Olive arrived eventually, apologetic and out of breath. ‘I’m desperately sorry,’ she pecked the air near Victoria’s left ear. ‘Forgiven?’
‘What kept you?’ Victoria asked crossly. ‘I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.’
‘Sorry,’ Olive looked sufficiently upset. ‘Wow, what a coat!’
‘Thanks,’ Victoria fingered the leather collar. ‘Don’t ask how much it cost.’
Olive hadn’t intended asking. She didn’t want to be depressed for the rest of the week. ‘So how are all the party preparations going?’
‘Nightmare.’ Victoria killed her cigarette. She hailed a passing waiter. ‘My friend here is looking for a drink.’
‘Has everyone RSVP’d?’
‘Are you mad? Abou
t half of them haven’t. Igno
rant feckers.’
‘So who hasn’t replied?’
‘Well, Valerie in Australia.’
‘Well, that’s fair enough, her reply is probably on the way.’
‘I suppose, but you know with e-mail and all that nobody really has any excuse. And Margaret hasn’t got back to me either. She’s a funny one. You know she’s separated, don’t you? Apparently her husband was giving her more than the odd slap. Imagine! I dunno if she’ll show up at the party at all.’
‘Poor Margaret.’ Olive looked sad.
‘Oh, she’s not the only one to have fallen on hard times,’ Victoria continued. ‘A number of our ex-classmates are in a bad way. Not everyone is as lucky as you and I, Olive.’
She gave Olive a triumphant little smile even though secretly she didn’t think Olive had done particularly well at all. She worked in the civil-yawn- service and had married her boss, a dull dreary- looking man with the personality of a double-glazed window. They lived in an estate where rotten little locals played ball on the road and sat on her front wall. Ugh.
But apparently all of the women in Olive’s office had had a kind of a thing for him – so Olive in her own way thought she’d got a bit of a catch. Ha! The office stud! Ha!
‘What about Carmen?’ Olive asked.
‘Carmen’s coming,’ Victoria brightened. ‘With her boyfriend. Lovely lovely guy – one of the Stohans
– property and racing, you’ve heard of the family, I’m sure. Mind you, he isn’t showing any signs of committing to poor old Carmen. And I mean it’s not like he’s not in a position to tie the knot, you know – from a financial point of view. I wonder what’s holding him back?’
‘Maybe she’s holding back?’
‘Ah rubbish, sure why would s
he hold back? You’re very nai
ve, Olive.’
‘But they’re living together so the relationship must be quite serious.’
‘It’s not the same thing,’ Victoria scoffed. ‘That is not the same thing at all.’
‘Is Anna Allstone coming?’
Victoria lit another cigarette. ‘Who?’
‘Anna Allstone.’
‘I don’t remember her at all.’ Victoria frowned.
‘You must. She was . . . I dunno . . . blonde with kind of chubby cheeks . . . nice girl though . . . quiet.’
‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about. Who did she pal around with?’
‘A girl called Claire, she was . . .’
‘Oh yes, I remember now, ha ha. Little and Large. Ha ha ha ha . . . No, I don’t suppose she’s coming, I haven’t heard from her yet. Pity really. She might have provided us with a good giggle.’
Outside The Barge in Ranelagh, Claire sat in her car listening to great big heavy drops of rain pound the windscreen. With big baby blue eyes Andrew watched his mother from where he was strapped into the back seat. She stifled a yawn. She’d been waiting nearly two hours now.
The pub was beginning to empty out. Suddenly she felt terribly lonely and silly. What in the name of God did she think she’d achieve by spying on her husband in the middle of the night? It wasn’t normal. None of this was.
Andrew began to whimper. It was way past his bedtime.
‘Don’t cry, pet,’ she pleaded softly. ‘Mummy’s going to bring you home so
on.’ She switched on the head
lights, turned on the engine and put the gear in reverse. Suddenly she froze as her world seemed to come to a halt. There they were. God. Simon and Shelley. Together. She was in her little black-leather mini, sheltering under Simon’s big black umbrella. He had his arm around her shoulder. They were laughing.
Laughing.
And Andrew was in the back crying.
Claire felt sick. Andrew’s whimpering became louder and louder. Claire was panicking. Should she get out now or just drive home and decide what to do from there?
Then something made her blood run cold.
Shelley had reached up and kissed her husband full smack on the lips.
Right, that was IT!
She jumped out of the car and slammed the door. Walking boldly towards them, she didn’t notice the rain saturating her head and neck.
‘Simon,’ she screeched.
Her husband froze. So did Shelley.
‘Simon,’ she was a lot closer now, ‘get into the car.’
‘Wh . . . what’s the matter?’
‘GET INTO THE CAR, DO YOU HEAR?’
‘Go on, Simon,’ Shelley urged.
‘But what about you? Will you be okay to get home?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Claire roared at him. ‘If she’s able to go around stealing other people’s men, she’s well able to get her little ass home to whatever hole she crawled out of.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ Shelley’s eyes hardened. ‘As if I’m after your husband. You really need to get yourself a life.’
‘A life like yours? I don’t think so,’ Claire said acidly. ‘Come on, Simo
n, we’ll carry on this con
versation at home.’
In stony silence they walked to the car.
‘Why did you bring Andrew with you?’ Simon seemed astounded to see his son in the back seat.
‘Well, I was hardly going to leave him home alone while his mother was out spying on his father chasing whores.’
‘Chasing whores? What on earth is up with you?’
‘I saw you kiss that stupid bitch.’
