Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I pull my hair into a knot and cover it with a shower cap. Mum is as supportive as it’s possible to be, but no matter how much it suits both of us for now, I can’t camp out here indefinitely. The children are looking on this interlude with their grandmother as part of their holidays and have taken it in their stride so far. But I can tell that Mica is starting to wonder if there’s more to it than just keeping her granny company. Her questions are getting more and more pointed. Tom is blasé about things. I’m still a mess.

  I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up. As it chunters into life, I tell myself that I might be missing the shower in my own home more than I’m missing my husband. It’s a top-of-the-range power shower that’s practically a workout for your skin. A fantastic bathroom is one of the advantages of being married to a plumber. The disadvantage, of course, is that he’s a lying, cheating plumber.

  I stop torturing myself with the train wreck of my life, lather up, rinse off and get out of the shower. As I pat myself dry, I pause, as I always do, to look at the faded scars of my two Caesareans. I remember being rushed into the hospital the second time, knowing that, once again, things weren’t going to plan. While we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Dave used my lipstick to write ‘cut along dotted line’ across my enormous stomach. Even though I was sick with anxiety, it made me laugh. Dave has always made me laugh. I thought it was a sign that we were good for each other.

  And now, as I sit in front of the dressing table and pull my hair into its work-day ponytail, I don’t know what to think. I try not to think at all as I dab tinted moisturiser on my face and pearl-grey eyeshadow on my eyelids. It’s the same look as always – I’m not one for experimenting. (Could that be why Dave was having it off with Julie Halpin? She’s far more glamorous than me and has a range of make-up that accentuates her good cheekbones and bee-sting lips.) I use the same dark-brown mascara on my lashes as I’ve done since I was a teenager. There’s no good reason to change. Even Dave agrees my lashes are my best feature. They’re long and thick and more than once I’ve been asked if they’re real. So my Maybelline is fine. It and the Boots eyeshadow bring out the cool blue of my eyes. (Too cool, too blue? Julie’s are a rich chocolate brown, eminently more seductive.) I finish my face by adding a peachy blusher and coral lipstick, before getting dressed in my working outfit of white cotton blouse and navy trouser suit. I slide a single pair of gold stud earrings into my ears; although I have a couple of extra piercings in them, I only wear more earrings if I’m going out socially, never when I’m working.

  I assess myself in the long wardrobe mirror. Dave says I look like Claire Danes in Homeland when I’m in my suit. Homeland has always been one of our favourite shows, and of course I’m flattered whenever he compares me to her, but it’s not true. I’m a watered-down version. I’m neither a Hollywood actress nor a super-spy. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old mother of two who can’t tell the difference between the wrinkles and the worry lines that are etched across my face.

  Julie Halpin doesn’t have lines on her face. She doesn’t have children. Nor does she have a husband any more. She moved in next door after her split with Doug and I did my best to be warm and welcoming, though clearly not as warm and welcoming as Dave. I stare at my reflection and wonder, fleetingly, if getting Botox or fillers would have stopped Dave from cheating on me. I don’t know, and the Roxy staring back at me doesn’t have the answers either.

  I make another determined effort to push my unfaithful husband from my mind and pick up the satchel bag that contains my purse, credit cards and iPad. I let myself out of the bedroom and walk quietly along the landing, comfortable block-heeled shoes in my hand. I stop at the first door and open it gently.

  Tom, who’s seven, is lying on top of the bed, the sheets crumpled around his ankles. His red-gold hair falls over a face flushed with sleep. He doesn’t move, even when I kiss him fleetingly on the forehead and whisper that I’ll see him later. I close the door softly behind me and go up the steep stairs to the attic bedroom. Dad converted it years ago, when Aidan and I were still living at home. I desperately wanted to move into the conversion, but Aidan, being older, insisted that it was his by right. My complaints that it was stupid for him to have a room where he’d keep banging his head on the dormer roof fell on deaf ears. My brother got the attic room and I stayed where I was. To be honest, my own room is fine and gets the morning sun, but I was inconsolable for weeks. It made no difference. We were an equal-opportunity house. There were no concessions to weepy females. So eventually I stopped moaning and got on with it.

