by Faith Hogan
‘Oh, darling, I’ll have to read the stories from now on.’ She reached down inside the bed; there was always a stash of books lying between bed and wall. Housekeeping would never be her chosen sport. She pulled out a copy of the Billy Goats Gruff; an easy one to start with. Annalise had never read a book without pictures. Although she didn’t advertise it, secretly it was something she was proud of. Intellectual types always intimidated her; she convinced herself that readers must have very empty lives. It made her feel superior. ‘Precious, even though Daddy can’t read to you anymore, he’s keeping a very special eye over you.’
‘Madeline says we have the best Daddy in Ireland because he’s going to come everywhere with us and he’s inwisible.’ Dylan stretched up on his pudgy short arms.
‘Well, she’s right.’ Annalise worked hard to keep a smile in place.
‘Do you think he’d mind if I married you when I got older, Mummy?’ Jerome’s eyes were quizzical, working out something far greater than just his future matrimonial status.
‘I suppose you could do worse.’ Annalise rubbed her nose against his soft skin. She could do this for hours on end, but knew it would soon become a contact sport with Jerome and she silently thanked Paul for giving her these two precious parts of him.
‘Only an inwisible Daddy is cool. But,’ he lowered his voice in case Paul might be listening, ‘well, an inwisible husband is not much use, is he?’
‘Hmmm.’ Annalise thought for a moment. ‘But just like you will always love Daddy, so will I,’ she said and it was true, in spite of everything that happened in the last few days. She was angry, yes, but when she looked at her adorable boys, she knew she’d always love their father for giving her them at least. ‘And what’s even more important to remember is that he will always love you.’ When she kissed both boys and snuggled them in, she had a feeling that they helped her learn as much about love as she could ever teach them.
*
She sat in the quiet of her untidy designer kitchen and stared blankly at the celebrity gossip site she had opened on her iPad. When Paul was here, this was her escape. The clothes, the lifestyles, everything about how celebrities lived absorbed her. It was her secret vice, her cigarette, her glass of wine, her gym workout. Suddenly, it seemed empty and vacuous. Perhaps she was just too lonely for it to work its magic on her. She tripped down the hall when the front door bell rang, plastering a fake smile on her lips – the show must go on.
It was Madeline, a bottle of wine in one hand and her aromatherapy kit in the other. ‘Your dad has gone off to a sales conference. I thought the best thing I could do was pop over and see if we couldn’t make you feel a little better.’ She held up the gift that she’d purchased just the Christmas before. ‘A nice relaxing shoulder massage, what do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ She’d go for anything to pull her together. ‘Do you mind?’
‘I haven’t brought much with me, but I have some oils, if you’d like?’ Madeline dug deep into her bag, pulled out two small brown bottles. She began by working on Annalise’s shoulders, silently kneading out the tension, the grief and maybe a little guilt too. She had already seen that Annalise was carrying far too much tension; she was helping to iron it out of her, rubbing it away with her loving hands. Annalise felt small tears begin to sting her eyes. ‘They say it’s not unusual for the oils to bring your sadness or whatever you are feeling out. It’s better out than in.’ Her voice was soft and so soothingly familiar it made Annalise cry all the more.
‘I’m not sure why I’m crying,’ she said amidst the sobs.
‘You have just lost your soulmate. When you lose your husband, especially a man like Paul, it’s okay if you cry for weeks, or months. You just go with it.’
‘That’s just it, though,’ Annalise said as she felt a shiver course along her shoulder. Madeline followed it expertly. Buzzing it as if it were an errant bee, the sensation was calming. ‘I’m not even sure that we were married.’ She took a deep breath, knew she had to tell Madeline what was weighing so heavily on her. ‘You know he was married before to Grace Kennedy?’ She inhaled deeply, the scent of lavender relaxing her. ‘I suppose too, that I’ve always been a little scared of her, but now...’
‘I’m sure she’s perfectly lovely. After all, Paul wouldn’t have married her otherwise,’ Madeline said softly.
