Not What You Think

by Melissa Hill

  He had driven the Saab back to Wicklow as if it was on fire, waving away Chloe’s protestations.

  “It can wait until Monday, Dan. I’ll phone them now, give them a piece of my mind and make sure we get not only an apology, but a hefty discount.”

  But Dan had insisted. He had to make sure that Laura wouldn’t find out about his wedding, not like that anyway. He had wanted to tell Nicola, had hoped to tell her that he had met someone else, but somehow he kept putting it off and putting it off. Anyway, he reassured himself, he had no way of contacting her, had he? As far as he knew, she was still in London. But she would definitely be back for Laura’s wedding.

  And if Laura discovered he was getting married again, it wouldn’t be long before Nicola knew. He had to get it sorted.

  But he had no sooner set foot in the stationery store than Debbie began to apologise profusely, and Dan knew that his worst fears were realised. It turned out that Laura had, only earlier that same day, collected his and Chloe’s invitations.

  Debbie was soothing. “Mr Hunt, I appreciate your position – really I do. But these things happen. With the surnames being similar, and the closeness of the wedding dates –”

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” Dan interjected. “If you people can’t be bothered to double-check names and dates, considering the business you’re in . . .” he trailed off and shook his head, “I don’t know.”

  Debbie tried a different tactic. “Well, I could offer you a small discount on the invoiced amount –”

  “I don’t want a bloody discount! I want an explanation as to how this could have happened! Do you have any idea how much trouble this could cause? Do you have any bloody idea?”

  “Certainly a mistake has been made, Mr Hunt. But the other party identified the mix-up and returned the box immediately. While your invites are here waiting for you, Ms Fanning is still waiting for hers to be returned.”

  Dan knew what she was trying to say – that Laura was the one who should be standing here ranting and raving about mistakes – but Debbie didn’t understand, did she?

  “Can you let me have a contact number for the other lady?” he asked suddenly. “It’s important that I speak with her . . . to explain.”

  “Mr Hunt, our client’s details are private,” Debbie stated firmly, “but I can assure you that I have explained the situation to Ms Fanning, and she’s been quite lovely about it and –”

  “Can you just give me the bloody phone number?” he bellowed impatiently.

  Debbie took a step back, and Dan could tell by her demeanour that she was beginning to lose patience with him.

  “No disrespect intended, Mr Hunt, but these things happen,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “The other lady was absolutely fine about it, and there’s been no harm done. Now, I’m very sorry, but there’s very little else I can do and –”

  Dan didn’t wait for her to finish; he just grabbed the invites, shook his head, and marched out the door.

  These things happen, Debbie had said. No harm done.

  Little did she know.

  Chapter 6

  “HEY, HELEN, GUESS where I’m off to next weekend?”

  On her way out the door, Helen turned and fixed twenty-one-year-old Tom Russell with a look that almost cut him in half. “Hay is something one generally finds under a horse, Tom.”

  Tom swallowed nervously, and at this, Helen grinned.

  “Where are you off to then?” she asked easily.

  He was relieved. Sometimes you just didn’t know what way the wind blew with the boss. One minute she was all smiles and chat, and the next she was cold as ice. He supposed that was why some of the others on their team were more than a little afraid of her, which in turn meant that they tended to perform well, and Helen’s monthly sales figures tended to be better than most.

  “Anfield. Two tickets, Kop Stand, corner flag,” he grinned.

  “You’re kidding!” Helen was definitely interested now. “For the pre-season game with Madrid? The one where our ace striker will be back to cause havoc in their defence? Should be some game!”

  “The very one.” Tom looked mightily pleased with himself. Football was the one thing that always got Helen Jackson’s motor running. Her eyes lit up in the same way most other women’s did when they stumbled across a bargain in the sales. Tom thought she was the sexiest woman alive. And even better, she was a Liverpool fan.

  “How did you manage that? Those tickets are almost impossible to get!”

