What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

by Claire Allan

  “And you will behave yourself?”

  “Yup.”

  “Because I don’t want this Kitty woman thinking our family is entirely populated with eccentrics and loony bins.”

  “But we are entirely populated with eccentrics and loony bins,” Jules smiled.

  “Speak for yourself,” I answered. I was pretty sure I had left all eccentric and loony qualities behind me. If I’d ever really had them. I suppose there was my moment of madness with Ian – which was actually about six months of madness with Ian – which ended very, very badly anyway. Christ, I shook myself, the last thing I wanted to think about on the day I bought my wedding dress was Ian – the man I nearly eloped with – or did elope with, but who chickened out at the last minute and left me sobbing into my last-minute makeshift bouquet, bought for a few pounds that morning. I should have known really – getting married in civvies with supermarket flowers – it wasn’t going to end well. Paddy sometimes referred to Ian as the one who got away. I would laugh and say “not so much got away as ran screaming for the hills” and we would laugh because there was no doubt in my mind that Paddy was the big love of my life. But for a while, for a year or two, Ian had made me feel completely unlovable, unworthy and unmarriageable. And I had vowed, no matter how much I might love anyone ever again, I would never, ever put myself in a position where I could be hurt and humiliated again. Yet, here I was, about to get married – admittedly with a proper bouquet this time – to a man who might still leave me, but in an even more horrendous way. I stopped, pulling back from Jules as she opened the door to walk through. I didn’t speak but she turned to look at me and I’m pretty sure the fear and mild nausea was written all over my face.

  “Look,” she said, “it’s a big party, remember? For you and Paddy. Paddy who loves you. Paddy who isn’t going to run away and who will do everything in his power to make sure he never leaves you. You put a big smile on your face now and I will be on my best non-eccentric behaviour, even when I see you in the very beautiful dress and feel the urge to squeal like an over-excited teenager.”

  I looked at her and knew she understood exactly howI was feeling and I knew I would walk into the shop, try on my dress, get measured and hand over my money and do my very damndest to feel happy and look happy and maybe I would allow myself to be happy if only for a little bit.

  Breathing out, I looked in the mirror. Okay, so the dress even withstood me breathing out. This was good. There would be a minimal need for sucking my belly in. Kitty was standing back, looking at me and smiling. She was smiling so damn hard that I was pretty sure there were tears in her eyes. I glanced at the mirror again. My hair was scraped onto the top of my head, the frizz curled into a loose bun, while a tiara glinted back at me – adorned with crystals, twisted to reflect the light for optimum sparkliness. Kitty had pinned a floor-length veil to my head – one which hung softly, delicately, gently grazing my shoulders. She had even given me a pair of not-too-high heels to wear to get the full effect.

  If I had thought I was in love with this dress the week before, I was now insanely, madly in love with it. Kitty’s eyes were not the only eyes with tears in them. I thought back to the cool cotton summer dress I had worn for my aborted wedding day before – how the straps had dug into my shoulders, how I was aware of it straining that little bit over my stomach, how I had clipped a slightly wilting flower into my hair which was set on frizz level 99 and had worn a pair of shoes which nipped at my toes. I couldn’t have felt less bridal if I had tried. But now, now I felt like the queen of the all the brides. Dragging my gaze away from the mirror I looked at Jules, who had stuffed her fist in her mouth and was jiggling her knees up and down in an overly excited manner. I tilted my head, my tears turning to laughter and she removed her hand from her mouth.

  “I told you I wouldn’t scream like a teenager,” she laughed. “But I didn’t promise I wouldn’t do the excited jiggle,” she said, jiggling her knees up and down again. “You look stunning, sis, absolutely Paddy-will-faint-with-the-sheer-joy-of-it stunning.”

  “Better than the legendary cotton wedding dress?”

  She nodded vigorously, which of course I fully expected her to do because in fairness I’d lookbetter in sackcloth and ashes than in the wedding attire I’d turned up in to marry Ian.

