The Week I Ruined My Life Read online

  Want to come over later for a glass of vino, Colin’s on an overnighter? Xx

  ‘What’s the soup?’ Owen is standing over me now, picking green paint from his long, lean fingers.

  ‘Lentil,’ I tell him, stuffing my phone back in my bag.

  He pulls out a chair opposite me and scrapes it noisily off the ceramic tiles. Sitting opposite me, he makes two fists with his hands, brings them up under his chin and bursts into song, ‘Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa, can you find me in the niiigghhtttttt?’ He is all closed eyes and deep, intense, booming voice.

  ‘That’s Yentl, ya loon!’ I roar, laughing at him. As we found out early on in our friendship, we are both huge Barbra Streisand fans. We are always looking for a reason to break into a Barbra tune. When I stop, he is staring into my eyes. We stare at each other. Suddenly my mouth is dry. I lick my lips before reaching in my pocket for my rosy Vaseline and slather it all over my lips. Owen watches me intently.

  ‘I’m still laughing at your triple cock outburst. I’ve just been busting my ass laughing at various moments throughout the morning.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I’m gonna get you back for that … I’m gonna ask Chef Kok’whatever to come out and meet us after the meal and I’m going to tell him you can do the Riverdance backwards and—’

  ‘You deserve to be happy, Ali,’ he interrupts me, deadly serious face, ‘that’s all I’m going to say.’

  His hands come to rest on top of his head and he leaves them there, linked together.

  We continue to look at each other. Really look at each other. I can look into his eyes so easily. We can maintain eye contact for hours. It’s so comfortable.

  ‘I know I do …’ I can’t find any other words. I don’t know what to say. I know what I should say: ‘I am happy, Owen. It’s a blip … a rough patch. All marriages go through one and we will get through this.’

  But I don’t.

  He drops his hands now and picks up one of my bread rolls, tears it in half, leans across and dips it into my soup.

  ‘Mmmm, excellent soup, Patricia.’ He chews quietly. ‘If I ever get my act together and have an exhibition, Patricia is doing the nibbly bits.’

  ‘Work away, I’m happy to share, I’m not really that hungry.’ I push the bowl into the middle of the table. It’s true: my appetite has dissipated.

  ‘I can’t see how anyone, any person, can tell another person what’s worthy to them isn’t worthy. I hate that shit … That’s what I wanted to say.’

  He picks up my spoon and helps himself to soup. When he replaces the spoon by me, we stare at one another again and already it’s a different staring. It’s a want.

  ‘I simply can’t comprehend that, Ali.’

  My phone beep beeps in my bag and I’m glad of the excuse.

  It’s Corina.

  Sounds great – 8.30pm and I’ll bring the pulled pork.

  I laugh. She means the family-size bags of Walkers Pulled Pork and Ranchero crisps.

  ‘Here’s the Steffi Street bus, I better get the kids into the drawing room …’ He is looking out the long high widows of the Beans as he scrapes the floor again, pushing back his chair.

  ‘Yeah, OK …’

  ‘See ya later.’ He puts his hand across mine. ‘I’m always here if you need an ear, ya know that, without wanting to sound cheesy – and I just heard myself and that really does sound cheesy – but I’m just not sure what to say about Colin, Ali, and I don’t want to say anything I shouldn’t.’

  I’ve put him in a terrible position.

  ‘It’s fine, Owen, it’s going to sort itself – maybe the break away will do me, us, good.’ I laugh, slightly too high-pitched and pick up my soup spoon. He moves away. Suddenly I feel ashamed. I think of my two incredible children and how with one selfish act I can ruin their lives. This isn’t me. I’m not that type of person. I’m a good mother. I’m not a cheater. Definitely, I think, I need some type of counselling. I stare out the long glass window at the roughness of the River Liffey and eat the rest of my well-seasoned lukewarm soup. Dublin is deep into winter as December drops heavier upon us. People hurry past, cupped hands with coat collars pulled up. Flushed faces. Rushing to get indoors quicker. Jade has gymnastics at seven tonight and she needs a new leotard for Friday afternoon’s competition. She is starting to develop, I think as I add even more salt to the remains. Little buds of breasts. I’m not sure how to approach her about this yet; and I know she is aware of it. I think I’ll let it go a while. I can’t push her away any further. The more I try to hold her the more she wrestles away and I don’t know why.