  “Not when you have a mate who’s well in with the ticket office over there.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked. Anyway, myself and my mate are going over this weekend – but if you ever fancy going sometime . . .”

  Helen laughed. “I might hold you to that, Tom.”

  Tom had to stop himself from actually drooling as Helen eased smoothly past his desk and out the door. Even her bleedin’ walk was erotic! He checked his watch, debating whether or not to follow her out and spend a few minutes longer chatting on the way downstairs. Maybe she might even offer him a lift home. Tom picked up his jacket and said goodbye to the others, but when he reached the lift, she was already gone.

  Tom sighed. God, what he wouldn’t do to take Helen Jackson to a football match. That would be a different kind of heaven altogether.

  * * *

  Helen turned out of the XL car park and drove towards Cornelscourt. Tom’s ‘invitation’, God love him, had reminded her of just how long it was since she’d been to a football match. Four years at least, she thought grimacing. Good old Kerry had put paid to that, as she’d done to most things her mother enjoyed.

  When was the last time she had taken a holiday abroad? Not since Kerry was born, that was for sure. She and Jamie used to have at least two holidays a year – winter in the Canaries, and then two weeks somewhere further afield – the Caribbean, the Red Sea and one wonderful time in the Maldives. And of course the odd soccer weekend in England. She and Jamie’s shared passion for football meant that they went to a game at least three times a year.

  But one fateful morning had changed all that, the morning that Helen discovered the blue line on her pregnancy test.

  Throughout their six-year relationship, she and Jamie had never spoken seriously about children. At their age, there was no need. Anyway, they were too busy spending their healthy salaries on impulsive weekends away, romantic meals and nights out in the pub with other equally childless couples. Nobody in their circle of friends had even discussed children. Why would they? There was too much fun to be had, they were all in their mid-twenties and enjoying life to the full. Who in their right mind would trade in all that they had for a life of dirty nappies, sleepless nights and shapeless clothes?

  Not Helen, that was for sure. She had never been particularly maternal, unlike Laura and Nicola, who could stand cooing over a newborn baby for hours on end. It wasn’t that she didn’t like children, it was just that to her they represented an entirely different way of life, one that Helen wasn’t partial to. Yes, babies were cute and cuddly and all the rest of it, but they were also loud, demanding and had a tendency to – without warning – projectile vomit three feet across a room. She and Jamie could start thinking about that kind of thing after they were married, long after. Luckily Jamie felt the same way.

  Yet, a few months after she and Jamie bought the apartment together (and had spent one glorious week christening every piece of furniture, never mind every room), Helen began feeling different. She felt faint, light-headed and weak and, even worse, Jamie pointed out that she had put on weight. At work, she was uninterested, listless and couldn’t make a sale to save her life. Helen then confessed to Laura that at the age of twenty-five, she worried she was heading for burn-out.

  “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Laura had offered artlessly and Helen nearly had a stroke there and then.

  As did Jamie, when Helen did a positive home-pregnancy test and soon after a doctor cheerfully info
rmed him that his girlfriend was nearly three months gone.

  “What the fuck happened?” he accused her, as they left the surgery.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” answered a distraught Helen.

  And that was the beginning of the end.

  Helen immediately considered abortion, but knew that she would never be able to go through with it. Anyway, she told herself, in time maybe they might get used to the idea. Maybe it might be the best thing that ever happened to them. They might even end up getting married as a result. So, Helen resolved to get on with it and hope for the best.

  Jamie, however, had other ideas. There was no question of him getting used to the idea. Throughout her pregnancy he couldn’t even look at Helen, let alone get close to her.

  She had had a difficult pregnancy, which to her felt more like a terminal illness than a so-called ‘blessing’. The last few months of her pregnancy were spent in bed able to do little else but watch Jamie become more and more resentful towards her, and what she had become.

  He began to go out in the evenings, leaving her alone in the apartment, and on the evening Helen rang him in the middle of a poker game with the lads, to announce that her waters had broken, she knew by his face when he came home that he had begun to hate her.

