The Week I Ruined My Life Read online

  When we got married and I fell pregnant with Jade on our wedding night, I was over the moon. Ecstatic. I had come off the pill a few weeks before and I had been taking folic acid. I was educated. I was prepared. I was ready to procreate. We had just moved into our new house in Ranelagh. I gave up my job in Buy For Less at seven months and concentrated on getting the nursery right. Being a wife and mummy-to-be was total contentment for me. I was perfectly serene playing house. Colin had made no apologies that he wanted me to be a stay-at-home mum and I had wholeheartedly agreed.

  When Jade was born, the love I felt was so overwhelming it was magical.

  Nothing I’d read or seen or done had prepared me for motherhood, I just found my own way with my perfect baby girl. Life ticked along just fine, just as it was supposed to, but it all happened in the blink of an eye. That moment, when I walked away, hysterically sobbing, from Jade’s first day in St Theresa’s junior school, but she never looked back – that’s when I questioned my future life’s fulfilment. Other mothers were waving, blowing kisses and rushing off to work.

  Women in power suits. Women in gym gear. Women going off to have a full day ahead of them. Women who had other interests.

  I didn’t even have a hobby! I’d only had one focus after Jade was born: having another one. We had been trying for another baby for years. Years. Tortuous months of unwelcomed stained pants, and unwanted cramping. I went for every test possible. Colin didn’t go for one. He refused point-blank on the very good grounds that we had Jade so there was nothing wrong with his sperm. It was my fault. My body just wasn’t doing what it had done so easily the first time round conceiving Jade. And he point-blank refused to talk about IVF. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with it, he refused to even consider it.

  ‘It either happens or it doesn’t,’ he would say.

  Or: ‘If it’s meant to be it will be.’

  ‘But it’s not happening and why are we ignoring the fact when we have loads of options?’ I’d try and explain them.

  ‘Test-tube babies! No way!’ He’d ignorantly argued against all my suggestions.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it would still be our baby, just with medical assistance,’ I’d pleaded. He wouldn’t budge.

  I did it all. Everything the fertility books had told me to do. I cut out alcohol, caffeine, sugar, dairy. I’d taken to meditation and visualisation and acupuncture. I was taking traditional Chinese medicine Every time we had sex I would lay, my legs in the air for up to an hour before clutching my knees to my chest still deteremind not to roll over should anything escape. My Google history was like a fertility encyclopaedia. I’d tried it all. Nothing worked. I was dumbstruck that we were having so much sex, at the right times, yet zero was happening. I was single-handedly keeping ovulation sticks in business. I could have built a raft out of all my used ones, and sailed out and collected Tom Hanks and Wilson. How could it be that over three hundred million sperm were floating around inside me? Sure, less than one hundred thousand of Colin’s soldiers were passing into my cervix every month – and, yes, only about two hundred of them would successfully reach my egg – but why wasn’t I becoming pregnant?

  Anyway, that September morning when Jade started school, I dabbed my sodden tissue at my wet eyes on the slow walk home to my then coral blue-painted empty nest. As I watched the world start its day I decided to look up courses for mature students. A eureka moment, if you will. I was lonely, I admitted to myself for the first time. Defiantly I lifted my chin up high and sniffed up my snot. I was on a mission. As soon as I shut the front door behind me I went straight to the family computer in the kitchen, I didn’t even take my coat off or address the household mess. Searching, I came across a course in Griffith College that looked really interesting: Arts and Communications. On a whim I clicked the button and sent off for the application form. I can’t quite explain the relief that flooded through me. Colin was supportive, once he understood it didn’t interfere with Jade’s school drop-off and pick-up or his job. It didn’t; it was at night. The administrator called me for interview and a practical examination and when I got the letter to say I had secured a place I was thrilled. A new challenge.

  Just before the first evening, as I was packing my college bag, I discovered I was pregnant. I’d had the Clearblue test hiding in the zipper part of my handbag for five days. You see, I wasn’t sure I wanted a baby any more. I’d wanted another baby for far too long. It was more than a want: it was a yearning. The yearning had exhausted me. The relentless yearning had become a scary thing. The relentless want and yearning and longing had left me feeling useless and empty. Now I was moving on.

  But the test was positive.

