‘You know, Kristen’s not going to be around much any more. There’s not much point; you don’t really get on, do you?’ I say to Joanna. Relief washes over her.
‘Not really, Mam. Is that OK?’
‘Of course it’s OK.’ I hug her. ‘You don’t have to like everyone,’ I explain.
‘Phew, that’s a relief, ’cos even though I tried to, I just couldn’t like that girl any more!’ Joanna exclaims.
‘I know, love. You did your best and that’s all that matters. So forget about everything except having fun. Let’s go light the candles.’
I watch my daughter’s shining face as her sister and friends bellow, ‘Happy Birthday!’ and I’m overwhelmed with love for her. She did try hard with Kristen. She has a good spirit and I’m proud of her, and a little proud of myself too. I also did my best with Victoria over the years, but as I explained to my daughter, you don’t have to like everyone and that’s true for me too.
I cut the cake of ‘The Best Party Ever’ and watch, contented, as my daughter, surrounded by friends who truly love her, hands around the plates. She gives the one with the biggest slice to Lisa Delaney.
A Low Threshold of Pain
‘Thank you, that was a superb massage.’ The scrawny, birdlike blonde woman tightened the belt of her towelling robe around her waist and nodded at Emma.
‘Thank you, Mrs Staunton,’ Emma said politely, handing her a small bottle of Perrier. ‘Don’t forget to drink plenty of water.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The woman slid her hand into the pocket of her robe, took out a folded five-euro note and held it out to Emma. ‘My partner is booked in for waxing with you this afternoon. We’re going on a cruise down the east coast of the States, including the Hamptons and Nantucket. He’s only agreed to get his back and neck done. If you could persuade him to get his chest hair waxed as well it would be wonderful! If not I’ll have to dye it for him.’ She rolled her huge chocolate-brown eyes. ‘Grey chest hair is so ageing on a man. So do try and convince him to have it done won’t you?’ She gave a brittle smile and ran her fingers through her expertly highlighted hair.
‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Staunton.’ Emma held open the door for her, wishing Ms Pipe-cleaner Legs would buzz off so that Emma could have a few minutes’ peace to prepare her treatment room before the next client came.
‘Excellent.’ Adrienne Staunton gave one last flick of her tousled mane, sweeping past Emma with a waft of bergamot and aloe vera.
Emma exhaled deeply, closing the door before crossing the tiled floor to open the shuttered blinds. She stood for a moment, gazing out at the vista of luxuriant emerald lawns, and the chocolate-brown loamy shrubbery bursting with voluptuous red and pink rhododendrons and purple and white heather. Beyond, the midday sun adorned the molten sapphire sea with a tiara of glittering diamond rays that cascaded to the far horizon. She might have her lunch outside on the small private patio that led off the staff dining room of the luxurious, cliff-top health spa she worked in. It would be nice to breath the salty sea air and feel the heat of the sun on her face. Today was her birthday and when she had finished work her husband was taking her away for the weekend to a small boutique hotel in Seville, for a long weekend. The salon manager had told her she could leave at three. Her bag was all packed and she was ready to go straight to the airport.
Humming to herself, Emma prepared the plinth for her next client, placing fresh soft towels on top of the exotic patterned silk covering with its amber, honey-gold and burnt amber shades that matched the colour palate of the room. Jasmine-scented candles flickered in their shadowed niches in the walls and the soothing tones of New Age piano music played in the background.
She cleaned the small sink area and washed her hands before setting the temperature on the warmer oven for her next client’s hot stone massage. She closed the blinds so that the room was once again a womblike cocoon in the flickering candlelight, and went to fetch her client from the spacious airy lounge that looked out to sea.
Unlike Adrienne Staunton who had chattered her way through the treatment, her new client, a weary middle-aged woman with elderly parents, a stressful job, and three teenage children, was happy to lie silently on the plinth and let Emma and the stones work their magic. As she gently massaged the woman’s shoulders, feeling the knots of tension begin to soften, she felt a surge of satisfaction as her client let out a little snore. Job well done, Emma congratulated herself, pouring more oil onto her palms as her client sank deeper into relaxation.