  That’s me. Getting-on-with-it Roxy. Accepting what’s happened and moving on. Easier to do over an actual bedroom than what’s gone on in a bedroom, though.

  I thought there might have been a bit of an argument between Mica and Tom over the sleeping arrangements too, but Tom’s such a happy-go-lucky person, and was so thrilled at the adventure of an extended stay at his granny’s, that he didn’t care where he slept. Mica (eleven, and veering between staying my little girl and starting to grow up) was delighted with her attic room, which is much nicer than her room in Beechgrove Park. But I doubt it will compensate for her dad if Dave and I make our temporary split permanent. Not that she’ll have the attic room anyhow, because I simply can’t inflict us all on Mum. If asked, she’ll say we’re welcome, but having us stay permanently is an entirely different prospect to putting up with us for a few weeks until I sort myself out. I’ve seen those TV programmes about children moving back with their parents. It’s never a good idea in the long run. I love my mum to bits, but we have separate lives.

  I’ll have to make a decision soon. And I will. Honestly. But not yet.

  Mica is also sound asleep, although in her case with the covers tightly wrapped around her. Tom takes after his dad, with his Viking heritage, but Mica is a mini-me. Her hair is buttermilk-blonde like mine and she has the same heart-shaped face and blue eyes. Additionally, like me, she wakes up in an instant, which is why I simply blow her a kiss rather than touching her.

  ‘I hope nobody ever breaks your heart the way your dad did mine,’ I whisper. ‘Sleep well, pet. See you later.’

  Then I close the door behind me and make my way quietly downstairs.

  ‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ My tone is half accusing, half exasperated as I see my mother sitting at the table, a cup of coffee and a dry Ryvita in front of her. ‘I couldn’t have been quieter, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I knew you’d be up early,’ she replies. ‘So I woke up too. I’m sorry. It’s a habit.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’ I immediately regret my words as I notice Mum’s still-too-pale face and the shadows under her eyes. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m the one in the way.’

  ‘You know you’re not,’ she says. ‘You never will be.’

  ‘On one level I’m aware of that,’ I agree. ‘On the other – I’m a grown woman with a family of my own and I shouldn’t have had to come running back to my mammy like a child.’

  ‘Aren’t you still my child?’ Mum gives me a smile, then picks up a knife and begins to smear Low Low on her Ryvita. ‘I’d have been upset if you didn’t stay with me.’

  I don’t know if Dave was supportive about me coming here while Dad was in the hospice because he knew it would give him the opportunity of some offside action with Julie. I like to think not, but he’s spent a lot of time in her house over the last year. I always thought it was because Julie’s brother, Robbie, had brought his seventy-five-inch OLED TV with him when he started to house-share after his landlord had jacked up his rent to unmanageable levels. I thought Robbie and Dave watched the footie on it together. That’s what my husband told me. But maybe it was nothing more than an excuse and I’m utterly naïve.

  ‘The coffee machine is still on,’ Mum says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘And there’s hot water in the kettle. Are you going to have something before you go out?’

  ‘I’ll just have h
ot water and lemon.’ I fill a cup with water, then slice one of the lemons on the worktop and drop it in. ‘I’ll get coffee at the airport while I’m waiting for Gina Hayes.’

  ‘I didn’t think that driving people around the place meant you had to follow their hare-brained ideas,’ says Mum.

  ‘If I had the willpower to follow everything she says, I’d be a sylph by now.’ I run my finger around the waistband of my trousers. I’m comfort-eating and it’s beginning to show. But I haven’t the heart for Slim to Win. ‘Lots of people have hot water and lemon juice in the morning,’ I add. ‘It helps with your digestion. It’s not specific to Gina Hayes.’

  ‘A decent breakfast would be better.’

  ‘Says the woman with a Ryvita on her plate.’