  “Better dress. Better groom. Better chance of it lasting more than five minutes.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, switching my gaze back to the mirror, eager to get just one glimpse of myself again. I know that sounds kind of vain, but when you are like me – who could easily fit in the not-a-natural-beauty category – and you see yourself looking amazing, you like to get a good gander. My eyes were drawn to my own reflection in a way they never were before.

  “I think this is definitely the dress for you,” Kitty interjected. “I mean, I was pretty sure last week but I hate to try the hard sell. Seeing you now, I have to say you should go for it.”

  “I should, shouldn’t I?” I said, smiling at her, knowing that the hard sell would be the last thing she was capable of. She looked, well, too soft. Too vulnerable. Too much of a romantic.

  Remembering Fionathe over-zealous-wedding-planner’s words in my head, I jolted back to reality. Would we get it in time? Were wedding dresses that hard to come by? Cotton summer dresses hadn’t been an issue, you see. I had simply gone to M&S and picked one up on a Tuesday morning when it was fairly quiet and then I had gone and eaten a dirty big scone and drank a pot of tea all to myself before going home and cleaning the flat Ian and I shared.

  “The wedding is in three months – well, technically two months and three weeks. Will that be a problem?”

  Kitty shook her head. “I took a call from your wedding planner during the week, which allowed me to call the supplier and, while time is a little tight for sure, we should have it here in two months.”

  “Brilliant,” Jules said loudly and brightly while I, without warning, felt a big bubble of emotion rise up in me and I made an horrendous “Bleurgh” sound as my eyes started to water and my stomach constricted.

  “It’s okay to feel emotional,” Kitty said, suddenly at my side with a tissue poised to stop me shedding hot salty tears on the fine satin gown I was wearing.

  “I’m getting married,” I stuttered, which was very much in the stating-the-obvious category.

  “You sure are,” Jules said, suddenly also at my side dabbing at my eyes with tissue.

  I stood, half-stooped, a big rack of sobbing yuckiness just screaming to be released from my body. And suddenly, even though it was gorgeous and even though it made me look gorgeous, all I wanted was to have this dress off. And to not be here. And to be with Paddy and for him not to be sick. I wanted it to be like it had been in the beginning – well, maybe not the beginning when we were unsure of each other andI was still aching from Ian’s betrayal, but what it was like about six months in when I knew I loved him and more than that knew that he loved me. Christ, he loved me. And we were happy. Even when I said no, that I wouldn’t marry him because I didn’t ever want to put myself in a position where I’d be left like a cold snotter at the altar, we were still happy. We still never doubted each other. Paddy, God love him, he understood. He would tell me softly that he wasn’t Ian. That he was sure as sure could be that he never wanted to be with anyone else. He would tell me Ian was an arse and I would laugh and snort and look a little wounded and sometimes he would ask me if I still loved Ian. I didn’t. I did for a while, before Paddy came along. For a while I would have given anything for Ian to love me again – or what I knew of love, which was frig-all. Romantic, overblown notions of what it should be like. I knew with Paddy, undeniably, exactly what it should be like. And then he got cancer. And he had his testicle removed. And that wasn’t enough. And he was having chemo, and we didn’t know if that was enough. We had to wait. Was there anything more frustrating – so utterly soul-destroying – as waiting? For test results. For it to come back. For it to feck off for evermore. There
was a giant big question mark hanging over our relationship and it was likely to stay there for a long time. I hauled at the zip, twisting and turning to try and take the dress off while Kitty stepped forward, exuding an air of calm, and took my two hands in her own.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath. Here, Jules, it’s okay, isn’t it?Come and stand here and talk to your sister and we’ll get her out of this dress and we’ll make a cup of tea and settle ourselves. It’s a big moment. I know.”

  I felt her unzip the dress and, while Jules breathed along with me, I let an almost-stranger undress me in the middle of a shop in the city centre.

  Jules handed me a bottle of beer which I looked at, pausing before bringing it to my lips and sipping. It was cold, delicious – numbing even.

  “You make a beautiful bride,” she said.

  “When I’m not having a panic attack and making a feckwit of myself,” I replied, trying to smile but grimacing instead.