‘She kissed me. That’s Shelley’s thing. She kisses everybody.’ Simon shrugged, ‘It’s just her thing. I’m sorry it bothere
d you so much. It won’t hap
pen again.’
‘Well, I won’t be around to witness it if it does.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll see,’ Claire said quietly. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Dad? Hi, it’s me.’
‘Deirdre? Is that you calling from America? Don’t you be wasting your money now.’
‘No, Dad, it’s me, Claire.’
‘Oh it’s you.’ Her father paused. ‘Well, there’s nobody here.’
Claire hated the way he always said that. She was tempted to say ‘Actually, Dad, it’s you I wanted to talk to. How’s life? Seen anything on TV recently? Any new spuds in the garden?’
But she didn’t.
‘When will Mum be back?’ she asked instead.
‘I don’t know,’ he sounded irritable. ‘She’s out with your Nan.’
‘I was thinking of coming down to see you,’ she tried to sound cheerful.
‘Well, you’ll have to let yourself in. I can’t be here waiting for you.’
‘That’s no problem.’
She heard the phone go dead.
‘Bye bye, Dad,’ she muttered. He was probably rushing out to buy a few balloons, she thought sarcastically. Oh well, she’d made up her mind now. She was leaving. Andrew was coming with her. Simon would survive. Of course he would. With a VBF like Shelley who needed a wife? Let Simon wonder what the hell she was up to now. Let him see how much fun it was.
She scribbled her goodbyes on the back of an envelope.
Gone to Mum’s. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Claire
P.S. Don’t forget to feed Blackie
.
She propped it up on the kitchen table against a bunch of dying flowers. There, that should make him stew.
Poor Blackie seemed upset to see her pack the car boot. It was as if he knew being left at home with Simon wouldn’t exactly be a bundle of laughs.
She was all set. Andrew, dressed in a fluffy yellow cardigan, was strapped into the back seat.
Three and a half hours later she arrived in
Limerick.
Her mother was in a tizzy because the spare room wasn’t made up. Every window in the place was open to let the air circulate. Claire shivered. It was freezing.
Her sister Aileen was lying on the sitting-room floor munching Taytos, a big green towel wrapped around her head. ‘Claire!’ Her big chubby face broke into a smile when she saw her sister. ‘Andrew, coo chi coo angel baby. It’s your Auntie Aileen. Yes it is. Oh yes it is.’
‘Aileen, would you ever get dressed, you big lazy lump,’ Claire’s mother barked. ‘Honestly, Claire, you arrived at a really bad time. I can’t have you disrupting everyone like this. Aileen’s supposed to be studying for her finals and that brother of yours is hoping to pass his leaving.’
Aileen made a face behind her mother’s back.
‘Talk to you later,’ she said. ‘I dunno why you bother coming to visit. Once I leave home I’ll never put foot in this house ever again.’
It was funny, Claire thought, when you were away from home you lived with this kind of misconception that you missed your family and they missed you. But in reality they’d probably never even noticed you’d left in the first place.
Mrs Fiscon pinched Andrew’s cheek and frowned.
‘He’s very thin.’
‘He’s not thin,’ Cla
ire scowled. ‘He’s just nor
mal.’
‘Are you feeding him the right food?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘You don’t want to be giving him too much sugar,’ her mother insisted. ‘I made that mistake with Aileen and look at her now. She’s huge.’
‘She’s studying,’ Claire countered.
‘Well, she’s down here every five minutes with her head stuck in the fridge. Both of them have me driven demented.’
‘Poor Mum. You’re worn out.’
‘I notice you’re looking a bit worn out yourself.’ She picked up one of her father’s white shirts and draped it across the ironing board. ‘When was the last time you got your hair done?’
‘Mum, I’ve been up to my eyes looking after
Andrew and . . .’
‘I raised five children and never missed my weekly hairdressing appointment.’ Her mother patted her coiffed auburn bob. ‘What about that money I gave you? Have you bought something nice yet?’
‘No,’ Claire admitted guiltily.
‘You’ll have to pull up your socks, Claire. You’re thirty going on fifty
. You’ll just have to cop your
self on.’
Claire’s father trudged in from the cold and threw his hat and coat onto the kitchen table. ‘Claire,’ he acknowledged his eldest daughter.
‘Dad,’ she returned the acknowledgement. The Fiscon household was not one where you’d throw your arms around someone and give them a big hug.
Claire suddenly thought of Anna’s home and all its walls plastered in photos of the family. The pictures on these walls were of cows and sheep and tearful-looking members of God’s family.
‘He’s the image of me.’ Mr Fiscon picked his only grandchild up and threw him in the air. Claire was about to object but didn’t when she heard Andrew squeal with laughter. ‘He’ll be a fine rugby player.’ Claire’s father had played rugby for Ireland and was somewhat of a rugby hero in the area. His son Mickey was a bitter disappointment to him. He didn’t see why grown men would run around a field after a ball. He was more into poetry and jazz and stuff that meant something.
‘George, hang up your coat, dinner’s ready.’
Her husband obediently cleared the table. Aileen was called down. Mickey was nowhere to be found. As usual. He thought family dinners were naff.
‘Did you make sure to leave plenty of food in the house for Simon?’ her mother asked between mouthfuls of Shepherd’s pie.
‘Of course I did,’ Claire lied. Of course she didn’t. The whole point of going away was to make Simon suffer. If she’d left him any food he wouldn’t notice she was missing.
‘He’s a fine lad, Simon.’ Mr Fiscon spoke with his mouth full. He adored the fact that his son-in-law could talk for hours about rugby.