Rainy Days & Tuesdays Page 4

  I have never been skinny in my entire life and my 5’ 9” of height gave me the impression of being what is most commonly known as a ‘grand big girl’ around these parts. It helped not one jot that most of my childhood classmates had the audacity to be that perfect 5’ 2” with eyes of blue (and eeny, teeny arses).

  For the most part, my teenage years saw me as a Size 14. The clothes which my peers wore, and which made them look young, trendy and with-it, just looked dreadful on me. It wasn’t that they didn’t fit – it was just that I didn’t fit them.

  I felt awkward and uncomfortable and the name given to me by my parents became a cruel joke. Instead of Amazing Grace, the crueller bullies at school nicknamed me ‘Grazing Grace’ – after all, I must have had to do some eating to be such a bloater. No one could understand it, because looking at my gene pool – my slim and gorgeous mammy, my handsome daddy – I was the odd one out. Occasionally in my adult years I have wondered fleetingly if the milkman was a lard-arse.

  I had a love for exercise back then, especially dance. I loved to lock myself away in my bedroom, my sanctuary from the world, where I was a backing dancer for Bros. I was a maniac, maniac on the dance-floor.

  And I grew confident. I felt, for the first time, graceful and I braved the stage at the auditions for a local dance school. This was me, getting ready to make it, getting ready to shake my booty, getting ready to be the person I was destined to be. I thought I did well. I thought I made the right moves. I felt confident. I felt happy. I felt sure of success – until, that is, I walked into my classroom the next morning and heard Lizzie O’Dowd tell the class that Grazing Grace made a complete show of herself at the dance school the day before.

  The letter came in a few days later and I tore it up, unopened, threw it in the bin and never danced again.

  I watched. I tapped my toes occasionally. I even allowed Aidan to whirl me around the floor when we married but I never danced – I never lost myself in music again.

  Sometime in my early twenties I decided, in a wilful act of teenage rebellion a few years too late, that I would be fashionable. So I set about talking to the fashion editor of Northern People. I even bought Vogue and In Style and followed celebs in the fashion stakes. I surrounded myself with fine things – tailored suits for work, boho fashion for weekends and enough shoes that it could take a good ten minutes to find a desired pair while searching through the bottom of my wardrobe. I had my hair cut into a sleek bob and survived on a diet of salads and soups and dropped weight like you wouldn’t believe.

  I managed, and I am eternally proud of this fact, to fit into a Size 12 pair of trousers from Next. They hang still in my wardrobe – a trophy from my glory days.

  It was then I met Aidan and we fell into that thing known as ‘domestic bliss’ which, basically, meant we stuffed ourselves stupid and drank until we near exploded. Yes, we had plenty of exercise (nudge-nudge, wink-wink) to keep the weight from creeping back on and, when he proposed, my starvation diet kicked up a further notch so that I looked and felt magnificent on the big day in my dream dress – a creation in handmade lace with a slinky fishtail train gliding behind me.

  Once again Sod’s Law ruled supreme in that the only people who could be my bridesmaids were drawn from the same old 5’ 2”, eyes-of-blue crowd. So despite my success at fitting into the dress without the need for industrial- strength underwear, I still felt like Dorothy among the Munchkins.

  Chapter 4

  Springing me back into the present day, Jack and Lily run in through the doors, beaming ear to ear and shouting that they “wanna go to the beach!”.

  Daisy and I look at each other, roll our eyes to heaven and agree to the demand because we know there is no point arguing with Lily and Jack on a Saturday – there will be enough of that to do during the week when they are dumped into childcare and school and we head off to our respective jobs. Mammy-guilt, we have long realised, buys our kids an awful lot of treats.

  “I’ll pack a picnic,” Daisy says.

  The children are dancing around our feet in hyperactive circles. Jack squeals: “Beach, beach, beach!” on repeat until I fear my ears may burst, while Lily has started listing all the things the average trendy four-year- old needs to make a day at the beach worthwhile. She is running from room to room, collecting towels, swimsuits, sunglasses, beach hats and sun cream.