  “Don’t worry,” she laughed pulling a face. “I don’t think anyone noticed.” I thought back to Kitty’s slightly horrified face and found myself starting to giggle.

  “The first time I go to her shop I bring Mammy, acting the eejit high on the very whiff of taffeta, and then the second time I’m the one who starts wailing like a frigging banshee.”

  Jules stifled a giggle herself and clinked her beer bottle against mine. “You never do things by half, Erin. That’s for sure. Always a drama.”

  A little bit tipsy, I climbed into bed later that afternoon. Drinking during the day never had agreed with me and, even though we had only two bottles of beer each over a long, chatty lunch, I could feel my head swimming and my eyes drooping. I had a lovely dream where everything was just peachy and was just how I wanted it to be – work going great, Paddy and I still bonking every second night, and nothing to worry about except my frizzy hair and the economic woes of the country I lived in. And I didn’t even worry about the economy too much.

  I woke up to a series of text messages, most of which were from my mother asking if I had actually ordered the dress and then wondering if I had chosen a veil, a tiara and shoes. One message was from Paddy, who was spending the day with his own family, telling me he loved me. Another was from Grace reminding me I had arranged to do a phone interview with a local entrepreneur that evening, and asking how the dress-ordering went, and one was from Jules with the words Just a big party. See you later. I smiled and put my phone back on the bedside table before padding down the stairs, switching on the kettle and trying to rattle my brain into a fit enough state to conduct my interview.

  Of course some people would have been disgusted to work at the weekends when they had spent the whole week at the coalface, but I loved my work. And that was not just something I said around my boss to make her think I was a great worker. I genuinely meant it – and when I had a good interview in my sights I would get a little buzzing sensation in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes when a story was really good, when all the pieces of the puzzle slipped into place and the deadline was looming, I felt almost invincible. Does that sound stupid? I mean, I know it’s not heart surgery or international politics, but talking to heart surgeons and international politicians felt good. And writing pieces about people overcoming adversity was pretty cool too. It reminded me that people could, and did, overcome terrible odds. Stirring my coffee and adding just a splash of milk, I switched off my nervous bride-to-be persona and switched on my award-winning journalist head. It was then I felt in control again.

  Chapter thirteen

  Kitty

  Rose was singing ‘Secret Love’ at the top of her lungs as I woke and acclimatised myself once again to my old bedroom. It had been ten days since Mark had gone. Ten days since I had spoken with him. Ten days since anything made any sense. Ten days since I had shaved my legs or paid any attention whatsoever to my bikini line. It was already looking unkempt – and yet I couldn’t quite find the energy to do anything about it. I rubbed my legs together and felt the stubble, which was actually turning into fairly soft hair at this stage. Rose was singing about highest hills and daffodils. She could actually hold a note. It was only when Daddy joined in that I woke up enough to get out of bed and wander down the stairs to tell them to keep it down.

  Of course, seeing them in Rose’s pastel-coloured kitchen singing to each other almost took my breath away and I didn’t have the heart to tell them to keep it down. Instead I stood and watched, wondering how, after seventeen years, they still seemed to be as in love, or more in love, than they ever had been.

  I listened as the song reached its crescendo and then I clapped, biting back tears. Rose turned and curtsied to me while Daddy bowed and smiled.

  “I thank you,” he said, oblivious to his own tunelessness, while Rose winked behind his back.

  “Morning, pet,” she said, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of Diet Coke from the shelf. “I’m only letting you have it for breakfast because you’re having a hard time,” she said, as if I was still sixteen and needing permission. “And I’ll even make you a bacon sandwich.”

  I had to admit that for the first time in ten days I actually felt hungry.

  “How are you feeling today, love?” Daddy asked, sipping from the slightly chipped BestDaddy in the World mug I had bought him when I was twelve.

  “Not quite awake yet,” I said, relishing the numbness which came when I wasn’t quite awake. That said, I didn’t feel quite so fragile. It had been a week since I had spoken with James – therefore it had been a week since the last bomb had dropped. My brain, while not happy about the situation, had at least processed it. It still made me want to boke with horror from time to time, but the desire to lie down and die had passed. Or at least had started to come and go. This had to be an improvement.

