‘What’s really weird, though,’ Fi adds, ‘is that I’ve barely seen Tim at all since he got married. One of those people that you just lose contact with, you know? In fact, up until last week, he just wasn’t in my life at all. So strange.’
From the back seat of the car, the guilt feels like heartburn.
2.00 p.m.
The fete is in full swing and things couldn’t be going better. Gerry and Fiona are by now chatting away like old pals, getting on so well that I really do feel there’s nothing more for me to do here, except step back and let nature take its course. They’re in a huge marquee, where Gerry is just about to read out the names of the winners in the under-twelves’ ‘best pet’ contest. The place is jam-packed with kids, all with either kittens in cat-boxes or dogs on leads. There’s even one little girl carrying a parrot in a cage, which keeps squawking at inopportune moments, much to everyone’s amusement.
‘OK, everyone,’ says Gerry into a very echoey sounding mike, standing right in the middle of the tent. ‘A very high standard this year, so big congratulations all round.’
A polite round of applause.
‘So,’ he goes on, ‘cutting to the chase, I’ll now announce the winners, in reverse order. In third place, with Ollie and Charlie, the bichon frise lapdogs, is . . .’
And then a mobile rings, to much exasperated clicking of tongues from all the mums and dads. It’s Fiona’s. She blushes scarlet red and clicks it off. And then it rings again, so, mortified, she slips outside the tent.
Tim. Again.
I don’t even know why he’s calling her this time, but cue a worrying amount of, ‘Oh no, that’s just awful!’ from Fi. Then she says something about how he should most definitely try to see Ayesha today, outside of the house and away from Rick the Prick . . . maybe he could ask her if she fancied going for a coffee somewhere? Her suggestion must do the trick, as he lets her off the phone and she heads back inside the marquee.
4.30 p.m.
Keogh’s pub in Carlow town, packed to the gills. Fi and Gerry are sitting cosily in a corner, laughing and messing, both finishing off a big pub-grub feed of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all the Sunday-lunch trimmings. Fi is so relaxed with him, I’m half-surprised she doesn’t belch. For his part, Gerry seems to be having a ball with her, regaling her with great stories about all the politics that goes on behind the scenes in judging a pet contest. More backstabbing and rivalry than a Republican convention, according to him.
‘Seriously,’ he insists, to much giggling from Fi, ‘during the judging, I asked an eleven-year-old girl how she kept her puppy’s coat so shiny and clean, and she told me she used her mother’s dust-buster. Then the mother tried to bribe me with a twenty-euro note so the kid could at least go home with a highly commended certificate. Didn’t respond well at all when I told her this was one judge who couldn’t be bought, dust-buster or no dust-buster.’
Fi guffaws.
‘That was nothing to a boy of about ten who told me that, for luck, he’d tried to baptize his kitten.’ They both throw their heads back, helpless with titters, when Fi’s mobile rings.
Yet again.
Surprise, surprise, it’s Tim.
I haven’t a clue what’s up with him now, but once more, he doesn’t have the slightest problem taking up about twenty minutes of Fi’s time, knowing right well that she’s on a date. She’s way too soft-hearted a person to mind all the constant calls, but I mind for her. Mainly because it’s my fault. She is now officially his crutch, his support person, his rock, which is all very well and good, but dear Jaysus, did it have to be today, of all days? And worst of all, there’s nothing I can do about it except hiss at her to get off the phone NOW. Uselessly, of course.
Gerry, in fairness to him, seems perfectly easy and affable about the whole thing, leaving her to her call, and getting another round of drinks in for both of them. Well, a fizzy water for him and a glass of Pinot Grigio for Fi, along with a bag of her favourites: Tayto cheese and onion crisps. Honest to God, one date and it’s like he’s already known her for years. He stays at the bar, politely chatting to some people he knows, and doesn’t come back to join her till she’s snapped her phone shut, so as to give her a bit of privacy. Like a perfect gentleman.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks, plonking the drinks in front of them and handing her the crisps.
She looks up at him, worried.
‘Well . . . no, not really.’
‘When a beautiful woman says that, there’s only two possible things a guy can reply. What is your problem, and how can I help?’
