The Importance of Being Me Read online

  “W-w-w-why? W-h-h-what?” he’d stammer.

  “It’s dead.”

  “I’m expecting a very important call now . . .”

  Occasionally he’d pretend a call had come in and it was an emergency job, but he’d forget to turn off the phone or even put it on silent and it would ring out as he was pretending to be on it! He made no attempt to have sex with me, but in fairness I didn’t blame him. It wasn’t anything new. Getting me going was like trying to jump-start a rusty old farmyard tractor. My sex drive had packed its suitcase and moved out years ago.

  “So long, Courtney,” it had waved back at me. “Nothing left for me here, pet.”

  Not David’s fault, I must admit. He had tried and tried. Offered different solutions. Came home with books and DVDs and various colourful vibrating toys that I’d refused to even try. He was patient and gentle when we did have sex, but he knew what it was. Fake sex. A exercise in timing and fake moans on my part. He never complained. He never took it personally. Maybe he should have. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have communicated that to him.

  As the affair grew legs, weeks went by with David avoiding being in the same room as me as much as he could. He worked very long hours. Squealers were coming in out of the woodwork. He even went so far as to get Mar-nee’s friends to call the house and tell me about their leaking showers, leaking toilets and exploding boilers. Every time I’d ask for a number to call them back, but they’d mutter that they had David’s mobile and would call him on that. Then he would call minutes later and moan that he had an emergency job to go to, so not to wait up for him. Of course I could have easily confronted him, asked where all this extra money was, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t make myself want to stop him. I didn’t want him to end it and I still needed time to clear my head out.

  However, four months later, when he did eventually tell me he was having, as he put it, “more than just a sordid affair” and that they were head over heels in love and he was leaving me and moving into her luxury apartment . . . then I’d cried. I’d let this happen. They were a horrible mixture of tears: relief, sadness and absolute guilt. Relief for me. Sadness that I had failed at my marriage. Absolute guilt for our beloved only child, fourteen-year-old complete daddy’s girl, Susan. Believe me when I say I was heartbroken for my beautiful Susan and what we had not been able to do for her. Keep her family unit together. Give her a so-called “normal upbringing”. Put her needs before our own.

  But I did not care at all about me being dumped, unwanted. It was peculiar. I didn’t care that I couldn’t keep my man. That my husband had rejected me for a younger model. I didn’t care I was going to be divorced. I didn’t care I was going to be alone. I still don’t. I promise. This worried me more. Why didn’t I want a partner, a lover? Was I frigid? A horrible word, I know – a word, by the way, that David had never, ever thrown at me on any of the occasions I refused to have sex with him, although he easily could have. I fretted at the relief I felt at being on my own. Was that normal?

  Like I said, there was Susan to consider and I cared deeply for her feelings, but the marriage really had run its course ten times around the block and back again. I’m not proud of the fact that’s how I felt when my vows disintegrated, but I’d known for years that our marriage was dead. It should never have been brought to life in the first place. Had it not been for my ticking time bomb of a biological clock the day I turned a mere twenty-one years old, there would never have been a wedding at all. From that day on, I craved a child. No one understands this because I was so young, just starting out in life. When I met David at twenty-two, I knew exactly where I wanted my life to go. Marriage and kids. Marriage and kids. Marriage and kids. I take full responsibility for my actions. Yes, I was naive and needy and, by God, I learned my lesson. David was never the right partner for me. I married him for all the wrong reasons. Basically, I married David to have a child.

  Anyway, this is all old news. It’s over a year down the line now but myself and Claire are still slightly obsessed with the pair of them. Occasionally, like today, I feel a terrible guilt that we talk about David and Mar-nee behind their backs and say not-so-nice things about them as a couple. As human beings go, neither is really that bad. They both adore Susan, that’s for sure. Mar-nee has no biological children of her own. Claire keeps tapping her finger at me when I say that and adding, “Yet.” David and I are very much on speaking terms. Civil. Co-parenting. So we have to be okay with each other for Susan’s sake. David is . . . How can I put this in our very PC world? Easily led. A follower. I rarely have one-to-one dealings with Mar-nee. When I see her, we nod at one another, exchange pleasantries. That’s as far as it goes.

