‘Yeah, that’s right. I’d use them on myself only it just so happens that I don’t have any problems.’
I fling a cushion at her which she neatly catches, then uses to balance her tortilla chips on.
‘Right then,’ she says assertively, sounding more adult-like than I think I’ve ever heard her. ‘Let’s start by doing pros and cons, will we? OK, I just thought of one. Pro: you’ll probably be dead in like, another fifty years, so chances are it won’t even matter.’
‘That’s your idea of a pro? Jaysus, I’m really looking forward to hearing the cons.’
‘Con: you have to tell Dan. And good luck with that, love.’
‘I tried telling him this morning, but then you know what it’s like trying to get him on his own. I might as well try to…’
‘Nail jelly to a wall, yeah I know. Funny but I thought he was only like that with me whenever I was trying to wheedle money out of him.’
She’s slumped back in the armchair now, long legs dangling over the side, frowning deeply and playing with her pigtails. All her little-girl mannerisms totally at odds with the glass of wine in her hand.
‘Pro,’ she goes on, taking another slug of the wine, ‘you may not even get the job in the first place, so is there really any point in bothering to mention it to him at all? You might only end up worrying him over nothing.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head firmly. ‘It wouldn’t be fair not to tell him. Aside from the fact that I physically get heartburn when I try to keep secrets from anyone. It’ll be unpleasant in the short-term, but it’s got to be done. Besides, you know what he’s like. The whole way back from Dublin this afternoon, all I could think was…if this did happen and if things actually went my way for once…I wonder if he’d even notice that I wasn’t around any more?’
‘I take your point,’ says Jules, nodding sagely. ‘There’s every chance you could take the job, disappear off and he’d barely even cop that you weren’t here.’
I throw her a grateful smile. God, it’s so lovely to talk to someone who understands exactly where I’m coming from. Really understands that is, as opposed to telling me what a lovely husband I have and how lucky I am to be married to such a hard-working man with such a strong work ethic who always puts his job first and blah-di-blah.
‘Oooh, here’s a thought. You could always just leave a note behind, saying that you’ll explain it all to him on your deathbed.’
‘Serious suggestions only, please.’
‘I was being serious. You’re a living saint to have put up with everything that you do round here, Annie, I really mean it. Remember the anniversary? You were so patient with him. I think I’d have flung my stuff into a suitcase, jumped into my car and headed straight for the nearest motorway after that episode.’
I shudder a bit just at the memory. The anniversary she’s talking about wasn’t our wedding anniversary by the way, but the anniversary of when we first got engaged, oooh, what feels like about two hundred years ago, when we were both just twenty-three years old. It was early December and at the time, we were in New York on holiday, in the dim and distant days when we still did romantic couple-y things together. Dan had just passed his finals in college and I’d just finished my first, proper acting gig at the National, my big breakthrough role, so this was like a double celebratory trip for us. We were young, we were in big love, in proper astonishing movie love and it honestly felt like the world was our oyster.
Anyroadup, one night we went ice-skating in the Rockefeller Center…that is to say, Dan was ice-skating while I was clinging onto him with one hand and onto a railing with the other, petrified I’d fall. And it started to snow very lightly and he turned down to kiss me and…well, that’s when he proposed. Completely spontaneously, totally out of the blue and yet if he’d stage managed the whole thing, the moment couldn’t have been one iota more flawlessly perfect. Even the snowflakes gently showered us, as though on cue. And it was just so unbearably romantic that ever since, that’s the date we’ve always celebrated as opposed to our wedding anniversary. December the first.
So this year, given the ridiculous hours he’d been working and the fact that we’d barely spoken to each other in I don’t know how long, I really made the effort and pulled out all the stops. I booked dinner for the two of us in Marlfield House, a stunning five-star country house hotel about fifty miles from here – one of those super-luxurious places where the staff all call you Madam and even the cushions have cushions. Not only that, but as an extra surprise, I even booked an overnight stay there for us too. That way neither of us would have to drive home and so it really would be like the second honeymoon the two of us so badly needed. All proudly paid for from my humble book shop earnings, so he couldn’t back out of it by saying it was too expensive for us either.