  “Mammmmeee!” she squeals from her bedroom. “I can’t find my pink sandals!”

  “Wear your silver ones then,” Daisy replies.

  “Don’t want to,” Lily counters. “I want to match my swimming suit.”

  Daisy grins and rolls her eyes to heaven once again. It’s hard to believe a four-year-old could be so fashion- conscious.

  I’ll have to introduce her to Louise.

  Jack has started jumping up and down to accompany his screaming and he runs to the garden to fetch his ball, bucket and spade from the sandpit. It’s a good thing the hangover I was worried about has failed to materialise.

  “Have we everything we need?” Daisy asks, closing the picnic hamper and grabbing a blanket for the ground.

  “Yes!” Lily responds, having now located her pink sandals and looking like a movie starlet ready for her close- up. Somewhere she has found some lip-gloss and slicked it on – not quite worrying whether or not she has managed to get it inside her lip-line.

  Loading the kids in the car, we jump in and set off on the thirty-minute drive.

  You see, today isn’t a waste after all. We will run and jump and play until we are utterly exhausted and I will have burned off at least 5000 calories by the time we get home.

  We pull up at Buncrana and savour the salty air while trying to keep the children in check long enough to unload the car. Luckily for us, there is a gorgeous play-park on the shorefront – filled with colourful swings, slides, roundabouts and climbing frames – and all complete with comfy benches for mammies to rest while their children run riot.

  After slapping on the requisite amount of sun cream so that Jack and Lily both look as if they have been whitewashed, we let them free to explore the huge climbing frame just inside the gates and we sit down and allow the warmth of the sun to wash over us.

  “This is bliss,” Daisy sighs, her head tilted back to catch the full rays of the sun as they beat down.

  Already I’m too relaxed to offer a proper reply and make a vague moaning sound to show I’m in total agreement. I can feel the sun seep through my skin, warming my bones, bringing a shine to my hair, recharging my batteries and while, admittedly, I’d prefer to be doing all this away from the screams of over-excited youngsters, it is pretty damn good all the same.

  Glancing up occasionally, I see that Jack’s little chubby legs are making short shrift of the climbing frame while Lily is playing a mammy’s role perfectly in directing the other children away from her charge.

  “Do you think we could get them to play this nicely all the time?” Daisy asks, arching one eyebrow and smiling at me.

  “Makes a great change from battering the life out of each other over who gets to play Fifi and who gets to play Bumble,” I laugh.

  “Nothing like a bit of fresh air and exercise to make life easier,” Daisy laughs.

  I have the good grace to feel guilty that I’m not exactly feeling the burn and busting my buns with effort. I consider strapping Jack in his buggy and heading for a brisk coastal walk, but it would be cruel to take him away from this fun so I reluctantly, or so I tell myself, move just enough to make myself extra comfy before letting the sun’s rays wash over me again.

  I jump awake to the sound of a snore, which I’m pretty sure emanated from my throat, and sit up to see Daisy in a fit of giggles with the children, who have also heard my snorting. I try my best not to look embarrassed and to laugh along with them, but if I’m honest I’m once again praying for the ground to open up.

  Gathering up our hamper and the comfy blanket, we make our way down onto the golden sand where Daisy sets about doling out th
e sandwiches and drinks while I try and convince Jack that, honestly, sand isn’t so good for your digestive system. I lift an egg-and-onion sandwich which has warmed with the heat of the sun and take a swig of ice- cold Diet Coke bought from the chip van which is sending out its sweet, tempting scent and distracting my attention from matters at hand. Oh for fish and chips, soaked in vinegar, eaten from the paper at the beach . . . but I have to remind myself that such pleasures are a thing of the past. It’s onwards, upwards and skinnywards for me.

  It’s easy to get inspiration from visiting the beach. It seems that everyone around us is skinny and wearing one of those tiny T-shirts that show off perfectly honed stomachs with sparkly belly-button piercings. They are walking along the water’s edge, looking as if they should be in advertisements for some pro-biotic yoghurt or cholesterol-reducing butter or herbal tea.