  Claire goes on. “I know but when I saw them in Aldi on Thursday night and him in those distressed, tangerine drainpipe trousers, studded belt and poured into that three-sizes-too-small khaki bubble bomber jacket, I almost lost a dribble. This close.”

  Claire extends her hand and draws her index finger and thumb as close to each other as she can without them touching, and crosses her legs tightly. Claire has a tendency to pee when she laughs too much. Little Miss Dribble. Then she flaps her hands as though she is a bird trying to take flight. Sometimes Claire’s abundance of energy exhausts me. Only sometimes, though.

  “Oh, oh, oh, and his hair? I forgot to tell you about his hair! Dear Lord above, it’s a kind of deep charcoal bluey-black now, but it’s styled and flicked over one eye and I swear to you, Courtney, he walked into the trolley bay . . . twice!”

  Claire wraps her hand over her mouth as she can see I’m not comfortable any more. I sigh. I can’t help myself, but I’m about to keep this conversation alive.

  “Why is she making him dress like that? Last month his hair was peroxide blond! All her doing. You know, I actually feel sorry for him, because if it wasn’t for the fact that he publicly humiliated me and then ceremoniously dumped me for one of the Housewives of, literally, Orange County, I’d probably still be his wife. Every cloud.” I curl my lip.

  “You’d imagine being a beautician she’d be losing clients due to her fluorescent orangeness, right?” Claire has not forgiven Mar-nee for having an affair with a married man, nor has she forgiven David for having an affair while a married man. In Claire’s world that is just not a forgivable offence. Period. Claire argues that he should have left me first.

  I go on my familiar rant. “Like I always say, Claire, I’d probably still be absolutely cringing every time he pulled back the bed sheets and patted my side. Lying there in his faded-grey, shabby, ancient underpants. Me crying inside for my long-lost sex drive. I’d be going through the motions or else I’d probably be coming up with bigger and more bizarre excuses as to why I couldn’t have sex. I must have had thrush at least 199 times during our last years of marriage. I said gross things about my vagina that no woman should have to say. I had a period every four days, for crying out loud! I’d still be bored to tears at his innumerable stories about the round of golf he played, dissecting it hole by hole as I ran away into the arms of a long-haired Mills & Boon man in my head. I’d probably still be making David just as miserable as I was and, no matter what you say, he didn’t deserve to be miserable. He’s not a bad man.” I mean that sincerely.

  “Do you like long-haired guys?” Claire is on it immediately. She has been trying to set me up with people on Tinder just so she can see what’s going in there. Claire refers to it as “‘in Tinder” instead of “on Tinder”. It amuses me, like it’s some hidden world. Tinder, however, scares the crap out of me.

  “No. I do not. And I do not want a Michael Bolton look-a-like arriving at my office tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Michael Bolton hasn’t had long hair in years.”

  I tilt my head to one side and glare at her. The glare says “back off”.

  “So I have to hear about your imaginary thrush and upset vagina, but you don’t want me to talk about my married sex life. Is that right?” She laughs.

  “Stop!”
I hit my forehead with my hand. “Stop . . . Sorry, that just came out. Can we please just change the subject?” The remaining banoffee pie reminds me I simply can’t leave it sitting there a second longer. Well, I could but I won’t. Picking up my fork again, I dig in. Claire nods as she swirls her latte, gathering the leftover white foam from the side of her tall glass. Yes, Claire has one of those amazing latte-making machines. Claire’s kitchen has it all. Every modern appliance. Grey slate floor, grey units with shiny chrome handles, utensils and pots and pans hung so low you need to duck your head, and an oven you could live in, it’s that big. It’s one of those kitchens from every glossy interior magazine that makes you say immediately, “Oh God, I need a new kitchen!” Claire’s kitchen would not look out of place in an actual restaurant. Don’t get me wrong. Like I said, I absolutely love cooking myself and I’m a bit obsessed with good food, but I’ve an old hob of an oven, a cracked microwave, ancient copper-bottomed pots and pans, and that’s about it.

  “A bit too sweet, this batch?” Claire nods her head at my dessert plate.

  I run my tongue around my mouth, the back of my teeth especially. If I say so myself, I’m getting quite good at this testing lark.

