. Like she’d suddenly arrived from another era. The word ‘housewife’ was horrible. It sounded like you were married to your house or something.
‘Goo ga goo . . .’ Andrew interrupted as if on cue. They both laughed.
‘I think that’s great,’ Tom said diplomatically. ‘If I’d . . . if I’d ever got married,’ he continued very quietly, ‘I’d have liked to support my wife.’
‘That’s what you think,’ Claire said tonelessly,
‘but what would have happened when the glamorous woman you fell in love with turned into a dowdy frump who talked about nothing but the price of Pampers?’
Tom turned to her, startled. With horror Claire realized her massive blunder. God, how could she be so senseless? Tom had lost the woman he’d wanted to marry. Of
course
he’d never thought of her as a frump. For the rest of his life he’d remember her as she was – young, vibrant and in love with life. For a moment Claire felt strangely jealous of the dead woman. She’d never grow old. He’d never get the chance to get sick of her.
‘I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean what I said,’ the words stumbled out awkwardly. She rose unsteadily.
He extended a hand and pulled her down again. His eyes searched hers. ‘You surely don’t think . . . you don’t think of yourself as a . . . ?’
‘No.’ Claire stared at the concrete beneath her feet.
‘Because––’ he said and stopped.
‘What?’
‘Because . . . oh God, I don’t know if it’s my place to say it but you’re one of the most attractive girls I’ve ever met.’
And he turned away quickly before he could see her face.
Outside head office, Anna plucked a few fair hairs off her black business-like suit. Trembling, she tried to light a cigarette. The wind would simply not allow it. Damn. This wouldn’t do at all. Her nerves were in bits. Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d fifteen minutes to kill. Sitting in the reception area like a spare tool was not an option. Ref
uge was sought in a nearby café
.
She ordered a black coffee, which burnt her tongue. She set the cup down again and managed to successfully light her cigarette. Why was she so bloody excited? A few weeks ago she hadn’t given a hoot. But a lot had happened since then – Elaine’s hostility, June’s perpetual
I know you’re going to fail, loser
smirk, Steve and Jake’s rapid disappearance. She had to get this job. If only for her self-esteem. She
had
to.
Anna noticed to he
r dismay that the tiny incon
spicuous hole in her barely black tights had suddenly expanded and a ladder was subsequently riding up her thigh. Oh Christ, why? She pulled down her knee-length skirt as far as it would go. Not a hell of a lot else could be done now.
‘What are the individual qualities you feel you could bring to the new position?’ Mr Walton pushed his glasses back onto his nose.
Anna took a deep breath before she answered.
‘Professionalism, dedication . . .’
‘Dedication, hmmm.’ Mr Walton wrote something down. His assistant was not with him today. Was she on leave? Had she resigned? What did it matter? Anna chided herself. Why was she contemplating such ridiculous trivialities during what was probably the most important interview of her life.