And with that he got up and left her sitting there alone absolutely mortified, her cheeks burning with shame and humiliation. Because she knew that everything he said was true – she did act and behave like a slut. The only difference between her and a prostitute was that she didn’t get paid. But glancing over at Katy and Marie, she told herself she didn’t care. She put a cocky smile on her face and sauntered back to them and told them lies about the conversation that had just taken place.
A week later she ended up at a post-pub party at a flat on the Shore Road. The flat – she’d no idea who lived there – was cold and desperately unkempt. The blood-red velvet curtains in the lounge were ripped in places, as though
someone deranged had slashed them with a knife. In the lounge there was only one battered sofa occupied by a lovey-dovey couple so everyone else stood or sat on the gritty carpet, trying to strum up a party atmosphere. Madonna was playing on a high-tech looking CD player that sat on the floor beside the TV, incongruous amidst the squalor.
In the cramped kitchen, there was a bad smell. The party food consisted of suspicious-looking coarse paté on stale cream crackers, sagging damply in the middle. The paté was drying out, cracked at the edges like mud in a heatwave. There was a story going round about students serving their guests dog food for a laugh. Janice picked up a cracker and sniffed it. It smelt okay. Still, she wasn’t going to risk it.
She pinched a warm beer from a Victoria Wine plastic bag on the counter and went back to the lounge where she leant against a wall with her right knee bent, the sole of her foot flat on the faded wallpaper. She would never have got away with that at home. Her mother was obsessively house-proud, fixated on keeping a clean and orderly home. She did housework every day and, apparently, enjoyed it, too busy with appearances to notice the rot within her own family.
The party was full of physiotherapy students from her course and lots of other people she’d never seen before. She’d gone alone because Marie and Katy had gone home for the weekend, as they often did. They’d return on Sunday night laden with home baking wrapped in metal foil and girlish stories of the local young farmers they would, no doubt, one day marry.
Janice had no intention herself of ever going home again. And sometimes, passing yet another tedious weekend all alone, she was envious of her new friends, jealous of their naïvety, their loving families and warm community, their certain faith that life was, and would continue to be, good to them. And most desirable of all, their belief that they
deserved it. Maybe that was why she tolerated them, in the hope that some of their magic might wear off on her.
Maybe that too was why she took the crumbs of comfort that came her way in the form of sexual intercourse – the only way she understood back then how to give and receive affection. The workman’s scathing words still echoed inside her head and she knocked back bottle after bottle of beer to try and erase them from her mind.
When a thin, bespeckled English lecturer, with a reputation as a letch, approached her in the hall she noted with satisfaction the wedding band on his finger.
He followed her gaze and rubbed the ring with the cracked edge of his right hand as though it might, the opposite of a genie, magically disappear. He sighed heavily and said, ‘I…er…we’re going through a bit of a bad patch at the moment. I’m renting a flat down here for a while. Just a temporary arrangement. Until we get things sorted out.’
Men were such lying bastards, Janice thought. The door behind her, to her right, lay slightly ajar. She put the flat of her palm against it and applied gentle pressure with her fingertips – the door yielded. She glanced inside. The room was dark but she could make out the shape of a single bed, the bedclothes in a heaped mess on the mattress. It was a girl’s room – she could tell by the smell of perfume and the tangles of female clothing, including white lacy pants, which were strewn across the floor. Whoever lived here was a dirty bitch. But at least that was better than blokes’ rooms which were, generally, ten times worse.
‘So you’re a free man then,’ she said and took his hand in hers. It was hot and damp with sweat. He looked eager, pathetically grateful. She turned and entered the room.
She thought how she would boast of this to Marie and Katy on Sunday night – her finest conquest in some ways,
given the lecturer’s maturity and the fact that he was married. How it would put their mundane little escapades of the weekend in the shade. She was sure they expected no less of her and she would deliver.
So she closed the door tight behind them and became what she thought every man wanted.
