The Week I Ruined My Life Read online

  ‘I think so. We leave this Friday coming so I have to tell them for definite tomorrow morning. There is just so much for me to organise to be gone two whole days and two whole nights?’ She’s allowed me to daydream again with my delayed answer as I pick up my glass and gently swirl my beloved vino. I’d dance the tango with it if I could.

  ‘Like what? I think the little break would do you and Colin good to be honest. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Pick up some outrageous dirty lingerie in the red-light district. Some filthy shit. Go see a peep show yourself. Look how passionately Madonna recommended it. Kinky old cow. Marriage isn’t easy, my mother still tells me this, and her and dad are fifty years this summer. Sex is very important. You can’t let that slide. The kids are in school Friday right and Laura will collect them?’

  I nod and stab some more chicken pieces onto my fork. Prong. Prong. Prong.

  ‘So, Colin can just leave work early and get them from Laura’s by five. Can’t he take them out over the weekend? Daddy-time. Dublin is a hub of children’s activities at the weekend. I have event-organised so many, if he wants to call me I can give him a foolscap page of things that are happening. The Ark theatre has weekend shows for kids that are always worth seeing. You’re back Sunday, right? You aren’t going to Mumbai via the kibbutz in Brother Sebastian sandals, a tie-dye bandana and a sarong to find your inner self, for crying out loud.’ Corina shakes her head.

  I swallow. ‘Yeah, I know, I know … but Jade has a gymnastics competition on Friday after school at two-thirty which I’ll be missing. One of the mothers said she can collect her after and bring her home with her and Colin can collect her from them at seven, she will give her dinner … I just feel crappy I’m missing it, why do these work things always overlap with kids’ events?’ I sigh.

  ‘Is it an important thing?’ Corina asks.

  ‘No … well, yes for her, but she’s only doing it for fun really. It’s not serious. They are, like, little competition exhibitions, you know? Because it’s “Active Week” in the school they are allowed to rehearse in the school hall from eleven o’clock. I mean, she’s never going to be yer McKayla Maroney, gold-medallist at it,’ I pause. ‘I, I just get the feeling Colin thinks me going to Amsterdam … He thinks it’s all a big huge pain in the arse, he’s just so unsupportive about my job lately.’ I shrug.

  ‘He’s not exactly unsupportive, Ali, come on. Wasn’t he the one who urged you to go for the job in the first place when you showed him that flyer?’

  I wouldn’t exactly use the word urged but I keep my mouth shut as she continues, ‘Look … and I know he’s not my number one fan, for whatever his reasons – no doubt it’s because he finds my subscription to spinsterhood threatening – but he is under pressure to pay for pretty much everything, right? He’s carrying a lot on his shoulders. You earn such a low salary and you’re left with feck all to play with after you pay Laura but maybe just sit him down and actually tell him how much you love your job … how much it means to you? Tell him what it is exactly that you do, the importance of your work and thank him for all his support. Then give him the ride, that’s what’s really wrong.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say as I take a long slow drink of my chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. Swishing the liquid around my mouth, tasting its flavours before swallowing the relaxation down. True, he was enthusiastic initially as a little part-time thing until he saw I was actually serious. I drink another precious sip. Corina got hundreds of those ‘over the limit’ tests from an event she did promoting a safe-driving event in Croke Park, her boot is still full of them, and we always do them before we leave after our one glass of wine. It has never once read over the limit. We drink a jug of water also. After our glass of wine, we have dessert and coffee.

  Corina excuses herself to answer an email on her beeping Blackberry and I catch my reflection in the mirror behind. I can’t stop looking at myself lately for some reason. I don’t look thirty-five, I don’t think. I have short blonde hair, with a sweeping side fringe, green eyes, a slightly prominent nose but a good chin. An oval face. I sit up straighter. I never slouch, I hold myself up tall always. I have pretty good posture so I can’t be to blame for Jade’s slouching. That is not a case of monkey see, monkey do. I have a reasonably good figure. It could be better around my tummy area, I guess, but both my babies were over nine pounds. I ain’t ever wearing midriff tops again – not that I ever did. Even when I had a flat tummy, I never had much of an opinion about myself physically.

