by Tara Heavey
It was a day like any other. Unremarkable weather. Drizzly. I had seen Michael that morning, of course: we had moved around each other, not saying much. This wasn’t significant, just a usual workaday morning, people rushing to get ready. He had kissed me on the way out, on the cheek, mouth full of toast, leaving a residue of crumbs. I wiped them away.
I dropped the children at the childminder’s, Liam battling against the constraints of his car seat, me against the traffic. Sheila was in her fifties and had raised a family of her own. My children adored her, which made me illogically resentful, for which I chided myself every morning. It was my choice to go back to work. Choice: the curse of the modern woman. Liam ran straight through the door the second it was opened.
‘Look at my new twuck, Sheila.’ He held up his latest toy for inspection.
‘Oh, that’s lovely, dear.’
Katie was almost leaping out of my arms in her eagerness to get to the other woman. For God’s sake! She’d only known Sheila for three months.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I said.
‘See you later, dear. Liam, come and give your mummy a goodbye kiss.’
But Liam had already been swallowed into the dark interior of the house.
‘Oh, it’s fine. Don’t bother him. I’m late anyway. ’Bye, Katie.’
I kissed my daughter’s satin cheek and got back into the car. I pulled away, with the image of Sheila trying unsuccessfully to get her to wave at me in my rear-view mirror. I asked myself for the millionth time if I was doing the right thing. The right thing. What was that? I supposed I was lucky I didn’t have children who clung to me, wailing inconsolably whenever I tried to leave them. I switched on the radio and my thoughts were subsumed in the traffic.
By the time I got to the college, I was more than ready for coffee so I went straight to the canteen and who should be there but…
I was immediately self-conscious. How ridiculous after all this time. ‘Is this seat taken?’
Peter smiled and gestured to the chair opposite him.
‘You’re in early,’ I said, striving for normality.
‘Papers to mark.’
It was hardly a romantic setting – the college canteen, sipping from polystyrene cups – so why did I feel like I was on a date? I wished I could shake this infernal crush. It was ludicrous even to suspect that he was feeling anything even remotely similar. I was projecting my feelings on to him, something I used to do all the time with men before Michael – always with disastrous results. It was quite distressing to learn that I hadn’t progressed romantically beyond the mental age of nineteen. Had my third-level education, my marriage, my career not taught me anything? Apparently not. The sophistication I’d thought I’d developed was nothing more than the most fragile of veneers.
‘How’s Lara?’ When in doubt, mention the wife. It proves you have no designs on him.
‘Okay, I think. Haven’t seen much of her lately.’
What does that mean? That you’re not getting on? Doesn’t your wife understand you? ‘How come?’
He shrugged. ‘Both just busy, I guess.’
How was it that I’d never before noticed the shape of his mouth? The unabashed sensuality of the upper lip, the squared-off curve of the lower. I tried not to stare. I took a sip of coffee and winced as it burned my mouth.
‘Are you okay?’
‘It’s just hot.’
‘Here. Have some of this.’
He leaned over and pressed his glass of water to my lips. I took a gulp, annoyed at how refreshing it felt. He took the glass away and a dribble of water ran down my chin. Embarrassed, I wiped it away with my sleeve, eyes lowered, rattled by the strange intimacy of it all. I got up. ‘I’d better go.’ Pushing my chair away awkwardly behind me, I gathered up my papers and walked past him towards the door.
He stood up and grabbed my arm. ‘I’ll see you later?’
I was completely taken aback. I felt my colour deepen, his fingers sinking into my flesh, his eyes boring into mine. ‘I’ll be around at lunchtime.’
He nodded and released me, and I walked out of the canteen on legs that seemed to belong to another woman, my head and heart full of confusion.
That night I snapped at Michael, even though he’d done nothing. And when he came to bed, I pretended to be asleep.
I was just playing, really, trying to make life a little less boring. Trying to feel alive, for God’s sake.
That weekend we visited a garden. The whole family. I consider it my last pure weekend, the memory of which was to burn like a beacon in darker times. The sun shone in reality and even brighter in memory. In reality, I’m sure that clouds, occasionally and momentarily, blotted it out. In memory, there were none. In reality, I had a sore back, from lugging around Liam and picking up Katie, as she tripped over her newly found feet. Of course, Daddy could do this too, but so often, it was me they called: Mummy, the centre of their tiny universe. In memory, my back is pain free. I experience no tiredness as I lift my children into the air and swing them around. They squeal with delight and the afternoon resonates with their laughter. Bees buzz, birds trill, butterflies flutter by. The scent of sunblock, our picnic lunch. Pâté and Bakewell tart for Michael and me. Cocktail sausages and puréed fruit for the children. Warm, fizzy 7 Up in plastic cups. Katie fell over herself to get to the flowers. Liam ran manically around the borders. Michael and I revelled in the magic.
‘It doesn’t get much better than this.’ He was lying on the chequered blanket, propped up on one elbow, legs crossed at the ankles, a supremely contented expression on his face.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I concurred, meaning every word. I lay on my back and shielded my eyes with my arm, blocking out the light but not the heat. It was impossible not to feel relaxed under the benign force of the sun.