Janice shivered, and put her hands to her cheeks. They burned with the same intensity and shame as they had done all those years ago sitting in that cafeteria. She gave her head a shake to clear her mind of the memories which, of course, would not disappear on command. They were stuck with stronger stuff than the glue she had absentmindedly used too much of and which now covered her hands.
As the wife of a prominent lawyer, Janice had reached a position in life where she had a lot to lose. Her sexual exploits, of which she had once been rather proud, were now a cause for embarrassment. By the time she’d met Keith she had a toddler in tow and was living a nun-like existence. He did not realise it, of course, but with his integrity and optimism, he had saved her. He had renewed her faith in men and life – and in so doing had saved her from the cynicism that threatened to destroy her. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves.
‘Come on. Pull yourself together,’ she said to the empty room, got up and went to the small bathroom next door and washed her hands.
When she came back into the room she realised that it was already dusk. She flicked the anglepoise light on and the desk flooded with light. She set about gluing the pictures and captions in place on the album pages.
Keith had no idea about her past, and she intended to keep it that way. She feared he might think less of her, or worse, be repulsed by her reckless promiscuity. Of course,
she reminded herself, there was no reason why he should ever find out. She just had to be careful, that was all. Watchful.
She glued the last baby picture in place and sat back to admire the three pages laid out in a row on the table. But all she could think about were those awful, excruciating scenes from her past. She must stop torturing herself with these memories of a girl she no longer knew and a life that she wished had belonged to someone else.
‘What’re you doing?’ said Pete’s voice in left ear and Janice nearly leapt out of her skin.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she cried, spinning round in the chair to face him. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that. You scared the living daylights out of me.’
He backed off a little and held his hands in the air. ‘Sor-ry,’ he said, in a sing-song voice, elongating the syllables. Poking fun at her.
She knew she was red in the face. Of course Pete couldn’t know what she had been thinking about but she felt caught red-handed all the same. And she didn’t like him creeping up on her like that. This room was her place. Her sanctuary.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ said Pete and he craned his neck to see what lay on the table. ‘Are you making another one of those albums?’
‘Maybe,’ she said without turning round, using her body as a shield. She did not want him to see what she’d done. It would spoil the surprise.
‘Hey, isn’t that a picture of me? What does it say underneath? “Pete’s first shoes”,’ he read.
‘I didn’t want you to see that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a…well, it’s a present. For you.’
He frowned. ‘What would I be wanting that for?’
She sighed, wounded. The surprise was ruined now. ‘I was
going to give it to you for your birthday. It’s going to be an album of your childhood from when you were a baby right up until…well, until now I suppose. I thought it would be something you’d like to take to university with you. You know, to remember home by.’
‘Oh, Janice,’ he said. ‘That is totally gross. Thanks but no thanks.’
Janice pursed her lips and simmered with rage. How dare he speak to her like that? Even if he thought the album was naff, why couldn’t he just pretend that he liked the idea? That would be the polite thing to do, the sensitive thing to do. But Pete was so incredibly self-centred the thought that he might have hurt her feelings never even crossed his mind. Or, more worrying, perhaps it had.
‘You know what, Pete? You can be incredibly rude sometimes.’
‘What’d I say?’ he said and raised his bony shoulders in a gesture of innocence. ‘I’m not going to lie and pretend I want the thing when I don’t.’
‘Sometimes you ought to think more about how other people feel than yourself. There’s nothing wrong with a white lie now and then, you know.’
‘Well, I am sorry. But at least I’ve saved you the trouble of doing the rest of it, haven’t I? Better to know now than find out when you’re finished.’
She turned away from him then, swivelled round in the seat, and stared at the album pages, tears pricking her eyes. The pictures were artfully arranged, the layout professional – it was one of her best attempts at scrapbooking to date. But there was no point in completing it. Pete did not want it. She threw the pages in the wastepaper bin.
‘I’m just going to get something to eat,’ he went on, apparently oblivious to her distress. ‘And then I’m off out.’