  There is a lot to do if I am to get to Dance World this afternoon so I finish my lunch, rummage in my bag for my vitamin C and zinc tablet, knock it back with the end of my tap water and head back upstairs to my office.

  Flopping onto my swivel chair, I awake my sleeping laptop. No word from Colin. Flicking through my emails I spot the mail from Colette and the list of what shows she needs us to attend on Friday night. That means during the day I will be in Amsterdam, on my own. Owen, too.

  Butterflies escape in my stomach and hit against the sides like a fly in a glass house. This thing I feel for Owen is actually so physical I can’t stop it. It’s making me nervous and therefore nauseous.

  I open the attachment and scroll down the list – quite a few smaller shows to choose from – I’m mainly looking for smaller production companies whose values and ethos will be the right fit for the City Arts Centre audience. I’m also consciously looking for anything that Owen will avoid. The thoughts of him sitting close to me in a darkened box in Amsterdam are too much for me to take. Scrolling down, I see one. A small theatre company from Haarlem have a one woman show called Heat – performed in English. It seems unlikely that Owen will choose this one and it’s also a half hour away from where we are staying so I open a separate email and I mail Colette that I’ll scout this show. There is no set, it’s easy to travel – just one cast member, the lighting designer and the stage manager.

  I google more about Amsterdam, it tells me it’s often taken over by tourists, there is just so much to do and see and most people tend to take it in as a weekend break. It’s also home to the Teylers Museum, the oldest museum in the Netherlands. Colin hates museums, I adore them. I love their smell. I could spend hours and hours strolling around just staring at the history and lives and experiences hanging on a wall or in a glass box. The last time I asked Colin to come we took the kids to the National History Museum. There just happened to be a glass case that was empty and he went on and on and oohed and ahhed at the brilliance of the non-existent piece. He made it all into one big joke and had them in absolute stitches.

  Now, while I’m always on for a good laugh, it was slightly inappropriate. He should be encouraging culture, especially home-grown. Not making a mockery of it. Corina again said I was overreacting.

  ‘Ah, come on, Ali, some of it is a bit pretentious, you have to agree?’ She had been eating a 99 ice cream with raspberry ripple at the time and I remember watching in awe as she cleverly calculated the ratio of chocolate flake to ice cream and nibbled and licked her way to the end.

  I didn’t agree.

  I hear a commotion outside and stand up to look out my window. Down below I see Owen with his Steffi Street class. He is marching and they are marching behind him. I stand on my tippy-toes and open my window slowly. This is all a part of ‘Arts in the Community’ that the school and Colette have programmed as part of their fourth-class curriculum.

  ‘Left right, left right, left right – get in step, James Rafter, that’s it, we are an art army, we are art soldiers!’ He lifts his left hand to his head and flicks out a salute. I grin widely.

  ‘Canna woman bea soldier, sir?’ asks a little girl in navy jeggings and a navy hoody, tugging Owen’s shirt.

  ‘A woman can be anything she wants to be, Zoe. Anything.’ He places his hands on her tiny shoulders and squeezes them

/>   ‘Now what do we see?’ He extends his hands to their urban surroundings.

  ‘Nuttin’,’ comes a voice from the back of the line.

  ‘Nothing, James Rafter? And why have you come out again today with no coat? Are we still this blind to the nature around us? Please …’ He runs his hands over his shaven head. ‘Look harder.’ He leans back against the grey-graffitied lamp post.

  They all look around, giggling, messing.

  ‘I see a bird, sir,’ James Rafter offers now.

  ‘Exactly!’ Owen bends at the knees and snaps his fingers on both hands. ‘Now what is it doing, James?’

  ‘Flyin’, sir.’

  He joins James and they both look up into the sky.

