Hush Hush

by Mullarkey, Gabrielle

  Angela turned away, so he wouldn’t see her own eyes soften with tears. He touched her elbow entreatingly. ‘I’ve blown it, haven’t I? Honest to God, I deserve to lose you, Angela. Did I say pubes? Did I, really? May God forgive me ‒ though I’d rather hear it from you.’

  Angela turned to him with a sigh. His head scurried towards her lap and lay there, beseechingly. Her hand, reluctantly, scraped hair back from his forehead. His eyes closed under her touch. ‘I think I love you, Angela. That’s why I felt free to be myself, say the first thing that came into my head. I never meant to offend you, I swear.’

  Angela’s hand paused and her heart quickened. Conor peered up at her. ‘Is this working?’ he asked mischievously.

  ‘You mean the ‘l’ word as the ultimate get-out clause?’ Angela pushed his head off her lap and stormed over to the window. ‘Don’t play with my feelings, Conor McGinlay. Don’t say things you don’t mean.’

  ‘I meant what I said!’ He stared at her but didn’t come after her. ‘Isn’t plain speaking my trouble? I think I love you isn’t the same as I love you, but it’s the truth right now. And I’ve no idea how you feel about me.’

  ‘You’ve every idea!’ She turned to him hotly. ‘I’m here on a dirty weekend with you! I was about to let you undress me. Unless you think I’m a sex-starved widow who’s gagging for it with anybody!’

  ‘Ach, don’t be talking like that, my angelic Angela. Come over here to me and let’s have a talk.’

  She scowled. He was humouring her, babying her with wheedling Irishisms.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a fool!’

  ‘Please, Angela, please. My beautiful pink-thonged Christmas fairy.’

  She could resist him, but what was the point? She’d learnt a painfully hard lesson with Robert when it came to sulking. And deep down, part of her was amused at Conor’s frankness, his total lack of diplomacy. If she was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of woman, he was a similar type of man. So now she’d pin him down, make him tell her, once and for all, what had caused his wife to up sticks and start a new life in America.

  So she went and sat next to him obediently and demanded, ‘I want to know what went wrong between you and Kate. I know you gave me the basics that time in McDonald’s, but I want the gory, truthful details.’ She folded her arms.

  Conor, vanquished by his bad behaviour, sank back on the headboard with a deep sigh. ‘It’s quite straightforward, really. My ex-wife was, and is, an alcoholic. She was already a dipso when I met her at college, but I didn’t know the signs. Anyway, she was a past master at hiding them. She had bottles stashed away in unlikely places, she chain-sucked extra-strong mints, claiming they were for nicotine breath, and she never lurched around, singing “Rosin the Bow” after chuck-out time down the local. In short, she never behaved like your stereotypical drunk. Alcoholics rarely do.’

  Angela’s mind reeled. ‘So ‒ let me think. Her drinking was a consequence of growing up in a dysfunctional family? With that horrible father, to be precise?’

  ‘Well, the old git did peddle the line that you’d only get to heaven on a temperance ticket, while all the time swigging away in his “study” where his poor eejit of a wife thought he was reinventing the wheel. Kate told me she discovered his hootch stash when she was ten, having entered the study illegally. After that, it became a game of risk for her, sampling his booze without him noticing. And then there was the buzz. Doing the exact opposite of what dear old hypocritical Daddy preached. Which is where I come in.’

  His voice was emotionless, but Angela glanced at him. ‘You don’t think she married you just to get at her dad?’

  ‘She did love me, but it was all mixed up with getting back at him. I sort of twigged from the beginning that he was her real passion in life, but I shied away from the implications. Once we were married, and her defiance accomplished, she got a bit bored. Drinking was still a distraction ‒ one I was finally beginning to notice as beyond the norms of social tippling ‒ but having a baby became her laudable attempt to find a vocation in life beyond me, work and booze. Don’t forget, she was holding down a good job when Shane arrived.’ He stopped. ‘I don’t exactly cover myself in glory in this next bit. What about that table I’ve booked?’

  Angela bit her lip. ‘I don’t know if I’m in the mood.’

  ‘Even failed husbands have to eat.’