  Mum looks abashed and then smiles. Instantly, she looks years younger. ‘You’ve got me there,’ she admits. ‘But it’s only five thirty. I’ll have something else when the kids are up.’

  It’s five thirty already! I have to go. I finish the hot water and lemon juice (secretly wishing I’d had coffee after all) and glance out of the window as I rinse the cup under the tap.

  The sky has lightened but it’s covered in a fine grey haze that’s brought a soft summer drizzle.

  ‘Take care,’ says Mum. ‘Let me know how things are going.’

  ‘I’m sorry for leaving you with the kids,’ I say. ‘I know it’s a long day today.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I like it. You drive safely, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  I pick up the car keys from the bowl on the kitchen table. I turn to leave and then turn back again. Mum looks at me questioningly and I walk around the table and put my arms around her.

  ‘Love you.’ I give her a hug that could crack her ribs.

  ‘Love you too,’ she says

  And then I leave.

  Chapter 2

  The silver-grey Mercedes is parked in the driveway alongside my own car, a four-year-old red Toyota. Mum also drives a Toyota and it’s on the road outside, in the cul-de-sac that forms the end of the street.

  I unlock the Mercedes and slide into the driving seat.

  The solid thunk of the door closing behind me is comforting. So is the rich smell of the cream leather interior. As I breathe in, I feel as though my dad is in the car beside me, looking after me as he always did. The luxurious E-class saloon is Dad’s car. He bought it six years ago when he decided to give up a lifetime of being a taxi driver and become an independent chauffeur instead. He’d had enough, he told us, of driving in the middle of the night, of having random strangers sharing his space, of dealing with people who’d drunk too much or were high on drugs, people who – in Dad’s opinion – shouldn’t even be out on their own. ‘I’m too old for it,’ he said. ‘But the economy is picking up again and I have good contacts with businesses around town that are looking for a more personal service. Lots of people want to hire an executive car rather than a taxi. My contacts with private hire companies are good too. I can make a go of it and then retire at sixty-five.’

  He would have been sixty-five this year.

  I exhale slowly and select reverse. The car rolls smoothly out of the driveway. When Dad was first diagnosed, l told him that I’d do the driving for him while he was getting his chemotherapy treatments. I hold a public service vehicle licence because I drove the taxi for a short time after Dave and I came back from England. We needed the money and I did the morning shifts when Dad was in bed after his night work. Mum looked after Mica and Tom while I helped out. I’ve always liked driving. It’s one of the things that kept Dad and me close to each other. He trusted me behind the wheel of the Merc and I was happy to have his trust.

  I looked after the company accounts for him too. I remembered enough of the accounting technician’s course to be able to keep a set of books, and I’m quick with numbers. On and off, I helped Dad out whenever he needed, so it was logical that I’d drive for him while he was sick. I wanted him to believe that I was temporarily holding the fort; just keeping the driver’s seat warm before he got back behind the wheel. We both knew it wouldn’t turn out that way, but pretending helped both of us to cope.

  He left me the car. When I went in to see him about ten days before he died, he told me that was his plan. I could keep running the business or not, he said, but the car would be worth a few bob anyway. I shushed him, telling him that it was the last thing on my mind at that moment. Which it was.

  I didn’t have plans to keep the business going after he died. But I didn’t consider selling the car either. Truthfully, I hadn’t given any of it much thought. And then I walked in on Dave and Julie, and everything changed.

  When my inadvertent gasp alerted him to my presence at the bedroom door, Dave’s eyes widened with horror and he pushed Julie to one side so quickly she almost toppled off the bed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be at your mother’s.’

  I couldn’t speak as I watched Julie grab a light blue sundress that lay crumpled on the floor and slip it over her head. She’d been wearing a black dress at the funeral. A little short, maybe. But sombre. And appropriate. Of course the blue sundress was appropriate for a sneaky date with my husband. Even if it had ended up on the floor

  ‘Obviously I wouldn’t . . . we wouldn’t . . .’ Dave kept his eyes fixed on me. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ I found my voice, although it trembled. ‘It’s exactly what I think.’

