Whose Life is it Anyway?

by Sinéad Moriarty

  I spent the rest of the weekend fudging Mum’s probing questions about my relationship and trying to keep her as busy as possible so that she wouldn’t break me. My mother was a total pro when it came to getting information out of people, and I knew that, given enough time, she’d wear me down with her questioning. The KGB could have used her. She was relentless.

  I took her shopping, to the theatre, art galleries, exhibitions. She didn’t have time to grill me until we sat down to dinner after a dreadful play that I’d booked at the last minute to stop her quizzing me.

  ‘As you know, I’m getting the first flight home tomorrow morning,’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘In case you think I hadn’t noticed that you’ve avoided me coming to see your flat, you’re wrong. Now, I want you to be honest with me. Is that man living there with you?’

  ‘No, Mum, he isn’t,’ I said, relieved at not having to lie.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Now, why haven’t you introduced me to him? Who are you ashamed of? Me or him?’

  ‘Come on, Mum, don’t be silly. I’m not ashamed of anyone. It’s just that it’s very early in the relationship and I want to get to know Pierre better myself before I introduce him to anyone else. We could break up in the morning. But if we’re still going out the next time you come over, I’ll introduce you to him. I promise.’

  She sniffed. ‘Well, if you do get serious about this boy, you’d better let me know. I’ll need to work on your father. He won’t like it that he’s French or English or whatever mixture he is. He wants you to meet a nice Irish boy and settle down here in Ireland. He plans to move back when he retires.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’d like you to meet a nice boy, come back to London and live near us. I want all my children close to me. I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too, Mum,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘Do you want to move back to Ballyduff when Dad retires?’

  ‘Not at all. Sure what would I do all day? My life is in London. Our family and friends live there. We talk about moving back, but none of us has and none of us will. It’s a very different Ireland from the one we left behind. Once Granny and Granddad are gone I doubt I’ll come back at all. Your father has romantic notions of us buying a little cottage in the middle of nowhere. What in God’s name would we do? We’d kill each other. We’re used to having the family around us, coming and going day and night. I like being able to go to the pictures or the theatre or to a new restaurant. I know we don’t do it often, but I like the fact that it’s there if we want it.’

  ‘How are you going to get round Dad? He’s been talking about retiring to Ireland since he stepped off the boat in Liverpool thirty-five years ago.’

  ‘You leave your father to me. I know exactly how to deal with him.’

  ‘How?’ I asked, desperate for some tips on how to get Dad to change his mind.

  ‘It takes a lot of patience. You plant the ideas drop by drop, give him time to mull them over, and he ends up thinking they were his ideas in the first place so everyone’s happy. Men are all the same, Niamh. They need to think they’re in control but, really, the women are the ones steering from behind.’

  ‘So if I did get serious about Pierre, you’d help me with Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Once I’ve met him and approved of him, I’ll help to bring your father round to the idea of a foreign boyfriend. But it won’t be easy.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, relieved.

  ‘Is he handsome?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Debonair like all the French men?’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘Charming?’

  ‘Incredibly.’

  ‘Are you happy, pet?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, forcing myself not to get emotional and tell her how in love I was and how happy Pierre made me and how I knew he was The One.

  ‘Well, I hope it works out for you. Keep me posted on how it goes. I can pop over any time to meet him.’

  ‘I will, Mum, I promise. And thanks for agreeing to help with Dad, if I need it.’

  She smiled at me. ‘Don’t you worry. I could persuade your father that black was white.’

  11

  ‘So, how’s your mum?’ asked Pierre, when I got back from dropping Mum to my grandparents’ house where she was spending the night.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Did she ask you if you had a nice boyfriend?’ he asked, grinning at me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really? The first thing my mother asks when she sees me is if I have a nice girlfriend.’

  ‘My granny did, though, and when I told her I was seeing someone she went and blurted it out to Mum.’

  ‘What did your mum say?’

  ‘She asked if you were good-looking, debonair, charming and if I was happy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ugly, dresses like a homeless person, manners of a caveman but, yes, blissfully happy.’

  ‘Did you tell her we were living together?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell her I was older?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Black?’

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘So what exactly did you tell her?’

  ‘That your name was Pierre and you were an academic.’

  ‘What did she say to that?’

  ‘She said it was a pity you were French because Dad thinks the French are a slippery lot.’

  ‘I’m not exactly French.’

  ‘It’s a technicality.’

  ‘A big one.’

  ‘One that can wait a while to be exposed.’

  ‘Why does your father think the French are slippery?’

  ‘Because they gave in to the Germans.’

  Pierre laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘That’s a lot to be tarnished with.’