‘But I’ve made a casserole for dinner,’ she said, turning to face him once more. ‘It’ll be ready shortly, if you’ll just wait a bit.’
‘Naw. I’ll just grab a sandwich or something.’
‘Okay,’ said Janice slowly, trying very hard not to let this annoy her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Jason Dobbin’s eighteenth.’
‘Where’s that being held, then?’
‘At The Kiln and then back to Jason’s for a party.’ Technically Pete was too young to be going to The Kiln but she decided to let that go.
‘Will his parents be there?’
‘I dunno. I suppose,’ he said dismissively, like it was a stupid question. ‘Can I take your car?’
So that was why he’d come up here – he wanted something after all. She should have known. She would make him sweat it out a bit.
‘Lots of kids going from school, then?’ she said.
He shrugged, impatient to be gone.
‘Are you going straight to The Kiln at this time?’ she asked, consulting her watch. ‘It’s only just gone six.’
‘I’m going round to Al’s first to watch a DVD. Can I take your car please?’
At least he’d remembered to add ‘please’ this time.
‘Not if you’re drinking,’ she said.
‘I’ll leave it at The Kiln and collect it tomorrow.’
‘You’d better. How will you get home from Jason’s?’
‘I’ll walk. It’s not that far.’
Janice nodded. ‘Well, just you be careful. And I don’t mean only the driving.’
He threw her one of his well-practised, withering looks. ‘I’m not a kid,’ he said. ‘I know how to look after myself.’
And Janice had no doubt that he did. If there was one
thing Pete was good at, it was looking out for his own interests. She realised that her warning came more from a concern for other people rather than from fear that any harm would come to Pete.
He sauntered out of the room without so much as a goodbye. She could hear him whistling all the way down the narrow stairs to the second floor and into his room. She heard the door slam and the whistling stopped abruptly.
Somewhere along the line, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on where exactly, she and Keith had gone terribly wrong in parenting this child. She was his mother, his blood, so she must take the lion’s share of the blame. It was her fault and now it was too late.
She sincerely hoped he would find someone to love him – someone who would give him what she had not been able to. Unconditional love. She had done her best and in the end she had been found wanting – her best had not been good enough.
She felt guilty about that, but even guiltier about the fact that she couldn’t wait for him to go to university. It was an awful admission to make, but it was true. She blushed with shame.
She retrieved the album pages from the bin. Pete might not want the album but Keith might. She could make it for Father’s Day, her way of saying thank you for everything he had done for her. And for being a good and loving father to Pete. Keith would like that – he was a sentimental man.
Janice stared at the earliest photo of her with Pete, a fuzzy, out-of-focus snap taken by Marie at the hospital. How kind Marie and Katy had been, visiting her and bringing gifts for both her and the baby. They were the only true friends she had back then – and her only visitors at the hospital. And she’d repaid them by deliberately losing touch. She often
wondered what they were doing now. She wished them well for they deserved it.
In spite of Marie and Katy pleading with her, she’d never told her parents about Pete. To this day they did not know he existed. She had told Keith and, later, Pete that her parents were dead. She hoped they were.
In the photo she was holding the newborn Pete in her arms and staring at the camera unsmiling. Pete’s eyes were closed. He may have been asleep – she couldn’t remember. His hands were curled up into tight fists ready to take on the world, as though from the moment of his birth he found fault with it. Janice looked like she was in shock, which wasn’t far from the truth.
She remembered those hazy weeks after Pete’s birth, the numbing exhaustion, the fear and the loneliness. She had been miserable. She remembered how she nearly threw up every time she had to change Pete’s nappy, how she could not breastfeed him no matter how much the nurses at the hospital nagged her to do it. She simply couldn’t. And she still believed to this day that Pete would have turned out differently had she been able to bond with her newborn son.