  James had of course texted me every day, just to ask if I was okay. I hadn’t replied but what was I really supposed to say? “Yes, just hunky dory, thank you” or “I feel as if my insides have been torn out and trampled on”? He ended every text saying he was sorry, as if it was him who’dhad an affair and walked out.

  I sipped from my Diet Coke and listened to the sizzle of the bacon in the griddle pan. Maybe today I would text James back. Maybe today I would even go home. God knows there had been a pint of milk in my fridge which would probably be close to walking itself to the bin all on its own by now. Cara had tactfully told me the night before that perhaps hiding in my childhood bedroom was not really dealing with what was going on. I had said that there was probably some truth in what she was saying but the thought of being there in my house, alone, was too scary. She would come and stay for a few days, she said, if I wanted. But I wouldn’t have the same freedom to wander around in my dressing gown and eat ice cream straight from the tub and cry at the ads on TV if Carawas around all the time. Rose was letting me away with it at home. As long as I washed my face before I went to work and didn’t tell the brides to run for the hills, it was pretty much a free run as soon as we got back to base. Diet Coke for breakfast. Ben and Jerry’s for dinner and free rein with the remote control so that, should as much as a hint of an emotional advertisement come on the TV, I could sob to my heart’s content or turn it over if I so desired.

  Daddy handed me my sandwich, on thick white bread, the butter oozing over the plate. Yes, I was definitely hungry and for more than ice cream, which had to be progress. Yes, today I would go home. Even if I didn’t stay there, I would at least make it through the door.

  It was just before noon when I pulled up at home. I had showered and tied my hair back and put on my freshly washed and ironed clothes – courtesy of Rose who had an ironing fetish. She had offered to come with me but I had declined. Daddy had offered to come with me too, his brow crinkled with concern, but I had smiled and hugged him and told him I would be just fine. Honest. A part of me really hoped I would be too.

  I can’t deny it. I felt a little shaky walking up the path. I was struck by the thought that he migh
t actually be there. He might actually have come home. That ten days would have been enough for him to realise all that he was throwing away. Yes, we would have work to do, I thought, crunching on the gravel driveway, but we could talk and if we could talk it might still be okay. The fact that he had cheated on me, well, I pushed that to the back of my head because I could only deal with one crushing reality at a time and him being gone was today’s issue.

  I put my key in the door, half-hoping to open the door to find the heating on and the television blaring from the kitchen. I half-expected the fug of his Sunday-morning cooked breakfast to assault my nostrils and for him to wander out to greet me in his saggy tracksuit bottoms – the ones I absolutely hated. But the house was empty and cold and felt not at all like home. It was just a shell. Everything was just how I had left it the week before. The laundry hamper was still overflowing. The now musty towel from my shower was still lying on our bed. It all felt so wrong. How could nothing have changed?

  Taking a deep breath, I lifted the towel, bundled it with the rest of the washing into the machine and switched it on, relishing the comforting swishing sound as the drum filled with water. A bit of noise about the place made it feel better. I don’t think I realised how quiet our house could be without even a hint of him there.

  I knocked the heating on to take the chill out of the air, while opening the windows at the same time to allow some fresh air in. I knew it was wasteful but I didn’t particularly give a flying damn. I figured I was allowed to be a little wasteful just around now. I switched on my iPod and plugged it into the docking station – flicking through the playlists to find some choice Motown, which was normally my cleaning and tidying music of choice. And then I set about cleaning. Bleaching the bathroom to a loud chorus of ‘Rescue Me’, stripping the bed to ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, dusting the living room to a mellow ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ and lying on the floor almost defeated to ‘What Becomes of the Broken Hearted’ – it was only when ‘Try a Little Tenderness’ hit its crescendo that I found the strength to stand up again and blast it out of me, not giving a damn that the windows were open and I wasn’t by any stretch a natural-born soul singer. I wasn’t even a fit-for-the-back-row-of-a-choir singer.