There was a lot of hand-waving and head-shaking. I heard words like ‘impossible’, ‘folie’, ‘ridicule’ and ‘imprudent’, none of which needed much translation.
Pierre was getting more and more irate and kept saying, ‘Je l’ aime’, and ‘parfaite’ and ‘heureux’, which gave me hope.
Eventually, after twenty minutes of sitting there like a lemon, I stood up and interrupted them.
‘I’m going to leave you to it. You obviously have a lot to discuss. It was very nice to meet you. I’ll see you later, Pierre,’ I said, kissing him, and with that, my faux-leather bag, badly fitting dress and I strode out of the restaurant and ran round the corner to cry. It was an unmitigated disaster. His parents were supposed to be the easy part – mine were the ones who would cause trouble. Yet it was clear to me that the Alcees considered me a completely unsuitable bride for their son.
Two hours later, when Pierre came home, he was still fuming.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ he said, hugging me. ‘They can be so stubborn and superior sometimes. Anyway, I’ve told them the wedding is going ahead regardless, so they eventually came around. But they’re keen to meet your family as soon as you tell them about our plans.’
I must confess I was relieved. With such a negative reaction from his parents, I thought Pierre might see me suddenly through their eyes, realize he was getting a raw deal and call the whole thing off.
‘One family down, one to go,’ he said, smiling.
I grimaced. If his parents’ reaction was bad, mine were going to go loop the loop.
‘Did they really hate me?’ I asked, desperate for some comforting words.
‘No, of course not. They would just prefer it if you were French and wrote about philosophy or history. Don’t worry, darling. They’ll grow to love you when they get to know you better.’
‘Why did you have to tell them about the wet-patch column?’
‘Because it was hilarious.’
‘Did you see their faces? They thought it was about as funny as my inability to cook or speak French.’
‘They’re a little old-fashioned. My mother always cooked for us.’
‘Even when she’d worked a ten-hour day doing up houses?’
‘Yes. It’s just the way it was. French women cook.’
‘So do Irish women.’ I bristled. ‘My mother always cooked for us.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I chose not to.’
‘Because?’
‘I find it boring.’
‘Ah, but if you learnt to cook you’d enjoy it.’
‘I don’t need to. One cook in the house is plenty.’
‘Sometimes it would be nice for me not to have to cook.’
‘No problem. That’s what restaurants are for.’
‘Touché!’ He grinned.
Suddenly we heard a noise behind us. It was the fax machine. Pierre went over to pick up the pages. He started to laugh. ‘Well, Niamh, my mother doesn’t think you’re a lost cause. Here is the recipe for my very favourite dish – bavette au porto.’
He handed me the page and I read:
This is Pierre’s preferred dish. More recipes to follow. Fleur
Ingredients
1 1/2 lb flank steak
for the marinade
1/3 cup port
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce (well, when in Rome…!)
2 garlic cloves, pressed
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, leaves only
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
2 shallots, finely chopped
2 teaspoons butter
The cooking is ridiculously simple.
Whisk the marinade in a small bowl, then pour it over the steak and place it in the fridge for a few hours.
When you are ready to cook it, remove the steak from the marinade and grill it – Pierre likes his meat bloody. I know Irish people like to burn theirs, but please do not overcook it. It destroys it. As the steak is grilling, place the marinade in a small saucepan and heat it while mixing in the butter.
Pierre likes this with a salad.
There was no ‘nice to have met you’, ‘you seem like the perfect bride for my son’, ‘welcome to the family’. She hadn’t even bothered to write ‘hello’. And she had insulted Irish people for liking their meat well done. So what if we didn’t like eating an animal that was still winking at us? Where’s the crime in that?
Pierre read it over my shoulder. ‘Excellent! I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.’ He grinned.
The fax machine continued to churn out pages of recipes. Fleur was on a mission to turn me into a chef. What she didn’t know was that the raw ingredient she was dealing with was as stubborn as she was.
As I stuffed the recipes into a drawer, the phone rang.
‘Oui, Maman. The faxes arrived. Yes, she’s here beside me.’ Pierre handed me the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Neeev,’ she said, making my name sound like a curse. ‘I wanted to make sure the recipes arrived safely.’
‘Yes, thanks, they did. All of them.’
‘I would like to take you for coffee tomorrow. I think we need to have a chat, us girls alone.’
Although it was the absolutely last thing in the world I wanted to do, I couldn’t refuse. She was, after all, my future mother-in-law. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘We will meet at La Maison des Gâteaux. I believe it’s the only place in Dublin that serves palatable coffee. I will see you there at eleven.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
‘Well?’ Pierre asked.
‘She wants to meet for coffee.’
‘That’s great. It’s a really good sign. She obviously feels bad about her reaction to the wedding. I knew she’d come round. I’m glad that’s sorted,’ he said, and sat down to read the paper.
I went into the bedroom and buried my head in the pillow to stifle a scream.
