Rules for a Perfect Life

by Niamh Greene

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘Besides, it’s my day off.’

  I suddenly realize that my head is throbbing quite a bit. How many glasses of that rare red did I have last night? I lost count after the first three. And then there were the Slippery Nipples Peg insisted I try. Oh, God.

  ‘You get a day off, then, do you?’ she snipes. ‘I didn’t know that was in the help’s contract.’

  I don’t have to answer to this upstart, and I don’t have to tolerate her rude behaviour either, troubled past or not. It’s not my fault she’s so angry about life. I go to close the door, but in a flash she jams her riding-boot-clad foot in the way so I can’t.

  ‘Dad said you offered to help. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ She flicks her silky sheet of hair. It’s not just a straight-up blow-dry – she must have been up since dawn pulling a GHD through it again and again. I recognize a ceramic-hair-straightener addiction when I see one.

  ‘Well, your dad was mistaken.’ I push the door firmly against her foot. ‘I’ve never heard of this gymkhana. And I certainly didn’t volunteer to help out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed.’

  Matilda shrugs, then takes her foot away. ‘Fine with me,’ she says. ‘I said you’d be a liability anyway.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I pull the door open a crack. How dare she call me a liability?

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about horses, remember?’ she calls over her shoulder, as she struts back up the garden path. ‘You’d probably jinx the entire event. Dad already told me that renting Rose Cottage to a no-hoper like you was a very bad idea – he knew you’d let him down today.’

  Furious, I slam the door. How dare that little whippersnapper speak to me like that? She needs a good talking-to and next time I see her precious father I’m going to tell him so. And while I’m at it, I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him too – the nerve of him calling me a no-hoper!

  I’m just snuggling back under the covers, pounding my feather pillow to make it more comfortable, when I hear the knocking again. It’s louder than ever. Matilda is back.

  Seeing red, I jump from the bed and race to open it. This is ridiculous. It’s bad enough that I have to help in the stables during the week, but I’m certainly not going to at the weekends as well. I’m going to give this brat Matilda a piece of my mind. If she thinks she can intimidate me, she’s wrong.

  ‘Maggie, what are you doing? We’re all waiting for you.’

  Edward is standing on the doorstep, his rangy limbs filling the frame.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I blink at him.

  Who does he think he is, barging in here unannounced at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning? This is outrageous! It’s my day off – which means I can lie in bed all day and do absolutely nothing. Does no one around here understand that simple concept?

  ‘You were supposed to be at the stables over an hour ago. What happened?’

  ‘I’m not working today!’ I snap, my temper fraying. ‘But I’ve been disturbed so often already this morning my day off is already ruined.’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ Edward’s voice is suddenly softer.

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘Last night. In the pub. You said you wanted to help at the gymkhana today.’

  ‘I did not.’ I’m 100 per cent sure about this. I didn’t volunteer to do anything of the sort. I had a few drinks and chatted to the locals, that’s all. There was no mention of any gymkhana.

  ‘I told you that Polly and Matilda were going to a gymkhana and you volunteered to help,’ Edward explains patiently.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ What’s he on about?

  ‘Yes. You did. You said you’d grown really fond of Saffy and you wanted to come today. You were really enthusiastic about it.’

  Cold fear creeps up my spine. That sounds just a teeny bit familiar.

  ‘It was just after the sing-song,’ he prompts.

  ‘Sing-song?’ I croak.

  ‘Yes,’ his eyes dance, ‘you have a great voice, I have to say. All the villagers thought so – you really got everyone going.’

  Oh my God. I must have been very drunk. I don’t sing unless I’m legless and from what Edward is saying it’s as if I started some sort of session. Would I have done that? Why can’t I remember? Then again, there’s a lot about the night that’s pretty fuzzy. Like how I got home, for example.

  ‘You weren’t … you weren’t drunk, were you?’ Edward says now, breaking into a broad grin. ‘You do remember our conversation?’