Fi and I both look at him gratefully. And then yet another wave of humiliation hits me when I think about all the years I spent lecturing and haranguing Fi to get off the internet and start looking for a fella in the real world. ‘No one can download love’, I believe was the exact phrase I used, and boy, am I swallowing my words now.
Lesson: if you’re ever forced to listen to the crap advice Charlotte Grey comes out with, the exact, polar opposite is the correct course of action to be taken.
‘Look, Gerry, I really am so sorry about this,’ Fi begins. ‘This must look like I’m trying to get away from you, and I’m not, I’m really not. I’ve had a lovely day with you, but the thing is . . .’
‘. . . You need to leave.’ He smiles kindly.
‘Yeah. Believe me, I don’t want to, but it’s just that . . .’
‘Something to do with your ex-boyfriend?’
Oh no, no, no, please, Fi, please don’t do this, please don’t leave because of Tim. He’s a big boy and he can take care of himself; please, just this one time, put yourself first!
‘I’m afraid so. He’s just having such a miserable time right now, and doesn’t seem to have anyone other than me who he can turn to. He went round to his ex-wife’s house this afternoon to try to get her to talk to him, but he couldn’t get past her new boyfriend, who he had a bust-up with yesterday, so the poor guy is just desolate. Plus, now a whole weekend has gone by and he hasn’t even been able to see his daughters.’
‘Say no more,’ says Gerry thoughtfully, looking straight ahead. ‘He’s going through a rotten time, and you need to be there for him. I understand, honestly.’
‘He was just telling me that he went back to this tiny little apartment he’s renting just now, but couldn’t hack being there alone, so he’s asked if he could stay in my house again tonight. If I wouldn’t mind, that is. So what could I say? I said of course he could. It’s not right that he’s alone at a time like this.’
‘Drink up so,’ Gerry smiles, getting up, ‘and let me drive you home.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. Hey, I’ll even buy you another bag of crisps to eat on the drive.’
6 p.m.
Back at Fiona’s house, where Tim is parked outside, waiting on her to come home, just as Gerry pulls up outside. An awkward moment where I can physically see Fi weighing up whether or not to ask him in or not. After all, he did do all the driving, and she was the one to cut the date short. Also, I can’t help but notice that there’s no mention of a second date. Or as Fi always refers to it, the date where you can let out your tummy.
However, Gerry saves her all the bother and embarrassment by making a decision for her.
‘So, it’s Sunday evening . . .’
‘Yes?’ she looks up at him, hopefully.
‘It’s still early . . .’
‘Yeah . . . ?’
‘So . . .’
‘So . . . ?’
‘. . . Do you have any decent DVDs that I can come in and watch?’
6.20 p.m.
The only movie in Fi’s limited DVD collection that they could all agree on was The Godfather. Which Fiona, Gerry and Tim are now clustered together on her tiny, two-seater sofa watching.
All three of them.
Chapter Twenty-four
KATE
Fecking dire. Everything. Things are so disastrously awful that it takes every ounce of st
rength I can draw on to bring myself to look in on Kate. Mainly because I’m way too terrified of what I’ll find.
Turns out, I’ve good reason to be frightened.
Sunday evening and she’s just opening her hall door to . . . I can hardly believe what I’m seeing . . . Robbie, Paul’s brother, Briar Rose, their eldest daughter Kirsten, who has a day off school tomorrow and who wanted to come on the road trip and . . . wait for it . . . Julie. Bloody Julie with the head bleached off her. Who, according to Regina, will have shacked up with Paul within a disgracefully short length of time, after he and Kate eventually separate.
I’m shaking like a leaf, I’m nauseous and I honestly think there’s a good chance I’ll barf.
What makes it so much worse is how lovely and nice and welcoming Kate is being to all of them. It’s as if she’s fully aware that she and Paul are going through a rough patch and is now making a heroic effort with his God-awful family. All to please him. The man who won’t even be in her life in a few months’ time. Yes, I know that ultimately things will work out for her, but it’s killing me to think of what has to happen first. Why does life have to be so bleeding hard, anyway? Tears are springing to my eyes just thinking about what’s ahead for poor Kate. And I’m not even here for her. All I can do is look on, hopelessly and uselessly.