  She cast him a shrewd look. ‘So you’re the ultimate villain of the piece? Drove a post-natally depressed new mother back into the off-licence with a piece of swinish behaviour?’ Her eyes widened as his looked away. ‘Like an affair?’ she croaked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he grunted, the bluff Conor of old. ‘The condemned man still has the right to a hearty meal. I’ll tell you the rest over dinner. Can you actually walk in that thong?’

  Sadie woke up suddenly, gasping with the pain. She pressed a hand tentatively against her side, smothering the hot needles under her skin. Her face was damp with sweat, her tablets on the far side of the dressing table. It would be a long and hazardous solo expedition. Binky jumped suddenly on top of the duvet, mewling concern (she liked to imagine). ‘A shame you can’t be trained to fetch,’ grunted Sadie, swinging one leg slowly out of bed, encased in an old leg-warmer of Angela’s. As she set off for the north face of her bedroom, Binky wove in and out of her carefully paced steps, joining her in a perilous formal dance. ‘Maud Ambrose was right, as usual,’ muttered Sadie begrudgingly. ‘Old relics living alone are better off with a dog.’ She hoped Angela was having a better weekend. Best not think about the non-marital sex, though she’d never get used to the way people behaved, marriages falling apart like cleaved husks, women having sex with men to keep the man’s interest. So much for women’s lib!

  Sadie squeezed out all other thoughts and focused on the bottle of pills. Almost there. Almost made it. Oh to be young again ‒ fifty-five would do! She wasn’t greedy. Didn’t want to relive her shining, frightening youth when she arrived in London and chambermaided in a big hotel, breaking her back for a shilling, pinning her hopes of escape on the night porter at the Imperial, Fenton Feeney, asking her to dance at the St Patrick’s night social. Quick, quick, quick, quick, slow, no need to look at their nimble feet, leaving eyes free to feast on each other.

  Now she was old, lame, partnered by Binky. And not given to self-pity, she reminded herself sternly, reaching a clawed hand for the bottle of painkillers.

  The food and ambience in Simonetti’s were rich. Angela began to appreciate her dress properly. The waiter hovered respectfully, allowing his gaze to linger with professional appreciation on her velvet-upholstered bust and narrow shoulder-blades. She’d pinned up her loose, straight hair with a star-shaped clip twinkling with cheap rhinestones that shone like white diamonds in the dim-lit atmosphere. Her pasta came, ribbons of tagliatelle under a thick cream laced with wine and mushrooms. The place and its tenor were almost offensively romantic. ‘You can have the veal cutlet if you want,’ she told Conor belligerently.

  ‘Spaghetti carbonara,’ he told the waiter dryly, and topped up her wine.

  ‘There’s no escape, Conor McGinlay. What is it you’re not proud of in the collapse of your marriage? I have to know,’ she added hopefully, ‘so I can absolve you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ replied Conor sardonically, toasting her. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, Shane was born. A bawling bundle of non-stop demands who copped a lungful of every stray germ and had to be weaned off antibiotics to go on solids. Kate gave up work to cope, and I left her to it. As the great provider, I found ever more reasons to spend time at the office, and ultimately, abroad. Go on, then, say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘How could I be so selfish?’

  ‘You’re a man. Seems reason enough, judging by examples throughout history.’

  The waiter appeared to scatter Parmesan. ‘Are you still wearing your thong?’ Conor asked her evilly. The waiter’s hand shook.

  ‘I’ve come knickerless,’ replied Ange
la, addressing the waiter directly.

  When he’d scampered away, presumably al dente, she met Conor’s solemn, self-mocking eyes. ‘I’ve got my sensible pants on. And there seems little chance of you getting into them tonight, mister.’

  ‘Well, OK, I deserve that. But hear me out anyway. Kate confronted me about my absentee fatherhood. I agreed to spend more time at home. So I converted the loft, soundproofed it against Shane’s heartier yells, and hid up there with paperwork. Kate was hitting the bottle quite openly by then. It was a chicken and egg situation. Did I cause the drinking escalation or was I legitimately escaping from it? Time’s muddied the waters on that one ‒ at least for me. Kate started letting the house go to pot ‒ couldn’t really blame her, with Shane battering her lugholes all day and night ‒ so I hired Mrs Turner. Taking the pressure off you, I told Kate. Getting in someone to spy on me, she retorted. Well, again, that situation just evolved. I did ask Mrs T to keep a kindly eye turned in Kate’s direction when I was off the scene. Kate couldn’t be trusted not to set the house alight, once she’d had a few chasers and smoked a few cigarettes. Plus, there were added concerns that she’d go flying down the stairs, baby in tow, or have a blackout at the supermarket and leave him there.’

