No Ordinary Love

by Anita Notaro

  No Ordinary Love

  Anita Notaro

  TRANSWORLD IRELAND

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Anita Notaro

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409095200

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD IRELAND

  an imprint of The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  First published in 2010 by Transworld Ireland,

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Anita Notaro 2010

  Anita Notaro has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781848270312

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Typeset in 12/15¾pt Ehrhardt by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon. Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk.

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  For my best friend, Dearbhla Walsh. We’ve shared so much down through the years that I couldn’t do life without you, so don’t let that Emmy award take you too far away from me!

  Also by Anita Notaro

  Back After the Break

  Behind the Scenes

  The WWW Club

  Take a Look at Me Now

  1

  WE ALL HAVE BAD DAYS AND I’M NO EXCEPTION. I’VE EVEN HAD A FEW seriously crappy ones, but my today could easily have featured in a commercial for headache tablets. You know the kind – where the woman can’t get a seat on the full-to-overflowing train, then the strap of her €500 handbag catches on the turnstile and snaps, and after that the heavens open just as she prepares to walk the last fifty metres home. Well, multiply that by a thousand and you have a snapshot of my day. The only difference is that in TV-commercial life the woman puts her key in the door and gets handed a glass of wine by a Dr McDreamy type who has already run her a bath, lit the fire and popped a steaming pot of something bursting with freshness on the stove to finish cooking while she unwinds. In my case, the lights weren’t even on when I eventually let myself into an apartment so cold the two-week-old rancid flowers were back standing to attention and what remained of my morning coffee had either seriously congealed or was frozen solid. I took off my soppingwet trenchcoat before the cold got right into my bones, kicked off my shoes and burst into tears. I’d had it with life – at least the kind of life I was leading at the moment.

  On paper, you see, I had it all. I was a psychologist with my own practice, but I’d been lucky enough to get a job which meant I was attached to a large private hospital and was based there two days a week. That meant I had a guaranteed income – and they paid very well – and still was my own boss. And yes, I met lots of eligible men there, but somehow I never got a chance to get past the nodding stage with any of them. Even the ones who referred patients to me did it by phone or email because they never seemed to be free at the same time I was. Also, my work was very intense, with long hours, because a lot of clients worked and wanted early or late or weekend appointments. That meant no down time, no long lunches or nipping off to shop when my mood dipped and, because I was still building my practice, virtually no life outside work. Even thinking about it now made me want to see a shrink myself.

  An assault of whingeing texts on the world brought only two offers of help and saw my closest friends join forces, hit the Chinese takeaway and grab a couple of bottles of whatever they could find in the fridge at the local twenty-four-hour Spar.

  After they’d uncorked and plated, both tried unsuccessfully to tease out the crisis that was simmering away in between my alternating long sighs and expletives. Everything was annoying me, so they hardly got a word in for the first ten minutes. In the end, though, Maddy got four in before I exploded.

  ‘So, Lou, what’s up?’

  ‘What’s up is that I’ve had it with life. I’m sick of getting up in the middle of the night just to get parking in Dublin city centre. If I have to listen to another moaning south-county Dublin yummy mummy whose husband annoys her just because he forgets to buy organic avocados and occasionally buys orange juice from concentrate, I’ll puke. I’m sick of eating plastic, overpriced sandwiches on the run. What’s more, I never seem to get a day off. Even when I don’t go in I’m at home writing case notes and catching up. Most working days, all I get are rich-bitch problems one after the other and then I come home, late, to a freezing-cold, empty apartment, eat from a silver tray and fall into bed, only to do it all over again the next day.’

  ‘Well, you could always put the heating on a timer,’ Clodagh, ever practical, said, smiling. ‘In fact . . .’

  ‘Don’t even go there, darlin’,’ Maddy warned. ‘She’s on a timer herself at the moment and the dial is turned to “explode”, I reckon.’

  That little interchange summed us up in a way and explained why we
worked so well as a trio. Clodagh was the practical one; always there, permanently calm and a rock of sense. Maddy was the artistic one, not of this planet most of the time, but always up for anything and she never failed to make me laugh.

  I was somewhere in the middle, not as sensible or organized as Clodagh but lacking the courage that Maddy had to grab life by the balls.

  Without Maddy, I reckoned that Clodagh and I would be two old grannies in rocking chairs by now, and in my case it would not be by choice, but because I was too stressed and tired to make any effort. Put simply, Maddy provided the only bit of fun and madness in my life and Clodagh picked me up and put me together when I splintered.