  “A tad too sugary maybe, love,” I tell her truthfully as I feel grains still undissolved. She pulls a page off her pad and makes a note. I watch the freckles on her nose move around as she concentrates and pulls her concentrating face.

  We have been friends since our college days. We both studied Drama & Theatre Studies in the Samuel Beckett Centre at Trinity College, Dublin. It was an instant connection. We were both only children, and the ease we felt in each other’s company was wonderful. As we finished college and moved on, we both fought over the same auditions. Tough wasn’t the word for those years. I worked really hard, but “nearly” just became a word I couldn’t hear any more. My interest in acting began to wane and romance took over.

  Claire was in the same club as me as far as her love life was concerned. She had met her boyfriend, Martin Carney, when she was only fourteen and they had become engaged at nineteen. Other people thought it was weird and that she was mad. I didn’t. We both got married the same year. She was my bridesmaid. I was hers. Claire’s decision in holy matrimony was a lot wiser than mine. Her EuroMillions numbers came up. Mine was a scratch-card that got soaked in the rain.

  “I honestly still don’t know how you stayed together for so long.” Claire puts down the pen now, lifts her glass and props her chin on it, her elbows resting on the marble island.

  “Nope, me neither. Stupid really. It wasn’t David’s fault. I was twenty-two years old and on a mission, and hey, I got my Susan so . . .” I trail off.

  “We aren’t discussing Susan today. That was the deal. It’s us time.” Claire’s voice is soft but firm; she knows the trouble I’m having with Susan only too well. Poor Claire has to listen to it day in and day out. She’s unbelievably understanding and supportive. I’m sure she has a very strong opinion on Susan’s behaviour, but she simply sits on the fence most of the time and just listens to me ranting.

  “You’re right, and I suppose you’re right too about me wasting all my best years. David and I were no toffee-and-biscuit combination, that’s for sure,” I say, licking my lips.

  “Eh, I never said that, and you aren’t exactly washed up, Courtney. You are only thirty-eight years old, a total ride-bag and people still say you look like Kate Winslet! Which you do! If I wasn’t happily married, and you were gay and I was gay, well hey! We’d be a best-friends gay sandwich!” Claire is joking, but she is always telling me how beautiful I am. Bless her.

  “Speaking of sambos, would you like a soft white roll with chicken and coleslaw?” she asks.

  I shake my head and at the same time a tiny bit of leftover banana falls from my fork to the worktop. Claire is on it like a hawk; before I can blink, she has whipped out her blue J-cloth and it’s gone. I snort out a laugh.

  “Do you actually have a secret pocket that you keep cleaning cloths in?” I ask her in all seriousness.

  “Funny, aren’t you? If I am going to try and set up a business from my kitchen, like you and Martin keep banging on about, I have to keep it immaculate. When . . . If I decide to register as a business from home, the health board could call in at any time. I need to be in the habit of keeping it spotless.”

  Her eyes dart around the pristine kitchen. The blue cloth mysteriously vanishes again.

  “You sure I can’t tempt you to join me eating a sandwich? I abhor eating white carbs alone,” she half jokes.

  I shake my head again. “I’d still prefer you bought premises and set up a bakery with a real window where real people can see your cakes.” It’s more Martin pushing for the at-home business than me.

  My phone rings out on the worktop and we both look at the caller ID: it’s my uncle Tom. Claire makes a vomit sound as I press decline and put it back in my pocket.

  “But it’s all online now – you can see them all on there. I’ll have my own website,” she says.

  “Not the same,” I say with a light shrug of my shoulders. “Picture it: you’re walking across Sandymount Green and suddenly you think you can smell baking. You sniff the air, à la Scooby Doo and his imaginary scent line. You know that sweet, fluffy scent . . . baking shortbread or vanilla essence. Like when you walk around Marks & Spencer and you’re physically drawn to the baked-cookies counter. Then as you keep walking you stop outside the most amazing window: cakes of every size, shape and colour. Icing that looks so artistic it should be in a gallery. You push open the door and go in, and that smell . . . oh, you buy it all then! You can’t smell a website, Claire.” I have risen dramatically from my stool, arms outstretched for effect.