It was late afternoon at the beginning of April and Patsy was sitting on the desk in the gallery, talking on the phone to Janice. They had just returned from the Art Ireland Spring fair at the Royal Dublin Society Showground, situated in the heart of Dublin. She and the girls – Kirsty, Janice and Clare – had spent a whole day at the fair and a fun night staying in the modern Ballsbridge Inn on Pembroke Road, just minutes from the RDS. The hotel was only three-star but it was perfectly nice, well-located and, most importantly, it was within everyone’s budget.
They were discussing a gorgeous painting of red poppies by Barbara Boland that Janice had bought at the fair and arranged to have delivered.
‘Has it arrived yet?’ said Patsy, with a smile on her face, remembering some of the highlights of the trip. Like the morning Kirsty came down to breakfast with her skirt tucked into her knickers at the back. How they’d laughed. She walked over to the window and stared out at the shoppers, battling against the wind and rain on the High Street. So much for pleasant-sounding April showers. It was a storm out there.
‘It came this morning.’
‘And what does Keith think of it?’ said Patsy.
She did not hear Janice’s reply because just then she saw
something that made her freeze. It was Martin, hurrying furtively along the other side of the street, his head turned away from the shop, briefcase in hand, as though he did not want to be seen.
‘Janice,’ she had the wherewithal to say, ‘I’ve got to go. I…something’s come up. I’ll see you tonight at No.11.’
She walked to the door, opened it and stepped out into the cold rain with the phone still in her hand. She caught a glimpse of the back of Martin’s cream raincoat and opened her mouth to shout his name. But before she could call out, he turned sharply into Quay Street, in the direction of the train station, and was gone. She stood there, stunned, for some moments. How peculiar. Why would Martin pass the shop without stopping by to say hello? And where was he going?
A trickle of rain ran down her forehead and into her right eye. She blinked it away and realised that people were staring at her – standing in a short-sleeved blouse in the middle of the pouring rain. She turned and went inside, her heart pounding in her breast. She shut the door, flicked the shop sign to ‘closed’ and pulled the blind. Then she stood in the middle of the shop, shivering in her wet things, and thought.
Martin had distinctly said he was going to be in Belfast all day today. He rarely went anywhere else and he certainly never worked in Ballyfergus. There were few corporate clients in the small town and none of them was his customer.
Perhaps he had personal business like a dental or doctor’s appointment. Or maybe some reason to go and see their lawyer – or maybe the bank about personal finance. But why not mention it to her? It must have been an oversight. She knew he was worried about the performance of the bank and, in the current economic climate, work was no picnic. She reminded herself that he had a lot on his mind.
But still it niggled at her. Why was he going in the
direction of the train station? It was too late in the day to travel to Belfast only to have to turn right round and come home again. She tutted crossly and said out loud, ‘Will you stop torturing yourself?’ There would be a completely innocent explanation. She told herself she was sure of it.
When she got home, no-one was there. Laura was at hockey practice and Sarah had just left for work. She changed out of her damp clothes, made dinner and ate it with Laura when she came in. Patsy spent the entire meal clock-watching, waiting for Martin to come home, and she was glad when Laura went straight to her room after the meal, leaving her to worry in peace.
It was after seven o’clock when she heard Martin’s key in the lock. She got up from the sofa and walked into the hallway.
‘You wouldn’t believe the traffic coming out of Belfast tonight,’ he said, struggling out of his coat. ‘There was an accident. Held the traffic up for damn near an hour.’
‘You were in Belfast all day then?’
‘Of course,’ he said, irritably. ‘Where else would I be? I left the office at five and it’s taken me two hours to get home.’
Patsy felt the colour drain from her face. When she’d seen him on the High Street it was at least four thirty.
‘But that’s impossible, Martin. I saw you on the High Street this afternoon. In Ballyfergus.’
He stopped battling with the coat momentarily, then resumed his struggle – the arm of the coat, for some reason, was stuck inside out on his wrist. ‘Pah! Nonsense!’ he said. ‘You’re imagining things, woman.’
Was she? For sure, she’d only caught a glimpse of the man in the mac but there was absolutely no mistaking him in her mind. It
had
been her husband. She knew his gait, the length of his stride, the slope of his shoulders, the way he held his head.
