If Only You Knew

by Claire Allan

  “I thought you could do with a treat?” he said, handing her one.

  She gazed at him, dressed now in his civvies of a pair of stonewashed jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt and he looked irresistible. Yes, she thought to herself, she really could do with atreat. The kind of treat that most certainly did not come out of a bottle and was very certainly not the kind of treat you would expect a rather unremarkable schoolteacher to indulge in on a work night.

  “Cheers,” she said, taking rather too big a sip which caused her to splutter and choke.

  Instantly Connor reached out to pat her back and asked if she was okay and she sat for a moment and realised just how unsexy she must look to him. There she was in her biggest, most comfy dressing-gown – a large and definitely unflattering towelling effort which made her look like she belonged in an ad for fabric softener. Her hair was still wet and tousled from her shower – but unlike those supermodels who could totally rock that look, she looked more wet-look-greasy-chip-pan-head than just-out-of-bed sex kitten. Her toes were half-painted and, while she had been mocking herself only minutes earlier about not having a leg wax or a pedicure, she was suddenly aware that it wasn’t only her legs that were in dire need of waxing. She felt a little awkward, nervous even, as he sat down beside her on the bed and she gulped from her glass again.

  “Go easy,” he soothed her. “You seem really rattled or something.”

  “I’m not rattled,” Ava heard herself snap, pulling her dressing-gown closer around her, looking at him.

  He smiled – a warm smile which said he knew she was, of course, very rattled indeed by the day’s events – and he took her wineglass from her and kissed her gently on the lips. She was surprised at how easily she felt herself melt into his kiss. Her head felt deliciously swimmy and, even though she knew that the champagne had more than likely left her system by now, she still felt a little drunk.

  “I’m a little rattled now,” she murmured.

  “In a good way?” Connor answered, brushing his lips on her neck, just below her ear – just where he knew she found him completely and utterly irresistible.

  “In a good way,” she affirmed, pushing all thoughts of France, purple shoes, waxing appointments and being sensible to back of her head. “Definitely in a good way.”

  Chapter 5

  Friday evening could not have come soon enough. Thursday had been a train-wreck – an absolute disaster of a day which had started with a hangover and continued with a hangover and ended with a dirty big hangover. Ava could barely remember the days when she could go out, drink until three in the morning and manage to get through the course of the next day without actually wanting to shoot herself in the head to put her out of her misery.

  Then again, she had realised, those days had been few and far between. Ava’s wild years had been more a wild few months – and by wild she meant occasionally a bit drunken. But the part of her which regretted missing out on a wilder younger life was being resoundingly drowned out by the part of her which was deeply regretting sharing a bottle of wine with Connor and staying up into the wee small hours doing very naughty things. She had found it hard to look her charges in the face when they arrived in the classroom the following morning and she kept her distance from their parents in case there was whiff of alcohol from her – but she was sure her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes gave away that something was definitely up. Surreptitiously, she had sipped from a bottle of Lucozade hidden in her desk drawer and had tried not to boke when one of her more lively five-year-old pupils had stuck his finger so far up his own nose he had brought on a mega, snotty nosebleed.

  With no chance of the hangover abating, she had come home and cooked Maisie her dinner before disappearing into the bath as soon as Connor appeared home – looking equally worn out but with a sly grin on his face which showed her he had very much enjoyed her abandoning her inhibitions the previous night.

  “Go,” he said. “Have a while to yourself.”

  She had nodded gratefully and disappeared upstairs where she lit her favourite Jo Malone candle, topped up her bath with a Lush bath-bomb and poured herself a nice, fresh glass of cranberry juice to try and soothe her dehydrated body. Sinking into the bubbles and feeling her muscles start to relax, she was just about reaching her comfy zone when the bathroom door flew open and in ran Maisie, dressed in her pyjamas, some fairy wings, two necklaces and, it seemed, the entire contents of Ava’s make-up bag. Needless to say Ava’s muscles instantly seized back up into instant lockjaw mode.