Anyway, it turns out the reason for this unexpected visit is that, at the last minute, Robbie got his hands on tickets for tonight’s Bruce Springsteen concert in the RDS Arena. Four tickets to be precise. For him, Briar Rose, Julie and . . . there’s an unhung question mark over who’ll take the spare ticket, but Kate jumps in.
‘Paul, darling,’ she says stoutly, ‘you take the ticket. You love Bruce Springsteen, and besides, then I can stay here and take care of Kirsten.’
‘That would be really cool, Auntie Kate,’ beams the child, throwing her up a grateful little smile with about five teeth missing.
‘How come you’ve no school tomorrow, sweetheart?’
‘Teachers’ meeting. Or as my daddy says, bloody teachers’ meeting.’
No one even thanks Kate for offering to babysit, it’s as if they just expected it of her all along. Nor does Paul as much as show the tiniest bit of gratitude for her letting him take the spare concert ticket; again, it’s as if the decision was made ages ago, and actually had very little to do with Kate.
What really gets me is just how much she’s bending over backwards to please all of them. Pouring out drinks for them, asking whether they’d like a bite to eat now or after the show, at one point even offering bleach-headed Julie a tour of the new house. I’m trembling with anger and frustration as I watch Kate get down her best wedding china, then rustle up some goat’s cheese and roasted red pepper crostini in her pristine kitchen, which she politely passes around to all her guests. Who, by the way, have just dumped their bags on her drawing room floor, so much baggage you’d think they’d come to crash here for a full week.
And, by the way, I don’t remember hearing a single one of them ask whether or not it was OK for them to come and stay, not even for form’s sake. Robbie even puts his feet up on the good glass coffee table, rips the tab off a tin of Bud Light and switches on the TV, like he lives here. It’s a measure of just how gargantuan an effort poor, good-hearted Kate is making with these people that she lets him, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even put a coaster under the tin of beer, nothing. Meanwhile, Paul is behaving like a complete arsehole, so much so that I start formulating an evil plan at the back of my mind to start haunting him at every available opportunity, like I did with James. When he’s on the loo, or in the shower, or at some huge important contractors’ meeting, or flirting with Julie, or basically doing anything that upsets Kate.
Except I’m not bleeding allowed, am I?
The only one out of the whole miserable, rude, boorish, shagging lot of them that’s even half-way polite to Kate is little Kirsten. She even offers to go into the kitchen with Kate to help her make more antipasti to offer around.
I linger back after the two of them leave, to hear exactly what the others have to say about her behind her back. Given that these people’s favourite hobby is talking about whoever’s just left the room.
Robbie starts off first.
‘You could have at least offered to help her, Rose,’ he says, eyes glued to the Sunderland match that’s blaring away on the sports channel.
‘Piss off, you,’ says Rose. ‘Sure, I wait on that one hand and foot whenever she comes to stay with us in Galway, don’t I?’
Then she realizes Paul’s still in the room, but out of earshot. He’s over by the bay window chatting away to bleach-headed Julie, on the pretext of giving her a tour of the house.
‘Sorry, Paul,’ Rose calls over, but he doesn’t even hear her. Or else he’s not listening.
‘What the feck are these yokes anyway?’ says Robbie, peeling the skin off the goat’s cheese and dangling it in front of him.
‘Ah, some fancy thing of Kate’s. Sure, you know what she’s like.’
‘Tastes like feet.’
‘Don’t talk to me. Sure, what’s wrong with just giving us a few sandwiches, I’d like to know? Poor aul Paul, imagine having to live off this shite. No wonder he’s losing weight.’
‘That was offside, ya bloody eejit of a ref!’ Robbie yells at the telly, only half-listening to her.
Take more than that to stop Briar Rose from a good bitch-fest though.
‘Come back here to me, Julie,’ she calls over, ‘and tell us what you think of the house.’
‘Ehh . . . it’s very nice,’ is all Bleach Head can say, she’s so engrossed in her chat with Paul, way over in the bay window of the dining room.
