Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’m as crap at being a mother as I am a wife.
Gina comes out of the building a few minutes later, accompanied by her PR manager, and they talk between themselves while I drive them to the bookstore where she’s making her appearance. Already there’s a line of people waiting to have their copies of Eat Neat signed. I don’t have any cookbooks. Mum never bothered with them either. She’s in the ‘can’t cook won’t cook’ category, and although I try to give the children reasonably healthy food, I can’t be bothered with all the cookbook palaver. Debs, on the other hand, has an entire shelf-load, from Delia to Nigella, all full of sumptuous pictures and beautiful kitchens where women who look like Gina Hayes eat perfect food and live perfect lives with perfect husbands who would never dream of shagging the next-door neighbour.
I’ve arranged my day around Gina’s schedule. She’s going to be in the bookstore for an hour, and that gives me the opportunity to do some shopping. Not for me, sadly, even though I could do with some new clothes, especially as most of my summer wear is still in Beechgrove Park. Even though I know I could pick it up while Dave is at work, I can’t face going back to the house. Not yet, anyway. So my shopping is for Tom and Mica. Most of their stuff is now at Mum’s, as they’ve brought it back after their visits to their dad, but they both get through clothes at an alarming rate.
The saturating drizzle has given way to a partly cloudy sky, but the temperature has risen and my walk down Henry Street is pleasantly warm. There are plenty of bargains in the shops and I pick up some nice tops for both of them. I add some red and yellow hairclips for Mica, and a Batman T-shirt for Tom as treats.
Gina would approve of Mica, whose deep loathing of pink sparkles is entirely of her own making and who is as sporty as, and infinitely more competitive than, her brother. She’s also fiercely independent and doesn’t hold back on her opinions. Tom is the gentler of my two children without a doubt. But perhaps that will change over time. Maybe he will suddenly embrace his masculinity and Mica will feel obliged to like pink. And then she’ll become interested in boys and suddenly her independence and confidence will get cracked, because it always does when boys are involved.
I was a confident child too. It was only when I hit puberty, and the opposite sex became a thing, that I changed. Suddenly, what boys thought of me mattered more than what I thought of myself. Getting dirty on the football pitch became a stupid thing to do. I started thinking about the clothes I wore and how I did my hair and a hundred other silly details. And then, of course, I started going out with Dave McMenamin and the only thing that mattered in the whole world was that he loved me as much as I loved him.
My phone buzzes with a message from Gina’s PR agent, Melisse, saying that they’ll be ready in ten minutes, so I dump my shopping in the car and drive back to the store.
Gina and Melisse are delighted with how the event went and keep up a conversation for most of the drive to Belfast, which takes a little over two hours. Although I try to tune it out, I’m learning more than I ever wanted to about the inner workings of the digestive system. Rather than stop for something to eat, Gina insists we go straight to the TV studio, and when I park the car, she takes a couple of small containers from her tote bag. She offers one to Melisse while keeping the other for herself.
‘They’re an energy-giving mix – my own recipe,’ she says. ‘Much better for us than a mass-produced sandwich or wrap. I’m sorry.’ She leans towards me. ‘I didn’t think to bring anything for you.’
‘Not to worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll get a sandwich on my way home.’
‘No, no!’ Gina is aghast. ‘Have one of my bars. I’m working with a company to produce them commercially,’ she adds as she hands me a wrapped square of pressed nuts. ‘The key thing is not compromising.’
I thank her and look uncertainly at the bite-sized bar, which is an unappetising dark-brown colour.
‘You should still get something a little more substantial to eat while you’re waiting,’ Melisse tells me as she gets out of the car. ‘After we drop Gina at the airport, we’ll head straight back to Dublin. I need to be in Sandymount as near to seven as possible.’
‘I thought you were staying in Belfast,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to drive you back.’
‘It makes no sense for me to stay,’ says Melisse.
Of course it doesn’t. But I took the booking myself on my mobile and I know that the person making it said nothing about driving Melisse back to Dublin. Not that it matters, as I’m going back there myself. But driving to Sandymount means driving past Mum’s and will probably add another hour to my day. I wanted to be home as soon as possible to give her a break and spend some time with my children. I’ll have to text her to tell her I’ll be late.
Despite Gina’s energy bar (which, being honest, was totally disgusting), I go for yet another coffee. I take Thea’s umbrella from the boot of the car because the rain has started to come down again. Maybe it’s the cheerful design, or maybe I’m still getting the vibe from the older woman, but using it definitely makes me walk a little taller.