  “Hi, Mammy,” Maisie said, dropping her pyjama trousers and knickers and clambering onto the toilet. There were two other toilets in the house, Ava thought – but no, her daughter needed to use this one. For a poo. A very, smelly poo – which came with the most interesting of toddler running commentaries.

  “Oh, Mammy, the water splashed my bum-bum!” Maisie laughed.

  As much as she loved the very bones of her daughter, Ava really did not have the energy for this – especially when the call of “Wipe my bum!” rang out.

  “Connor!” Ava yelled and listened for her husband’s footsteps on the stairs.

  He walked in, saw the painted clown sitting on the toilet and smiled apologetically at his wife before embarking on Operation Bum Wipe. Ava closed her eyes and tried to stay in her happy place, hoping against hope the scented candle would soon work its magic and make the room her fragrant sanctuary again.

  “Come on now, toots,” Connor had urged.

  “But I want to stay with Mammy. I just want to talk.”

  There was more than a distinct whinge to her daughter’s voice and Ava felt her temper start to fray – which she knew was unfair. It wasn’t Maisie’s fault she had a hangover.

  It was a lost battle. Mammy Guilt 1, Ava 0.

  “Okay, love, you nip on downstairs and I’ll be out now,” she said, pulling the plug out with her toes.

  Grabbing a towel, Ava pulled herself from the bath and roughly dried her skin before slipping on her dressing-gown and slippers. Padding to the living room, she found Maisie now sitting perfectly engrossed in one of her books and not a bit bothered by her mother’s arrival. Ava let out a deep sigh.

  “What’s up?” Connor asking, raising his gaze from the TV and giving her a half-smile.

  “Nothing,” she replied, a petulant, defeatist tone slipping from her lips before she turned and went back to her room to pull on some pyjamas and dry her hair.

  She fought the urge to cry, and decided she was never drinking again.

  The hangover had continued through until Friday which had proved no less easy on the stomach than Thursday. One of her charges had been sick everywhere, which prompted three more of her charges to also throw up while one other wee lad – who was never good with drama – had gone into floods of hysterical tears. She had just about made it out of the classroom with her sanity and decided that there was no way in hell she was facing the supermarket for her traditional Friday-night shopping extravaganza. She would order a takeaway instead and, given that the weather was nice, they would sit in the garden and eat it. In fact she would put Maisie to bed nice and early and make the meal just for her and Connor. Perfect. A hangover cure. A sleeping baby. And some sunshine.

  She might even get an early night – a proper early night – not the kind of early night she had with Connor on Wednesday which had turned into a very late night indeed. She felt almost giddy at the very notion of it.

  Maisie was just watching the Tombliboos say goodnight when Connor arrived. Glad to see him home, Ava greeted him with a kiss and a cold beer. Even more glad to see him home, Maisie greeted him with a full-on bear hug. Watching them together while finally coming out of the fug of her hangover, Ava realised that they probably would be just fine if she did go to France and leave them for a bit. She just wondered if she would be fine without them.

  She promised herself she would text Hope later that evening to start on making some plans.

  Hope loved her Friday-night r
outine – well, as much as she could love a routine which was essentially that of a rather dull middle-aged woman and not that of a young, hip and happeningthirty-something.

  Dylan would go to work and she would momentarily feel a little bereft and then she would brush herself off and remind herself of the pleasures that awaited her. There was no need for keeping up appearances when Dylan wasn’t around. She could take her make-up off, slip out of her high heels and into her softest, squishiest slippers and baggiest, comfiest pyjamas. She would pour a glass of wine – just the one – and switch on her computer and catch up with friends old and new and the very latest in celebrity gossip. And then she would discuss the very same gossip at length on Twitter or Facebook or whatever other social-networking site she chose to visit. She would never be lonely.