‘Not like that. She always seemed to be just so…’ She shuddered, lifted her head a little. ‘Fucking perfect.’ There, she’d said it. ‘They seemed to be perfect together, and she is just so…’ The words were hiding from her, but she knew they would come. ‘She’s so successful, smart, and bloody talented too. Whereas I’m just…’
‘Yes, but don’t forget, you were a Miss Ireland just a few years ago.’ Madeline was soothing her.
‘Oh, yes. For all of five minutes.’ It still annoyed her that she could have been so stupid. ‘It’s not just her, though. There’s more.’ She could feel the tears well up in her—round two. ‘I can’t believe he was married to Evie and he never told me. He’d married Evie long before he married Grace. He was married to someone for almost twenty years and I didn’t know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘In all the time we were together, he was married to someone else, and I suppose that means, he was never really married to me at all.’ Annalise began to sob. She’d finally said the thing that had been haunting her since she met Evie Considine.
‘Well,’ Madeline’s voice was a cool unfamiliar whisper, ‘that means he probably wasn’t married to Superwoman either,’ and she gave a small throaty laugh. ‘That has to give you some joy.’
‘It’s the strangest thing.’ It had completely caught her by surprise once she grasped it. ‘It doesn’t help at all.’
‘You need a massage every week, Annalise. You need to work this sadness out of your system. But for now, you’re just going to have to get through the next few days and Paul’s funeral.’
‘I’ve enjoyed this. It’s done me good.’
‘You should get a proper massage done tomorrow at the salon. Go for the works.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Annalise thought for a moment. ‘No, tomorrow I’m dropping the boys of at nursery while I sort out something to wear for the funeral.’
‘You will need something that makes the Superwoman look not so super?’
‘Do you realize you’re talking more like an agent than my mother?’
‘It just makes sense. You need to be looking and feeling well for the boys, Annalise, just as much as you do for yourself or anyone else. You should ring Gail, get one of her fashion girls to go out with you, sort you out for something nice.’ Madeline was wrapping her coat about her, tugging the belt closed snugly. ‘I’ll sort the boys, don’t worry.’
By the time, Madeline left, Annalise felt as if she could just drop into her bed. It was a combination of emotional exhaustion and aromatherapy oils. Like a real therapist, Madeline had managed to make her feel much better by just listening to her. Annalise had never been very chatty, since the Titanic incident she had a feeling she didn’t have much to say that might interest anyone. Normally an empty vessel, tonight she couldn’t stop talking.
The upside was, when she hit the pillow, she was out like a light. It was nine o’clock before Annalise surfaced the next day.
*
Annalise had closed up her Twitter and Facebook accounts when she married Paul, but Gail had insisted that she open them again for the relaunch of her career. Gail had taken over the accounts. Now they were being run by whatever unfortunate girl was currently interning with her for peanuts and the anticipation of a half-decent reference. The girl, Tina, was earning her stripes. Annalise’s Facebook page had been inundated overnight with likes and messages from people across the globe. All Gail had done was put about some of the scantest details, but it was enough to bring in a rush of traffic. She was trending worldwide on Twitter. ‘You had better get a direct line to Ricardo Tisci, you’re going to need something knockout for that funeral, my girl,’ she said to Annalis
e when she rang to tell her.
Suddenly, it seemed to Annalise as if they were talking about much more than the funeral of her dead husband. In fact, it was as if they weren’t talking about Paul’s funeral at all. Perhaps it was a survival mechanism, but she managed to block out the reality of what loomed ahead. They were talking about her personal relaunch party. It was an occasion that could land her onto the pages of magazines around the globe. ‘We could be talking deals out of this, and not just some two-bit presenting gig on Southside Afternoon. I mean, we could have a chance at the big labels. You have all the credentials. You just have to keep quiet. Adopt a Kate attitude: seen but not heard.’ It sounded good to Annalise either way. If Grace Kennedy could have a serious kick-ass career, she really did not see why she couldn’t too.
*
Pausing briefly to stroke one of Paul’s suits and feel a pang of loneliness, Annalise pulled out skinny jeans, a white shirt and a giant electric-blue scarf. She rubbed her forehead. It was thumping impressively, and when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror, she decided she should throw some bronzer on over a thick layer of foundation. That would have to happen on the way to town.