  The pregnancy meant much more to Colin in those early days and he suggested I defer the course until the baby was old enough; I’d have enough on my plate. Slowly I unpacked my college bag, dropped out of my place and got ready for our new baby. Once Mark was born I fell, instantly, head over heels in love and I completely forgot about any idea of an outside education and possible career.

  Mark was an extremely difficult baby. He had colic, milk allergies; he bawled all day every day and all night every night, not a wink of sleep for the first six months. As Colin was up early and out on the road he needed his sleep so I was the one doing the night shifts and the day shifts. I was literally sick with exhaustion. A zombie. Just to see some different faces really, I joined a mother-and-babies Claphandies group once Mark had become a thriving one-year-old. It was there I saw the flyer for a part-time position at the City Arts Centre. The flyer was burnt orange and was sort of hiding behind another flyer for a breastfeeding club. I’d stood on my tippy-toes, prised the gold flat thumbtack out with my thumbnail and folded the flyer carefully into my bag.

  Something about the words Arts Centre had given me a tingle of excitement.

  So I told Colin about it, it was only part-time then, three mornings a week as part of a back-to-work scheme and he told me to go for it if that’s what I wanted. I don’t think he actually thought I was serious. So I went for it and the rest is history. Now, I eat, sleep and breathe my job. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be a completely present mum. I do. I worship my children, they are the greatest gifts ever bestowed on me but after staying at home with Jade until she started school and after being at home with Mark for a year I knew I wanted to work outside the home. I knew I didn’t want to walk home to an empty nest the day Mark started school the way I had done after Jade’s first day. Seeing that flyer was meant to be. Colin’s business was growing every day, he was busier than he had ever been and I wanted some of that working life satisfaction for myself.

  Anyhow, that was four years ago. When Colette offered me the job, I found a wonderful, retired woman on our road, Laura Delaney, who was a terrific child minder. I moved quickly from scheme trainee to the full-time paid coordinator all in one year. I adored the place. I adored the people, all the actors, musicians and artists, the creatives. Oh, how I adored the artist who had just returned to my office.

  ‘There are too many steps in this world.’ He flops in front of me again and picks up his coffee. ‘Just an observation I have wanted to share with you for some time, Alison dearest. Discuss?’

  He crosses his legs and stretches them out.

  ‘Well, I dunno, I mean … they all lead somewhere right?’ I cross my skinny-jeaned legs and swirl my paper cup anticlockwise to gather the foam.

  ‘Do they, though? When we can see where they lead, are they really going anywhere at all?’ He laughs.

  I laugh.

  We both laugh.

  I love how abstract conversations with him are. We always have the ‘Is drinking coffee really as arbitrary as eating caramels?’ conversations. I love them. If I started a conversation with Colin about where steps lead to, he wouldn’t know where to start.

  ‘Good morning, you two.’ Colette enters my office, a huge black ring binder tucked under her arm.

  ‘Michael is still in Merrion Square at the Arts
Council meeting, so we will just get started. Ali, can you come on this trip or not?’ Colette, my boss, is gay; she is smart, kind, tough, an incredible mother to her two adopted sons from Cambodia and dedicated to helping children from the inner city become educated in the arts. Also a qualified social worker, she turned her hand to this job five years ago.

  ‘I’m on board, captain.’ I make the sign of a sailor and Owen laughs. He uncrosses his legs now and sits up straight.

  ‘Super, that’s great, I really want your opinions on various shows, so I’m booking the flights now. I have a printout of times here. Owen, I need to talk to you before we book your flight about something I’m looking into, can you pop up to me this afternoon?’

  ‘Sure, no probs,’ he says.

  Colette opens her black ring binder with a click and removes a couple of stapled pages from a clear plastic pocket. She moves her clear-polished nail and dances it down the page.

  ‘A-ha, OK, so, Ali, you will leave Friday morning on the Aer Lingus to Amsterdam at six thirty; Michael and I will follow on the two o’clock after the opening of the new gallery exhibition. Owen, like I said, I need to see about your flight out, but we will all return Sunday night together on the eight thirty into Dublin.’ She licks her thumb as she flicks forward a few pages.

  Immediately my stomach tightens. I thought we would be back by early Sunday afternoon. That’s a whole other day. Now I have to tell Colin it’s three days and two nights. Please don’t let there be a Manchester United game on this Sunday.