  ‘Go on,’ Maddy grinned at me now. ‘Let it all out, what else do you hate?’

  ‘I hate it that all my money goes on trying to look younger than I am, that everyone in the world seems to have a significant other and that somehow I’ve ended up doing a job where the only skill involved seems to be asking, “So, how does that make you feel?” Frankly, I’ve reached the point where I don’t give a toss most of the time.’

  ‘Now hang on – you’re well paid and respected by your peers. And most of your clients are in fact men, or had you forgotten?’ Maddy asked cheerfully. ‘Also, you had that massive write-up last month in the Indo and you were photographed the other week at that big party with what’s-his-name, the singer? And you’ve always gotten satisfaction from your work. All I get is hate mail.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Clodagh grinned. ‘You even gave me a lecture on the subject only the other week, remember? You were urging me to . . . “break free of the cycle of doom and gloom” was how you put it, I think . . .’ She’d cleared the takeaway containers and opened a box of Maltesers.

  ‘So, how come you suddenly “can’t get no sat-is-fac-tion”,’ Maddy sang tunelessly as she played her air guitar in an effort to make me laugh.

  ‘I dunno. My life just doesn’t seem to be working for me any more but I think I’ve only started to notice it recently. I’m stressed all the time and everyone out there is so aggressive, have you noticed?’

  ‘Well, em . . .’

  ‘Even today a blue-rinser jammed her trolley into my back as I picked up a panini, then had the audacity to tut at me as if I was the one causing the problem.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the pensioners are the worst,’ Clodagh agreed. ‘I never go near the DIY stores on Thursday, when the over-65s get a discount. They’re always annoyed about something. They act as if they resent you just because you still have your teeth.’

  ‘And don’t get me started on roadworks . . .’ I ignored Clodagh because I didn’t want anybody muscling in on my moan. In fact, by this stage they’d made an unspoken pact to just nod, I suspect, because they let me rant on again for ages.

  ‘OK, Lou, we get the picture,’ Maddy said eventually, nudging Clodagh, who was trying her best to stay awake. ‘And yes, you do seem to spend an awful lot of time and energy trying to help people who are so self-obsessed they make Victoria Beckham look carefree. But listen, we’ve been here before, no? And it’s always the same: when push comes to shove you don’t want to give up your well-paid career and your gorgeous apartment and your life, basically, and who could blame you? Not me, anyway, an actress who’s permanently topping up her Credit Union loan.’

  ‘Hang on a sec, just spool back a bit.’ Clodagh sat up straight and Maddy shot me a ‘she’s on to you’ look. ‘Answer me one question Lulu – and it’s one that you usually avoid during these sessions – what would you do if you could choose any job in the world?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, that’s part of the problem.’ I was depressed just thinking about it.

  ‘Hang on a sec, I think I know.’ Maddy shot out of her chair. ‘And it’s so obvious I can’t believe one of us hasn’t made you think seriously about it before.’ She grabbed a photo off the mantelpiece, a black-and-white, creased portrait of my first ever dog, and thrust it at me. ‘You’d work with four-legged creatures instead of two-legged monsters.’ She knelt down beside me. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that ever since you lost that ugly-lookin’ mutt you haven’t secretly wanted a job that involved helping animals.’

  ‘Probably,’ I muttered.

  ‘But didn’t you consider that at one point? You even did that yearlong course in animal behaviour after college.’ Clodagh shook her head at Maddy. ‘Nope, that’s not it.’

  ‘It is, I promise. She’s just always been too sensible, too worried about what people think, I’m telling you, Clodagh. Am I not right?’ She made a face at me.

  ‘Probably,’ I muttered again, knowing she’d hit the nail on the head.

  ‘Of course I am. I can’t think why I never pushed you on it before. It was seeing that photo, so out of place in your posh apartment, that did it. How come I’m only noticing it now?’

  ‘I usually keep it in my bedroom,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, I suppose working with animals might actually be better than some of the clients you’ve had over the past few years.’ Clodagh grinned.

  ‘You said it,’ Maddy was on a roll. ‘Well-heeled lunatics, most of them. Now, who’s for a top-up while we analyse the potential of dogs dumping on you rather than humans?’