She managed to get her make-up on as she drove. It was far from her best attempt. Her skin was dehydrated; probably stressed, in spite of the facial. To make things worse, a heavy plop of foundation fell on her white shirt and when she tried to rub it off, it left a greasy dark stain on her lovely scarf.
She had hardly walked into the shopping centre when a photographer spotted her. He seemed to be hanging about outside Harvey Nicks, maybe waiting about on the off-chance. Either way, he spotted her long before Annalise noticed him. She felt jaded, a hundred and four years old, when she spotted him snapping.
‘Look,’ she managed to smile once she reached him, ‘if you want to get some pics, no bother. I’ll pose for you right here, walk along the lot. But don’t use those ones.’ She knew that what he’d taken before she noticed him would not be good.
‘Sure.’ His voice was a little tinted with the clipped sounds of a Scottish suburb. ‘Great.’ He got her to walk the length of the shopping centre, browse outside shops, and pull her hair this way and that. After fifteen minutes, she’d had enough. Knew they would not be good images anyway, but with a bit of luck, they’d be better than his earlier shots, her face grimacing with a lurching headache.
‘So, we’re okay?’ she asked him as she bolstered her oversized bag higher on her shoulder.
‘Sure, thanks for that,’ he said, but he didn’t make eye contact and Annalise had a feeling she should have asked for him to delete the first images before she let him take any more.
‘You’ll only use the ones I posed for?’
‘Sure, no worries. The others are as good as wiped.’
Inside the shop, she did not fare much better. They had a divine Givenchy dress, perfect for the day, but it was in navy. There was no way she could wear navy to Paul’s funeral – was there? It was the right length, hitting her just at her knees, the scoop neckline showed off just the right amount of collarbone, and the sleeves fell in fabric so delicate it might have been chiffon, but it had the look of something classic. It was perfect: sexy, smart and very dignified. ‘I’m afraid we can’t get it for you,’ the assistant said.
‘But there must be a black version somewhere, surely in this day and age?’
‘We sold the very last one this morning. I’ve just had a stylist looking for the same dress for a client and it’s nowhere to be found.’ She moved in closer, as though they were friends, ‘And let me tell you, her client would have it flown from Australia if it was available – filthy rich.’
‘So that’s that?’ Annalise was deflated; it really was the perfect dress. ‘There’s nothing we can do to track it down?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s just impossible.’ She glanced at Annalise, finally recognizing her. ‘I’m sorry; I heard your husband died.’ She scanned the shop, her eyes racing across the rails. ‘But maybe, maybe that dress was a bit too classic for you.’
‘Excuse me?’ Annalise felt as if she had been struck.
‘I mean, too old-fashioned; it’s a bit twinset actually. You should be aiming for something a little more daring?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m after something for my husband’s…’ It was too hard to finish the sentence.
‘I mean, still respectable – we don’t have anything here that would make you look cheap, but you could be chic and cool.’ She looked across the rails. ‘I couldn’t imagine Cara Delevingne wearing anything from that section.’ She cast a critical eye towards the navy dress that was steadfastly in the hands of a fifty-something in need of more than magic knickers to carry it off. ‘Or Kate Moss, or Karlie Kloss or…’ The girl was pulling down black dresses from a rail of mixed designers.
‘Or Miranda Kerr?’ So Miranda was dark-haired and more successful than her? But they both had children. They were the same age and Miranda had managed to bag Orlando. For that alone, she was a hero. ‘Okay, show me what you’ve got.’ In the end, she settled for a version of the navy dress, only a little shorter, a little lower at the neck and sleeveless. She picked up a pair of Jimmy’s and a bright red bag – because, as the assistant assured her, every girl needs a colour pop.