Anyway come the big day, Dan was out doing TB testing, a laborious, time-consuming and ongoing part of his job, so I went ahead of him to Marlfield House in my own car so as not to waste the day, arranging to meet him there in good time for dinner. But…disaster: he got a last-minute emergency call to deliver a foal on a farm a good forty miles away and wasn’t able to make it, leaving me at the hotel all alone and all by myself. Stood up by my own husband. Not his fault of course, but then it never is, is it? And it’s impossible to have a row with Dan, ever. He’s just way too reasonable and always takes full blame for everything himself, in a sort of row-avoidance, pre-emptive strike.
Completely and utterly pointless my even getting upset about it – this is the life of a country vet and by extension a country vet’s wife. This is what I signed up for. Of course I understood and didn’t get annoyed…sure how could I? And what was I going to do anyway? Get snotty because Dan works hard at a job that’s pretty much twenty-four-seven?
But it left its fecking sting all the same.
Suddenly I’m up on my feet, pacing. Dunno why but I can’t seem to sit still any more.
‘This evening,’ I say firmly. ‘For better or for worse, I have to tell Dan this evening. Even if I have to throw his mobile phone into the fish tank and physically grasp his head between my two hands in a vice grip to get his attention.’
‘Hmmm, I know what you mean,’ says Jules, wolfing back a bag of nachos now. ‘Terrible pity you’re not a sick animal, isn’t it? You know Dan, he can’t resist the scent of the wounded.’
I nod, knowing only too well what she means.
‘Tell you something though, Annie.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This could just be the fright that he needs to put manners on him. You know, when he realises that you’ve actually got a life and a career of your own outside of here. God knows, you’ve made enough sacrifices for him these past few years, and you get sweet feck all in return. If you ask me, he totally takes you for granted and never once have I heard you complain.’
She gets absolutely no argument from me on that score.
‘So,’ Jules goes on, stretching her long legs out towards the fire, ‘maybe this’ll be just the kick up the arse that he needs. I mean, when you tell him that you’re not prepared to sit around and play the surrendered wife any more. Hey, I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can stay and watch?’
Unsurprisingly, I do NOT let her stay and watch. Come eight o’clock, there’s still no sign of Dan, quelle surprise and it turns out Jules is meeting up with one of her pals from college, who lives in Lismore village not too far away. So I wave her off, full of promises to report back the full, unexpurgated transcript of my Big Chat with Dan later on.
It was my full intention to wait up for him, so he couldn’t head straight for bed without saying two words to me, like he normally would. But by half eleven, I’m stretched out on the sofa in front of the fire with the TV still on, out for the count and utterly drained after all the hoofing up and down to Dublin earlier today.
The dogs are the first to wake me; Dan often takes them out with him on farm calls and they always go bananas whenever they get back home. S
o the minute I hear barking and paws scratching to get through the living room door, I’m groggily hauling myself up, all set for the almighty show-down.
‘Dan?’ I call out, sleepily stumbling to my feet, ‘I’m in here.’
Our three Labradors are first into the room, jumping and slobbering all over me as I pet each one in turn. Then I look up…and there he is, filling the door with his huge, broad-shouldered, hulking frame, still wearing the giant, oversized wax jacket he wears out on farm calls and looking more exhausted than I’ve seen him in months. Honest to God, the dark circles lining his face are now exactly the same shade of black as his eyes.
‘Hey, you’re still up?’ he says, in a voice flat with tiredness. ‘I thought you’d have been in bed hours ago.’
‘Emm…yeah, I…. well…I wanted to talk to you,’ I say, with a highly inconvenient knot suddenly appearing in my stomach. ‘How did you get on today?’