‘But Martin…’
‘Who makes these bloody coats?’
‘Here, let me help you,’ she said, seeing at once what the problem was. She went over and quickly released it. The sleeve slid off his arm at last.
‘Thanks,’ he said and engulfed her in alcohol fumes.
‘You’ve been drinking!’
‘So?’
‘You never drink after work. Except at Christmas and leaving parties.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘But you drove the car,’ she said.
‘I only had a couple.’
‘Where?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes. Who were you with?’
‘Ah, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, raising his voice and chucking the coat onto the chair by the door. ‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Martin, I saw you on the High Street this afternoon. Either you’re lying or I’m going insane. And you’ve come home stinking of alcohol. So,’ she said, her voice wavering with emotion, ‘can you please tell me what in the name of God is going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on. Can a man not have a few jars after a hard day’s work without an interrogation when he gets home?’ And with that he stomped into the snug and slammed the door.
Patsy put her hands over her face. Was Martin’s problem alcoholism and not, after all, the other possibilities she’d fretted about these last weeks? Or was that just a symptom of something else? Why wouldn’t he tell her who he’d been drinking with? Was it because he was drinking alone? Or
worse, because he was with someone he did not want her to know about? A woman perhaps?
She dragged her hands down her face and swallowed the phlegm that had gathered at the base of her throat. She could not leave things unresolved like this. She must persuade Martin to tell her the truth, no matter how awful it might be.
She knocked on the door of the snug and, when no answer came, she opened the door. Martin was slumped on the sofa with his long legs splayed apart.
‘Martin,’ she said. He did not look up. ‘Martin,’ she repeated. ‘We have to talk.’
He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘You know that isn’t true.’
He let out a long, heavy sigh. ‘Look, will you just leave me alone, Patsy? Please.’ He picked up the remote, turned up the volume and began flicking through the channels. He did not look at her once.
Patsy retreated quietly, went upstairs and sat on her bed and wondered what to do. Something terrible was going on, that much was certain. She ran through all the possibilities in her head yet again – illness, gambling, alcoholism, adultery – and tried to imagine how she would feel if he admitted to any of them. Devastated. Especially if another woman was involved. In all their married life, Martin had never lied to her. Not once. Not until tonight. And what hurt her most was that he would not, or could not, confide in her now. No matter what he had done, she was sure she could’ve found it in her heart to forgive him. But the bond of trust between them had been broken and, whatever the cause or reason, she wasn’t sure that she could ever forgive him for that.
And now what was she to do? She needed to talk to
someone. She wiped the tears from her eyes and thought of her girlfriends. They would know – they had to – because right at this moment she hadn’t got the faintest idea. She would go and meet them at No.11 as planned. Quickly, she slapped on some make-up to hide her tear-stained face and threw on a dress and a pair of boots.
Laura was upstairs in her room, alone, when Patsy knocked on the door. She was curled up on her side on her bed, hugging a pillow.
‘What’re you doing up here?’ said Patsy, alarmed. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Laura and Patsy sat down on her daughter’s bed and stroked her head, pushing the blonde hair off her brow with her fingers, the way she used to do when she was a little girl. She had loved the way, with her fine hair tucked behind her ears, she could still see the baby in her daughter’s face. Now she had a woman’s head of hair, thick and heavy, and although all signs of babyhood were long gone, Laura was immature for her years and sensitive. If her parents’ marriage broke up, it would break her heart. Patsy put a smile, like a mask, on her face.
‘What is it, darling?’ she asked and Laura closed her eyes. Her lashes, thick with black mascara, were like spider’s legs.
‘Oh, sweetheart, are you worrying about your exams?’ cried Patsy. She suddenly realised that she had been so preoccupied about Martin recently, she had forgotten Laura was facing a challenging time too. The exams were less than six weeks away and as an average student, Laura had to work hard to get good results.
Laura stared at her mother with her hazel eyes, flecks of autumn colour – russet, yellow, moss green and bark – floating in them like leaves in a pond. Tiny red veins, like bloody tributaries of a river, fanned out from her irises.