Annalise was back in time to pick up the boys. The whole trip had taken less than two hours. At least it was one job done, she told herself, even if she wasn’t entirely confident that she’d come out with the best dress in the shop. She was just about to put some frozen chips in the oven for the boys when her phone pinged. A tweet from Gail. She opened it quickly, and then felt the blood rush from her head. A cold sweat overtook her whole body. The tweet had a link to Celebrity Post: a new site that carried all the latest celeb photos from around the world, with a small side panel for current Irish news. Annalise did not have to trawl through the site, because there, at the very top, was the most unflattering photo of her. Her tan make-up and careful bronzing could have come from a gypsy wedding promo. Still, the blue scarf managed to drain her, so the dark shadows beneath her eyes were huge. Her expensively honey-highlighted hair resembled bleached straw and her slumped posture shouted ‘dumpling, dumpling’. Everything about the image was wrong. It was all wrong. ‘Grieving Model Still Makes Time To Shop’. The headline was enough to warn her that even if the photo editor was going to be kind about her appearance, the sentiments were not. She did not look as if she was in mourning. The images veered from making her resemble a truculent teenager to a vacant gamer – none of them flattering.
‘Oh my God.’ Annalise could hardly breathe as she heard Gail Rosenstock pick up on her mobile.
‘Indeed.’ Gail breathed deep. ‘Not exactly what we’re going for. I thought we could aim for cookery programmes, parenting advice for single mums and maybe some Boden work.’
‘Oh God. I cannot believe that guy. I even posed for him; he promised me he wouldn’t use anything that wasn’t flattering.’
‘Annalise, sometimes you can be so dim. He’ll make most money on the bad ones. The good ones, anything you posed for, are ten a penny. And it looks as though there was an agenda…’
‘What?’
‘Well, it seems a little vicious. Have you read the article?’
‘Oh no.’ Annalise clicked back into the site. It was a litany of abuse, taking apart her whole image, then it moved on to Paul’s death and the fact that there were no funeral arrangements yet. ‘Where do they get off?’ Annalise had felt the wrath of the press before. It seemed a long time ago, but this was even worse. They were calling into question her marriage to Paul, her good character, even her role as a caring mother.
‘It’s almost litigious – but not quite. They manage to get the message across without actually saying the words. It’s all down to the images…’
‘It looks bad, I can see that. But I really only went out so I could pick up something for the funeral.’
‘Look, it’s a one-off
. We can fix this. In fact, if we play our cards right, we might even be able to make it work in your favour. Look at all the Hollywood stars, they’re constantly complaining about being papped. They’ve even started up their own lobby group to get the laws changed so this kind of thing can’t happen when people are off duty.’ Perhaps Gail was already on the road to fixing things in her mind. ‘Don’t worry, darling; we’ll set things straight. But for the next while, do a Mossie on it as we said, okay?’
‘Never complain, never explain,’ Annalise recited. Same as the prayers she once said each day at the convent school; they meant nothing, but they didn’t leave you easily.
*
Grace Kennedy had left a message for her to say they would meet at Evie’s house in the afternoon to agree on the funeral arrangements. Annalise just wanted to run away and hide. Instead she sat down in the centre of a large train set Paul had been putting together for the boys and lost herself for a couple of hours while they raced the trains and rearranged the various miniature houses and trees along the line. All thoughts of Kasia Petrescu and Grace Kennedy and Evie Considine fell out of her head for those few blissful hours. She almost expected Paul to arrive in the door and tell her it had all been some terrible mistake. She pulled down her laptop and began to browse through photos of herself and Paul in happier times. She found a head and shoulders shot of their wedding day. It was a beautiful black and white portrait. The quality was a little grainy – the camera was not designed for wedding snaps, but at the time, it didn’t seem to matter. They stared lovingly into each other’s eyes. A secret smile played about both of their lips; they had just embarked on their ‘happy ever after’. She posted the image to her Twitter account, added in a few words about her love for Paul and closed down her computer. Enough.
*
Annalise Connolly put away her e-cigarette; she had a feeling that Evie would not approve. Menthol. All the girls were smoking them. It wouldn’t be so easy to keep her figure once she turned thirty. She knew girls who ate nothing for four days a week, apart from coffee and menthol cigarettes, and still they managed to put on weight. She was lucky. Lucky? Well, she pinged back after each pregnancy, but that was it now. No more. Grace Kennedy was wise, stopping after one.