‘Oh same old, same old,’ he says, coming in towards the fire for warmth, as ever, the room suddenly seeming smaller just because he’s in it. He’s left his Wellingtons in the hall but even in stockinged feet, he still towers over me by about a foot and a half. He brings the cold outside air into the room with him and smells of the outdoors: horsey and leathery. Unsurprising, given that he’s been on an equine farm for the past sixteen hours. Must be raining outside too because his thick, black hair looks damp as he runs his hands through it, trying to dry himself out a bit.
‘I was up at Fogarty’s most of the evening – Paul insisted I call over a second time, after I’d done the rest of my calls. But all is well, I think. I did another endoscopy on the filly and there’s nothing sinister. He’s just panicking because she won’t be fit for the flat season, that’s all.’
I smile up at him and change the subject.
‘Hungry?’ Good tactic; a full stomach will possibly make him more amenable to what I have to say.
‘No thanks,’ he yawns, ‘I’m just so, so tired. But James has taken the phones now, so at least I can crash out for a bit. I’ll just feed the dogs then get to bed. Early start tomorrow, you know yourself.’
It flashes through my mind how polite and passionless our conversation is. More like two flatmates who hardly ever see each other than husband and wife.
‘I’ll look after the dogs, don’t worry, but before you do go to bed, Dan, there’s something we really need to talk about.’
‘Could we leave it till later? I doubt I can take too much in right now.’
He’s half way out the door and I know this is the only chance I’m going to get, so I go for it.
‘Dan, remember I told you I was up in Dublin today for an audition?’
‘An audition? Really? You never said.’
I let that go on the grounds that the guy is practically sleepwalking with sheer knackered-ness and has probably even forgotten talking to me this morning. Chances are I’m just a big, blurry shape to him now.
‘Yes, I was and I don’t know how it went but, well, you know how it is. I just have to wait by the phone now. Oh…and say a lot of novenas,’ I tack on lightly, smiling nervously.
‘Well…best of luck. I hope it all works out for you.’
Another massive yawn from him as he winds up the conversation and makes to go upstairs.
‘Dan, that’s not the whole story.’
‘No, no, I’m sure it’s not…but can’t you tell me about it tomorrow?’
For a second my heart goes out to him; the guy is physically swaying on his feet with exhaustion right now.
‘Dan, I’m sorry, but no, this won’t wait any longer.’
OK, now I have his attention.
‘Well, what is it? Some big movie role or something?’
He’s starting to sound a bit narky now, like I’m delaying him from precious sleep time.
‘It’s a play, a new play that’s on in the National in Dublin. One of the actresses is pregnant and has to drop out, so I’d be taking over from her. If I landed the part, that is.’
‘Hey, that’s terrific…well, let me know as soon as there’s news.’
‘And…you see…there’s something else too. Something important.’
OK, now I’m learning a big life lesson. Namely that when on the brink of a potentially volatile conversation with one’s other half, never EVER leave the TV on in the background. Because it has the power to throw the oddest curve balls into the mix. Right now, there’s some late-night American soap opera on TV where a wife is having a showdown with her husband and is telling him she’s leaving him.
‘I am sick of this marriage and I’m sick of being taken for granted!’ the wife is yelling at the top of her voice.
‘So what’s that then?’ Dan asks politely enough, but with ‘then can I please go to bed?’ practically etched across his forehead.
‘I’ve had enough of the way you ignore me!’ screams the TV, as I fumble around for the right words. Shit, and I wouldn’t mind, only I’d rehearsed this in my head about a dozen times this evening.
‘Well, you see, if I were to get cast…’ I start, gingerly picking my words.
‘Do you understand? You are so emotionally unavailable to me and I’ve taken all I can of this. There’s only so much neglect a person can put up with!’ fed-up TV wife is still yelling in the background. I rummage around the sofa for the remote control to switch the shagging thing off, but of course can’t find it.
‘…the show wouldn’t actually be running at the National,’ I say, gathering a bit of momentum now.