  “Just as well you knocked the acting on the head and decided to find holiday homes for people instead,” she tells me as she claps very slowly.

  I know deep down that an actual bakery would be a dream come true for her. But it’s not really my business, it’s her business, their business, so I move on. Change the subject.

  “But actually, hang on, seriously . . . When people say to me I look like Kate Winslet, why do they always have to jump in with the follow-up: ‘When she was in Titanic, mind you’. Never when she was in The Reader or The Holiday or Revolutionary Road. I’m a very specific Kate Winslet.” I twist the fork to lick any remaining banoffee off the back of it now. The health board wouldn’t like this.

  “Because, you jammy cow, you don’t look thirty-eight at all, you look thirty if a day! A younger Kate, and you have that incredible body shape that every woman wants. I’d kill for your figure. I am, as always, very seriously considering a gastric band.” Her eyes narrow in disapproval at me licking her fork as she pulls at her stomach area.

  “Have you got your eyes tested yet?” I laugh at her absurd comment before putting the fork back down. I am full! Why am I still licking cream off a fork? “Plus, I swear to God if you mention that gastric band again I’m making you put money in a swear box! I’m making a gastric-band box!” I mean it.

  “But it would be the answer to all my problems!” She jumps off the stool now and runs her hands up and down her body. “Then I’d lipo the rest off. Here, here, here, here and here.” It’s like she’s doing the dance to the “Birdie Song”. She pulls at every part of her body.

  “You don’t want to be skinny, Claire,” I say for the millionth time. “Your head would be too big.”

  She answers me for the millionth time. “Oh yes I do, Courtney. Oh yes I bloody well do. Stick thin. I want the lollipop-head look. I want to one day stand beside Posh Spice and have people comment on how much weight she’s put on! It’s the bloody cakes. During the week when I don’t have you here to feed and taste, I eat them all myself. I had an order for two lemon cheesecakes for the women’s bridge club yesterday, but of course I made three, didn’t I? Did I come up with a good business plan and do a buy-two-get-one-free deal for them? My big fat arse I didn’t – I sat down in front of Lo
ose Women and devoured the whole extra cake with a hot pot of tea!” She pretends to wail as she sits down again.

  “Big deal, Claire, who are you trying to impress anyway? Martin loves you for who you are. He has loved you since you were fourteen years old, for God’s sake.” I hate when she is down on herself and how she looks.

  “It’s not about Martin, it’s about me. I despise being fat. I lust after beautiful clothes, Courtney. Fashion. I’d give anything to walk into River Island and buy off the peg.”

  “We have been through this a million times, though. I’ve gone to Weight Watchers with you how many times now?” I point at her accusingly.

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven. Exactly. And you have quit after the second weigh-in every time.”

  “I don’t like the leaders, that’s why! They are so patronising and I just want to eat every time I see their smug faces!” She wails some more. “I can’t even watch the Kardashians any more. Khloe’s gone and ruined it for me. She was the only reason I watched: to see how she coped with all those skinny sisters!”

  “Khloe got fit . . . and plastic, but that’s another day’s argument. You want to get fit, that’s different, but don’t keep torturing yourself about size ten River Island jeans, Claire. I, on the other hand, am the single loser – I should be the one out there, like you say, inside the Tinder machine!” I tell her, waving my hands, magician-style, in front of her.

  Her face is suddenly serious. “I don’t think you have ever understood just how beautiful you are, Courtney.” Claire isn’t laughing now. Her shining green eyes glare at me and I know she’s trying to push me to get out there and date again. It’s just I have no interest. Zero interest in meeting a new man, or men. No interest in ever meeting another man ever again. I’m happy with my living situation – just Susan and me and a job that I’m happy in that keeps food on our table and pays my bills. I never had the boy obsession. Teenage lust skipped right on past me. There wasn’t a band I goofed over or an actor I thought I was in love with. Hearts were never scrawled across my school books or school bag. I never hearted anyone all through my school years. In fact, I never had a boyfriend until David. There had been kisses behind bike sheds during games of spin the bottle, the odd slow dance at Friday-night discos at the local GAA hall and even a few boys asking me out, but I was just never interested. I loved cooking for me and Alice and babysitting for my neighbours at weekends. Boys just weren’t my thing.