The next morning, I got up early and went shopping. I was determined to look good for my head-to-head with Fleur. I went to the most expensive boutique I knew, one of those really intimidating shops where the assistants are like supermodels. I’d never had the nerve or money to go in before, but this was an emergency. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
No sooner was my foot over the threshold than a tall, rail-thin girl came over to ask me if I needed help. Instead of scurrying away to the other side of the shop with a grunt, I said, ‘Yes, I do. I need all the help I can get.’
I explained my situation and she was very sympathetic. Turned out Paula had worked in Paris for a few years and knew how intimidating formidable French women could be. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you looking a million dollars,’ she assured me.
I fingered my credit card nervously and hoped it wouldn’t burst into flames when it came to paying.
An hour later, having tried on everything in the shop, I left looking a hell of a lot better than I had going in, and feeling a whole lot poorer. I winced every time I thought of how much I had spent, but then I caught my reflection in a shop window and knew it had been worth it. Paula had persuaded me to buy a pale blue dress with ribbon detail on the sleeves and hem. I never wore pale blue and the dress was more girly than my normal taste, but it was great on. The waist was empire line, which hid my stomach and made me look slim. I bought shoes to match and she even persuaded me to get a daisy clip for my hair, which she had made to look stylish rather than stupid in the way she had placed it.
When I arrived, Fleur was chatting to the owner in French. When she saw me she did a double-take and the owner actually whistled. I was thrilled.
‘You look different,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ I decided to take it as a compliment.
‘I wouldn’t have thought blue would be a good colour on such pale skin, but in fact it is quite flattering.’
She was a vision in a pale pink wrap
dress and high-heeled shoes to match. Her waist was the size of my calf – forget the French lessons and cooking: I could have done with a few tips on how to be skinny. After we had ordered, a young woman sat at the table beside us. She was wearing a tracksuit – a nice one. Fleur frowned. ‘I don’t understand how anyone with any self-respect can go out in public in a jogging suit,’ she said. ‘Sportswear is for the gymnasium, not for town.’
‘They’re comfortable.’ I shrugged.
‘They are slovenly. A woman should make an effort to look nice every day. If you look good, you feel better about yourself.’
She had a point there. I felt a lot better about myself today than I had yesterday in my ill-fitting dress.
‘Besides,’ continued my style guru, ‘a man will not be faithful to a woman who dresses like a slob.’
I was going straight home to burn my tracksuits before Pierre took off with a woman in a skirt and high heels.
‘Thank you for the recipes,’ I said, deciding to change the subject before she slated people who wore jeans and thus my whole wardrobe would have to be thrown out.
‘You’re welcome. I know Pierre joked about your failure to cook yesterday, but I think it is very important for a woman to look after her husband in every way. Men are very simple creatures. They need to be fed, encouraged in their work and satisfied in the bedroom.’
I choked on my coffee.
‘Oh, Neev, there’s no need to be shy about sex. Don’t tell me you’re one of those frigid Irish girls.’
‘I can assure you I am not frigid,’ I said, highly insulted that she thought I might be. Granted, we weren’t at it every night, but I put up a good show in the bedroom. Pierre hadn’t complained anyway. ‘I’m just not that comfortable talking about sex with my boyfriend’s mother.’
‘Pffff ! In France we talk about it all the time. It’s a very important part of a relationship. If you keep Pierre satisfied sexually then hopefully he won’t need a mistress. A clever woman knows how to keep her husband happy. You also need to stimulate him mentally. You will have to take an interest in phonetics, French culture and history. A man needs a wife he can take to a dinner party with his colleagues and know that she will be engaging, articulate and well informed. You will, of course, have to learn to speak French like a native.’
I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. Marrying Pierre was going to require years of intense study, becoming a chef and – if I had any energy left after cooking the seven-course meals – being a tiger in the bedroom. Maybe I should pack it in now.
‘It was a shock to us to discover yesterday that our only child is getting married to someone we don’t know, from a different background and culture. We didn’t mean to react in a rude fashion. Pierre was very angry with us. We were merely concerned that you were rushing into the wedding. But my son has assured us that it’s a fait accompli.’
‘Fleur, whatever reservations you may have about me – and I can see you have many – I love your son. I may not be what you had in mind as a daughter-in-law, but I make Pierre happy and we’re a good team. I’m willing to take French lessons and try to cook, but the bottom line is that we love each other and none of the other stuff matters.’
‘That, my dear, is where you are mistaken. The excitement of falling in love will fade and you must make sure that your marriage has a solid base to fall back on. You need common interests, goals, aims, desires. The “other stuff” matters very much. A good marriage is like a good figure. It requires hard work, discipline and sacrifice. You are very naïve if you don’t realize that.’
So now I was naïve as well as everything else. I felt as if I’d been rapped on the knuckles for being silly. ‘I know how a good marriage works,’ I said testily. ‘My parents have been married for thirty-five years, and although they’re very different people, they have made a success of it through compromise, respect, love and laughter. I’m not entering into this marriage lightly. In fact, there are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t marry Pierre, but I love him, I want to spend the rest of my life with him and that’s exactly what I intend to do.’
‘And how do you think you parents will react when they meet Pierre?’
