In My Sister's Shoes

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘Are you sore?’

  ‘It feels a bit like I’m sun burnt in the area they zapped. But other than that, and feeling a bit tired, I’m OK.’

  ‘Thank God it’s going to be easier than the chemo.’

  ‘I don’t think anything could be worse. Anyway, I’m bored with talking about my cancer. Tell me about Sam.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. We had a great night, all loved-up and happy, and then he said he presumed I was going to stay in Dublin and I said no, because my job is in London, and we had the same argument all over again.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you stay and give it a go?’

  ‘What if we break up in six months and I have no job, no boyfriend and am still living with Dad? I said I’d fly back every chance I got. We could probably manage to see each other at least once every two weeks and then, if it goes well, in a year’s time we can reassess the situation. If I felt then that we were going to make it long term I’d consider moving back. But we can’t even go out for dinner without breaking up, so it’s too big a risk to give up my career until I know we can make it work.’

  ‘What did he say about commuting?’

  ‘He’s dead set against it. Says there’s no point in having a half-arsed relationship with someone you never see. It’s all or nothing with him. He said I haven’t changed, I’m still the same self-obsessed person I was when I was twenty,’ I said, suddenly feeling worn out. Between the hangover, the shock of finding Gonzo in my bed, Jack falling down, hospital and the fiasco with Sam, I was completely wiped out. I needed to lie down.

  ‘Bollox,’ said Fiona. I started – she never cursed. ‘You have changed, and if he can’t see it he’s a blind fool who doesn’t deserve you. You’re a different person.’

  God, how bad was I? With Fiona and Mark emphasizing how much I’d changed, there must have been a lot of changing to do.

  ‘Different how?’ I asked.

  ‘Calmer, kinder, nicer.’

  ‘What was I like before?’ I ventured, not sure if I wanted to hear the truth.

  ‘Well, you always seemed dissatisfied and ill-at-ease. As if you wanted to be somewhere else all the time.’

  She was right. I had wanted to be some where else all the time. I’d always felt uncomfortable when I came home to Dublin. The minute I stepped off the plane I wanted to be back in London. I felt hemmed in and claustrophobic. The things that Dad, Fiona and Derek talked about seemed mundane compared to my jetting around interviewing stars – even though most of the time that had meant sitting outside hotel rooms for hours to get a three-minute slot with an inarticulate tosser about their latest film that you thought was absolute tripe.

  I had felt restless at home and was always relieved to get on the plane and back to my apartment. I was in control of my life in London. I never thought too much about things. I lived from day to day, breezing along. In Dublin I had to answer questions. How was I? What was happening with my job? Did I have a boyfriend? Who did I see over there? Where did I go? Why hadn’t I been in touch? When was I coming home?

  The when-are-you-coming-home question really got to me. No one ever thought that when you emigrated you’d stay away. Everyone always assumed you were desperate to get home, that it was just a matter of time…

  Sure the quality of life ‘over there’ – regardless of whether you lived in a penthouse in New York or a bedsit in London – was rotten. Ireland had the best of both worlds. Sure you couldn’t raise a family ‘over there’. Big cities were a young person’s game. You went abroad for work experience but you’d never stay. God, no, only poor sods who ‘got stuck’ stayed. And you’d ‘get stuck’ if you didn’t come home before you were thirty. Lord save us if you were still there when you were thirty-five – sure you’d no hope!

  But the saddest of all were the ‘lifers’. The poor ejects who fell in love ‘over there’ and married a local! They were trapped for ever. That was the worst that could happen. Parents through out Ireland were on their hands and knees, praying that their beloved children wouldn’t become lifers. Everyone felt most sorry for Australian lifers – sure you’d never see them again. It was a three-day camel ride to get to the other side of the world where those Australians lived. Those lifers were gone for good. Come home and marry the one-legged hunchback next door, but whatever you do, DO NOT MARRY A LOCAL.

  So, every time I came home, I’d spend a lot of time answering questions – or avoiding them – and it made me take stock of my life, which I didn’t like doing. It freaked me out. I didn’t know where I was going or what the future held. All my school friends were married or in serious relationships, and I wasn’t. It made me question my decisions. I used to wonder if I was doomed never to meet someone. Maybe I should have stayed with Sam. But I hadn’t: I had chosen this road and it had brought me fulfilment of a sort, and when I was immersed in my London life I was content. So Fiona was right: I did feel edgy when I came home. I didn’t like reflecting on where I was going because I didn’t know where that was. I had no plan.

  But this time it had been different because I knew I had to stay for a while, and I had a purpose. I had come back to help Fiona and mind the boys. And it had been fun – difficult, trying and absolutely exhausting, but I was enjoying it and I did feel different, in a good way. It had been nice to focus on others for a change, and I loved spending time with the boys, becoming an important person in their lives. It had been lovely to finally give back something to Fiona too.

  ‘I suppose I have changed a bit. At least it’s for the better,’ I said, with a smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kate. Things will work out.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be saying to you?’