  This afternoon I am wearing a TK Maxx V-neck red long-sleeved T-shirt that says Boutique Chic (don’t ask me why) and black skinny jeans with high, black, strappy wedges. My make-up is minimal. Well, face make-up: my foundation is minimal. I like to concentrate on my eyes. I like a good cat eye effect and I’m pretty good at it now. I can do my eyes in six minutes flat. I take my liquid gel eyeliner and make a small line from the edge of my eye, flicking up. Then I take the gel liner down and into the corner of my eye and then literally colour it in. A tip I got from Corina. A tip she got at the Irish Film & Television Awards from the incredible Irish actress Victoria Smurfit. Saves me ages on mixing and blending eye shadows. So, I do just a small bit of BB cream foundation and I’m all about the black mascara and gel eyeliner. Rose Vaseline for the lips.

  I wonder what Colin sees when he looks at me now. I know he still fancies me. He used to tell me I looked like the actress Naomi Watts. Every time she came on a movie on the TV or we saw her in a magazine, he’d say, ‘There ya are, Ali Devlin, you’re doing well for yourself!’

  I’d say, ‘Go away, I’m nothing like her!’ But secretly I’d be ridiculously chuffed.

  Naomi and I are about the same height, I surmise now into my mirror as Corina types at breakneck speed. At one stage she did have a haircut like mine. Me and Naomi. Aliomi. Ha!

  I wonder what Owen sees when he looks at me. I know just how bad I fancy him right now. I fancy him something rotten. Grotesquely. I can’t tell if he fancies me back. I know he really likes me but he also knows I’m married with kids. Out of bounds. I’ve never had a male friend who I just relate to so exactly. We like all the same things. We find the same things hilariously funny. We finish each other’s sentences. I can’t watch Frozen with Mark any more without comparing me and Owen to Anna and Hans when they sing ‘Love Is An Open Door’. Ridiculous. But we just get one another. It’s like we have known each other all our lives, not just for the last six months. The instant thought of him puts me off my food. I can’t eat another bite. Belly like jelly. This is bordering on the insane. I have to stop this. It’s why I have been unsure about going to Amsterdam: he’s going too.

  Owen O’Neill only joined the Arts Centre at the end of June, coincidentally not all that long after things started going really pear-shaped between me and Colin. Just at the time when I was becoming really busy in work and we couldn’t say ‘good morning’ to one another without fighting. True, I had been getting more and more involved in my work. I had a new programme on the go with the elderly of the community in the St Andrew’s Resource Centre on Pearse Street that I was very dedicated to making happen and Colin was a bit miffed. Neglecting him, he told me one night when he came home a bit drunk after a Manchester United Cup Final game and I was still working on the family shared computer in the kitchen. He was trying to tell me about Wayne Rooney’s missed penalty and because I didn’t look up immediately and give him my full attention he went off on one. I remember that night now.

  * * *

  ‘What is it you are actually doing there at ten o’clock at night?’ He nods to my spreadsheet for the St Andrew’s Resource Centre.

  ‘Work.’ He’s had a few and I’m not in the mood for defending my job again.

  ‘There’s real work!’ He flings his right hand out wide to land pointing at the massive pile of ironing piled up on the kitchen table.

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask the word as a question and I hit Save and minimise my spreadsheet.

  ‘Why is there a ma
ssive pile of ironing, and you are pissing around with the arty oldies? This is your job, Ali, you are supposed to be a wife and mother. The place is a tip!’ He spits the word ‘mother’. Then he moves to the sink and takes the pint glass off the draining board and fills it up with tap water. I could leave it and go up to bed but I’m starting to unravel when it comes to not standing up for myself.

  ‘Why should I be doing the ironing, Colin?’ I keep my voice conversational. It’s an enormous effort in self-control but I do it.

  He huffs a sarcastic laugh at me.

  ‘No, you are right, Ali, quite right, why should you do your kids’ ironing? I don’t ask you to do mine, ever. I do my own. So don’t give me that poor housewife-has-to-do-it-all bullshit.’ He necks half the pint glass of water gasping loudly at the end.