  I quickly decide that I can’t admit I have no proper recollection of the conversation whatsoever. That would be too humiliating. I’ll have to lie. Luckily, I’m getting good at telling fibs – it’s almost becoming second nature now.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ I say stoutly. ‘I just overslept, that’s all. Sorry.’

  ‘I see. Well, do you still want to come?’

  ‘Um …’ I pause. My head’s throbbing full-on now. All I want to do is go back to bed.

  ‘Of course if you’re hung-over, I totally understand.’ Edward smirks.

  ‘I’m not hung-over! I just need to get ready.’

  I can’t let him believe I’m a useless fool – he apparently already thinks that and I’m damned if I’m going to confirm it for him.

  ‘How long will that take?’ He peers at my crumpled T-shirt.

  I remember that this is not the first time he’s seen me with very little on, and I blush. ‘Let me just grab a few things and I’ll be right there,’ I say, shoving the door closed. There’s no way he’s going to smirk at me in that condescending way and imply I’m a lush when I’m not. Lushes don’t drink rare wines that are featured in the Irish Times. They don’t have scintillating conversations about being an artist either. Crap. A horrible flashback assaults me – was I really talking to people about my fake art career? Did I tell them I paint under an assumed name? I vaguely remember getting carried away and describing where I get my inspiration from and how long it generally takes me to complete a painting from beginning to end. Sweet Jesus. Did I tell the fat man in the blue wool jumper that I’d done a few nudes? A wave of nausea washes over me – I obviously drank far too much. I can’t remember getting home or into bed. I must have been hammered. All I can hope is that everyone else was too so they mightn’t have noticed as much.

  People were definitely singing Irish rebel songs at some point – they only sing those when they’re stocious, right? I feel a little better when I realize that if everyone was as drunk as I was, they won’t remember the stupid things I said or the lies I told. What possessed me to go on like I was a real artist? From what I can remember, Peg and Ted egged me on, and once I started I just couldn’t stop. I distinctly recall the way Odette observed me as I waffled – her face said she didn’t believe a word of what I was saying.

  And the way she looked at me when Edward offered me a lift home … Oh God. Now I remember. Edward drove me back here – he even helped open the sticky door when I had a fit of giggles.

  Did I really harp on about the pony phase I went through when I was nine? The one I quickly shook off when I discovered boys? Did I tell him I used to read pony books and even dreamed of having a pony of my own?

  I did. I definitely did. It’s all true. CRAP.

  Not only did I do just that, but then I begged – yes, begged – to go to the gymkhana today. I’ve made a complete and utter tit of myself. Again.

  A few hours later, I’m leaning against a fence, watching a chestnut horse trot slowly around the arena, its rider sitting stiffly immobile on its back. Dressage is so incredibly boring. So far, all the competitors have done more or less the same thing – which has amounted to little more than walking slowly round the ring looking deadly serious, as far as I can see.

  ‘Is this it?’ I say to Edward, trying to stifle another yawn. He has a look of intense concentration on his face – he’s fascinated by this stuff.
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  ‘This guy’s a champion,’ he whispers back. ‘The command he has of his mount is outstanding.’

  I strain to see what he’s talking about. Am I missing something? No, the chestnut is still trotting round the arena, just like before. Boooring. ‘Don’t they do a few tricks?’ I whisper. I know that talking in a normal voice is a no-no – I’ve already been shushed twice by people further down.

  ‘Tricks?’ Edward shakes his head, his eyes never moving from the chestnut mare. ‘No, it’s all about control. Control and mutual respect.’

  ‘I could do that, for goodness’ sake.’ I sigh as the horse starts to zigzag slowly across the arena, taking small precise steps. Wouldn’t it be more exciting if they livened things up a bit? Maybe did a few circus moves? If someone balanced on the horse’s back and juggled plates I might sit up and take notice – otherwise I’m struggling to stay awake.

  ‘No offence, Maggie, but it takes years of training to achieve that flawless gait. He’s been riding since he was Polly’s age. Probably training every single day of his life.’ Edward smiles. ‘Dressage is a very complicated event. The skill is in making it look easy.’