I stop at the nearest café and don’t bother with a wrap or sandwich but instead ask for a slice of chocolate cake. I’m a little tired now, which, I decide, means I’m probably low in sugar, so despite the chocolate cake, I also tip half a sachet into my cappuccino. I ignore the voice in my head reminding me that sugar is empty calories.
I text Mum to update her on the schedule. She watched the programme with Gina Hayes this morning and says that she seems a nice enough woman. I reply that she’s pretty committed to all this healthy-eating lark and I feel like a leaden lump beside her. I try not to look at the chocolate cake as I send the text.
You’re not a lump, replies Mum instantly.
I need to lose a few pounds.
Don’t be ridiculous.
There’s a baby belly there that never went away.
You should be proud of it, texts Mum. It shows you’ve had two lovely children.
Her message makes me smile. The scars from my Caesarean will always remind me, belly or not. I’m still smiling when the phone buzzes again, this time with a call.
It’s Eric, the driver from this morning.
‘How’s things?’ I ask.
‘Grand. Grand. Listen, love, if you’re not already booked tomorrow, I’m wondering if you could do me a favour. You remember that suit I picked up earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s changed his plans a bit. He wants to be collected from the Gibson tomorrow and driven to Kildare. I can’t do that, I’ve got a booking. How are you fixed?’
I tell him I’ve two early airport pickups.
‘My man doesn’t want to be collected until the afternoon. Would that work for you? If it doesn’t, no worries, I can get someone else. I thought of you first.’
‘Kildare and back?’ I ask. ‘Do I have to wait around for him?’
‘No. Just there.’
I don’t want to turn down work. The Kildare trip is reasonable – it will only take an hour or so to get there, and I’ll still be home early enough in the afternoon to spend some time with the children.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Where did you say he was staying?’
‘The Gibson.’
The Gibson is a modern hotel in the docklands area.
‘No problem. Text me his number.’
‘Will do. Thanks, sweetheart.’
I’ve tried a million times to stop Eric calling me love, or pet, or sweetheart, but it doesn’t make any difference. I don’t think he even notices he’s using the words. A moment later, his text with the client’s number and the time of the pickup appears on my phone, and I add it to my contacts. Shortly after that, Melisse calls to say that Gina has finished her slot and is ready to be taken to the airport.
I wolf down the last of the chocolate cake and then high-tail it into the bathroom to make sure there are no telltale chocolate crumbs on my face. I freshen up, redo my ha
ir and head back to the studio.
Dad used to do these types of trips all the time, but I’m still getting used to so much driving in one day. And I’m still getting used to tuning out the conversations from the back seat.
‘Your car is like a confessional,’ he told me the first time I drove for him. ‘Always remember that. What’s said in the car stays in the car. People discuss all sorts of stuff and they don’t think you hear them. You don’t, that’s the thing. You close your ears and you let them talk and you don’t ever remember.’
‘What if they’re talking about a crime?’ I asked him.
‘God almighty, girl, who do you think I have in my car?’ he demanded. ‘Nobody will be talking about crimes. Mostly it’s sex.’
‘Dad!’ I rolled my eyes and made a face and we laughed together.
Gina and Melisse aren’t talking about sex. They’re congratulating each other again on a great day and I definitely want to tune them out, as all the talk about Gina’s books and TV show and commercial deals is making me feel totally inadequate.
‘What did you think of it?’ Gina asks me suddenly.
‘Excuse me?’ I glance at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘The Bite Boost,’ said Gina. ‘Did it fill you up?’
I check my own reflection to reassure myself that there are no cake crumbs on my lips.
‘It was filling.’ I’m trying to be diplomatic. ‘I’m not sure it substitutes for a meal, though.’
‘It’s not meant to,’ said Gina. ‘It’s instead of cake and biscuits.’
I feel as though the words ‘chocolate cake’ are tattooed across my forehead.
‘It would certainly see you through,’ I say.
‘You see.’ Gina sits back in the rear seat and gives a satisfied sigh. ‘I will bring healthy eating to the masses.’
I’m not sure how I feel at being considered part of the masses. Although from Gina’s point of view, that’s exactly who I am.
I indicate and turn off for Belfast City Airport.
‘That was quick,’ says Gina.
‘Small city.’ I pull up outside the terminal building and get out of the car to open the door for her.
‘Got everything?’ I repeat the question I put to Thea and Desmond earlier as she steps out.
‘Of course,’ says Gina.
‘Any promotional stuff you need to bring back?’
I ask my clients to check because most of them are in a hurry and it’s easy to overlook personal items.
‘Oh!’ Gina reaches into the car and takes out a book. It’s one of the copies she was signing at the bookstore and includes a free icing bag. ‘Can’t forget this,’ she says. ‘Not that I use traditional icing on anything, of course. I have a great vegan sugar frosting, though.’
