by Sharon Owens
‘I hope you’ve all held on to your tickets, tonight, as advised,’ said Johnny, to the hall mirror. ‘Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen, because you won’t believe what the main prize is!’ Johnny filled up his cheeks with air and held his breath for a few seconds before letting it out. Wow! Talk about going out on a high!
Then, he buffed up his blue suede shoes, ran a comb through his hair, and danced down the steps towards his beloved Lincoln Continental, which was waiting for him in the garage behind the house.
27. Accusations, Palpitations
Kate sat down gently on her handbag-festooned bed, and sighed a sigh that came all the way up from her white leather shoes. This little bedroom had been her refuge and her sanctuary for thirty years. Surrounded by her lovely things, and with the homely sounds of her mother rattling pans in the kitchen downstairs, it was the one place where she had always felt safe. When the local news was full of sickening murders and rising unemployment statistics, it was the one thing that did not disappoint. Kate had closed her mind to the Troubles, and to other sad things, all her life. Like so many other people who were bewildered by the violence that raged all around them, she had emotionally left Belfast years ago; and lived her life in a bubble of new handbags and temporary love affairs and glamorous television programmes.
She now realized her mother and father had done the same; her father retreated to his garden when he was frightened by the sectarian killings, and her house-proud mother busied herself with her many china ornaments and tasselled cushions. They went to their work in the hospital each day, and patiently cleaned up after the doctors and nurses. Even when they saw the tattered remains of people who were once young and strong being carried into hospital, they said nothing. They felt nothing. They just got out their mops and cloths and cleaned away the blood. Shirley had often asked them why they didn’t move away to England or the Irish Republic, and start a new life in a peaceful place. But they’d just shrugged their shoulders and said, ‘Sure, why would we do that? We don’t belong there. We’d be nothing but immigrants, to the end of our days.’ Kate thought being an immigrant was not nearly as bad as having to walk to school over broken glass and burnt pavements, but as a child she was powerless to leave the city on her own.
An enormous bunch of white roses stood on Kate’s dressing table in a tall, glass vase. Yet another gift from Kevin. Roses were the most beautiful flowers in the world. Kate loved them with a passion. How like Kevin to be so considerate, when he had already spent a king’s ransom on the home improvements! The day he gave her the roses, they’d made love properly for the first time, in Kevin’s double bed. It wasn’t too bad. He did his best to satisfy her. But as she lay smiling in his arms, it was the gorgeous new headboard in their bedroom she was thinking of; not him. Kate wished she fancied him a little bit more. He did have superb legs: fully rounded muscular thighs, neat, hairless kneecaps and slender, shapely ankles. Even his feet were very acceptable; small white toenails and no bulging blue veins visible anywhere, like some men had. Normally, she’d have found a lover like Kevin a real bonus, but there was something missing. Excitement! She wanted to feel a leap in her heart when he began to unbutton his shirt! She wanted to tremble with anticipation, instead of dread.
But she had more or less resigned herself to the marriage. She liked Kevin as a friend; and loved him enough to marry him. They got on well together. But the doubts were still there. She knew they should talk about it and maybe see a counsellor. But it seemed easier to go through with the wedding now, than to start backing out at this late stage. The half of Belfast knew the tale of how Kate Winters and Kevin McGovern had suddenly fallen so completely in love, that after only days into their relationship, they’d decided to get married. One of the neighbours knew a woman who cleaned the floors at the TV station, and she got her to put the word around the canteen about the lovebirds from the Lisburn Road. There was talk of star reporter Pamela Ballantine turning up on the doorstep with a camera crew, but so far, there was no sign of Pamela’s elegant silver shell suit. Mrs Winters was forever polishing her many ornaments in the front room, just in case. And she never let her domestic stockpile of Mr Kipling cakes fall below twenty boxes. It was hungry work making documentaries, she said.
Kevin was going to make a good husband. Kate told herself that constantly. She would be mad to call off the wedding, just because she wasn’t all moon-faced and soppy about him, like Shirley was about Declan. She was going to marry him on 21 April, and worry about the lovemaking and the babies later on. Some people said that most men only found their wives attractive for the first couple of years anyway, and that after the ‘honeymoon period’ was over, they’d rather lie in front of the television watching sport for sixteen hours a day and drinking beer and getting fat. It seemed to be a universal fact that once a few babies had been born, the chemistry that had attracted couples to each other in the first place had to be passed on to some other newly-weds.
Kate asked Shirley if she believed in the theory of short-lived attraction. Under a deluge of tough questioning, Shirley finally admitted that she would definitely fancy Declan until the day she died. Yes, even if he put on a bit of weight or if his hairline began to recede. Yes! Even when they were both old, she’d love him just as much. Good grief. Kate still had to come to terms with being old, in general. Never mind old, and in love! Would Shirley still fancy Declan in heaven? Yes. If there was a heaven, or an afterlife of any kind, she’d still fancy him. Then Shirley went all starry-eyed and declared that even if they were only wisps of smoke in a faraway universe, she’d find him and they’d drift on, together. (What utter nonsense. Kate wasn’t thinking that far ahead.)