  It wasn’t any better after Kerry was born. The baby had some sort of problem with her oesophagus, which meant that she couldn’t keep any milk down, and spent most of the day – and night – screaming. For the first four months of her daughter’s existence, Helen recalled getting only a few hours’ ‘real’ sleep a night. By the fifth month, and just when Kerry had begun to improve, Jamie was gone.

  “This isn’t what I wanted for us,” he said. “I feel tied down.”

  At the time, she hadn’t had the energy to convince him to stay. Knowing Jamie as well as she did, she knew she would be fighting a losing battle.

  Kerry’s arrival signalled the end of Helen’s social life – the spontaneous nights out, the romantic evenings in, the much-anticipated holidays abroad. The only holidays Helen had to anticipate these days were in dull, grey Glengarrah, where she and Kerry would spend the odd weekend at her dad’s farm. Kerry loved the farm animals, and got a great kick out of collecting hens’ eggs each morning with her grandfather.

  Good for Kerry.

  Helen parked outside the childminder’s house, and berated herself for the thoughts she had been having lately. She hated feeling down like this, but sometimes she just couldn’t help it. Things got on top of her now and again. Things like her non-existent life.

  “Hi, Helen!” Kerry’s childminder stood at the door, awaiting Helen’s arrival. Jo was a rotund, kindly, earth-mother type, who had been looking after Kerry for almost three years now.

  Uh-oh, Helen thought, realising instantly that Jo wanted to have ‘a little chat’. Jo often wanted ‘little chats’. Helen supposed it was a good thing that she was interested in Kerry’s welfare but sometimes . . .

  “Is something the matter?” she asked. “Where’s Kerry?”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. She’s in the garden playing with little Mark from next door.” Jo stood back and ushered Helen into the hallway. “Look, Helen, tell me to mind my own business but . . .” the childminder apologetically wrung her hands together, “it’s been a couple of months now and there’s been little improvement. If anything, she’s getting worse.”

  Helen looked at her. “Jo, I’m sorry, but what more do you expect me to do?”

  “Look, I don’t mean to sound forward but . . .”

  Perish the thought, Helen thought unkindly.

  “Are you still doing the exercises with her?”

  “Well, I’m doing what I can, but I don’t always have the time to do them with her,” Helen said. “By the time I get home, have dinner and clean up, the evenings just seem to disappear.”

  Jo looked troubled. “Helen, I know it’s none of my business, and I really wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t worried. Just keep on eye on her, OK?”

  Jesus! What kind of a mother does she think I am? Helen thought, her pulse quickening with anger.

  “I will.” Helen didn’t have the energy to argue about it today. “Now, if she’s ready . . . ?”

  “Of course.”

  She followed Jo into the living-room, where Kerry sat playing happily on the ground with one of the neighbour’s children.

  Immediately catching sight of Helen, Kerry beamed. “Mommy!”

  “Hi, hon, are you ready to go home?”

  “Yep!” Kerry nodded enthusiastically, racing to her mother’s side.

  “OK, now get your things and say goodbye to Mark and Jo.”

  Kerry looked from one to the other. “Bye, M-m-m-m-m . . .” The little girl reddened and glanced at her mother for support, but Helen couldn’t look her in the eye.

  “Take a breath, Kerry,” she said.

  She tried again. “Bye, M-m-m . . .”

  Jo took her hand. “It’s all right, pet. He knows you’re going. We’ll see you tomorrow, OK?”

  Kerry nodded again but looked upset.

  In the hallway, Helen caught Jo’s ‘I told you so’ look, and it really annoyed her.

  She was getting a little tired of the childminder’s interference in Kerry’s upbringing. Yes, her daughter was a slow developer, but what could Helen do about it? Didn’t she do her best for Kerry, working all day every day to keep them going? They now lived in a much nicer apartment than the one she and Jamie had, she always got the best of clothes, the best of toys, the best of everything.

