Rainy Days & Tuesdays Page 2

  I don’t drink too much, honestly I don’t. Well, not unless Daisy and I have dumped the children for the night and we are on the proverbial piss. But I suppose mammies will always be mammies and mine is as prone to worrying as I am. It is a genetic curse.

  Aidan, for those who are interested, is working tonight. He doesn’t normally work on a Thursday but, as he isn’t working tomorrow night for the big dinner meeting, he has to make up his hours. I decide to make the most of the peace and quiet and climb into the bath and try to lose myself in the latest Marian Keyes while trying to de-fuzz, exfoliate and moisturise all at the same time. I realise that, much as I am not used to pampering myself, I’m actually quite good at multi-tasking and I even manage to tidy that delicate bikini area without clipping a vein.

  Climbing out of the bath I start the arduous task of applying self-tanning lotion. Trust me, when you are on the larger side it takes some time to smooth it into your skin. The smell is cloying, but then I tell myself it will all be worth it when I look like a tanned goddess as I step into the restaurant tomorrow night.

  Checking the RBTs are clean, and the turquoise top is back from the drycleaner’s I find myself then faced with an array of shoes of various heights, styles and colours and the real decision-making process has to start.

  “Three-inch, four-inch, sparkly or black?” I ask down the phone without even saying hello.

  “Occasion? Location? Water-retention levels?” Daisy counters – she knows me so well.

  “Dinner with Aidan’s bosses,” I reply. “Swanky new Italian beside the river, mid-cycle-ankles decidedly unpuffy.”

  “Outfit?” she counters.

  “RBTs,” (Daisy knows all my code words as I do hers) “and satin top.”

  “Three-inch sparkly, with that silver cross I bought for your birthday and your hair swept up at one side with that wee sparkly clip.”

  “Love you,” I answer.

  “Love you too,” she replies, and hangs up.

  The thing with Daisy is that there is no bullshit. She knows me, I know her and there is no need for small-talk - no need to pepper every sentence with pauses and niceties. She is like the modern-day ghostbuster: she comes, she sees, she kicks my arse.

  I’ve only known Daisy two years. We met when I was heavy with child as opposed to being just ordinarily heavy. She was the little ray of Scottish sunshine who phoned the office one day to ask me to feature her nursery in the magazine. We met for coffee, swapped pregnancy stories and became friends.

  She assures me she is not merely my friend for the copious amounts of free publicity I can offer her – and, after feeling hormonally paranoid for the first year of Jack’s life, I now believe her.

  Lifting the sparkly shoes out of the cupboard, I realise Daisy has indeed made the right decision and I could look half-respectable after all.

  I climb into bed, close my eyes and drift off to sleep, hoping that Dermot and I get to go to the BAFTAS again tonight.

  Chapter 2

  Friday is a fairly relaxed day at Northern People – unless of course it’s pre-publication week and then it all gets a bit edgy. People scream, slam down phones, cry in the toilets and chain-smoke out the back door as if there is no tomorrow. At such times we are grateful for our out-of- town location. No one can hear you scream in Springtown.

  Thankfully, we have another week until the bell tolls for the September edition so we can sit back and relax – sort of.

  As usual I say good morning to Dermot and go through the motions with the post. I decide no one is going to put me in a bad mood today because, even though we have to go with Aidan’s boss, Aidan and I are actually going out tonight. Perhaps, after his boss leaves, we can sit down and talk about us and regain some of that old magic.

  I feel butterflies rise in my stomach. In so many silly little ways this feels just like our first date. I was so nervous back then. I didn’t dare believe that Aidan, tall, brooding and gorgeous, wanted to go out with me. Even though I was a lot slimmer then, and even though I had a promising career, a wardrobe of fascinating clothes and a repertoire of witty and intellectually stimulating one-liners tucked up my sleeve, I also had the utter lack of self-confidence so common in twenty-one-year-olds, especially Irish twenty- one-year-olds.