The wedding was only days away. Kate’s dress, that gold-coloured and heavily beaded explosion of a thing, was hanging on the wardrobe door. The neckline was so low it would give the priest a heart attack. Well, tough Cheddar to him! Women had been pushed around for centuries: ravished in private, covered up in public. Made to feel ashamed of their bodies and their sexual needs. Why the big fuss about pure white dresses, anyway, when the whole congregation knew the happy couple were going straight upstairs to the honeymoon suite of the hotel, to throw their finery on the carpet and make love all night? Wasn’t that the sole point of the entire operation? The human race couldn’t continue without lovemaking; and it was time for polite society to admit it. Wedding rings or no wedding rings. Shirley was correct about that, as she had been right about a lot of things, recently. (Which was a little bit sickening.) Well, Kate might have her doubts about her future husband, but she was dead set on the dress. She was very proud of her figure, especially her chest, and she was determined to show it off.
The only problem was, the dress was so lavish it would make poor Shirley look like Kate’s bridesmaid, a fact that Mrs Winters had lost no time in pointing out. Well, Shirley said that was pure rubbish. Both dresses were absolutely gorgeous. And it was good to have different dresses. They weren’t identical twins, after all. So the gold dress was given Martha’s blessing. And Kate had agreed to carry a posy of yellow roses, to match Shirley’s sunflowers. And their two friends from the dole office had been rigged out with yellow dresses as well. They’d bought them from another bridal shop, worried that Marion would get fed up with giving out gowns for free. So, all in all, the wedding group looked very artistic and upmarket. And even Mrs Winters had to agree that pink satin had been done to death. Mr Winters said nothing at all about the style choices of his daughters. He said a dress was a dress at the end of the day; and he was only worried that the two grooms would do a runner and make bloody fools of them all. Kate told him to cheer up and pay up. So he produced his chequebook, blew the dust off it and paid for the flowers, like the dutiful father he truly was.
Next to the wardrobe, on Kate’s cosy bedroom armchair, lay a tall tiara with crystal droplets, a pair of gold satin shoes, a matching draw-string dolly bag, a pearly choker with seven rows of pearls on it, a frilly garter, a set of designer lingerie,
and a new bottle of Chanel perfume, and the keys to Kevin’s (thoroughly renovated) house. Beside the roses on the dressing table were two large tickets to the last disco in Hogan’s. A very fancy design from the printers, too, with scalloped edges. Kate’s name and Kevin’s name were clearly handwritten on numbers 334 and 335, respectively. A note on the bottom of the tickets read: Admittance will be refused unless ticket is presented.
Kevin was coming round an hour early, to take her out for a quiet drink before the disco began. He had thrown himself into the role of fiancé, recently. So much so, that Kate was beginning to feel suffocated. She saw him at work, of course. And he was phoning and calling round every single evening, sometimes twice an evening. He had agreed to all of Kate’s plans for the wedding. He had booked a luxury honeymoon, and he had agreed to wear a gold-coloured suit, with a diamanté brooch at his neck, instead of a tie. The brooch was the size of a saucer, with dangly bits swinging from it. Yellow and pink stones. It would put Liberace to shame, but no matter. It was Kate’s special day, and Kevin was willing to do whatever he had to do, to make her happy.
(Kevin didn’t like his outfit. It was way over the top, even by his standards. Lucky old Declan was getting away with a black suit, a white shirt and a blue tie. Anyway, never mind! Kevin was just looking forward to two weeks with Kate, in a private chalet in Barbados. Never mind the glass floor where you could watch the fish swimming under the chalet – he wouldn’t be taking his eyes off Kate’s tiny waist or her raspberry-pink nipples for any length of time.)
Kate was thinking about the honeymoon, too. She was worried sick about it, and she didn’t know why. If only she could feel the thrill that she used to feel.
For heaven’s sake, she thought, Shirley was slaving away at work, through the tiredness and the strawberry cravings, through the evil looks from Miss Bingham, through the fussing and fretting of her future mother-in-law who thought she should resign and let them buy her a house. And not one word of complaint out of her; she was as cool as a freezer full of polar bears.
Yet here was Kate Winters, spoilt madam and complete flake – having doubts about her wedding to a lovely, reasonable, caring man. There must be something seriously wrong with her, Kate decided. A brain tumour, or brain cancer, or a leaking artery that was making it so hard for her to think clearly. Shirley said she should go to the doctor again and ask for some more tests. It was probably a blood-sugar thing. Diabetes, maybe? Kate might ask for a leaflet about women and alcohol, as well, just in case her symptoms were alcohol-related.