‘Wouldn’t be my taste at all, now,’ mutters Rose. ‘What is it with that woman and the colour cream? You’d know a mile off this was a kid-free zone. Sure, mine would have the walls destroyed with crayons and markers inside of two minutes. And good luck to her trying to keep cream carpets clean. But then I suppose madam has a housekeeper to do all her dirty work for her. Too up herself to get her own hands dirty. And then, of course, that leaves her free to spend her time having lunch with the girls, or out spending Paul’s money, or whatever the hell it is she does do all day.’
Kate comes back into the drawing room, carrying a fresh tray of drinks, just in time to hear that last sentence.
Rose realizes she’s been rumbled, but doesn’t bother apologizing or covering her tracks, just looks at Kate, shrugs and says, ‘No offence.’ Like that’s her ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.
Kate wavers for a minute. A knife-edge moment. I’m right beside her, shouting in her ear, ‘How DARE that bitch speak about you like that in your own home? Go on, Kate, fling the tray of drinks at her and order her out of here, go on, go ON!’
Kate, though, is far more of a lady than I ever was. Coolly, calmly, she gives Rose an icy smile, and gently slides the tray on to the coffee table in front of her. I’m standing right over Briar Rose, willing Kate to take the bottle of gin from the tray and pour it over her hypocritical head, but no. Instead Kate holds the silence, mixes the drinks, plops in a cube of ice with a tongs and politely hands Rose a gin and tonic so big you could wash your hair in it.
Rose shifts uncomfortably, aware of the mood, but then focuses on the TV, the cowardly bitch. Doesn’t even have the guts to look Kate in the face. Robbie must be aware of the tension, too, because his hand freezes around his tin of Bud, mid-gulp, and he looks like he’d love nothing more than to be airlifted out of there.
‘Just to enlighten you, Rose, purely on a point of order,’ Kate eventually says, in a calm, clear voice, still smiling and drawing herself up tall. ‘I do NOT spend my days having lunch with the girls, or spending Paul’s money, as you put it. As a matter of fact, I’ve been spending all my time recently taking care of my mum. My family are going through a very trying time right now, in case you hadn’t noticed, and comments like yours certainly don’t help matters.’
Rose
turns to face her, but doesn’t interrupt.
‘So I suggest you finish your drink, go to your concert, and when you do come back here later on tonight, I’ll thank you to remember your manners. I’ll also remind you that you’re a guest in my home. Got it? Good.’
Good woman, Kate! That put the pole-axed old cow in her place, although you were a bit restrained for my liking, and could have perhaps littered your little speech with well-chosen phrases such as, ‘Up yours, you two-faced bitch.’ However, it’s a good start.
Rose doesn’t touch the drink in front of her. Just stands up and announces to the room that they’d better get going or they’ll miss the start of the concert. And all the while, Paul, the man I had looked up to as an image of manly perfection on earth, was so focused on Julie that he never even noticed what was going on. Doesn’t notice that his wife is shaking, doesn’t ask if she’s OK, doesn’t notice the cut-throat atmosphere, and doesn’t even care, by the look of him.
Hours later, Kate and Kirsten are snuggled up on the sofa watching the Disney channel and eating popcorn. Kirsten, very advanced for an eight year old, is expounding on her little philosophy of life.
‘I have two rules,’ she says to Kate, munching on the popcorn and doing her best to look all wise and grownup. ‘One is, when Mammy’s mad at Daddy, never let her brush my hair. The other one is, when someone hits me, don’t hit back. They always, always catch the second person. How about you, Auntie Kate? What rules do you have?’
Kate looks ahead, and thinks for a bit.
‘That sometimes there’s no pleasing some people, pet. So you might as well not bother.’
‘You know, I really, really like you, Auntie Kate. You’re the only adult I know who never shouts at me. Can we always be friends?’
‘Of course we can.’
‘Special friends?’
‘I think that’s a great idea, love. Because sometimes, in this life, we all need a special friend.’
The others don’t come back until well after 3 a.m., pissed as farts, the whole lot of them. Paul brings them into the kitchen, and they all stay up even later, drinking and talking, not seeming to care about the racket they’re making.
If This is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Page 31