Hopefully she doesn’t see me shudder.
‘Actually . . .’ She hesitates and then thrusts the book at me. ‘You keep it. You might find it useful.’
‘That’s very good of you, but—’
‘You look tired,’ Gina says. ‘I didn’t want to say before. I’m not sure what you were snacking on while we were busy, but I’m pretty certain none of it was optimal. Read the book. It will help.’
Have I been insulted by a famous person?
‘There are recipes that kids will love too,’ says Gina. ‘I’m guessing you have them.’
‘Do I look that exhausted?’ I try a smile.
‘Yes,’ says Gina. ‘Read up on my sections about sleep and healthy living. The book isn’t only a recipe book. It’s about how to live your best life.’
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re welcome.’ Gina reaches into her bag, takes out a Sharpie pen and signs the book with a flourish. ‘Next time I see you, you’ll look years younger.’
Definitely an insult, I think, even if she doesn’t mean it that way. And how can I live my best life when I’m currently not living with my husband?
I wait while Melisse walks into the terminal building with Gina to point her in the right direction. I’m a bit edgy by the time she comes out again.
‘All sorted,’ says Melisse as I open the door for her. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve some stuff to catch up on. So I won’t be talking much on the way back.’
I’m stunned at how much time one person can spend on her phone. From the moment we leave Belfast until we reach the Port Tunnel at the end of the M1 in Dublin, Melisse keeps up a constant stream of texting, emailing and instant messaging. She briefly remarks that she’s updating Gina’s social media, tweeting about her appearances on TV and letting people know there are signed books in the bookshops.
‘Got to squeeze every last bit of mileage out of her,’ she says as we enter the tunnel.
I love driving through the tunnel, although some clients expressly ask me not to use it – nearly five kilometres underground makes them feel claustrophobic. Melisse says nothing. I’m guessing she’s happy that it saves a lot of time in getting her home.
‘Not just my home, my office too,’ she says when we finally arrive at the single-storey-over-basement house. ‘Office downstairs. I live upstairs.’
I guess my home (or at least my mum’s home) is my office too. Or maybe Dad’s car is.
‘A lot of my clients are creative people,’ Melisse tells me, even though I haven’t asked. ‘Musicians, writers, artists. I enjoy working with them. They don’t try to interfere. Most of them, anyhow.’
‘Do you have many people working for you?’ Although all I want is to get home myself, I have to appear interested now that she’s suddenly decided to become chatty.
‘One intern, one admin person,’ she says. ‘You spoke to Jess. She made the booking.’
Jess, who didn’t tell me I’d have to drive her boss home.
‘We weren’t sure about asking you after we heard about Christy . . . your dad,’ remarks Melisse as she gathers a bundle of papers from the seat beside her. ‘I got on well with him. He was a nice man.’
I nod.
‘But you were very efficient today. So we’ll use you again.’
‘Thank you.’ It’s good to be appreciated.
‘Have a nice evening.’
She gives me a quick wave and then hurries down the steps to the basement. I allow myself to release a relaxed breath and am about to drive away when I decide I’d better check to see if she’s left anything behind. There’s nothing on the seat itself, but a couple of brochures are sticking out from the passenger seat pocket. I lower the window and call after her.
‘Sorry!’ she says as she opens the rear door and takes them out.
‘No problem.’
I give the rear section another quick glance, but Melisse seems to have taken all her stuff now, so I pull away from the kerb. I call Mum’s landline when I’m stopped at the lights. Mica answers.
‘I’ll be home soon,’ I tell her. ‘I hope you had a lovely day.’
‘Emma and Oladele came over and we played in the garden,’ Mica says. ‘Tom was out with Andrew.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to get home and cover you with kisses.’
‘Mum!’ Mica sounds horrified.
‘Two kisses, then.’
‘One.’
‘Deal,’ I concede. ‘Is Gran there?’
Mica tells me to hold on, and a few seconds later Mum says hello.
‘I’m on my way,’ I say. ‘Would you like me to pick up a takeaway?’
‘Would you?’ Mum is pleased. ‘I did fish fingers and beans for the children a while back. I knew they couldn’t wait.’
I don’t know what Gina Hayes would have to say about fish fingers and beans. But it’s fish and . . . and . . . pulses – though are baked beans actually pulses or are they some hybrid pretend-bean? I’ve no idea. So yes, I’m a crap mother who’s allowing her own mum to raise her kids while she mainlines coffee, chocolate cake and Chinese takeaway.
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The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 41