  ‘Well, it’s a complete waste of time,’ I mutter. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that?’ Who would want to waste half their life training for a sport that could send spectators to sleep? It’s ridiculous. I know I sound incredibly grumpy, but I just can’t help it. I have a shocking hangover. I spent the entire journey to the showground trying to hold it together – but it wasn’t easy, especially because a very highly strung Polly chattered endlessly during the trip. She could give anyone a headache at the best of times. Matilda, on the other hand, barely uttered a word and hared away the second Edward eased the Land Rover and horsebox into a parking space. We haven’t seen her since and I get the impression that Edward is worried sick about her and what she might be getting up to.

  ‘It’s my turn soon!’ Polly bounces about, her plaits flying. Today is Polly’s first proper event and she’s beyond excited: she can’t wait to show the judges what she and Saffy can do.

  ‘Ssh … you’ve got to be a little quieter, Polly.’ Edward tousles her hair. ‘We can’t distract the rider.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll win, Maggie?’ Polly tries hard to whisper. She isn’t very good at it – she seems to think that shouting is much more fun.

  ‘I’m sure you have a very good chance, Polly,’ I smile at her. Not that I know anything about this sort of stuff, of course, but if enthusiasm counts for anything then Polly will win by a mile. She’s very cute – but, God, she’s loud. She’s been rabbiting on at high volume for hours about her chances of winning a rosette and it made the drive hellish. I had to concentrate very hard on not vomiting: I knew the smug Matilda, in the back seat, was willing me to be sick, and I was determined not to give her the satisfaction. Besides, throwing up all over my landlord wouldn’t have been very classy. Edward has already seen me so drunk that he had to prop me up on the way home, and that’s quite enough disgrace for one week. A vision of me swaying drunkenly against his shoulder is just one of the excruciating flashbacks I’ve experienced this morning. I now suspect that he may have had to physically hold me upright while he tried to open the door to Rose Cottage. The thought makes me burn with shame. He hasn’t mentioned it, but I know, I just know, by the smirk that’s been playing around his mouth all morning that he finds the whole situation highly entertaining.

  ‘Daddy, will I win? Do you think I’ll win?’ Polly hops at Edward’s feet.

  She really, really wants to win – she kept her fingers crossed the whole way in the jeep, just in case, which caused an almighty row when Matilda told her that was only a silly superstition and meant nothing. Polly retaliated by telling her older sister that she looked really naff with her face all weird and her hair so stupid. There’d been murder.

  ‘It’s not about the winning, Polly, it’s about taking part,’ Edward says. ‘That’s what’s important.’

  Polly rolls her eyes. ‘Dad, you are so naff!’ she says. ‘I don’t care about taking part – I want to win.’

  ‘Now, let’s keep cool, OK?’ Edward plants a kiss on top of her head. ‘We don’t want to get overexcited.’

  ‘OK, Dad, I’ll keep cool,’ she says solemnly, before squirming out of her father’s arms again.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Polly. A cool head goes a long way,’ a female voice says directly behind us and we all turn.

  It’s June. The Ice Queen of Glacken. This is all I need. What’s she doing here?

  ‘Granny!’ Polly launches herself at her grandmother’s thighs and hugs them tightly. ‘You said you couldn’t come!’

  ‘I couldn’t miss my granddaughter’s first dressage event, could I? That wouldn’t do. Hello, Edward.’ June nods at her son-in-law but completely ignores me, as if I’m the hired help and she doesn’t have to acknowledge my existence. You don’t have to engage with the staff and, from the expression on June’s face, that’s exactly what she thinks I am.

  I cringe inside as she turns away, her face a mask of ice. It’s obvious I haven’t been forgiven for the stupid mistake I made. June is holding on to her grudge with a vengeance.

  ‘It’s my turn soon, Granny,’ Polly chatters. ‘Do you think I’ll win?’

  ‘Did you cross your fingers?’ June asks.

  It seems she takes Polly’s superstitious streak seriously, even when other people don’t.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly replies solemnly.