I felt Michael move closer to me and anticipated his touch. Welcomed it. He whispered into my ear and his breath tickled. ‘I love being here with you,’ he said.
‘I love being here with you too.’
‘You know you’re the centre of my universe, don’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are.’
I did.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aoife.’
‘You won’t have to do without me.’
‘Promise?’
‘Of course I promise. What is this, Michael? This isn’t like you.’
‘You’ve just seemed so distant lately. Like you’re here but not here.’
I was shocked that he’d noticed. I’d thought I’d hidden it so well. Locked in my private fantasy world, locking him out. Telling myself that thoughts couldn’t possibly affect him. But they had. The evidence was breathing in my very own ear.
The guilt was immediate and heavy, my enjoyment of the day eliminated. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve seemed preoccupied lately. I promise I’ll change.’
I meant it too. What need had I for a sordid, tawdry affair when I had all this? This perfect love. This perfect family. I vowed there and then to stay away from Peter, to make sure we were never alone, keep temptation at arm’s length – not a hair’s breadth away as it had been last week. Only a madwoman would jeopardize all this – all the gifts I had in my life. This goodness.
Michael did a quick check to see where the children were and whether anyone else was close by. Satisfied, he cupped my breast with his hand and kissed my lips. I giggled against his mouth. As it was in the beginning.
But I couldn’t help it. It was like I was two different people living two different lives. In one, I was the devoted wife and mother, and in the other, the traitorous whore. Which was how I thought of myself at some moments, even though I hadn’t done anything. But I knew what my intentions were – and they weren’t good – every time I saw Peter. The thought of a different pair of hands on my naked skin was so unutterably exciting that I couldn’t let it go. I did send him packing once: he came all the way to my
front door when he knew Michael and the children were out – they were with his wife and child at the Fun Factory.
I opened the door and he stood there, looking at me. What had remained unspoken had become undeniable – through eye contact and body language. Through something strange and indefinable in the ether between us. The air we jointly breathed had become soup-like and vaguely tangible. It seemed incredible to me that nobody else was conscious of it. I stepped back and he came into the hall. I was still in my dressing-gown, luxuriating in having a rare morning to myself. I crossed my arms over my chest, acutely aware that beneath my dressing-gown I was wearing a flimsy nightie and no underwear. I couldn’t speak. I felt absolute terror. Like that time on the motorway when I was convinced a lorry was going to plough into me. Yet it was only Peter standing in front of me. Peter my friend. Peter who, for some strange reason, had become the most attractive man in the universe. When I wasn’t with him, I could deny it, discount it, but when I was in his presence, I felt myself drawn towards him, as if by an irresistible force. Again, I resisted. He took a step closer. I took one back.
‘This is a surprise. I’m not even dressed.’
I’d deny what was happening with normal talk. Again, he wouldn’t speak. Speak, goddammit. Help me break the spell. I was genuinely scared. I turned and went into the kitchen, heading for my trusty kettle and switching it on. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Aoife…’ He came up to me and stroked the side of my arm with his familiar but unfamiliar hand. His face was close to mine now, his eyes imploring, pleading.
I shook him off. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t have time for tea. I think you’d better leave.’
He drew back and stared at me for a few interminable seconds. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Yes.’ I wouldn’t look at him.
He left silently. I barely heard the click of the front door.
I don’t know why I refused him that time. Maybe the venue was wrong: my home – photos of my babies on the wall. Maybe the knowledge that our spouses and children were out innocently together. Perhaps simply that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. I’d like to think it was moral strength but I was soon to learn that that was weak indeed. When he left that morning, I felt so bereft. It was over. I had nothing left but banal reality. I didn’t want it. Next time I went to him.
Fearing it was too late, I arrived at his office that Monday. A soft knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
He looked amazed. I was the last person he’d expected to see. I stood for a long while, my hand stuck to the door handle, eyes lowered. When at last I looked up at him he was staring at me. He dropped his pen on his desk and pushed back his chair. I sat on his lap, avoiding his eyes, closing mine, focusing on his lips, covering them with my kisses, his cheeks and his forehead, finally knowing what it felt like, my questions answered. His taste, so different. It was magical, ecstatic. Like the first time ever. We smothered each other with ourselves. Entered each other. It was urgent and vital – and somehow inevitable. Maybe if one of us had had the willpower… but neither of us did. In the moment, I was exultant. Ten seconds later I was remorseful, guilt-ridden, devastated. I gathered myself up and made to leave.
‘Don’t go, Aoife. Stay and talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk. I have to go.’
‘But –’
‘I have to.’
I was never going back. Except I was.