  ‘Didn’t you get help for her?’ demanded Angela accusingly. ‘Poor woman had just had a baby, and was still battling the unresolved demons of her youth. While you hid in the attic!’

  ‘I said I wasn’t proud of myself. Anyway, Kate wouldn’t set foot in the attic. Said my master-plan was to chain her up in it, like Mr Rochester’s mad wife. Course, I didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. Thought he was an ex-colleague of hers. But I tried to deal with things, albeit it in my own, hamfisted way. I came out of my lair, got leaflets from the library about help for alcos and spread them tactfully around the house. I dangled Shane on my knee, moved into the spare room without complaining.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just discuss the drinking problem face to face? I mean, before it got to the stage of dropping leaflets and hints?’

  ‘I’d tried.’ He looked deep into his glass of mineral water. ‘Kate denied there was a problem and said she’d take Shane to Northumberland if I ever raised it again.’ She’d also chucked a boiling kettle at Conor, just missing him by inches, but he wasn’t going to shame his marriage by sharing that intimacy. ‘She meant it, so I let it drop. Couldn’t risk the return of the prodigal daughter to the family fold, and Shane disappearing behind a front door that would never be opened to me again. After that, even leafleting the house was risking things.’

  ‘Your spaghetti’s getting cold,’ sighed Angela, feeling almost but not quite sorry for him. She could just imagine the Conor of fourteen years ago perfecting the art of problem avoidance while hoping to solve the problem, developing his grunting, bluff carapace as a shell to arm him rather than shrink into, when the attic wasn’t available.

  He ignored the spaghetti. ‘Let’s get this over with, and then you can dole out sixty Hail Marys as my penance or whatever. Kate tore up the leaflets and went for me bald-headed. The problem was all mine, she said, and I wasn’t shifting the blame for a crap marriage onto her. She took Shane and went to stay with a girl friend. Didn’t come back for eight months. I was lucky it wasn’t Northumberland, and luckier still that she rang most weeks.’

  ‘And that’s when you ‒ had your affair?’

  Conor’s green eyes darkened, like lagoons in the shade. ‘With Kate and Shane gone, I’d come home to silence every evening ‒ and didn’t like it. Funny how I missed the noise I’d spent months hiding from. I’d enjoyed converting the attic, so I got into DIY in a big way, therapy for blokes who can’t communicate. I relaid the floors, put up shelves, built alcoves, ripped out and reinstalled the kitchen, working all my emotions into sanding and grooving and sawing. When Kate came back ‒ on a trial basis ‒ she was an intruder. She saw straight away what had happened. I’d made the whole house, not just the attic, my retreat and bolt-hole. But I took advantage of the situation. Look what I’ve done, I said. I did it all for you! And so we staggered on from year to year, lie to lie, until she left a note one morning and disappeared to the States.’

  Angela’s own food was congealing. ‘Why didn’t she go back to work when Shane was a bit older?’

  ‘She did, part-time. It couldn’t be full-time because I was away so much. Part-time graphic designing didn’t satisfy her. She was never in line for the tasty assignments or promotion. Course, she was right to blame me. I could’ve taken a back seat in my own career so she could kickstart hers again. But I wasn’t much of a new man. And deep down, I wanted to punish her for being a secret drunk and marrying me to spite her dad.’

  ‘What did her farewell note say?’

  ‘That she’d had enough. And that she didn’t want Shane. You keep him, the note said. Imagine if he’d read that before I found it!’ Conor gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘It’s not Shane’s fault, but he’s a dead ringer for Kate’s old man, right down to a few mannerisms and his tantrum-throwing technique. Poor Kate! I think she had to get away from her own son as much as me. And now the guilt’s hit home. She came to see me a few weeks ago. She wants to come back.’

  Angela started as if she’d been shot. ‘My God, you kept that quiet! And just when I’ve been thinking …’ She went scarlet with embarrassment.