  ‘Well, so did I.’ June squats to whisper in her granddaughter’s ear. ‘I think your chances are very high indeed.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Polly squeals, hardly able to contain herself with excitement. ‘I’m going to win! I’m going to win!’

  ‘Let’s go, Polly,’ Edward says, taking Polly by the hand. ‘I don’t want to lose you in the crowd. We have to get your event number.’

  My heart plummets. I’m going to be left alone with the charming June. What will I say to her? Should I pretend to have narcolepsy and just fall asleep so we don’t have to converse?

  ‘Wish me luck! Wish me luck!’ Polly shouts, as she scrambles away.

  ‘I’m keeping everything crossed,’ June calls, winking at the little girl.

  Polly winks back and gives her a thumbs-up.

  ‘She’s so like her mother at that age,’ June says, under her breath, as if forgetting where she is for a moment.

  This is so awkward. If I could just break the ice, we might be able to start again. I never meant to upset the old woman – it was a genuine mistake, thinking she was Edward’s wife. Surely she can see that.

  ‘Do you like dressage?’ I say, when Edward and Polly disappear out of sight.

  June flinches and raises her chin an inch, as if she’s not going to dignify me with an answer.

  ‘Edward explained that it’s all about control,’ I go on. Maybe if I try just a little harder it might work. June can’t stand here in total silence – she’ll have to respond sooner or later.

  ‘He’s right, control is key,’ she says coolly.

  I’m stupidly pleased – it’s actually worked! We started off on the wrong foot, yes, but hope isn’t lost – maybe we can be friends. A wave of loneliness washes over me suddenly. If only I had Claire to chat to. But Claire is too busy finding herself in India: I haven’t spoken to her in ages. And I don’t want to call Mum and Dad or Theresa, just in case I give the game away about my situation. I’ve been keeping in touch with them through cheerful, but vague, texts.

  ‘And if you could control your mouth and stop chattering,’ June goes on, ‘I would like to watch the event. In silence.’ She stares coldly at me.

  ‘Sorry?’ I can’t have heard her properly.

  ‘I said, be quiet. Who do you think you are? Just because you’re renting Rose Cottage doesn’t give you the right to tag along on family outings. You have no place here with Edward and Polly, looking so cosy. No place whatsoever. Polly’s own mother is going to miss her
first equestrian event. If she’s not here to see it, then you certainly shouldn’t be. I have no intention of allowing you to elbow your way into our family, so why don’t you pack your bags and go back to the city, where you belong?’

  June turns back to watch the event, her face cold and hard.

  ‘Oh.’ I’m speechless with shock. What can I say to that? She’s never going to like me, no matter what I say or do. She’s already decided that I’m a pointless waste of space and now she seems to think I’m somehow muscling in on her family too. The irony is, I wouldn’t even be at this stupid gymkhana except I wanted to prove a point to Edward.

  I stumble away, tears pricking my eyes. June really dislikes me. And she’s not the only one. Matilda hates me too, and so does Odette. Even Edward only tolerates me because of the work I do. After all, he said a monkey could be trained to do the same.

  Suddenly I know that coming to the country has been a terrible mistake. I don’t fit in here – it’s never going to work. I’ll have to tell Claire, then go back to the city and take my chances looking for another job. Maybe I could stay with Dermot and Yvonne for a while – it mightn’t be that bad living with my ex-boss and his gold-digger wife.

  Just as I’m contemplating spending every evening listening to Yvonne talking about her colour-coded shoe collection, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  ‘Hi, Maggie!’

  It’s Claire. I can hardly believe it.

  ‘I’d just finished ashtanga when I got a funny feeling,’ she jabbers. ‘I felt my inner voice telling me to contact you so I asked for special privilege to call home. How’s country living? Is it amazing?’

  I debate telling Claire the truth – that I’m lonely and miserable and hated – but something stops me. Maybe my own inner voice, which seems to be screaming, ‘Keep quiet!’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Are you having a fantastic time?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  I sidestep a pat of horse dung and grip the phone tighter to my ear so I can hear properly. The line is pretty bad. ‘That’s great.’ My voice sounds hollow, even to me.