‘I see you had Adrienne Staunton; you won’t go too far on the tips you get from her,’ Rita Moran, another therapist, said sourly as they ate lunch together an hour later at a small round table on the patio. ‘She’s beginning to look a tad overdone, isn’t she? Those plump lips and cheek fillers are so obvious. Nothing subtle about them. She’s got a new fella too, I hear.’ Rita took a bite out of her chicken-tikka wrap and followed it with a gulp of tea.
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s coming to me for a back and shoulders wax and she wants me to persuade him to get his chest done too. They’re going on a cruise, it seems.’ Emma finished her baked ham and chutney sandwich and raised her face to the sun, loving the beneficent heat that radiated through her.
‘Some hotshot consultant, apparently. The wife found out he was having an affair with Widda Staunton and threw him out. Adrienne’s giving him a make-over apparently. She’s got him dyeing his hair and eyebrows and pounding the treadmill. I give it six months,’ Rita said sagely. ‘And then he’ll be begging the wife to take him back. Adrienne’s hard going by all accounts.’
‘Yeah, she’s totally self-absorbed. She never shut up when I was massaging her. She’s trying to organize a charity gala, apparently, and is having terrible trouble getting her set to take tables after Angela Kerins and Rehab and the CRC debacles.’ Emma stretched, catlike.
‘I wouldn’t bloody well take a table even if I had the money, paying those fat cats massive salaries and pensions, instead of it going to the charity. What a rip off! My mother supported those charities out of her pension. I’d love to sue the shaggers and get her money back.’ Rita glowered. ‘Good luck to Adrienne and her charity gala – those days are gone.’ She stood up. ‘Better go, I’ve got Antonia Kavanagh-Keogh, no less, for a full body.’
‘See if she has any racing tips,’ Emma grinned, gathering up her plate and mug. AKK, as she was known, was married to one of the biggest horse breeders in the country and was never out of the society pages and glossy lifestyle magazines.
Ten minutes later, she headed for the lounge to collect Mr Barnes, of the hairy back and shoulders. Emma was interested to see Adrienne’s new ‘fella’, as Rita had called him.
There were two men in white robes, strangely incongruous, among the small clusters of women. One a broad-shouldered, tanned rugby type in his thirties, the other tall and thin with dyed chestnut hair, his skinny calves white, hairy, matchstick thin, his bony bunion hammer toes sticking out of the top of his spa slippers.
‘Mr Barnes?’ Emma called politely, knowing immediately which of them was her client. The older man put down his paper and uncoiled himself from the lounging chair.
‘Hello!’ he said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. Some men took to the spa experience like ducks to water; others hated it. Emma was fairly sure her new client was one of the latter.
‘This way please.’ She led the way down the opulently carpeted hallway towards the treatment rooms. There was something vaguely familiar about the man flip-flopping awkwardly down the corridor beside her. Had she seen him in the society pages? Emma wondered, opening the door to let him precede her into her candlelit domain.
‘I haven’t had this procedure done before,’ he said curtly, folding his arms and pursing his thin lips. He had a pointy aquiline nose, and deep-set hazel eyes. His face was crumpled, saggy, and lugubrious, and she suddenly remembered where she had met him and his gloomy bulldog visage before.
Feck my ass, it’s John Paul Barnes! E
mma barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping as recognition slowly dawned and she recognized her former gynaecologist. She swallowed hard and struggled to hide her dismay. He clearly didn’t recognize her. So JP Barnes had hooked up with Widow Staunton. What a pair. They were welcome to each other!
‘It won’t take long,’ she managed, proud of her fake poise. ‘It’s very simple and straightforward. Mrs Staunton mentioned something about having your chest waxed as well?’ Emma arched an eyebrow at him, utterly relieved that he still didn’t appear to realize that she was a former patient.
‘Oh, did she now?’ JP snorted grumpily. ‘Our agreement was back and shoulders. That’s women for you, never satisfied.’
‘It will be over in a flash. Lots of men get it done. It makes sense to get it all done at the one go,’ Emma assured him matter-of-factly, folding over a triangle of the cover sheet on the plinth. ‘I’ll leave you for a few moments to get out of your robe and, if you decide to get your chest waxed, I’ll do that first, so lie on your back. If not, lie face down, with the sheet over you from the waist down. Make yourself comfortable, Mr Barnes,’ she said politely, before closing the door behind her.