  ‘That bird, James, is just like us on this journey through life. We fly together in groups, in gangs, if you want: sometimes one of us is in the front, the leader, but when one tires and falls back, if one is having problems, a new bird takes the lead – they all stick together; they have one another’s backs. Just like you guys.’

  The Steffi Street gang all nod in unison, in understanding.

  I shut the window gently. I return to my seat and I pinch the bridge of my nose so tightly it hurts.

  5

  Monday night. My kitchen. After the nine o’clock news.

  The country is no longer depressed. The Republic of Ireland football team have qualified for the European Championships in France. My stomach flips a little. This will be the end of Colin around the house all summer. He will be at every game for as long as we carry on through the tournament. This makes me happy and I see long bright nights out on the road with the kids, takeaway chippie chips drenched in salt and vinegar and me stretched out across my big double bed. Peace and harmony. No one to tell me what to do or point out all the things I am doing wrong. Come on, Keano and Martin O’Neill; keep our menfolk away all summer.

  Corina is muttering out loud to Facebook, seated in front of our family computer in the kitchen as I take Jade’s new purple-and-black long-sleeved leotard out of the plastic and fold it into her gym bag with a face towel. Possibly I should be washing it first, but I’m the type of person who buys new bed linen or towels and uses them immediately. Clean enough for me. We had spent an hour and a half choosing this in Dance World after I collected them from Laura’s. The assistant had actually closed the shop and we were still there.

  ‘That’s really pretty,’ I had said four hundred times as Jade posed in front of the mirror jumping and twirling and testing them all out.

  ‘I’m so bored, Mummy,’ Mark had moaned, sprawled out face down on the hard ground.

  ‘I know, sweetie, we are going now.’ I pulled him up onto my knee.

  ‘Are you really going away for two nights, Mummy? Jade said you are.’ His little lip curls downwards.

  I wasn’t going to tell him until the last minute as I knew he’d fret.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said.

  ‘You are, Mom. Dad says you’re going on a trip to Oompa Loompa Land this weekend to visit your Oompa Loompa friends.’ Jade falls into the splits, kind of, and it looks sore.

  ‘I want to come to Oompa Loompa Land, Mummmmyyyyyy!’ Mark roars and pulls at my jacket.

  ‘Come on, Jade, just get that one, otherwise you are going to be late for gymnastics. Take it off now and, Mark, Daddy’s just trying to be funny. He’s just joking, there is no such place as Oompa Loompa Land.’

  ‘Daddy is the greatest daddy in the entire world!’ Jade’s bright blue eyes challenge me.

  ‘He absolutely is and you are very lucky children to have such a terrific daddy! Now let’s go!’ I plaster a wide smile on my face.

  As I stuff Mark’s football gear into his bag now, I wonder why Jade said that about her dad? I know she adores him, but it seemed a bit out of context. Corina still sits at the family computer, her legs stretched out, barefoot and noisily dips her hand in and out of the family size bag of Rancheros on the desk.

  ‘Gotta love pulled pork … eh, yeah, as if that’s a no make-up selfie, love!’ she snorts. ‘Come on, if you are going to do it, do it! Those are double-layered false eyelashes, for crying out loud!’ She munches away to her heart’s content.

  ‘Who is it?’ I approach her and lean over her shoulder rolling Mark’s blue and white football socks into a ball.

  ‘Ahh just some girl I know … well, actually, I don’t know her at all – we’re Facebook friends. In fact, I have never actually met her. Just going through her photos. For some strange reason, I think I saw she liked some post of mine there from months ago and I went to investigate. I always find it a bit unsettling when someone likes a picture you posted years ago, don’t you? Are you nearly ready to sit down? I want to see Gogglebox.’ She licks each bacon-flavoured finger carefully, twisting and turning them to be doubly sure. Tonight Corina is in her comfy velour tracksuit and her Uggs sit at the front door. Her wild red curly hair is all scraped back into a high bun, no bits tumbling around her face. Her eyes free from mascara. She is in fact ready for bed and she looks so young. Her face is line free. Sleep. I put her good, wrinkle-free skin all down to sleep! Corina gets bucket loads of sleep.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I was so focused on not forgetting gymnastics stuff for Friday afternoon’s competition, I forgot about football tomorrow and I’d nothing washed from last week – just ready. I quickly need to pop up to Jade and take the iPad off her.’