  My friend had introduced us a few weeks before at a work mixer. Aidan was at that stage working in advertising and while his jokes about column inches and the size of his packages weren’t as funny as he tried to have me believe, I found myself laughing anyway. There was something about him that pulled me in from the start.

  There followed at least half a dozen phone calls whereby we both tried to ascertain from my friend whether the other was interested or not. When it was firmly established that both parties were raring to go, we set about arranging a night out.

  Now usually I had a strict policy whereby the first date should always be a trip to the cinema. This would mean that pressure would be off for conversation, and afterwards we could always break the ice by talking about the film. If it was going well (i.e. he hadn’t stolen half my popcorn or dared to drink from my cup) we would retire to a wee bar down the road and chat for a few hours.

  But with Aidan something stupid in me made me opt for a dinner date. As I’ve already said, I don’t normally like dinner with strangers, but I wanted so desperately to come across as a sophisticated young thing that I guessed inviting him to a screening of The Bodyguard would seem terribly naff .

  We arrived at the restaurant and took our seats. Already my mind was ticking over. Yes, I would love a nice glass of wine, but if I ordered a bottle would I look like a desperate drunk – even though it was obviously cheaper than paying by the glass? Garlic Potatoes were my favourite but would I be wise to order them on a date? What if our kiss was a smelly mess and he never wanted to see me again? Lord knows, even though we hadn’t actually had our date at that stage, I knew with 99% certainty that I would want to see him again.

  You see, when I met Aidan, I had one of those heart- stopping moments of clarity I’d only ever read about before. I just knew something was going to happen. I didn’t know, admittedly, if that something would be that we slept together and he dumped me like a shitty sandwich, I only knew that something was meant to be. I don’t want to say it was love at first sight, so I’ll stick to saying, in this instance, it was ‘like’ love at first sight.

  In the end, I threw caution to the wind and ordered the bottle of wine. We shared it, then another, before we walked tipsily home to my flat. He kissed me, gently and tenderly – but with enough passion that I knew he felt for me just as I did for him – and then we said goodnight. If something really was going to be that good, it was worth waiting for.

  Sighing, I realise it has been four months since we’ve shared anything ‘worth waiting for’. Perhaps tonight could be the night? When Louise comes and stands by my desk she finds my eyes closed, sighing in a dirty little daydream. “Are you okay?” she asks, plonking herself on the corner of my desk and feigning fake concern.

  I sense she smells scandal and is afraid of missing one iota of gossip.

  “It’s just you look very flushed.”

  I can see already that she assumes I am with child. Louise, you see, tends to assume this about once a month because, as far as she is concerned I’ve already sprogged once, so I’m now a walking liability to the office’s full quota of staff.

  After assuring her that I’m most certainly not with child, despite the copious amount of mother and baby magazines littering my desk, I note that she is not moving. Usually with Louise, she says hello, asks how I am and clears off before waiting to hear the answer. But today is different. Today she is sitting on my desk, looking to all intents and purposes as if some kind of a thought is forming in her head – which, if you know Louise, is so very unlike her. I’m almost afraid to ask, so I sit there . . . waiting, until I can take it no more. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m in trouble,” she replies and suddenly I wonder if she
could be pregnant herself. She looks around my desk and picks up a sample of nipple-protectors, starts playing with them between her fingers, and continues. “Really big trouble and I figured you could help me.”

  Suddenly I feel important. I feel useful. I could help her. We could shop for baby things together. I could tell her when to expect her first fluttering kicks, how to do her pelvic-floor exercises and what pain relief is best in labour. Unless, of course, she wants me to be her birth partner, which would be gross. Miracle of birth or not, I’m not up for dealing with that hysterical hyena in the throes of labour. Not for all the tea in China. No, sireee. Not me.

  But, hey, every baby is a miracle, every pregnancy a joy, every birth an experience to be treasured (or recalled to terrified expectant mums with a degree of glee).

  “I need you to lose weight,” Louise says, cutting through my thoughts and leaving me, perhaps for the first time ever, speechless.