Emma walked slowly to the water cooler and poured herself a drink. She couldn’t believe that a man who had been so dismissive of her, so arrogant and patronizing towards her when she was at her lowest and most vulnerable was lying on her plinth, at her mercy. A waxing virgin, so to speak.
Flashes of their last encounter five years ago came to the surface.
‘I’d like to have a hysterectomy,’ she’d told him after telling him the sorry saga of her gynecological history. ‘I have endometriosis; it’s made my life a misery. I have to come off the Pill because of my age. I don’t want all that pain and sickness to get worse. I want it gone.’
He’d held up his hand impatiently. ‘There are other avenues to explore. I feel you are being too hasty. I think we should consider treating you with the Mirena—’
‘No, I don’t want it. I don’t want a synthetic hormone inside me; and besides, there’s a history of cancer in my family.’
‘Studies have proved the Mirena is quite safe in that regard,’ he interrupted dismissively.
‘It’s not my periods that cause me the most pain – it’s ovulating,’ she argued in desperation, seeing that he wasn’t listening to her. He already had a treatment plan formed in his head, no matter what she said.
‘How do you know you’re ovulating?’ He gazed at her patronizingly over the top of his bifocals. ‘You probably have a low threshold of pain,’ he added briskly, standing up. ‘Try the Mirena for a year. I’ll do an endometrial ablation and insert the coil on the same day. You won’t need to stay overnight. My secretary will make the hospital booking and attend to the details.’
‘But I don’t want—’ Emma protested.
‘Here’s a leaflet; it will explain everything.’ He wouldn’t let her finish, clearly not interested in what she might or might not want. ‘It works for thousands of women.’ He thrust a leaflet into her hand, opened the door and practically shooed her into his secretary’s office before striding out to the waiting room to bring in his next patient.
Emma shook her head, remembering her dismay, frustration, rage and indignation. She had left John Paul Barnes’s rooms two hundred euros lighter in her bank account, with a glossy leaflet telling her stuff she already knew, and feeling like the powerless young teen she had once been, who had been sent from Billy to Jack and back again because of her ‘painful periods’.
She’d wanted to barge through his door and roar at him. ‘I’m a fifty-year-old woman who has endured more pain than you ever will and I damn well know when I’m ovulating, you patronizing prick.’
Even now, five years later, she could still remember her helpless fury.
‘I have the very man for you; he’s extremely in tune with women, and he’s a friend. Let me get you an appointment,’ one of her well-connected, long-standing clients had offered, when they had been discussing gynecologists while Emma was giving her a pedicure.
‘Oh, I don’t want to go to another male gynae ever!’ Emma demurred.
‘Listen, sweetie, some of the women are worse than the men, believe me,’ Jill St Clare said grimly. ‘I’ve been to so many of the species. This guy will sort you. He sorted me. Trust me.’
Emma smiled. Jill had got on the phone there and then, and within the space of eight weeks Emma was wombless and almost pain-free. And she’d had the satisfaction of knowing that JPB knew she’d ditched him for someone else. That was the icing on the cake. As she’d lain against her pillows in languorous post-op lethargy, dosed with morphine, enjoying the much longed for tea and toast, her mobile had tinkled. It was JP’s secretary, Anthea, reminding her that she was booked to have her procedure the following Monday.
‘Oh, you may cancel that,’ Emma said sweetly. ‘I’ve just had a hysterectomy.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the secretary, and Emma grinned, imagining the immaculately coiffured Anthea’s dismay. No doubt, she was even clutching her pearls. ‘Who did it?’ the other woman demanded.
‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. He’s renowned for his work and knows how to treat his patients. You may tell Mr Barnes, I not only had endometriosis but I had adenomyosis, also. That sends pain levels soaring ever higher, even for someone who has learned to tolerate pain like I did, not that he’d ever understand that. Bye-bye.’ Anthea’s sharp intake of breath at this unheard of lack of respect for the godlike Mr John Paul Barnes had been music to Emma’s ears and she’d sipped her tea and eaten her toast and felt a million dollars.
Please, God, if you have any sense of fair play, let him have his chest waxed, please, Emma prayed, knowing that the back and shoulders were much more painful than the chest but that he wouldn’t be able to chicken out of having them done, not with the cruise coming up.