  ‘In my day I had a cuppa cocoa made on water with my Enid Blyton books by my bedside table,’ sighs Corina nostalgically. ‘Not for the world and Tom Hardy naked sprawled across it would I change that for any iPad. God, the adventures that woman took me on with her Famous Five and her Secret Seven, not to mention Malory Towers and my absolute obsession with Darrell Rivers, and then I moved to St Clare’s where I swapped my obsession onto Pat and Isobel O’ Sullivan. I devoured them all. I used to pretend I was George from the Famous Five – I’d wrap a black towel around my head, turban style, one of Dad’s ties around my fluffy toy dog Max and drag him around behind me as Timmy the dog while I sneaked downstairs for a midnight feast. Which mainly involved me opening a six-pack of Monster Munch and finishing them all, then with my trusty dog I’d hide the empty packets all over the house. Behind the couch, in the overcrowded kitchen drawers. I remember my mother thinking she was getting an early onset of Alzheimer’s every time she went to get the crisps for the lunch boxes … Ahh, those were also the days, crisp sambos for lunch in school. Believe it or not I only told her that a few years ago. Actually, come to think of it Enid Blyton and her wondrous midnight feasts are to blame for the start of my overeating! I’ve just saved myself a small fortune in therapy!’

  ‘Different world, Corina.’ I sigh as I leave her and make my way up the carpeted stairs and peek into Mark’s room. He is fast asleep. His tiny body curled up in the foetal position with GoGo, his scruffy off-white teddy, under his arm. I love him so much. I feel a huge pang of guilt that I didn’t read another story. He’d begged. I had read four. I was tired. Drained. I still had loads to do. But was I mainly rushing my son to sleep so I could go down and drink wine with Corina? Maybe I was. Turning out his Cars lamp, I kiss him gently on his forehead and then pass across the hall into Jade’s room. American accents hit my ears through her massive soft pink headphones.

  ‘Time to go to bed, lovey,’ I whisper as I lift the left earphone out from her ear.

  She nods and yawns and removes the headphones. She’s tired. The gymnastics always tires her of a Monday, and the late-night on Friday and Saturday. She hands me the iPad and I click it off. And you forgot about her and left her up late last night because you were drinking wine. My guilt, my Red Devil, on my shoulder pokes the black pitchfork into my brain.

  Prod.

  Prod.

  Prod.

  ‘I love you, boo boo, sleep tight.’ I kiss her forehead.

  ‘Mom, please … don’t call me boo boo, I really hate it! Even Dad agrees it’s too babyish!’ She grinds her teeth at me as
she says this.

  ‘Sorry, love, I … I forgot. I won’t say it ever again.’ I rub her back.

  She’s just over-tired, exhausted. I leave the room.

  * * *

  ‘Make mine a large one.’ I flop on the couch beside Corina, who has now moved into the sitting room in front of my fake, plug-in artificial fire and is watching Gogglebox.

  She hands me a glass of red from the table.

  ‘That Scarlett girl is absolutely hilarious,’ I say as I nod to the TV and raise my glass to my mouth.

  ‘She should have her own show!’ I add and take a drink. A welcome bitter bite off the wine.

  ‘So … I think I may have met myself a keeper of a fella.’ Corina makes a wide grinning Cheshire cat face and her tongue does a wild jig outside her mouth.

  ‘What? Go on!’ I hit mute, slip off my flats and curl my feet under me and put a cushion over my knees. Gogglebox goes on without us in the background. Us watching them watching us.

  ‘Ah well … I dunno … I met him in Whelan’s last week and we just had a brilliant chat over wet elbows at the bar. He’s from Manchester—’

  ‘But we had lunch on Sunday,’ I interrupt. ‘And you never mentioned him!’ I bang the pillow with my free hand.