  ‘That all right with you? Jade and Mark sorted and all that?’ Colette looks up and studies me closely now.

  ‘Yeah, they are, that’s fine with me, Colette.’ I dip my finger into the creamy froth and lick it. It’s tepid now.

  Colette continues, sliding the pages back into the clear plastic pocket.

  ‘We each have our own rooms. The Danker have been really generous with their funding for this trip, they are very well supported. They’ve got us a nice hotel, central location. Programming-wise we all need to split up Friday night and go see separate shows that we can possibly bring over here next spring. I have a list of what could travel cheaply and are suitable for our stage dimensions. Expect an email before the end of the day – choose your shows when you get a second and let me know. Saturday night we all watch the Very Messy Theatre Company’s work and we are invited to dinner with the company after. They are taking us to Ciel Blue, the only two-starred Michelin restaurant in Amsterdam; their beneficiary and board are joining us. I just had a look at it, here.’ She pulls her phone out of her shirt pocket, taps something in and hands it to me.

  It looks stunning.

  ‘I am super excited to eat here! You know what a foodie I am. Read it out for Owen there,’ Colette says, her eyes dancing with the culinary excitement to come.

  I adjust my eyes to the small text on Colette’s phone. Holding it at arm’s length to read.

  ‘Right, OK, the restaurant is located on the twenty-third floor of the delightful Hotel Okura with Chefs Onno Kok … Kok … Kok … KOKmeijer.’ I get the pronunciation after three attempts and go on reading. ‘And Arjan Speelman. They use fresh, locally produced ingredients to create gastronomic masterpieces.’

  Owen makes a guttural sound and then he erupts with laughter.

  ‘What?’ I say but the sound of my voice saying the word cock over and over is spinning around my brain too. Keep it together. I glare at him and bite my lip. I can feel the laughter rolling from my stomach and gathering momentum. I can’t speak. My eyes are running.

  ‘What is going on with you two?’ Colette is genuinely puzzled as she leans in and takes her phone from me.

  ‘Are you all right, Owen?’ She doesn’t wait for his answer as he pinches his cheeks and she goes on.

  ‘Too much caffeine, I’m assuming. The days, as far as I’m concerned, are all yours team, just stay away from the hashish, you pair!’ Colette raises her eyebrows at Owen as she pushes her pencil into her ponytail. He raises his hand by way of apology.

  ‘What time are the Steffi Street gang arriving?’ she asks him as she gets up with her black folder. Her high street black suit and open-necked pink shirt are professional yet casual.

  He’s composed now, thank God.

  ‘Ten thirty, I’m making sure their paintings are dry enough to take home today – just popped the windows open.’

  ‘Right, don’t give James Rafter his painting to take home; it’s the one of the crying ballerina, it’s so beautiful and as you know he told me his da’ will rip that faggoty shit up – so I’d like to frame it here and put it on Corridor One upstairs.’

  ‘Great, I’ll do that this afternoon.’ Owen nods his approval at Colette.

  When Colette leaves, Owen closes the glass door. He sits on my desk now.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t cope.’

  We both fall around laughing.

  ‘What are we like? A pair of kids!’ he gasps.

  ‘Absolute idiots! Morons … I’m mortified by us!’ I clutch my stomach tightly. ‘Colette must think we are mad.’ I let out a slow breath and sit back at my desk. I hit the return button on my laptop and the screen jumps back to life.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to this weekend away though … I do honestly wonder, will we have adjoining rooms? I could nip in and out when I wanted …’

  ‘Stop …’ Suddenly I’m not laughing.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ He stares into my eyes. ‘I’m messing with ya!’ He moves over and pokes me gently in the ribs.

  ‘I know you are, but … It’s Colin … We are … we’re really going through a bad patch. We’re killing each other all the time … I think it’s run its course.’ I can’t believe those words have come out of my mouth. Deadly thing to say! Alarm bells ring inside my head.

  Bong!

  Bong!

  Bong!

  They echo. I know exactly what I’m doing and I am a witch! I have planted that seed in Owen’s head now. I instantly try to take it back.