‘Your dad and I know that you’re doing your best. And whatever grades you get we will always be proud of you. I was no brainbox at school,’ she joked. ‘And I’ve done alright, haven’t I?’
Laura gave her a weak smile.
‘So no more worrying about it. Promise?’
Laura opened her mouth to speak, closed it again.
‘When’s your first exam?’
‘The thirteenth of May.’
‘That’s ages away, Laura. You’ve still plenty of time to study. You’ve been keeping up all year, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ said Laura with the ghost of a smile.
‘And you did well in the mocks. You got the grades you need.’
Laura nodded.
‘So you really don’t need to worry,’ she said and patted Laura’s thigh, half-hidden under a fleecy pink blanket, a relic from her childhood that Laura could not be parted from. ‘But maybe from now until the end of the exams you should only go out at the weekends. Concentrate on the studying, hey?’
Laura plucked the fur on a fluffy zebra one of her friends had given her for her last birthday. Patsy watched her with a vague sense of unease. If Laura was in any way reassured by her words, she wasn’t showing it.
‘You look nice, Mum. Are you going out?’ said Laura, suddenly changing subject.
‘I was thinking about it,’ said Patsy, glancing down at her dress. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’
‘Haven’t got any.’
‘That’s not like you, Laura. Staying in on a Friday night,’ teased Patsy but all she got in return was a blank face.
Patsy frowned. Laura was uncommonly pale – maybe she
needed iron or maybe she was coming down with something. She wasn’t happy leaving her like this. ‘How about we watch a DVD together? What about
Pretty Woman?’
That raised a smile. ‘Oh, Mum. We must’ve watched that old film a thousand times!’
‘Something else then?’ said Patsy. Since when had
Pretty Woman
joined the ranks of’old’ films, along with
Casablanca
and
Gone With the Wind?
‘No thanks, Mum. You go out and have a good time,’ said Laura and she yawned. ‘I think I’ll do a wee bit of studying and then have an early night. I’m tired.’
She did look exhausted. She had been overdoing it, burning the candle at both ends. Like that eighteenth birthday party for some fella at school she’d been to last Friday night. She hadn’t got home until two in the morning and then she’d to get up for a hockey match the next morning. ‘I don’t like leaving you like this,’ Patsy said.
Laura’s mood changed like a switch had been flicked. ‘Honestly, Mum,’ she snapped, ‘I’m not a child. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. And it’s not as if I’m alone. Dad’s here, isn’t he?’
Patsy stood up, wounded. ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll leave you to it.’
She got as far as the door when Laura said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
She turned to look at Laura, her hand on the doorframe. ‘Yeah, well, you get a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’
As soon as she walked out she knew, with a heavy heart, that she had failed her daughter. Something was bothering Laura and she wasn’t entirely convinced it was the looming A-level examinations. They were still weeks away and, in spite of her consistently average results, Laura had never been particularly fazed by exams before.
No, Patsy had the vague, unsettling feeling that Laura was holding out on her. There was something else wrong but right now Patsy just couldn’t face dealing with it. She had too much on her plate already. Whatever was wrong with Laura – probably some fall-out with a friend, boyfriend trouble or other minor drama – it would just have to wait.
She had more important things to worry about. Like a husband who was lying to her.
She put on her coat, grabbed her bag and left the house without speaking to Martin who was still in the snug. She drove to No.11 where, as soon as she sat down at their usual table with her friends, she spilled it all out – what she’d seen that afternoon and what had happened tonight when Martin got home. She told them about the shares too and how they would struggle now to put Laura through college.
There was a stunned silence.
‘Martin?’ gasped Clare, incredulously. ‘Your Martin? Are you sure?’
‘I think he’s having an affair,’ said Patsy and she put a hand over her mouth and blinked at her friends’ shocked faces. She fought, and succeeded, in holding back the tears. Kirsty, who was sitting beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder.