‘The man whose father’s funeral I went to.’
‘Ivo from Kildare?’
I nod.
‘For heaven’s sake, didn’t you recognise him?’ she demands. ‘Honestly, Roxy, after all that fuss! I know the photo was of a little boy, but surely you could have seen a resemblance.’
This time I shake my head. ‘Ivo’s nothing like the boy in the photo,’ I say. ‘He’s sharp and confident. That boy was geeky and worried.’
‘I could see he had a bit of a worried look about him,’ agrees Mum. ‘But he’s OK now, obviously. A successful businessman with my daughter on tap to drive him wherever he needs to go.’
‘Not for much longer,’ I remind her.
She doesn’t comment but I can tell she’s pleased.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ she asks as I finish my tea. ‘Maybe you’re taking this Gina Hayes stuff a bit far. Eating too many of her damned chopped salads. You have to look after yourself.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that at all.’ I decide to give her a tiny piece of the information that rattled me so much. ‘When Ivo told me that the photo was his, I was very relieved. But then his sister made a comment that made me think there was a connection to Dad after all. I was leaping to some mad conclusions, but it was a shock all the same. When you told me the truth, I guess I was overcome.’
‘I didn’t realise you were quite such a fragile flower.’ But Mum’s eyes are still anxious as she looks at me.
I give her a reassuring smile. ‘I guess the last few months have finally caught up with me,’ I say. ‘So listen – now that you know about Estelle, are you going to try to find out more? Like . . . if her son, Peter, really is Dad’s too? Even though he doesn’t look a bit like any of us.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Mum. ‘There’s a part of me that would like to know for certain, but your dad was adamant and why shouldn’t I believe him? Besides, I’ve no idea what Estelle has told that boy over the years. He’s done really well for himself, hasn’t he? So who am I to interfere in their lives? Christy is gone. There’s nothing to be gained in trying to find out about something that doesn’t matter any more. Let’s leave the past in the past and plan to do our best for the future.’
She’s right. She’s always right.
‘Which you have to do too, Roxy. Let go of your dad as some kind of ideal man that nobody can live up to. He was my ideal man but he wasn’t perfect. He made his mistakes and you can’t measure everyone against him. Accept that he had his faults. Accept that Dave has his. Do what’s right for you.’
‘I do accept those things,’ I say. ‘And I know that I have to make choices.’
‘Choose to be happy.’ Mum puts her arms around me. ‘That’s all I want for my children. That they’re happy.’
‘I am,’ I say.
I’m happy that the mystery of the photo has been solved.
I’m happy that Ivo Lehane is not related to me in any way whatsoever.
I’m happy that he and Lizzy are close to each other again.
I’m happy that Mum has made her peace over Estelle.
I’m happy that Estelle’s son has done well for himself.
I’m happy about lots of things.
But there’s still a sense of unfinished business in my life. And I won’t be truly happy until that’s finally sorted.
The next day I collect Annabel from Kildare. She’s ready and waiting when I arrive at the guest house exactly on time. Today she’s back in her white coat and high-heeled boots. She really is a stunning woman. There’s something about her that says she was born to be high-maintenance, and I can see why Ivo takes her to expensive restaurants and buys her extravagant gifts. But, I remind myself as I place her red suitcase into the car, she’s also a qualified chemist with a career of her own. She doesn’t need a man to make her high-maintenance. She can do that all by herself.
Ivo waits while I open the passenger door for her. Then he puts his arms around her and hugs her. She hugs him back and they kiss, briefly, on the lips. He says something to her in French and she replies in the same language. Then she gets into the car and I close the door.
‘I’ll send you a message when I’m ready to leave myself,’ he says. ‘If that’s OK.’
‘Whenever suits you,’ I say. ‘No problem.’
‘Drive safely,’ he says.
‘Of course.’
As if there’s any other way I’d drive with his glamorous girlfriend on board.
She’s quiet for most of the trip, but when we join the M50, she begins to ask me about my job and the people I drive.