  Glancing over at Daisy, sipping her fruit juice and nibbling on an apple, I realise she is one of them. Her hair is long and, unlike mine, shining with health and vitality. I would almost think she lives on a diet of Pedrigee Chum, her hair is so glossy. Her skimpy T-shirt and bejewelled flip-flops are not unlike the pair Louise wore earlier. Funny though, I don’t get the same urge to slap Daisy round the head with a pineapple, despite her almost-flat stomach.

  Of course she gave birth years ago. I’m a relative newbie. I console myself with the thought that in two years’ time I too could get away with a trendy piercing or tattoo (as long as no one looks too closely at the map of stretch-marks painted across my belly).

  I make a mental note to ask Daisy to give me advice on her diet and fitness regime, figuring that anything which includes a daily dose of caramel and biscuit can’t be too hard to follow.

  And then I climb up on the sand and set about running after my son who has just realised that there is water to be played with and has plonked himself and his egg-and- onion sandwich unceremoniously in the sea, his nappy visibly expanding amid the strain of the copious amounts of salt water.

  Lily comes racing towards us, her pink sunhat resting on top of her curls which are equally as shiny as her mother’s, and we splash in the water until it starts to turn cold and Jack is too weighed down by his nappy to walk any further.

  “This is fun, fun, fun!” Lily squeals, dousing me with a bucket of seawater and screeching with laughter and I find myself, wet and cold admittedly, grinning with her.

  Daisy’s laughter only dries up momentarily when Lily and I gang up on her, there being a great deal of joy in our recklessness. When we are all wet and tired we climb back to the car, dry ourselves off with the array of brightly coloured towels we had packed and set off home.

  “This has been so much fun,” Daisy says as the kids drift off to sleep during the drive.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” I reply.

  “You know, I think that doctor has another prescription in the offing,” Daisy says.

  “And what might that be?” I ask.

  “A bottle of wine and a sleepover for the kids? I take it Aidan is working and we could have a nice gossip in your garden while the kids sleep.”

  I agree it sounds like a great plan, even if I am more than a little amused that Daisy has referred to our plot of concrete as a garden. We are not blessed with the gorgeous lawns and French doors that Ms Daisy Cassidy has. Having opted for character when buying our house (i.e. old and cheap), we sacrificed a garden for a decent-sized kitchen and instead have a yard which houses a couple of wheelie bins, some beat-up toys and two plastic garden chairs. Admittedly we get the sun in the evenings so it can be quite pleasant if you just sit there, close your eyes and drink yourself into such a stupor you can ignore the decay and destruction round you.

  But I like the thought of getting in a proper girly adult chat with Daisy. All too often she has a team of children running round her ankles at the Little Tikes nursery, or we have Lily and Jack and their dastardly deeds to contend with. The nearest we usually get to a proper drink is playing Russian Roulette with milk which has been left out a little too long in the heat.

  Besides, when it comes to alternatives, I don’t have anything you could conceivably describe as interesting in the offing. Funnily enough Dermot Murnaghan is busy of a Saturday evening and with Aidan at work, it’s usually just me, my wine and Casualty for company. Generally I’ll be in bed by ten thirty, or if I’m not I can be found mopping and hoovering into the wee small hours.

  I’m tending to think a bottle of wine with Daisy could just be preferable to that.

  So we stop at Daisy’s, throw Lily’s Ready Bed and pink pyjamas (with matching slippers, of course) into the boot of the car and make our way home. I know Aidan will have already left for work, so it’s nice for once to come home with a bit of company. We push the door open, bath the kids and put them to bed and I uncork a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and pour out two large glasses.

  I stick the CD player out of the kitchen window and play some chilled-out Michael Buble to help us relax, before announcing that I’m going upstairs to change into something more comfortable and less filled with sand.

  I’m singing to myself with contentment when I open the bedroom door and notice an envelope sitting on my pillow. Instantly I recognise Aidan’s writing and my heart lurches. Sitting down I hold the crisp envelope in my hands and start to shake. I know what this says without even having to look at it. This is like the dance-school rejection all over again. I’ve made an eejit of myself, crying into my chocolate dessert and harping on about what a baggage Louise is. This has been inevitable since that moment.