  I’m mouthing my response, forming words which won’t come out and trying to make sure the ground doesn’t open up and swallow me whole, when Louise continues.

  “It’s for the magazine. We want to change people’s lives and we were talking in the tea room the other day and realised you would be a great guinea pig. Sinéad has told me if I don’t have you signed up soon then the feature falls on its face and I really, really want to do this. So, you see, unless you help me, I’m buggered.”

  My brain tries to process this information. First of all, I’m fat – which I kind of knew anyway – I mean, it wasn’t today or yesterday my arse fitted into a Size 14. Second of all, they talk about me in here. They sit in the tea room and dissect my life – feeling sorry for me, pitying me, feeling disgusted by me. Apparently even Sinéad talks about me, and I thought she was my friend as well as my boss. And finally, I’m a pig – okay, a pig of the guinea variety, but a pig all the same. A furry, fat, pig.

  I can feel tears sting in my eyes. I can feel my mood slip from the euphoria of looking forward to my night out with Aidan, I can feel my inner voice mentally thinking about the outfit I’ve picked out to wear tonight and realising I’m pathetic to think it could look nice on me, a big, stupid (guinea) pig.

  “I’ll think about it,” I respond to Louise, because I know if I said no she would ask why and this conversation would go on longer. I honestly don’t know if I can say another word without breaking into an ugly cry complete with watery snotters.

  I turn my head, lift my phone and punch in an imaginary number just so Louise gets the message that the conversation has ended for now. When she leaves, sashaying across the room, head held high, skinny arse waggling, I get up, walk calmly to the toilets and cry as if my heart would break.

  My only saving grace is that I remember to do the ‘work cry’, which is to hold a hanky (okay, some toilet roll) under my eyes so that my mascara doesn’t run and my foundation remains unblemished.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  “She’s a skinny-arsed, stupid-faced, silly-minded fecker!” Daisy says, topping up my cup of tea and proffering me another Rocky Caramel biscuit (Daisy’s current biscuit du jour – she takes notions, you see).

  I have escaped the office on the premise of ‘working on a feature’ and I’m sitting in Daisy’s office, watching the gorgeous little mites run rings around their care workers in the toddler room.

  “We don’t like Louise,” Daisy reminds me. “We never did and now we never will. Just you remember that. Remember that the people we like, and who like us back would never say such things. I can’t believe the fecking cheek of her!” She sighs, plopping herself down in her comfy chair and pushing a box of tissues in my direction.

  It has taken me half an hour to get to the punch line of this delightful episode in my life because even though I know Daisy will know exactly what to say to make it all better, I’m still mortally embarrassed to reveal what has been said about me behind my back.

  “This is worse than the time that girl asked when the baby was due and I had to tell her five months ago,” I sniff, referring to a horrible incident on a bus when Jack was a baby. “Fecker,” Daisy responds, shaking her head. “It’s not right. They can’t go round talking about people and then trying to change their lives. Who’s to say you want your life changed? Your life is pretty damn okay, if you ask me.”

  I nod, enjoying the sympathy, enjoying the reassurance that I’m not some freakish creature with no life and even fewer prospects.

  “Sure, she has no life herself. She should feed herself up a bit, drink a little less and stop tarting herself round half of Derry. Stupid lollipopped-head, bow-legged, slapper fecker!” Daisy continues and I smile because her way with words always raises a grin. Daisy grins too, passes the biscuit tin and gives my hand a reassuring rub. “Right, missus, tonight you will look fab. You will look stunning. Aidan won’t know what has hit him and you two will have passionate nooky the like of which has never been seen in Holy Catholic Ireland. You will not think about Lollipop Louise all night and I order you, and I mean this because I’m going to phone the restaurant and check, to have Death By Chocolate for dessert, and when you come to pick Jack up in the morning we will talk about all this again and think of the best way to plot our revenge.”

  I smile, finish my biscuit and hug Daisy goodbye, promising to drop Jack around after work.