‘What happens in the car stays in the car,’ I tell her.
She looks at me in confusion and I explain that I don’t talk about my clients.
‘Ah, bon ,’ she says. ‘You are like the priest in the confessional.’
I laugh at her using the same analogy as Dad so often did.
‘But you can tell me about Ivo,’ she says, and I feel a shiver running down my spine. ‘He was OK when you drove him?’
‘OK?’ I ask. ‘In what way?’
‘Because it has been difficult for him,’ she says. ‘Coming back here. To that place where his father lived.’ I hear the shudder in her words. And I’m surprised that Ivo brought her to Banville Terrace.
‘Yes, it was difficult,’ I agree. ‘But he’s happy to be friends with his sister again. So that’s all good.’
‘And you,’ she says. ‘He is friends with you.’
Is there a warning in her words? A threat? A question? Or simply a statement?
‘When you spend a lot of time in a car with someone, you get to know them a little,’ I say to her. ‘But that doesn’t make us friends.’
‘I see.’
I’m relieved when we arrive at the airport and I pull up outside the terminal building.
‘ID? Mobile? Credit cards?’ I ask.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she says.
‘Have a good flight.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Roxy McMenamin,’ she says. ‘It was good to get to know you.’
And then she walks off, pulling her red bag behind her.
Ivo’s message arrives on Sunday evening asking if I can collect him in the morning. I say yes.
Obviously Dave is up to speed with Mr Lehane’s passing and the funeral-related jobs I’m doing for Ivo. When I first told him, he looked at me from granite eyes and said he was glad that the old man had finally popped his clogs and that at least it meant I wouldn’t be driving his son any more. And I said that I knew I wouldn’t and that it would be a pity to lose such a lucrative client, but if it meant Dave was happier, then so was I. And Dave said he still wasn’t happy and that neither was Garrett, the guy who was going to buy the car. But that we’d sort something out sooner rather than later.
It’s a relief to get into the Merc after a weekend that, leaving aside all Dave’s concerns, has been prickly and awkward. The weather has turned completely wintry, with such heavy rain that the children’s football and GAA matches were cancelled. That meant they were around the house the whole time with excess energy that I didn’t know how best to contain. Inevitably it led to arguments between them, and even the bread-making I suggested ended up in a row over who was in charge of putting the dough into the loaf tin. (I’d had to go to the supermarket to buy the tin, as well as the mix for the bread. Naturally, I didn’t already have anything like that in the cupboard.) Tom was scornful of using a mix. Mica didn’t think the finished product looked professional enough. And Dave, when he poked his head around the kitchen door before heading off to watch Arsenal versus Chelsea, remarked that it seemed like an awful lot of effort to go to when you could just buy bread in the shops.
I will never be a domestic goddess. No matter how much effort I put in.
But I am a good driver. I arrive at Banville Terrace exactly on time.
There’s a To Let sign on the house already.
The door opens and Ivo comes out with his small travel
bag. Lizzy follows him with a bigger one. It turns out that she’s going to be in the car too, although she wants to be brought to her apartment, which is close to the business park where she works and is also near one of the motorway exits.
‘So it’s not taking you out of your way,’ she explains as she settles into the back seat.
‘Nothing will take me out of my way,’ I tell her. ‘I’m your driver. I’ll go wherever you want.’
Ivo gets in beside her. At first they sit in silence, but then they start chatting about the last few weeks, the funeral, and finalising their father’s estate.
‘Not that there’s much to it,’ says Lizzy. ‘He sold the farm and gambled away his money. You were right not to lend him anything. He wouldn’t have paid his debts; he’d have gambled even more.’
‘I know,’ says Ivo.
‘I shouldn’t have been so horrible to you about it.’
‘You had a point.’
‘Especially as you were paying his rent. I never knew.’
I sense rather than see Ivo shrug.
‘You’re a good man, Ivo.’
‘Ah, I’m not that great.’
She laughs. So does he.