  Tonight was little different though because Dylan was not at work and she wasn’t so easily distracted. Instead she had the urge to stick Spotify on her computer and download the very best in 80s soft rock ballads to croon along to while getting rat-arsed and trying not to think about exactly what he was up to that night.

  He had been like the proverbial cat on the proverbial hot tin roof before he went out. And the cat he was like was also a cat on heat. He had left in a fug of deodorant, cologne and hair gel. When she had hugged him she had felt the crisp starchiness of his new shirt.

  “Do I look okay?” he asked, looking over her shoulder to try and catch his reflection in the mirror over the fire.

  “Dylando, you look wunnnnerful tonight!” she sang in a broad Belfast accent and he had laughed and kissed her on the top of her head.

  “Thanks, Hopeless,” he said and she had laughed even though she wanted to kick him square in the nuts. Of all the nicknames he had for her ‘Hopeless’ was her absolute least favourite – especially that night when it wasn’t even one tiny bit remotely funny.

  He glanced at himself again and declared it was beer o’clock and he needed some Dutch courage. Opening a bottle from the fridge and sitting down opposite Hope, he looked at his watch and sipped from his bottle.

  “Taxi’s booked for twenty minutes’ time,” he said. “Not like me to be ready early.”

  “No,” Hope had replied. “It certainly isn’t.”

  He looked at his watch again and she watched as he loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. It was kind of cute seeing him this nervous – or it would have been if it wasn’t killing her.

  “Have you decided about France yet?” he asked.

  She had told him about Betty’s letter as they sat in the Merchant. He had returned from the bar with their drinks and she had shown him the letter and he had immediately urged her to go.

  “You have to. Betty was so good to us. You owe it to her and, besides, it’s not going to cost you anything. You won’t have to up your overdraft or beg, borrow and steal from anyone and this could be just what you need.”

  “What I need?” she had asked, thinking that what she needed was really just a few feet from her.

  “Well, you know I love you, but . . .”

  No sentence in the world that started with ‘You know I love you, but’ ever ended well and Hope braced herself for the onslaught.

  “. . . you’re stuck in a rut these days. You’ve been working hard and not necessarily getting far and you seem, well, a bit fecked-off some of the time . . . and you’ve lost a bit of you. Does that sound awful?”

  She had shaken her head but she had wanted to nod. And cry. But she was not going to cry in the Merchant when there were people all around her who were thinking she was with this hunky man in front of her and being jealous of her. Crying would kind of fuck that up. And, even though Dylan was her best friend in the entire world, she could not get into this type of deep and meaningful conversation with him . . . not there, not then.

  And now, watching him sit nervously waiting on his taxi, she was glad that she had not got into that particular hot and heavy conversation. The atmosphere between them would have been really fecking awkward if she had gone down that particular excruciatingly embarrassing route.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve decided about France. You were right. I kind of knew that before you said it, but yes, I’m going to go. I’m just waiting to hear from Ava to see if she is up for it and if not I guess I’ll go it alone. At least I kind of know the area – it may have been a while but Saint Jeannet doesn’t strike me as the kind of place which changes much.”

  She was talking but he was just persistently looking at his watch and gulping at his beer while occasionally looking at his phone, presumably to see if she had texted or called. Hope could have told him she was changing her name by deed poll to Nellie the Elephant and running off to join the circus and she was sure he would have responded with the same nervous nod and quiet affirmation that she was doing the right thing.

  It was almost a relief when he had gone and she hadn’t felt as if she might combust with the tension of the whole damn thing. But that was before she realised she was alone. And it was Friday night. And all she had was her computer for company and some very dodgy 80s rock music.

  She would get drunk – so very, very drunk – and try not to think about whether or not he was kissing her just there and then.

  Lying on the sofa, a square of Galaxy chocolate melting on her tongue while some big-haired man sang about wanting to know what love is, Hope heard her phone beep to life andshe reached her hand to the floor to find it.