  I rise from the family computer and walk to him. This mood when Manchester United loses is not washing with me any more.

  ‘You do it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not doing it!’ He recoils from me. I put on my baby voice.

  ‘Oooooh, did Rooney Pooney miss his penno wenno? Oh no, Colin, oh no … How will he cope tonight in his million pound house with his million pound salary?’ I squash up both my fists and twist them in front of my eyes. Like I am boo-hooing.

  ‘That’s just so pathetic … is that supposed to annoy me?’ He refills the glass to the top and takes another drink as he walks to the pile on the kitchen table. That, by the way, I was about to tackle after I finished my spreadsheet. I’m not touching it now.

  He picks up Jade’s cream cardigan.

  ‘Jade’s.’ Moves through the pile, dropping them onto the dark slate floor. ‘Mark’s, Jade’s, Mark’s, Jade’s, Mark’s, Mark’s, Mark’s …’

  Neglecting the family, he had gone on to tell me that night. Kids are suffering. I had stupidly apologised over and over and tried to convince him that wasn’t my intention. I never once brought up the fact when his beloved Man United were playing he may as well not exist to the family.

  Corina is still tapping away.

  I think about Amsterdam as I prod my chicken salad around the plate.

  There are four of us invited to see the Very Messy Theatre Company at the opening of the Danker Arts Centre in Amsterdam. We would like to programme them next year with their new work, The Treasury of Fairytales, for our Christmas show for inner-city kids in the centre’s theatre. I saw a promoted tweet about the show that directed me to their website and I contacted them immediately after I watched the first five minutes of the show. They have kindly invited to put us up. We also intend on implementing a scheme I suggested where we swap students on work experience from different arts centres around Europe. The team travelling over is my boss, Colette Flood, the director of programming Michael McKenna, myself the coordinator and Owen O’Neill the artist-in-residence. I’m back to the mirror. I’m not sure about this thirty-five malarkey.

  ‘Corina, have you had any cosmetic work done?’ I stare at my nose. I reach up and tug it gently from side to side.

  ‘No.’ She’s still typing.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’ She’s leaning back and half looking up, the universal sign of ‘I’ve almost finished this’.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘I would though,’ she says, tucking the Blackberry into the side pocket of her bag.

  ‘Like what?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, the bloody works.’ She stands up in the booth, knees slightly buckled, running her hands all over her upper and lower body.

  ‘I’d do here, here, here, here, here and here. Lipo it all off!’ I laugh and she sits down again.

  ‘I’d have it all sucked out, full face lift, double-chin removal, smaller face if they can do that, can they make your fat face smaller? I have fat eyes.’ She winks at me. She is always winking, Corina. Colin thinks it’s weird. I think it’s fabulous.

  I’m still laughing hard as I sit back and rest my straightened back against the soft red leather-backed frame of the booth. Then I remember why I haven’t laughed all day until now.

  ‘Ali, what is wrong? You do seem really disjointed.’ Corina fills our water glasses and kindly allows the generous lemon segment to fall into my glass.

  ‘It’s Colin!’ I throw my hand in the air. I’m incredulous. ‘Haven’t I just told you all this?’ I shake my head from side to side, mouth open.

  ‘It’s a blip, right? A rough patch, isn’t that all? Don’t let it escalate. Don’t focus too much on it. He’s a good man, Colin. A good provider. He loves you, right?’ She looks steadily into my eyes. Questioningly.

  ‘You’re right … Sorry, I am due. I’m finding my PMT is lasting at least two weeks before they even arrive. Colin threw that one at me this morning too. He loves to throw the menstruating monster at me. Christ, Corina, listen to me: I’m all me, me, me! Enough about me, tell me how was your week? I wasn’t on Facebook, I wanted to keep it a surprise.’ I tease her.

  She throws her head back and guffaws. Nothing affects Corina. She is small in height, curvy in frame and huge in personality. She is attractive with a splattering of tiny freckles and wild red curly hair that she always wears in a loose bun at the back of her head with curly side bits tumbling around her face. Corina wears lashings of black mascara but no other make-up. She’s fiery. Always in flowing knee-length skirts that meet her knee-high black leather boots and colourful wrap tops.