  ‘Yes?’ He pressured her softly, his nervousness almost a plea.

  ‘I was thinking, how far you must’ve come from strong, silent, emotionally repressed Conor McGinlay, to sit here like this and spill your guts. And even analyse your past behaviour in a critical light.’

  ‘That’s because of you, Angela. Believe me, when I met you on that plane, I thought myself long past meaningful conversation with a woman. And even then, I was rude and sarcastic! But you’ve drawn me out of myself, bit by painful bit. You asked me for the whole story, and I’ve given it to you. Everything I’ve just told you is the first time I’ve articulated it to a third party. Though I’ve had years, I suppose, to work it all out in my subconscious.’

  Angela looked into her plate. ‘Now Kate’s coming back. Maybe you should’ve told me before you asked me to spend a weekend with you. Unless,’ she gulped, ‘this is the brush-off, the goodbye and thanks for all the fish. Sending me on my merry way with a good meal and a kickstarted libido!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, give me a chance! Listen. She wanted to come back and live at 23 Pacelli Road as a lodger ‒ take over the attic, no less, and the whole top floor ‒ to be with Shane, make things up to him. I would’ve had to convert the house, put in extra doors and partitions, an upstairs kitchen ‒ take out other things ‒ to turn it into two flats. Kate would’ve savoured that, being the cause of me mutilating my perfect home! I was prepared to go for it, too, until Shane himself put the kibosh on the plan. Said he didn’t want a return to the bad old days of tiptoeing around on eggshells while Kate and I festered under the same roof. So I’ve made Kate an alternative offer. If she wants to move back to be near Shane, I’ll help her buy a place. A nice place, not a dump. At one point, I was scared she might sue for custody. But she’s the one who ran off, and anyway, Shane doesn’t want to go anywhere.’

  He took a deep breath and rushed on. ‘She took the deal a couple of weeks ago. So I decided it was safe to plough ahead and make this weekend a reality. Before that, yes, I admit it, I would’ve been stringing you along on a mystery tour, where only Shane knew the destination. But me and Kate are history, joined together by Shane and separated forever by our shitty past and the way we handled it. Do you believe me?’ He looked at her challengingly.

  ‘But was there ever a point at which you could’ve saved your marriage?’

  ‘Of course. Isn’t there always?’

  ‘And now? What I mean is ‒ is there any question it might still be the right thing to do?’

  ‘None at all. Think of my marriage as a dinghy cast adrift from the shore by two careless owners. It rounded Fastnet and w
ent out of radio contact long ago. The coastguard have called off the search.’ He scowled and opened the menu with a resounding thump. ‘What’s for dessert in this gaff?’

  Back in the en suite bathroom, Angela slipped out of her dress, pants and bra, and examined her full tummy for unsightly bulging. The bathroom’s subtle lighting tanned her a pale gilt colour, highlighting not crêpey, dimpled flesh, but soulful hollows on her collar and pelvic bones. She looked mysterious, womanly, like an African carving.

  She went into the bedroom. Conor was by the window, wearing boxers. He turned to her, a stocky bear with slightly bowed legs, a broad chest and a refined face. ‘You’ll catch your death,’ he said, and smothered a small cough.

  It was not the line Casanova would’ve chosen at that juncture. But she didn’t love Conor because he was Mr Seduction. She loved him because she could be herself with him.

  She got into bed. He joined her. At first he held back, as if afraid to shove Robert aside. She ran a finger over his mouth. Her wedding and engagement rings caught in its nervous cracks. ‘No more guilt trips,’ she said firmly. ‘Here, tonight, this is all about us.’

  When she woke in the morning, everything looked different, even her blue dress from yesterday’s beach stroll, slung on the back of a chair. She was different too. Warm and replete.

  Conor’s hot, fuzzy back was pressed into her shoulder. Reluctantly, she rolled away and padded into the bathroom for a pee.

  Shutting the door, she heard his mobile ring and Conor answer it, grunting. Not bloody Joe from the office again! Angela yawned, stretched her arms, released a golden stream from tender muscles. Her stomach was all over the place this morning, thanks to last night’s rich meal, topped off with fruits-of-the-forest pavlova. She’d eat like a sparrow at breakfast.