  Sighing as I start the engine in the car, I realise Daisy is right. I shouldn’t let some narrow-minded bimbo annoy me in this way. But then, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I do start to wonder if Louise has a point.

  No, I mustn’t think this way. I must not let this defeat me, not tonight when I’m under orders to eat a guilt-free Death By Chocolate.

  By six thirty I’m home and running my shower, setting out my perfumes and body lotions. Aidan has just phoned to say he will meet me at the restaurant at eight thirty. It makes it feel more like a proper date now – so secretive, us meeting up like this! I wish we were going to be on our own, but I’ll settle for whatever I can get. Turning my Anastacia CD up full volume I start to sing, or more accurately, squeak along. What I lack in talent, I more than make up in enthusiasm. The shower is just the right temperature and I enjoy feeling it wash over me. This is what life should feel like, just nothing to worry about but me and getting ready to see the man I love, assured that within twelve hours I’ll be seeing my little boy again. Scraping the razor up my legs, under my armpits and even along my bikini-line, I realise I’m having a pre-sex shower where I make sure everything is just so, just in case tonight is the night. I set aside my comfy yet reliable underwear, and pull out something lacy and uncomfortable – something which will not humiliate me entirely should I get to the stage where my husband and I sleep together. Dressed to impress, I phone a taxi and head to the restaurant. Amazingly, I’ve not thought about Louise’s jibes for a full five minutes which actually shows remarkable strength of character on my part.

  And he is there. Groomed, sexy, looking a little tired, but all the more handsome for it, and he sees me and smiles. The smile looks genuine and he reaches his arm out to me, kisses my cheek and introduces me to Matt, his boss. Unlike so many of Aidan’s previous work colleagues, Matt actually makes an effort to talk to me and listen to my replies. He orders garlic bread, and offers me some which I take because it would be rude to refuse. He then goes on to tell me how great Aidan is and how he thinks there might be a promotion in the pipeline. Aidan has that smug look of ‘I’m the man’ about him and boasts about our house, our car, our child. Funnily enough he doesn’t talk much about me.

  By the end of the meal I realise that I have actually enjoyed myself much more than I thought was possible, but my heart really leaps when Matt makes his excuses and leaves myself and Aidan to share the Death By Chocolate and the remainder of the wine bottle.

  “That went well,” I say enthusiastically, grabbing Aidan’s hand.

  “I think so,” he replies, spooning much too much of the gooey dessert into his gob for my liking.

&n
bsp; I try not to be too obvious about my longing to have it all to myself.

  “Matt’s a cool guy. I really think this could be my big break,” Aidan continues.

  “Let’s hope so, eh?” I respond, knowing that Aidan has been all this time biding his time hoping someone will realise his potential. I know he has it there somewhere. He may have worked a multitude of jobs since we first met, but he has given his heart and soul to all of them – albeit in short and enthusiastic bursts.

  “So how was your day?” he asks and I launch into it, telling him about Jack’s antics on the way to the childminder’s, the heavy traffic on the Culmore Road that morning, then my abridged version of Louise’s barbed comments. My tongue is loosened with wine, you see, and I’m making a joke of it now, making it funny – trying to make Aidan laugh with me and assure me, just as Daisy did, that I’m being totally absurd about the whole thing.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  I heard a song on the radio once – I think it was U2 – which said something about disappointing your other half. When I look at Aidan, 90% of the time I am asking myself that question. He would never tell me that I did. He knows it would break me, but sometimes, clichéd and all as it sounds, actions do speak louder than words.

  I can see the dreams he had for us have not quite panned out. I’m not the vibrant, funky woman he met. I’m mumsy. Cuddly. Fat. While I have a job that pays the bills, I’m not exactly the Washington DC correspondent for The Sunday Times which I’d promised to be by the time I reached thirty. I write about nappies and vomit and Calpol.

  I know he wonders what has become of me. Just as sure as I know he loves Jack with every fibre of his heart, I can’t help but believe that he is with me simply because we are married – tied together by a mortgage, a child, a hope that tomorrow will be that wee bit brighter.