  Julie grabbed her leather bag (and her knickers), shoved her feet into a pair of jewelled flip-flops, then hurried out of the room without saying a word. I caught a waft of her perfume over Dave’s familiar musky scent as I stood to one side to let her leave. Then I heard the bang of the front door and I was alone with my cheating, betraying husband.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean this to happen.’

  ‘Which?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t mean to shag someone else in our home, or you didn’t mean me to find you at it in our bed?’

  Now that I think about it, maybe I was resilient after all. Or sounded it, at any rate, because I certainly didn’t feel it. It was an effort not to burst into tears. But I didn’t.

  ‘Oh, come on, Roxy love. You don’t have to make it out to be some big drama.’ Dave’s voice was cajoling. As if I was being unreasonable. As if it wasn’t the biggest drama of my life to find him naked in bed with the next-door neighbour.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’ I demanded. ‘You were bonking Julie Halpin and I caught you. If that’s not drama, I don’t know what is. You cheated on me with the woman next door. For crying out loud, you . . . you . . .’ I covered my face with my hands. But I still didn’t cry. It was as though I’d used up all my tears for my dad.

  ‘It just happened,’ Dave said. ‘I’m really sorry, you know I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. After I got back last night, Julie called around to see how you were. But of course you were still at your mum’s and it’s been nearly a week since you were home and—’

  ‘Five days!’ I choked. ‘It’s only been five days and you’ve moved someone else in already.’

  ‘It’s not like that at all,’ he protested. ‘I’ve been busy running backwards and forwards to the hospital and the funeral home and the church and all that sort of stuff, don’t forget. It’s been a difficult time for me too. When Julie knocked at the door, she could see I was upset and she insisted on making me a cup of tea. Then we got talking and—’

  ‘There are loads of men I talk to but I don’t end up bringing them home and sleeping with them!’ I’d suddenly found my inner rage and it felt good.

  ‘But it was an emotional day, wasn’t it?’ said Dave. ‘And I was thinking of life and death and stuff and I wanted to share it with you but you weren’t here.’

  ‘You’re blaming me ?’ I stared at him. ‘You slept with Julie Halpin and you’re blaming me ?’

  ‘No. You needed to be with your m
um. But I needed someone too. These last few weeks have been tough.’

  ‘You are bloody well blaming me.’ I felt the throb of a headache start at the back of my skull. ‘You’re saying that I wasn’t here and you needed to sleep with someone so you took the first available woman. Not that Julie’s without blame herself,’ I added. ‘She stood outside the church and told me she was sorry for my loss. Then a few hours later she’s riding my husband.’

  ‘I know it looks bad,’ admitted Dave. ‘I know I messed up. But don’t get it out of proportion. It was a one-off thing because of the circumstances, that’s all.’

  ‘So everything’s fine now, is it?’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘You’ve slept with Julie and we go back to being good neighbours and you pop next door on Saturdays to watch football with Robbie – where was he last night, by the way?’

  ‘Out for a few pints, I suppose,’ replied Dave.

  I didn’t remember seeing Julie’s brother at the funeral but he must have been there. The church had been packed. Dad was a very popular man.

  ‘How long?’ I asked.

  ‘How long what?’

  ‘Have you had the hots for each other?’

  ‘She’s a good-looking woman,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never even noticed her before.’

  ‘I’m going downstairs.’ I ignored the contradiction in his statement. ‘I need a cup of tea. Don’t even think about coming into the kitchen.’

  ‘I have to get to work anyhow,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll be late.’

  I didn’t say anything else. I walked down the stairs holding tightly to the handrail so I didn’t fall. Then I opened the back door and went into the garden. I was still there when I heard Dave’s van pull out of the drive.

  As the Mercedes moves down the road, I switch on the radio, which is already tuned to my favourite easy-listening station. I prefer calming music when I’m driving around town; the early-morning shows with their relentlessly cheerful hosts are far too jolly. They remind me of Mica and Tom on a sugar rush.