  ‘You have, a thousand times. Now, why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You look exhausted.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re able for the boys?’

  ‘Absolutely. I feel fine.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’ve been really amazing. Thanks.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  When I got home I went to grab something to eat before I crashed out. Derek was in the kitchen. I looked around suspiciously.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Derek.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I said, sitting down with a bowl of corn flakes. I couldn’t have faced Gonzo. I was too tired.

  ‘I hear Jack ended up getting stitches.’

  ‘Yes, and it was my stupid fault.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s fine, thank God.’

  ‘Scar?’

  ‘Tiny one, but it’s hidden in his hair.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Derek?’

  ‘Yo.’

  ‘Do I seem different?’

  ‘Did you get a boob job?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Lips?’

  ‘I haven’t had any plastic surgery. I’m talking about different in personality.’

  He shrugged. ‘Like how?’

  ‘Calmer.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Fiona said I am,’ I said, put out that Derek hadn’t spotted my new Zen-like personality.

  ‘You didn’t seem too chilled this morning when you were freaking out about being heartbroken and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you accused me of being with Gonzo so naturally I flipped. What about before this morning? Have I changed over the last few months?’

  ‘I suppose you’re less all about you.’

  ‘Was I very self-obsessed?’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You weren’t interested in other people’s shit.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ I said, offended. I might not have been very relaxed, but I was always concerned about my family and what was going on.

  ‘No,’ said Derek, firmly. ‘You weren’t. When I got into all that trouble in college, Fiona was the one who bailed me out. You just told me I was a gobshite.’
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  Derek hadn’t done too well in his school exams – he had problems applying himself, the teachers said – so Dad had got him into this small private college to study marketing. He had been desperate for Derek to get some kind of third-level qualification and was convinced that it would stop him obsessing about a career in music.

  Needless to say, Derek had had about as much interest in marketing as he did in chess. He continued not to apply himself and was lucky to scrape through the first year. In year two, he had been caught smoking dope at the back of a lecture hall and had been given a warning by the dean: clean up your act or you’re out. A couple of weeks later he got caught again and was asked to leave.

  The expulsion had happened a few days before I flew back for Tara’s wedding, and the night I got home he confessed to Fiona and me that he was no longer in college. A letter was on its way to Dad.

  I told him he was a gobshite – something he had clearly not forgotten – and that he deserved to be expelled for behaving like an idiot. Fiona told him he was irresponsible, but that if he promised to behave and study hard, she’d do everything she could to help him. The next day she went to see the dean and somehow managed to persuade him to give Derek another chance, while I skipped off to Tara’s wedding.

  Derek had spent the next two years keeping his head down and muddled through his exams, helped and tutored by Fiona.

  ‘You’re right I was no help to you. I’m sorry about that.’ It looked like I was going to be spending this entire day apologizing to people.

  ‘’S OK, I’m over it. Besides, you’re not like that any more. You actually seem to give a shit now and you’ve stopped dissing my music all the time.’

  ‘Well, I think you have talent but you need to face the fact that you may not get signed and think about possible options for the future,’ said the new mature, caring, subtle me.

  ‘You went to London to follow your dream, right?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘I always thought that was cool. You know, you went over there, took a chance and it worked out. You made it. You got your own show. I respect that. You chased the dream. That’s what I’m doing with my music.’

  ‘Well, thanks. But all I’m saying is that you need to think about alternatives in case it doesn’t work out.’

  ‘I have,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘If I don’t get signed before my birthday when the old man pulls the plug on my finances, me ’n’ Gonzo are going to crash with you in London and try the scene over there. I was thinking your agent could maybe sort us out with some auditions.’

  The old me would have said, ‘Hell will freeze over first.’

  The new me said, ‘Over my dead body.’

  37

  Although Fiona hated having to go to the hospital everyday for the radiation, which tired her, the queasiness and mouth ulcers were gone and she could see that the end was near. She was in much better form and more able for the boys. As a result I had more time on my hands, which was not necessarily a good thing: I had time to brood about Sam. I was staying in Dublin until Fiona was finished with the radiation and then I was going back to London. She’d be having her remission tests six weeks after that and I was planning to fly home when she got the results. We were all holding our breath and watching the calendar as time dragged on towards that date.

  On one of my afternoons off from minding the boys I had decided to contact Sam. I was desperate to talk to him and tryto sort things out. I wanted to show him what a mistake we were making by not giving it a go.

  I sent him a text: Can we talk?

  Sam: Unless uv changed ur mind about London there is nothing 2 say.

  Me: U r a stubborn git.

  Sam: Pot – kettle – black.

  I was bashing my head off a brick wall so I didn’t contact him again. In the meantime I decided to get in touch with a few more people in Irish television to prove to Sam there was nothing for me in Dublin. Maybe if he saw that I’d tried every angle possible, he’d consider commuting.