‘We’re OK, aren’t we?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ says Ivo. ‘We are.’
I’m glad for them. I really am. I know Aidan and I aren’t the closest, but I also know that he’d be there for me if I needed him. It’s good to know Lizzy has Ivo. And that he has her. And that despite everything, he looked after his dad.
‘Annabel is an impressive woman.’ Lizzy changes the subject.
‘She is rather,’ says her brother.
‘Super-intelligent.’
‘Yes.’
‘And super-gorgeous.’
‘That too.’
‘You lucky thing.’
Ivo laughs. ‘Stop fishing.’
‘I’m not,’ says Lizzy. ‘I’m saying that you’re going out with a hell of a woman.’
‘And?’
‘She’s a bit distant, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Maybe even . . . oh, I dunno, judgemental?’
‘I can’t talk,’ says Ivo. ‘I was judgemental about Dad. And about you too, I guess.’
‘You didn’t look down on us, though.’
‘Nor does Annabel.’ Ivo sounds offended.
‘Sorry,’ says Lizzy. ‘That came out wrong. All I meant was . . . well, she’s from a different world, isn’t she? Have I got it right that her grandfather is actually a German prince? And that she grew up in a castle?’
‘A count,’ says Ivo. ‘And no, she didn’t grow up in a castle, although the family does have a big house in Bavaria. Annabel’s mother was a bit of a free spirit and moved to a commune in France when she was seventeen. She didn’t go home again until she’d had Annabel. She never married Annabel’s father, but they’re still together. They live in Nice and have an apartment in Paris.’
‘Gosh, it all sounds very Hello! .’
It does rather. And it’s not altogether surprising that Annabel might have looked down on Banville Terrace and Kielty’s pub.
‘They’re very nice people,’ says Ivo. ‘And although they’re quite rich, they’re not extravagant.’
Extravagance is relative, I think, as I recall the fish at a hundred euro a pop.
‘Just think, my future sister-in-law is an aristocrat.’ There’s a wickedness about Lizzy’s voice that makes me smile.
‘You’re not going to get a rise out of me,’ says Ivo.
‘Spoilsport. Are you going to marry her?’ Lizzy’s obviously bored with teasing him and wants a direct answer to a direct question.
So do I.
‘We haven’t discussed it,’ says Ivo.
‘I like her,’ says Lizzy. ‘But I’m not sure she’s the right woman for you.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Maybe she’s a little bit self-centred? Or is it self-confident? Or self-contained, like you. You need someone warm, Ivo. Someone open. Someone to hold you tight at night.’
I glance in the rear-view mirror. Ivo’s face is expressionless. Then he glances up and his eyes catch mine. I look away at once.
‘What about you? What about the man in your life?’ he says.
For a moment I think Ivo is talking to me. But then I realise he’s speaking to Lizzy.
‘As you well know, there isn’t one right now,’ she says. ‘And I’m happy to keep it that way.’
‘Don’t you need someone to hold you tight at night?’ he asks drily.
‘Yes. But I’m waiting for the right someone. I’ll let you know when he comes along.’
And then she switches the conversation back to her father’s estate and the things they need to do, and they keep it up until we reach her apartment, which is in one of the many modern blocks that have been built in the slipstream of the motorway.
‘I’ll go up with you,’ says Ivo. ‘You’ll wait here, Roxy?’
‘Of course.’
I hope he’ll maintain his relationship with his sister now that their father has died. Ivo needs family. After his horrible childhood, he needs to know that people care.
I care about him.
I cared about him when he was a complete stranger. I cared about him when I had my imaginary flirtation with him. I’ll always care.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him emerge from the apartment building and walk towards the car. I get out to open the rear door for him, but he diverts to the passenger seat. I get back in again.
‘I hope our conversation didn’t irritate you,’ he says as I pull out of the apartment complex.
‘What conversation?’
‘Me and Lizzy,’ he says. ‘She seems to think her mission in life is to meddle in mine.’