  Three words. Not, admittedly the three words she wanted to hear most of all in the world, but they would do . . . three words: “Let’s do it.”

  She hit reply and tapped a message back to Ava. “You’re on. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can set the ball rolling proper.”

  Yes, she was a sad sack lying at home listening to questionable music on a Friday night all on her own but things were going to change.

  Chapter 6

  Karen’s face was a picture – not unlike ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch.

  “You lucky, lucky bitch!” she said, probably a little too loudly for a play centre which was mostly populated by very impressionable under-ten-year-olds. “I mean, it’s terribly sad that your aunt died of course, and you have my sympathy, but a holiday, in France, without kids – what I wouldn’t give –”

  “Technically it’s not a holiday as such,” Ava said, looking over to where Maisie – clearly over her sore-arm injury – was swinging from a rope and doing her very best monkey impressions. “We have to put her affairs in order.” She figured ‘putting affairs in order’ sounded better than sorting through her clothes and personal belongings and giving an old house a good clean.

  “Ah, but still, it’s France and it’s summer and I’m sure there will be at least some time for lounging about,” said Karen. “We did France last year but it was Euro-frigging-Disney and a complete pain in the arse. All that all-day happiness and princess nonsense. You know what I wanted? A sun-lounger, a margarita and a trashy book. I tell you, we won’t ever be going anywhere again that doesn’t have a kids’ club.”

  Ava thought that actually it would have been lovely to take Maisie to Disneyland and she couldn’t think of anything worse than going on holiday and handing her daughter over to baby-sitters the whole time she was there. Sure, she craved some time to herself – to be her again but the one big fat sticking point in her plans to go to France was Maisie.

  She nodded at Karen and sipped from her coffee cup. “I’ve to make all the plans yet. My cousin is going with me and I suppose I’ll have to see when it suits her to go. It will be the school holidays at least.”

  “Bitch,” Karen muttered. “You lucky, lucky bitch.”

  “You need to maybe stop spending so much time with Karen,” Connor said as they walked hand in hand along the beach while Maisie walked on ahead, picking up stones and shells and screaming with laughter as the waves rushed in towards her bare feet. “She gives you the rage.”

  “I don’t know that I would say she gives me the
rage. She scares me a bit, I suppose, because I worry I’ll end up like her.”

  Connor laughed. “Never in a million years could you end up like Karen.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I find this whole motherhood thing a little overwhelming.”

  “Everyone finds it a little overwhelming,” he said. “You know that. Jesus, it’s scarier than I ever imagined being a parent could be but, you know, the good outweighs the bad, doesn’t it?”

  She looked at Maisie who was closely examining a large string of seaweed. “Of course,” she said, “but there are times . . .”

  “Of course there are times,” Connor interrupted. “But they are just that – times. Not everything.”

  She took a deep breath and walked on, suddenly grateful that she was wearing sunglasses because tears were smarting in her eyes. She couldn’t tell him how she really felt –that she loved her daughter so much it hurt and that she felt crippled with guilt whenever they were apart for more than twenty minutes but how sometimes, when they were together, she didn’t remember who she really was anymore. She was Maisie’s mammy – she knew that. And she was Connor’s wife. And she was damn good teacher with a lovely classroom. She had a lovely house filled with lovely things and on paper she had it all but sometimes it didn’t feel enough. She knew, she knew deep down she was a godawful ungrateful baggage for even thinking that way. For a while she had thought maybe it was just a phase but when she met with Karen and heard her wax lyrical on her favourite chosen topic of “why life as a mother is so unrewarding” she wondered was the fug ever going to lift.

  She squeezed Connor’s hand – to reassure herself as much as anything and he squeezed back. “France will be good for you, you know. I know you’re worried about Maisie but there is no need. You go – and have fun and a great big adventure and then come back and we’ll work this out. Whatever isn’t right with you, we’ll work it out.”