  ‘I know. Hopefully when he finds out you’re from an overseas department of France that’ll work in your favour.’

  ‘Overseas department of France! Niamh, I’m impressed.’

  ‘I looked it up on the Internet.’

  ‘Not just a pretty face.’

  ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Did you tell your mother anything else about me, or was that it?’

  ‘I just told her I’d met someone I liked but it was still early in the relationship and I wanted to get to know you better before introducing you to the family.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, a bit crestfallen.

  ‘What I didn’t tell her was that I’d met the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. That I’m so happy I want to shout it out loud when I’m walking down the street. That I can’t believe you love me. That I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and realize it was just a lovely dream. That I love you so much it scares me. That I’m willing to face the wrath of my father because I know you’re my soulmate.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Speechless?’

  ‘No, I just had a flashback to my time in the trenches before we surrendered.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘You’re not the only funny one around here.’

  ‘At least I get paid for it.’

  ‘Touché,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Are you OK about not meeting my mother?’

  ‘For now. But you’re going to have to tell them about me some time.’

  ‘I know, but not now. Let’s not open the floodgates yet. I’d like to have some more time to ourselves first.’

  ‘To get to know me better,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I think you know me pretty well.’

  ‘There’s always more to learn.’

  ‘What’s my favourite colour?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised I’d got it right.

  ‘What’s mine?’ I asked.

  ‘Green.’

  ‘I hate green.’

  ‘No, you don
’t.’

  ‘Yes, I do. When have you ever seen me wear green?’

  ‘That jumper you always wear is green.’

  ‘It’s blue! Turquoise blue.’

  ‘Well, it looks green.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I huffed.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ he said wisely. ‘What’s my favourite movie?’

  ‘You claim it’s 12 Angry Men, but it’s really City Slickers.’

  ‘Slander.’

  ‘Sue me. What’s mine?’

  ‘You say it’s The Mission but it’s actually Steel Magnolias.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ I said, impressed.

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘OK, what’s my favourite book?’ he asked, warming to the game.

  ‘Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead. What’s mine?’

  ‘Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Where did you get that from?’

  ‘I thought all women loved it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ I snapped.

  ‘What is your favourite book then?’

  ‘The Prince of Tides.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The one with Barbra Streisand?’

  ‘That’s the film. The book’s much better.’

  ‘OK. Music. Favourite song.’

  ‘“Mack The Knife”.’

  ‘You’re good at this,’ he said, smiling at me.

  ‘Well, you’re not. Mine?’

  ‘The one Whitney Houston sang – “I Love You” or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘“I Will Always Love You”. I hate that song! You don’t know me at all. You just guessed that cheesy one because you think all women like it. For your information my favourite song ever is “She’s Always A Woman to Me”.’

  ‘I like that one too,’ he said, beginning to sing it.

  ‘Don’t try to placate me. I’m furious. I know everything you like and you haven’t a clue about me. Do you ever listen? Do you care? I’m putting myself on the line for this relationship,’ I said, upset. Didn’t he get it? My father might well disown me for this and Pierre couldn’t even get my favourite song right.

  ‘Do I care?’ he said quietly. ‘I think you know that I care very much. And as for not knowing you, I might not know what your favourite song is, but I do know this. You like your scrambled eggs milky. You rinse your teeth three times after brushing. You hate the rain because it makes your hair fuzzy. You like dogs and hate cats – you think they’re sly. You have a love-hate relationship with Creme Eggs. You love eating them but you always feel sick and guilty afterwards. You don’t understand raisins – they’re a pointless addition to any dish. You love your family, mini Milky Way bars, Hello! magazine, hot chocolate with marshmallows and Oprah, but only when she’s interviewing famous guests and not when she’s doing the self-help shows.’

  I smiled. ‘I actually prefer OK! to Hello! but you’re forgiven.’

  ‘Completely?’

  ‘And utterly. There’s one area I think still needs work, though,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ he asked, nervous.

  ‘Bedroom.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ he said, picking me up and rushing towards the bed.

  12

  After my mother’s visit, our lives continued as before. We spent all our spare time together, falling more and more in love, until the day Pierre announced that his parents were coming for a visit in a few weeks’ time and he wanted me to meet them.

  ‘Now? Already?’ I asked, terrified at the prospect.

  ‘It’s been five months, darling, I want to show you off.’

  ‘But what if they don’t like me? What if they take one look at me and say, “Are you mad? Get rid of her”?’ I groaned.

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’ll be a big hit.’

  I loved it that Pierre was so keen for me to meet his parents, but they were used to sitting across the table from a supermodel type who spoke their language and saved the world in her spare time. How were they going to react to a five-foot-four Irish columnist?