  Hadn’t Helen taken her to the bloody speech therapist when Jo noticed her speech blockages a while back? Hadn’t she bought her that talking-book software that the speech therapist recommended? The idea was that Kerry would improve her speech through looking at pictures onscreen, and listening to the correct pronunciations of the words. The software was for her computer. Her computer! How many three-and-a-half-year-olds had their own bloody computer?

  Even though Helen had noticed some repetitions in her daughter’s speech, she wasn’t overly concerned. Kerry wasn’t even four years old, for goodness sake. The problem would undoubtedly sort itself out with age. What did Jo expect – that she be able to recite the entire works of Shakespeare? She had been sure that Jo was overreacting, but to get the childminder off her back she had agreed to take Kerry to a speech therapist recommended by her GP.

  A very expensive speech therapist.

  They had their first consultation a few months back and the therapist had advocated that each day Helen allot a ‘selective listening’ period, a relaxed time allowing Kerry to chatter away at her own comfortable pace.

  “Try not to place time-burdens on her speech, Ms Jackson. All adults, especially working mothers like yourself, are on constant time-demands, and tend to speak almost as quickly as is physically possible. As Kerry is just learning how to coordinate her speech mechanisms, she needs to speak slowly.”

  “You’re saying that my rate of speech can affect Kerry’s progress?”

  “In a way, yes. Some days you might come home from work, tired and frazzled and with possibly a pile of housework to tackle. There is an immediate demand on your time. Kerry, of course, will sense this, and may interpret it as a message that she is not interesting, or not worth listening to.”

  Helen shook her head. Selective listening? Where was she supposed to find time for that?

  Their first consultation with Dr Davis had been over two hours long, the therapist almost immediately diagnosing Kerry with a ‘moderate-to-severe disfluency’.

  Well, which was it, Helen had thought at the time – moderate or severe?

  And of course Kerry had a problem, Helen thought sceptically. If she didn’t have a problem, how on earth would the doctor afford her next holiday in the South Pacific?

  Dr Davis had droned on about how Helen would have to take time out to spend some quality conversation time with Kerry, and help her develop ‘healthy and appr
opriate communication attitudes’.

  If there was one thing Helen abhorred, it was psychobabble. There was nothing wrong with Kerry that time couldn’t cure. Admittedly, Kerry was shy and nervous, and didn’t nervous children always have trouble expressing themselves?

  “Kerry doesn’t stutter because she’s nervous,” Dr Davis had explained. “Rather she is nervous because she stutters. It’s a vicious cycle. Even a child as young as Kerry will realise that she isn’t speaking as well as everybody else, but what is most important is that she does not acquire a negative self-image, or be ashamed or embarrassed about it. If she feels badly about her speech, she is more likely to struggle in attempts to be fluent, and if this happens, the problem will almost certainly escalate. This is where you come in, Ms Jackson. As a parent, Kerry will look to you for a reaction. If you show any signs of frustration, fear or annoyance when Kerry struggles, it won’t be long before she begins to show similar reactions. So, as well as increasing Kerry’s concerns about her speech, these reactions may also increase the severity of her stuttering. Your own approach, and indeed your childminder’s approach towards stuttering, will play a critical role in Kerry’s development of a healthy attitude.”

  “Look, I’m really not sure that Kerry has all that much of a problem,” Helen said defensively. “I mean, she doesn’t stutter all the time, very rarely in fact.” Rarely around me anyway, Helen thought.

  “Well, a person with epilepsy doesn’t have seizures all the time either, Ms Jackson. Stuttering by definition is simply a breakdown in our inbuilt speaking mechanisms, and the system does not break down all of the time. However, I would caution against taking this problem lightly – intervention at an early age is crucial.”

  Crucial for your bank account maybe, Helen thought uncharitably. She shook her head. “I just don’t know – perhaps we should just wait and see.”

  The doctor looked at her. “Ms Jackson, believe me, stuttering is too awful a problem to just ‘wait and see’. Your own efforts are crucial in preventing this from becoming a chronic problem.”