  As usual, we didn’t get very far and, eventually, they left, but not before making me promise to at least consider my life. I was so pissed off because I knew Maddy was right that I even forgot to contribute towards dinner. By eleven I was in bed with the electric blanket turned to ‘burn’ on the dial and, of course, just to end that perfect day I fell asleep and forgot to turn it off. When I woke at three thirty I was swimming in my own sweat.

  Next morning I resolved to dust myself down, start over and all that shite. But it was becoming harder. Even I – the queen of bouncing back – noticed it was taking longer to regain my energy. Still, I consoled myself that days like yesterday didn’t come along very often, so I put on my high patent shoes for a bit of zing and headed off. Twelve hours later I was comatose on the sofa, coughing and sneezing and ringing anyone I could think of for a moan.

  Maddy was in London that day doing a voiceover for a commercial, Clodagh was probably at the gym working off the excesses of the night before, and I drew the line at calling my sister, mainly because she looked like a model and would listen for precisely ten seconds before telling me all the good things that were happening in her life. Becky was a bit of an issue for me, if I’m honest. She was everything I wanted to be and it rankled sometimes. Anyway, even I’d had enough of me by that stage, so I went to bed early – again – with enough paracetamol to kill a cow, and dreamed of having a life.

  The week didn’t really improve much. I had two sessions with a new client, a man called Marcus who was addicted to porn on the internet. I had specialized in sexual-addiction counselling at college and so a fair amount of my work was in this area. On paper, Marcus had it all – a Page-Three stunner for a wife, five-year-old twin girls who looked like angels, a main residence as well as a holiday home in Ireland and a villa in Portugal. And tons of money, a good portion of which he spent downloading images from various sites and masturbating while his wife and kids slept upstairs. After he’d almost been caught twice – once by one of his daughters – he came to me for help. Oh – and did I say? Marcus was six foot tall, great-looking and one of the most self-absorbed men I’d ever met.

  ‘So why are you here if you don’t feel you’re doing anything wrong?’ I asked for the third time.

  ‘I suppose it’s how other people might see it . . .’ He looked sulky.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I dunno, a work colleague, my mother. It’s getting harder to hide the stuff.’

  ‘And what about your wife, you say she’s no idea?’

  He shrugged. ‘She’s happy, why wouldn’t she be? She has everything she wants. Anyway, she spends the summer holidays, mid-term breaks and any other long weekends in the sun with her girlfriends and all their kids while the husbands earn the dough, so she’
s not around a lot of the time.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the issue though, is it? She could and will be around. And the incident with your daughter nearly coming upon you . . .’

  ‘That was unfortunate.’ He was silent for a while. ‘I’m not harming anyone really,’ he said quietly, but he didn’t look at me as he spoke.

  ‘Could you stop if you wanted to?’ I finally asked him directly.

  ‘Yes, yes of course I could.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What are the reasons you might consider stopping?’

  ‘I suppose, I dunno, I guess because I feel it’s not normal to want to lock yourself in a room at night and jerk off to live action on a screen.’

  ‘So how do you feel when you’re doing it?’

  ‘Excited, the anticipation’s the thing. And the risk. But then, afterwards there’s a brilliant buzz for a while but then it’s not so great . . .’ He tailed off, not wanting to think about the shame I knew came crushing in.

  We talked a bit more. It wasn’t going to be easy for him. These cases were rarely straightforward, and I wasn’t entirely convinced he was ready to tackle his. In fact, my guess was that he was looking for someone to tell him it was OK.

  I had a full day and by the time I arrived home, shivering, the dreaded bug had finally taken hold. I was doubly annoyed because I’d decided earlier I couldn’t stand another night in on my own so I’d arranged to meet Clodagh and go to the movies. But then I felt so exhausted I ended up cancelling, which depressed me further. To her credit, she sent a text offering to babysit you with chips, ice-cream and Lemsip, but I eventually decided I couldn’t face even her.

  By that stage I couldn’t even pluck up the energy to shop, so I headed home for another night in with a zillion TV channels, most of which I watched for about ten seconds before I surfed again. I acted on the ‘feed a cold, starve a fever’ theory that my granny swore by and ate two giant packets of crisps and munched on a packet of chocolate crinkle crunch, drank a very large hot whiskey with cloves and lemon – the Irish cold cure – and fell on to the bed, fully dressed, to watch a late movie. I woke at 6 a.m. in the same position, icy cold, still with the remote in my hand. My breath tasted of cheese and onion, my eye make-up was down around my jaw and my new trouser suit, which had just come back from the cleaners, was only fit to use as a duster.