‘And, after years of putting up with the way you treat me, I’ve had enough of you and your white silences and it’s time you heard a few home truths,’ TV wife continues to screech, as I root under the armchair cushions where Jules had been sitting earlier, still searching for the remote. No joy, so I just lunge for the telly to switch it off manually. But not before TV wife gets in the final clincher: ‘Because I’ve sacrificed my own life and career for you and get absolutely nothing in return. I’ve barely had as much as a sentence out of you in months, years in fact. We’re not man and wife any more – we’re barely even on speaking terms. So now you leave me no choice but to walk out that door and never come back, do you hear me? Enough’s enough…I’m leaving you and you’ve got no one to blame but yourself!’
‘Annie, I’ve just worked a fifteen-hour day, in yet another month of fifteen-hour days. I’m this close to collapsing with sheer exhaustion. Is there any chance you’ll just stand still for two seconds together and tell me whatever it is that you’re trying to tell me?’
Deep breath. Stay calm. And remember it’s not like I even have the job yet.
‘What I’m trying to tell you, Dan, what I’ve been trying to tell you since this morning, is that if I got the part, I would be going to Broadway. To New York.’
My mouth frames each and every word. And suddenly the fireplace is at the oddest angle.
‘But hey, that would be terrific for you…you love New York…’
‘You haven’t heard the whole thing…’
‘Which is…?’
‘Which is…that I’d be gone for one full year.’
First sparks.
I was barely twenty-four hours at Allenwood Abbey when one accepted fact was drummed into me as received wisdom; namely that my dorm-mate and New Best Friend, Yolanda, fancied the actual knickers off Dan. It seemed that everyone knew, even, it could only be presumed, the guy himself.
As it happened, the following day he and I were sitting together for my very first class – as bad luck would have it – maths. By a mile my worst subject. Yolanda had warned me that Miss Hugenot, the teacher, had a weepingly annoying habit of picking on any poor unsuspecting moron whose concentration she suspected might have drifted out the window, then hauling them up to the whiteboard to write out trig equations. In full.
Anyway, in clattered Miss Hugenot, dumping a pile of uncorrected homework on her desk, before standing imperiously at the top of the class, surveying us al
l down her long, thin, aquiline nose. I later discovered that she was a perfectly humane woman, but to the terrified, fifteen-year-old me on my first, proper, full day, she might as well have been the Wicked Witch of the West minus the green face-paint, the broomstick and the dum-di-dum-di-dum-dum music in the background.
Please dear Jesus don’t let her pick on me, I semaphored shyly across to Dan, who just grinned back confidently with all the calm of someone who was well able to understand the finer points of differential calculus; not least what the shagging thing actually meant. But then, as I was later to learn, Dan’s one of those rare people that maths comes easily to; for him, doing a long equation is a bit like sinking into a nice warm bath.
‘So, let me guess,’ he whispered, registering my panic and twinkling kindly down at me. ‘Either you don’t know the answer or…could it be that you haven’t done your homework?’
‘Ehhh…both,’ I hissed back. ‘I meant to, it was just that last night…’
‘Your dorm-mate kept you up chatting half the night?’ he guessed knowingly, the black eyes dancing.
‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘Sounds like Yolanda all right,’ he said, but kindly and not in any way putting her down.
Meanwhile the girl herself, seated two full rows ahead of us, had heard him utter the magic word…her own name…and turned around to beam suggestively and swish her blonde, freshly-washed locks at him. Now don’t get me wrong; I liked Yolanda very much, but even at this early stage I was starting to learn that she wasn’t much of a rules girl and didn’t for a single second believe that if a guy liked you, he’d find some way to ask you out. No, she was of the ‘take no prisoners and bludgeon a fella into submission until you eventually become his girlfriend’ school of thought. She smiled when Dan smiled and her eyes barely left his, like he was her magnetic North. And I just knew from the mildly inquiring look on her face that I’d have to relay every detail of the conversation I’d had with him back to her at lunchtime, omitting no detail, however trivial.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 7