  I got my agent to track down a few names and put out a few feelers in Dublin for me. I was still waiting to hear back. She said she was on the case but she was definitely keener to find me a good job in London where her commission would be higher. I had called Peter Kildare from TV 3 again, just to say I was still alive and available for work, and he had given me the names of two other Irish producers to contact. They had both told me the same thing: there were no jobs going. Once people had a presenting job in Ireland, they stayed in it for ten years. Movement and job-hopping were not common.

  With a few days to go before Fiona’s treatment ended, my agent rang. She only ever rang if it was good news. ‘Kate, are you sitting down?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes – go on, what is it?’ I said, holding my breath…

  ‘Your agent extraordinaire has landed you a presenting job on Sky One.’ She paused for maximum effect.

  ‘What show?’ I urged, myheart pounding. Sky One was great. It was a big step up from the Lifechange channel.

  ‘Reality Stag Party,’ she announced breathlessly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s going to be fantastic and so much fun for you. You travel to different places each week with different stag parties and talk to the groom about his relationship and talk to his friends about him and if they think his wife-to-be is Mrs Right. It’ll be great! The first stag is fourteen lads from Newcastle going to Benidorm for a week, so you’ll even get a tan while you’re working – and, you never know, you might find yourself a man while you’re at it.’

  ‘You got me a show following a bunch of men around Benidorm, watching them eat eggs and chips in the local pub and getting plastered watching football, then going to a nightclub with them while they grope every girl in sight? Jesus, Jackie, are you insane?’

  ‘Joking!’ She cackled. ‘I’ve got you series two of Eating-disorder Camp.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes!’

  This was a big deal. The girl who had presented the first series was now presenting the hugely popular So You Think You Can Sing. It was a big step up for me and I knew the competition would have been fierce.

  ‘How did you manage to get it for me?’

  ‘I told the producer you’d rushed home to nurse your sick sister and look after her kids, and he thought you’d be perfect for the job because you’re obviously good with sick people. So the stick-insects will be able to talk to you about their problems. By the way, I told him your sister had teenage-girl twins and one was refusing to eat since her mother got sick. It sealed the deal.’

  ‘You cunning thing, I love it. God, this is brilliant. When do I start?’

  ‘Filming kicks off in a month, but I need you over here next week to talk to the producer and do some schmoozing. How’s your hair?’

  ‘Short, but it looks OK.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Bring a wig with you. Got to fly.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie, I really appreciate it,’ I said, hanging up and hugging myself.

  This was huge. I was on the road to serious stardom now. All my hard work had paid off. This was my big break and it felt fantastic. I was over the moon. I had to tell someone, so I jumped in the car and called over to Tara.

  After I’d rung the doorbell for five minutes she finally appeared in her pyjamas. She looked shattered.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, bounding in. ‘You’ll never guess what!’

  ‘Can you hang on a sec,’ she said, rushing into the house to pick up a screaming baby.

  I followed her and watched her settle Kerrie on her breast. The baby stopped crying instantly.

  ‘Impressive,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a very hungry baby,’ said Tara, wearily. ‘It’s nonstop and I’m wrecked. Look at me! It’s eleven o’clock and I’m still not dressed. She was up four times last night and it’s nearly an hour every feed by the time you burp her –’

  I decided to interrupt. I didn’t w
ant to hear about the feeds again – she’d talked of nothing else since the baby was born. While I realized it was pretty much the only thing she did all day, it was pretty boring to hear about every feed, how long it took, how many burps and how long the child slept – or, rather, didn’t sleep – in between. I wanted to tell her my news.

  ‘My agent just called – I’ve got a great job!’ I blurted out, but Tara didn’t hear me: she was busy manoeuvring the baby.

  ‘It’s easier to feed her if she’s comfy,’ she said, putting a cushion under Kerrie’s bum. ‘Now, what were you saying?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a new job.’

  ‘Great. Doing what?’

  ‘You’re looking at the new presenter of Eating-disorder Camp,’ I announced.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s one of the top reality TV shows. And Terry Half penny, who presented the last series, is now presenting So You Think You Can Sing.’

  ‘I like that show,’ said Tara, absent-mindedly. ‘But I never get to watch TV, these days. Ouch, Kerrie, easy there, pet,’ said the earth-mother, as she adjusted her breast again.

  ‘So, I’m really excited about it and I start filming next month. God, it’ll be great to have mylife back.’

  ‘Mmm, sounds amazing. Could you pass me that muslin square? Thanks. She’s not eating so I need to burp her first.’

  ‘OK. Well, you seem kind of busy here so I’ll talk to you later,’ I said, trying not to snap. I had been so excited to share my good news with my best friend but she couldn’t concentrate for more than five seconds on anything that wasn’t baby-related.

  ‘Don’t go – I’m sorry, Kate. I know I’m distracted. Look, let me stick Kerrie in the swing chair and hope fully she’ll nod off. She doesn’t seem hungry.’

  After fifteen minutes of swinging, rocking, music and soothers, Kerrie fell asleep.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Tara. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen so we don’t disturb her. Now, tell me everything.’

  Once we were in the kitchen, Tara gave me her almost undivided attention. She leapt up every five minutes to check on Kerrie, but in between she managed to focus on the conversation.