  ‘When exactly are they coming?’

  ‘Three weeks’ time. The fifteenth,’ he said.

  That gave me twenty-one days to become fluent in French, starve myself down a size, and read up on current affairs so I could have stimulating political discussions with them.

  But instead of doing all of the above, I did what I always do when I’m nervous – I ate. And I mean everything. I ate everything I could get my hands on and then I ate some more. In the space of two weeks I had put on half a stone and it was not needed. Pierre’s cooking had already made me pile on the pounds.

  I stepped off the scales. This was ridiculous, I had to calm down. What was I so worried about? Simple. I was worried that they wouldn’t like me and Pierre would dump me. And that was something I couldn’t bear. I knew if Pierre left me I’d shrivel up and die. I had to make a good impression on his parents. They had to like me.

  With a week to go, I swore off food. Having gone five whole hours without eating anything, and feeling thinner already, I wasn’t too happy when Pierre arrived home and announced that he was taking me out for a slap-up meal.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m trying not to eat for the next week. I need to shift a few pounds before the big visit.’

  He laughed. ‘Niamh, you look great. Now come on, get dressed up, I’m taking you out for a nice meal.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to talk to you about a job offer I’ve just been made.’

  I squeezed myself into my favourite black dress and swore I’d never eat again after tonight. Pierre had booked L’Assiette, one of the most expensive restaurants in Dublin. We were placed at a cosy table for two in the window and once our food arrived – I had consommé to start: how anyone can justify charging for hot water with an Oxo cube in it is beyond me – Pierre told me his news.

  ‘I’ve been offered a professorship at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver.’

  My spoon froze in mid-air. ‘Did you just say Vancouver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As in Canada?’

  ‘The very one.’

  I began to cry. ‘I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true! You’re going to bugger off to Canada and leave me. You’ll pretend to try a long-distance relationship for a month or two, then dump me via email,’ I sobbed.

  ‘Niamh, listen to me, you lunatic. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’ve been offered the job and I wanted to talk to you about it. It’s an amazing opportunity and I want you to come with me.’

  ‘To Canada?’

  ‘Yes. I want us to go together. It’ll be fantastic. Vancouver’s supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘So you’re not trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘No, you idiot. I love you. I wouldn’t move down the road without you. So, what do you think?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, and had a swig of wine. ‘I need to settle my nerves. You want me to go with you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I like it here. Everything’s perfect. If we change things something might go wrong.’

  ‘What’s going to go wrong?’

  ‘I dunno. You might not like me in Canada.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s freezing and I look stupid in Puffa jackets and I won’t know anyone and I won’t have a job and I’ll be clingy and dependent, and if we break up, I’ll be stuck on my own in bloody Vancouver in minus forty degrees looking like an Oompa Loompa in my snow jacket.’

  ‘We’re not going to break up.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Will you shut up and listen to me?’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘We’re not going to break up because we’re going to get married.’

  I stared at him, open-m
outhed. ‘Was that a proposal?’

  ‘Yes.’ He winced.

  ‘But you didn’t ask me. You told me.’

  ‘I know. It came out wrong, I’m sorry. I had this big speech prepared but I got nervous. You threw me off guard with the crying and ranting.’

  ‘So it’s my fault?’

  ‘Kind of. I just didn’t expect you to react like that about Vancouver. I thought you’d be pleased. I thought you liked adventure.’

  ‘I only like adventure when it’s been organized by me. You might want to remember that for the future. I’m having a heart-attack here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. Will you please marry me?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘OK.’

  Silence.

  ‘Have you made up your mind?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Silence.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Are you asking because you don’t want to go to Canada on your own?’

  ‘No! This is supposed to be a romantic moment, not a debate about Canada.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s all a bit out of the blue. When would we have to go to Vancouver?’

  ‘I need to be there by June to spend the summer getting set up, so we’ve got over three months.’

  ‘Do you want to get married before we go?’

  ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’

  ‘But it takes ages to organize a wedding.’

  ‘You said your sister’s was organized in days.’

  ‘That’s because she was pregnant.’

  ‘We’ve got three months. I’m sure we can manage.’

  ‘But my family haven’t even met you yet.’

  ‘So introduce me to them.’

  ‘But I need to prepare them first.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘You’ve just pounced this on me.’

  ‘I only got the offer yesterday.’

  ‘I knew there was something up with you last night. You were behaving very strangely.’

  ‘I was trying to work up the courage to propose.’

  ‘Were you nervous?’

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case you said no.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Women are weird. I wasn’t sure you’d want to move to Canada.’