* * *
I thought my guilt was at its pinnacle. I had no idea. That evening I went home and threw myself into my role as earth-mother and hearth-goddess with greater gusto than ever before. I collected the children and talked to them animatedly all the way home. When we got in, I didn’t begin picking up the morning’s detritus as I normally did. Instead – and this was revolutionary – I played with them. To hell with the house. I got down on my hands and knees and I played with all my might. I agreed to every one of Liam’s requests. He lit up as I moved cars up and down endless ramps, drove trains backwards and forwards along infinite tracks, and picked up imaginary loads with pint-sized diggers. For Katie, I did whooshing in the air. Up over my head and down between my legs. Up and down. Again and again. She tired of the game before I did. Maybe there was a touch of mania about it all, but my children didn’t seem to care. They revelled in the attention.
Once I’d given them their tea, I set to work on Michael’s favourite dinner: steak fried with mushrooms and onions and homemade chips.
‘What’s all this?’ He came through the kitchen door, his face showing delight – he’d smelled the steak out in the hall.
‘I thought you deserved a treat.’
He put his arms around me and I allowed myself to be kissed.
‘How lucky am I?’ he said.
I hugged him tight and closed my eyes tighter.
‘To come home to a wife like you, to food like this. Two beautiful children. I don’t deserve it.’
No, you don’t, I thought.
‘Does this mean I’m on a promise?’
He smiled at me with such warmth, his eyes full of love.
‘Might do.’
While he read Liam his bedtime story, I jumped into the shower and scrubbed myself furiously – especially the important bits. He was already in bed, waiting for me, when I came out.
‘You don’t have to wash on my account.’
‘I know. I was feeling grimy.’
He turned the sheet down. ‘Come on in.’
The phone rang.
‘I’ll just get that.’ I rushed to pick it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Aoife.’
My heart pounded and my mouth dried. I could hear him breathing rhythmically, like waves crashing against the shoreline.
‘I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.’ I put the phone back in its cradle.
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Now come to bed.’
I got into bed with my husband and put out. At least, half of me did. Good Aoife. Bad Aoife was very far away indeed.
Perhaps I could be like a Frenchwoman. I could take a lover between eating salade and smoking Gauloises. That’s assuming real-life Frenchwomen actually did such things outside the genre of film noir. Occasionally I would attempt to justify my actions. But my excuses were paltry and pathetic and did nothing to convince me. I couldn’t just blame my bad self. It was my whole self – and my whole self was wrong. I did my best to keep away from Peter after that first time in his office but, unfortunately, he didn’t try to keep away from me. His marriage was, I think, in a genuinely bad place at the time. He might have felt he had nothing to lose but I had everything. I was the truly stupid one. But I thought I was in love – although I loved Michael too. It was all so confusing. Maybe I just loved Michael as a best friend but was ‘in love’ with Peter. If only a woman could have two husbands. If only Michael would have an affair too, then I wouldn’t have to be the baddie any more. If only he’d run off with Lara all our problems would be solved. But he wasn’t going to do either because he loved me. Properly ‘in-loved’ me. It was exquisite torture. How could I be so happy yet so unhappy at the same time? Happy to the power of infinity when I was in bed with Peter, and miserable as soon as my conscience got the better of me.
Peter and I knew we couldn’t go on like that indefinitely, but we avoided talking about the future, hoping, I think, that events would overtake us and that we’d be spared making any horrible definitive decisions.
It was an evening like any other. Dinner had been eaten and the dishes cleared away. Liam was tucked up in bed, Thomas the Tank Engine stories read to his satisfaction. Katie was restless, fretting and fussing. She was unhappy in my arms and unhappy out of them. I rocked her to no avail and fancied that she was absorbing my own agitated state. Michael and I were knackered and she was knackered, but she wouldn’t sleep.
‘Maybe it’s her teeth.’ I tried the Teetha, I tried the Calpol. I considered downing the bottle myself. Frustrated, I handed her to Michael. ‘Here. You take her
.’
‘What can I do?’
‘I don’t know. Go out for a drive or something. It might knock her out.’
When Katie was younger, the rhythmic rocking of the car used to lull her to sleep. It was worth a try.
‘Okay.’ Michael grabbed his keys and a blanket for her. ‘I’ll give it a go. See you in a few minutes.’
Except I didn’t see him in a few minutes.
My husband and daughter went out for a drive and never came back.
And, just like that, my family was halved.
23
Emily had stopped crying. Aoife had started, then stopped. They were silent for quite a while. Until Aoife spoke: ‘A truck ploughed into them. The driver had a heart-attack at the wheel.’
‘I’m so sorry, Aoife. I had no clue.’
Aoife shrugged. ‘I told you for a reason. And I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t think I knew what you were already thinking.’ She looked at Emily seriously. ‘I’ve lost my baby for ever. But you have a chance to get yours back.’
The Summer Garden
A sensitive plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light.
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
Percy Bysshe Shelley,
‘The Sensitive Plant’
24
Uri could barely keep up with his lawns. Every week he was out there with his mower. Mrs Prendergast’s roses were clusters of light-filled beauty, among which she floated in a selection of floral dresses, trailing her hands dreamily against the delicate petals – taking full credit for their glory even though Seth had put up the trellises, had kept down the weeds and fed them well-rotted manure – much to Mrs Prendergast’s disgust.