  ‘Sorry, this isn’t anything for you to worry about. I’m sure we can work it out, maybe I just need a break! He is a great dad …’ I hate myself.

  ‘It’s genuinely not any of my business, your marriage. However, we are friends … but I’m not going to say anything, Ali … well, because …’ He looks down at the floor and then raises his eyes and looks up at me coyly with those deep brown eyes. I am floating in them.

  ‘Well, you know why, I guess, by now. And it wouldn’t be fair on you or on Colin for me to add to the issues that you are already having. I’ll see you in the Beans at lunch, yeah?’

  He runs his hands over his shaven head speedily. Then he drains his coffee, takes his paper cup, stands on the bin pedal and drops it in. The bin lid clatters. Just like my bin lid at home. I don’t jump from the noise but my heart is pumping. He fancies me too. He basically just said it there. I am euphoric. I am horrified.

  My desk phone rings and its Colin’s mobile on the caller ID.

  ‘I better get this,’ I say.

  ‘I’m gone, girl, gone,’ he says and takes his leave.

  ‘Hi.’ I hold the receiver tight to my right ear.

  ‘We need to talk. I can’t concentrate on anything today … and I have a big day ahead.’ He pauses.

  ‘I know.’ I lean forward and roll some soft Blu-Tack between my fingers, making a small round ball.

  ‘Is there anything you need to tell me? Is there something going on with you and that artist bloke?’ he huffs.

  Thank God in heaven he didn’t ask me this face to face because I would have gone beetroot red from head to toe. I’m on fire. I don’t answer quickly enough. I squeeze the Blu-Tackball out flat between my index finger and thumb. Splat.

  ‘Ali?’ he has to prod.

  ‘No … no, Colin, no … don’t be ridiculous,’ I reaffirm with three no’s.

  ‘Because he’s a total knob and he wants to ride you.’ I can hear an indicator ticking away. It’s
in time to my heartbeat.

  ‘Is Maia in the car with you there?’ I ask horrified.

  ‘No, she’s gone into the meeting. I’m parking the car.’

  There is silence.

  ‘I’m telling you he wants to ride you,’ he repeats.

  ‘That’s not true …’ I swallow hard.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It is not …’

  ‘I tell you one thing, Ali, if I ever get wind of anything between you two, he’s dead and so are you.’

  My heart starts to beat heavy in my chest.

  ‘Charming,’ is all I can manage.

  We both remain silent, only our breaths meeting.

  ‘Look, I didn’t ring for another fight,’ he says.

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ I say.

  ‘I just can’t seem to find the girl I married any more, Ali. Where is she?’

  ‘Well, I’m still here, Colin. I’m just not a girl any more.’ I twist the cord around my fingers.

  A pause.

  ‘You’ll always be my girl.’ His voice is sad.

  A pause.

  ‘We’ll try and talk later, yeah?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. I miss you, Ali.’

  He hangs up before I have to answer and I’m glad.

  My phone rings immediately and I leap on it. It’s not him ringing back, it’s a call in relation to the exchange programme, so I take a deep breath and I try to busy myself in my work. When I get off the call I have lots to do with my elders in the St Andrew’s Resource Centre and that takes my mind off everything for the rest of the morning.

  At lunchtime I’m starving. I didn’t bother with the rashers on toast this morning; I just drowned myself in strong tea. I make my way down to the ground floor, to the Beans slightly before one o’clock. I say hi to Patricia, the lease owner and head chef. Patricia does great food: wholesome soups and salads, yes, but also egg and chips, home-made shepherd’s pie and fried chicken rolls. Comfort food. She has an allotment near the Four Courts. Today her specials are lentil bean soup, tomato soup, tuna burgers with sweet potato chips, and a mixed grill with freshly baked warm white crusty rolls. I get a ten per cent discount. Office workers from all over Dublin 1 will arrive any second now. Sliding my brown tray along the metallic line I order the lentil soup with two small crusty white bread rolls, pour myself a pint of tap water and take my tray to the far end of the cafe. We can use the little kitchen for staff behind the cafe to make lunch but I rarely bother. I have to cook enough when I get home. Owen is outside the Inners, its box office opposite the Beans entrance. He waves. He’s on his phone. Pacing up and down. I sit and immediately add salt and grind plenty of black pepper into my soup and I text Corina.