She took a deep breath and threw her plastic cup in the bin. Giving a firm knock on the door, she entered the room to see her client lying on his back with his eyes closed. There is a God! she thought exuberantly, testing the temperature of the wax. She cut the strips smaller than usual. Not for JP the mercy of a quick tug of a large strip. Ooohh, nooo! Emma thought gleefully. Slow and painful, that’s how it would be.
‘I’m just going to spread some wax on you now, Mr Barnes,’ she advised. The prone man gave a grunt.
‘Just get on with it, please.’
Oh, indeed I will! Emma bent her head to her task, smoothing the first strip over the molten wax.
‘Deep breath,’ she instructed briskly, before slowly pulling the strip back, enjoying the tearing sound of body hair being pulled from the roots.
‘Oowwww! Aaahhh!’ John Paul Barnes’s eyes shot open and he yelped. ‘That bloody hurt!’ he exclaimed indignantly, glaring at her.
‘Really?’ Emma pretended surprise, applying another strip. ‘Most men find it bearable,’ you big sissy, she added silently, slowly pulling on the next strip as the gynecologist let out another howl. ‘Oh dear,’ she commiserated with a saccharine smile, applying more wax. ‘You must have a low threshold of pain! Very low indeed,’ she murmured. And I’m not finished with you by a long shot, Mister John Paul Barnes. The worst is yet to come! She gave another tug and her client’s eyes watered as he emitted another stunned gasp, while Emma pulled the strips with measured, deliberate movements, inflicting as much pain as she possibly could.
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday, dear Emma, Happy birthday to me! she sang silently, thinking her new year couldn’t possibly have got off to a better start.
PROLOGUE
The sun is shining through the window on the landing. Rays of diffused light streaming onto the red-gold-patterned carpet that covers the stairs. This will be one of the many things to remember on this life-changing day that will be buried deep in the recesses of the mind in the years that follow.
The sounds will never be forgotten either. The groaning and
grunting getting louder at the top of the stairs. The absolute terror of feeling something is wrong. That a loved one is ill.
The bedroom door is open. The sickening tableau is revealed. A gasp of shock escapes as innocence is lost, and life alters its course forever in that instant.
The man and woman turn at the sound. Horror crosses the man’s face as the woman untangles her legs from him. Both of them are naked. The woman’s hair is mussed, cascading like a blonde waterfall over her rounded creamy breasts. The man grabs his trousers to hide his pale-skinned, hairy nudity.
‘Wait!’ he calls frantically. ‘Wait!’
But it’s too late.
A burden is added to the hurt and sadness already borne.
July 1965
‘Do I have to ask her to my party, Mammy? She just is so mean to my friends. She says horrible things and she tells Aileen that she’s fat!’ Hilary Kinsella gives a sigh of exasperation as she studies her mother’s face to try and gauge what Sally’s response will be. Surreptitiously she crosses the fingers of both hands behind her back as she gazes expectantly at her mother who is rubbing the collar of her elderly father’s white shirt with Sunlight soap, before putting it in the washing machine.
‘Colette shouldn’t say things like that, but I think she’s a little bit jealous of you and Aileen being friends. She doesn’t really mean it,’ Sally says kindly. ‘And it would be a bit cruel not to invite her to your birthday party. Wouldn’t it now?’
Hilary’s heart sinks. She has been hoping against hope that just this once she can have fun with her friends and not have to listen to Colette O’Mahony boasting and bragging about her huge birthday party which will be two weeks after Hilary’s own.
‘But, Mammy, she says that we can’t afford to go on holidays to Paris on a plane like she does, an’ she says her mammy and daddy have more money than we do,’ Hilary exclaims indignantly, seeing that she is getting nowhere.
‘Well we can’t afford to go abroad and the O’Mahonys do have more money than we do,’ Sally says equably, twisting another shirt to get rid of the excess water before dropping it into the twin tub. ‘But do you not think you have much more fun in our caravan, going to the beach every day and playing with your cousins on our holidays, than walking around a hot, stuffy city, visiting art galleries and museums with adults, and having no children to play with? Do you not think it must be very lonely not to have any brothers and sisters?’ Sally remarks, a smile crinkling her eyes.
A Gift to You Page 21