  I know he has had enough and is leaving us. The bastard! How can he do this? To me and to Jack? Most of all to Jack, I kid myself, but I know I’m feeling the personal rejection most of all because he is tied to me by choice, not by blood, and how dare he reject me?

  I toy with the notion of ripping the letter up, saving myself the humiliation of seeing the words, but then I know I have to see them to believe them for myself. I want to see how the bastard coward has betrayed me. I want to know if he, and his usually shocking use of the English language, has managed to make sense.

  Taking a swig of my wine, hearing Michael Buble sing about ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ in the background, I crumble a little. But slowly I tear at the envelope.

  Removing the single page, I sigh. One page – one page to destroy four years of marriage, eight years of love.

  I’m only worth one page.

  How could I have thought I could be worth any more? Stupid, silly, gullible, trusting Grace! What are we going to do? I hope he doesn’t think we are moving out because I love this house and I’m sure as hell not selling it.

  What will I tell Jack? Will there be a custody battle, because I’m sure I’ll win. I’ve written enough features about parenting to know the courts always side with the mammies – not the loser dads who walk out.

  I unfold the page. I’m drawn to it as your eye is drawn to an accident. I can barely see the words for my tears, but I read them anyway, slowly.

  Grace, (No ‘dear’, I note – this has to be bad news.) You know I’m not one to write very often but I just don’t know how to get through to you any other way. (You could have just talked to me, arsehole!)

  But I’m worried about you and about us. (Here it comes. . .) I didn’t mean to upset you last night by ignoring your concerns about Louise. (Nope, you were saving it all up for now, weren’t you?) I just feel tired of listening to you giving out about how unhappy you are (here comes the punch line . . .) and you not doing anything about it. I want this to work (You could have fooled me, Mister!) and I’ll help you any way I can, but I can’t make you happy if you aren’t willing to help yourself.

  Please let me know what I can do to help (Erm . . . he wants to help?) and I promise I will try because I do love you so much and I want you to believe that for once in your life. (Feck . . . I was not expecting that!)

  Love, Aidan

  I am speechless. Still crying, but speechless. I’m n
ot sure what to think, or even how to feel. In some ways I guess it is good news. He wants to make this work, but then again he is fed up. But, he wants to help me but he is not sure he can make me happy. I lift my wineglass to my lips and take a large gulp – big enough to make me splutter. I’m conscious that Michael Buble is still singing downstairs and Daisy is waiting for me, but I don’t know how to deal with this now. I don’t know what to say or even if I should say anything.

  You see, it’s okay for me to say bad things about Aidan. It’s okay for Daisy to know that he never picks his clothes up off the floor or that he always leaves the back door unlocked inviting burglars in or even that he changes jobs as often as he changes his crusty socks – but I don’t know if I can really let her know he is unhappy with me. That is a whole other kettle of fish – a way of admitting I’m not perfect and that other people are well aware of my faults – people who are supposed to love me, faults and all.

  And yet, he loves me. He wants to make this work. He wants to make me happy and this should make me jump for joy. I should be mentally pushing those doubts aside and rejoicing that eight years, one marriage, one mortgage and one baby later, he still loves me.

  He loves me even though I’m fatter, older, poorer and grumpier than those first hazy days when we would lie about all day making love, drinking cheap wine and sharing our dreams for the future.

  He loves me even though I live in baggy pyjamas and am always snoring by the time he makes it through the door in the evening – but then again if I don’t get happy, perhaps he won’t love me any more. And that, that single thought, for all his faults, is too scary to contemplate.

  Downstairs Michael Buble is inviting me to save the last dance for him. I can hear Daisy singing tipsily along and I decide, for once, to keep this part of my life to myself until I can make some sense of it.

  I wash my face, slap myself a little round the cheeks to even up the colour and hold a cold flannel to my eyes to reduce the puffiness. I hide the letter in my bedside table and go back downstairs to the garden – painting on my happiest ever smile – and top up Daisy’s glass, turn the music up and make a total fecking eejit of myself crooning along to ‘It Had To Be You’.