  ‘Ahhh, ya know, nothing much, Ali, just work all week. We launched the new SlipperOH range last night in Dundrum town centre, yeah … Big launch, lots of media coverage, huge campaign – just big slippers really. One of the big Irish models launched them and I thought I’d puke trying so hard not to laugh. Her frame was so emaciated in a skin-tight yellow-and-red-striped dress and then the huge red slippers on her feet, she looked like Ronald McDonald! Nearly pissed myself … Eh, not much else new to tell.’ She rolls her eyes from side to side in deep concentration.

  ‘Oh! I did join that life-drawing class for beginners in the City Arts Centre on Thursday evenings … remember I was telling you I might join, well that new artist-in-residence, Owen O’Neill, isn’t it? He takes it. Man, I wish he was the model. Ba-ba-boom!’ She links her hands together and pushes them backwards and forwards over her heart. Every part of my body tenses up. She doesn’t miss a beat, clueless, as she goes on.

  ‘Ali, the first class was so hilarious.’ She cuts another piece from her steak and dips it generously into her garlic butter on the side. She holds it aloft before adding, ‘An elderly lady, the model, was in great nick, I have to admit – but her stomach rumbled like Posh Spice’s in a French patisserie for the entire hour. The noise! She looked like a basketball hoop when I was done drawing her on my page. I nearly wet myself again! Lucky I can amuse myself so much, eh? Van Gough, I am not; Picasso, well, maybe. I enjoyed it though. I’m going to keep it up mainly for the exceptionally hot art teacher and the fact it kept me away from the fridge! Both good for my figure and my liver.’

  She pops the steak into her mouth and raises her glass to me now, still chewing, tilting it from side to side across the table in front of my face. The exceptionally hot art teacher, never a truer word was spoken. I’m avoiding that conversation like the plague, even though her words stab at my mind. Corina chews. Elton John quietly sings out about the blues from the small black speaker above our booth. I stare at the gorgeous splattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. It would be so easy to live life with Corina.

  ‘I’d murder another one of these, would you? Inhale it actually!’ She holds her wine glass out at arm’s length.

  ‘Oh, man, I so would,’ I sigh.

  ‘Let’s then?’ Corina makes a cheeky face.

  ‘I have the car!’ I groan.

  ‘So leave it – it’s free parking today, just put the lousy coins in for the three hours in the morning. Surely Colin won’t mind dropping you here on his way to work after you both drop the kids off. Call him?’ she suggests.

  I know he won’
t like this idea but I am actually too embarrassed to say this to Corina. It just sounds like I am bashing him all the time. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he will say, ‘You know what, love, you need a break, enjoy and we will see you when we see you.’

  ‘I’ll text him.’ I pull my cream suede Mango bag from the back of my chair and grope around the mess for my iPhone. I pull it out, blow off the debris, enter my password and I type.

  Might have another drink or two and leave the car if that’s OK?

  Seconds later the phone rings, it’s Colin.

  ‘Colin.’ I hold the caller ID out for Corina to see.

  She gives me the two thumbs up and is already signalling the waitress.

  ‘Hiya,’ I keep my voice bright. Breezy wife.

  He says nothing for a second.

  ‘What’re you doing, Ali?’ His voice is terse. I can hear Mark screaming in the background. My heart races. I hate when I hear my kids crying and I’m not there. I get an actual dull ache in the pit of my stomach. My heart races.

  ‘Is Mark OK? What’s he screaming for?’ I ask.

  ‘His mummy,’ Colin spits down the line, and then continues, ‘What’s this about, this text? I’m driving, I had to pull in to read it, he’s screaming because he didn’t want me to stop as he’s starving! I hate texting, you know that.’ He’s pissed off.

  ‘OK, OK, sorry … Mark gets fierce food rage, all right … Well, I’m still here, I’m in Malan’s having a bite with Corina. We were just enjoying the … having a laugh, ya know. How’s all your end? How’s Jade?’

  ‘And you want to stay out on the piss all day and night? Seriously what is wrong with you?’ Terser still.