‘I don’t hear people’s conversations,’ I lie. ‘It’s a special driver skill.’
‘Of course it is.’
We continue in silence. I feel as though he wants to say something to me, but he doesn’t. I also feel as though I want to say something to him, but I’ve no idea what it is.
We’re only a few minutes away from the airport when his phone rings. When he begins to speak in French, I know that it’s Annabel.
‘ Oui. Oui. D’accord .’ His tone is soft and gentle. I’m listening out for the one phrase I definitely know – je t’aime – but I don’t hear it. I’m so distracted that I almost run the red light at the airport roundabout.
‘Shit,’ says Ivo as I slam on the brake.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter.
I pull up outside the terminal building a couple of minutes later and get out of the car.
‘Thank you for all your help over the last few months,’ says Ivo. ‘And over the last few days too.’ He takes out his credit card.
‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘You’ve already paid me a lot of money this year. This drive and Annabel’s to the airport are free.’
‘I can’t possibly—’
‘I didn’t get flowers for your father’s funeral,’ I say. ‘I’d like you to accept my driving services instead.’
‘That’s—’
‘Please.’
‘Well . . . OK,’ says Ivo. ‘You’ve been great, Roxy. Really great.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be far too busy with your corporate stuff to miss me,’ I say. ‘And in any event, it’s Lizzy you’ll miss if you don’t keep your promise to stay in touch.’
‘I thought you didn’t listen to conversations in the car.’
‘You already told me you’d be staying in touch with her. And you should. She’s fabulous.’
‘She’s a great person, isn’t she?’
‘So are you.’ I can’t help myself. ‘Who we are isn’t down to DNA, you know. It’s what we’re like inside. And you’re a good person, Ivo. You may not have wanted to, but you did the right thing every time. You’re not your father and you won’t turn into him either.�
�
He smiles at me. ‘It’s good to have you on my side.’
‘I’m always on my clients’ side,’ I say.
It’s only now that I realise it’s raining and we’re both getting wet.
‘You’d better go,’ I say. ‘ID, mobile, credit cards?’
‘And carry-on bag,’ he says.
‘Have a safe flight.’
‘Thank you.’
We look at each other for a moment, and then he puts his arms around me and hugs me. I’ve had a lot of hugs from his family, one way or the other. I feel his stubble graze my cheek.
This time I’m the one to pull away.
‘Goodbye, Mr Lehane,’ I say.
‘Goodbye, Mrs McMenamin.’
And then he walks out of my life.
Chapter 31
Back in my own world again, I cook fish fingers and beans for the children’s dinner. Mica is full of chat about school; Tom wants to keep reading his newest book at the table, something that is strictly forbidden.
‘But it’s very exciting, Mum,’ he complains. ‘I want to know what happens.’
I wish my life was a book. I could skip a few chapters and see how it all turns out in advance. But what if I didn’t like the ending? What then?
Dave arrives home early, and I slide the chicken enchiladas we’re having for dinner into the oven when I hear his key in the door. I bought them from the local supermarket on the way back from the airport. They’re spicy and full of flavour and probably as good as anything Gina Hayes has to offer. I’ve been seduced by her and her feel-good lifestyle over the past few months. I’ve thought that if I eat like her, I can be like her. I’ve been seduced too by Leona Lynch and Thea Ryan and Melisse Grady and all those women who seem to glide towards success without any of the messiness of life. Maybe even by Alison King, too. I’ve put my own life and happiness at risk, and for what? A job that involves getting far richer, more successful people than me to the places they want to be. Nothing more.
Dave puts his arm around me and gives me a kiss. He wolfs down the enchiladas and then says he’s going to the pub with the lads to watch the footie. I ring Debs and ask her if she’d like to come over.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I’ll get Mick to drop me up. Crack open the wine.’
Intravenous wine would be good, I think, as we sit down at the kitchen table. I could do with a certain amount of oblivion to wipe away the last few days. Tom and Mica are watching a cartoon on TV and their laughter floats in to us.
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