‘They’ll go absolutely mental, but once they get to know him and see how happy he makes me, they’ll come round.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘We’ll go to Plan B.’
‘Which is?’
‘Vegas,’ I said, and grinned as Fleur’s face dropped.
Irish Daily News
‘Bathroom habits’
Niamh O’Flaherty
The difference between men and women can be summed up perfectly using the example of showering.
When a woman takes a shower she
Takes off her clothes and divides them between the laundry baskets: white with pastel and black with dark colours. Sighing, she fishes out her husband’s black socks and transfers them to the correct basket.
When in the bathroom, she locks the door and examines herself in the mirror, sticking her stomach out and groaning at how fat she’s getting. She vows never to eat desserts again.
She gets into the shower and washes her hair with nutmeg and red earth shampoo, handmade by the indigenous people of Peru. Then she conditions it with nettle and mint conditioner, handmade by the war-torn refugees of Nicaragua. This must be left on for ten minutes.
She exfoliates her face with a cucumber and apricot scrub and washes her body with a poisonberry and red-currant moisturizing gel.
While waiting for the conditioner to work she shaves her legs and underarms with her husband’s razor.
Then she rinses off the conditioner and combs her hair.
She opens the shower door, reaches for a large towel and dries herself in the shower so that she doesn’t wet the bathroom floor.
She plucks her eyebrows, screeching with pain.
Finally she applies exorbitantly expensive French anti-cellulite cream to her dimpled legs and prays for a miracle.
When a man takes a shower he
Peels off his clothes and dumps them on the floor.
He walks into the bathroom and admires himself in the mirror, shadow-boxing.
He gets into the shower and fishes around for his crusty soap. He uses this to wash his hair, face, armpits, arse and penis, leaving pubic hair stuck to the bar.
He throws on some shaving cream and begins to shave, cursing his wife as he cuts his chin on the blunt blade.
After peeing in the shower he throws back the curtain and steps out, dripping, on to the floor.
He dries himself with a face towel and flexes his muscles in the misty mirror.
He walks out dripping all over the bedroom carpet.
He throws his wet towel on to the bed, sniffs the clothes he dumped on the floor, and if they don’t smell like stale fish, he puts them on again.
19
London, December 1985
With her baby looming, Siobhan turned into a monster. I’d like to say that marriage and impending motherhood made her calm and serene, but I’d be lying. My mother told me to bite my tongue because my sister’s hormones were all over the place: she didn’t mean to be a bitch, she just couldn’t help herself.
I had hoped she would stay in her one-bedroom flat in the garage, but although she had her own TV and bathroom she had no kitchen. Unfortunately I had to look at her grumpy face at mealtimes. Liam, who was supposed to be taking the brunt of her moods, was never at home. He spent twelve hours a day studying to make sure he got into college.
The pressure was on, now he had a family to support. When he wasn’t studying, he was on the building sites, working for my father. The result was that I was on the receiving end of my sister’s temper, and I was fed up.
Apparently, being pregnant meant you could not get up off the couch at any time, for any reason, cried if you didn’t get your own way, had full custody of the TV remote control, demanded that trips be made to the shops for your cravings, which ranged from
Curly Wurlies to salt-and-vinegar crisps, and were excused from helping with household chores and generally for being a contrary cow.
I glared at my calendar. Three months to go. It was going to be a long three months. Still, at least it was nearly Christmas and I’d be off school for three glorious weeks. I was really looking forward to Christmas. It was my favourite day of the year and our family went all out. Dad would buy the biggest tree he could find and put it up at least two weeks beforehand. Then we’d decorate it with shiny, sparkly baubles, tinsel and a beautiful angel at the top.
All the presents, and I have to admit we were spoilt at Christmas, went under the tree and we opened them together on Christmas morning. My mother made the yummiest Christmas dinner and we’d put on paper hats, pull crackers and laugh at the crummy jokes. Then, when dinner was over, we’d sit in front of the fire and play games – Monopoly, Cluedo, Charades – and eat sweets from enormous tins of Quality Street and Roses. It was perfect.
My mother broke the news to me as we were decorating the tree. Uncle Pat, recently back from his ‘holidays’, and the family were coming for Christmas Day. I was devastated.
Uncle Pat had been to every clinic in the UK. The pattern was always the same: he’d go and dry out, then promise faithfully never to touch another drop. Everyone would say what a great guy he was and hope would spring anew. The longest he’d lasted was eight months. Then Auntie Sheila would call my father and ask for his help.
Uncle Pat was the youngest in the family. He had been spoilt by his mother and everyone did everything for him. He seemed to feel as if the world owed him something and expected to be bailed out every time he messed up – and he messed up a lot.
When he had come to London, my father had set him to work in an office, ordering building supplies. It was a cushy job and things had gone pretty well until his fondness for drink affected his daily life. He was constantly arriving late, nursing a hangover. He’d swan in, hang up his jacket, then take one of the suppliers out to the pub to ‘discuss business’. Things went from bad to worse and Dad began to worry about his little brother.
Whose Life is it Anyway? Page 12