Louise Lowry was acting strangely, too. She had actually come up to Kate in the street a few days earlier, and told her they could be friends. No mention of all that business about the glass eye and the mint imperials. Bygones will be bygones, she’d said. Alex and herself were getting on like a house on fire, she’d said. Alex was a hot lover. Red hot. With the stamina and the physique of a young bull. So, no harm done on that score. Congratulations on the wedding, too. Kevin McGovern was a great fella, even if he did make his money selling drugs in Carryduff. Drugs? Drugs! What was she talking about? Kevin hadn’t said anything about drugs. He didn’t even smoke cigarettes. (Kate had a thing for bad boys, but not this bad. This was really bad.)
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Louise,’ Kate had cried. ‘You must be thinking of someone else with a similar name. Gosh, haven’t you got big hands, by the way!’
‘Well, why would he mention it to you?’ Louise had fired right back at her, shoving her hands into her pockets. ‘It’s not the kind of thing he’d want to brag about. Sure, you’ve only been going out with him two minutes. How does he know he can trust you? Oh, he’s known as the Bungalow Baron out that direction, don’t you know? All his clients are homeowners, you see. Very discreet operation, he runs.’
‘You’re a liar, Louise Lowry. Why wasn’t he ever arrested, then? Answer me that! If this is common knowledge, why wasn’t he lifted?’
‘Sure, the half of the cops over there are smoking joints for breakfast. They’ve nothing else to do. It’s all owner-occupied in Carryduff. No housing estates full of thieving little beggars on the Saintfield Road!’
Kate didn’t believe her, of course. Stupid big bitch was just trying to upset her. But the doubts were still there. How had Kevin made so much money from the garage anyway? And it was a little annoying that Alex was very passionate in bed with Louise Lowry, when he had proved such a terrible disappointment to Kate herself. It was quite damaging to the ego. Maybe Alex only got turned on by a common sort of girl? Some men were like that. Nice girls made them feel inadequate. Maybe Louise knew some bedroom tricks that Kate didn’t know? Maybe Kate was just tired out from three months of intensive shopping. She lay down on her white lace quilt and fell into a deep sleep.
All sorts of things were rampaging through Kate’s tortured mind as the hands of the clock crawled round to nine o’clock. Standing Stone and Louise Lowry, making love frantically on a broken bed full of Jelly Wellies and Fizzy Lizzies; a young red-faced priest staring down Kate’s thrusting cleavage and completely forgetting the words to the ceremony; the Bungalow Baron of Carryduff in his gold jacket, slipping joints and pills to the locals at the golf club; Shirley’s unborn baby who was the one person responsible for this whole ridiculous circus; and worst of all, the future children that Kevin wanted so much. Kate could picture them quite vividly. Screaming and fighting, and destroying the pristine white furniture with their sticky little hands. Would Kate get a nanny, so she could still run the garage? Or would that be even worse than minding the children herself? Would the nanny be rough with the children behind Kate’s back? Would Kevin fancy the nanny, when Kate’s lovely body was ruined with red and purple stretch marks? Would Kate even care if he did? If Kevin started an affair with the nanny, it would give Kate a bit of time to herself. Some blessed time away from poor old Kevin who was absolutely sex mad. Kate’s breathing began to speed up. She woke up and opened her eyes wide. Her lovely chandelier was hanging just five feet above her face. She’d miss seeing it every morning. She was clutching her pillow and her back was soaked with sweat.
She had turned into Shirley, for pity’s sake, wondering and questioning and philosophizing about everything. Bloody hell! In a rare moment of clarity, Kate realized that she had not taken after her pushy mother, as she’d always thought. She was exactly the same as her cowardly father! Hiding away in her bedroom, instead of the garden shed. She liked to hide behind Martha’s apron strings. She didn’t want to be all grown-up and adult, and make adult decisions. She wanted to keep going on holiday with the girls every summer. She didn’t want to learn how to cook Irish stew, or have to pay boring utility bills, or breastfeed hungry children. Breasts were for showing off in tight tops, and nothing else, in Kate’s book. And housework? Kate couldn’t imagine herself wielding a vacuum cleaner and a feather duster. Alone all day in Kevin’s house? The very idea of it made her feel ill.
‘I wish I was back in the dole office,’ she said, out loud. ‘Even with that she-devil, Bingham, crawling around. Life was so much simpler, then. And Shirley was with me and I wasn’t ever alone.’
And that was the trigger.
She leapt up off the bed, pulling on as many handbags as she could. Some on her shoulders, some on her elbows, and even one or two round her neck. She managed to get twenty-five handbags safely attached to her person before the panic overwhelmed her. She half fell down the stairs in a pair of very high heels, shouting, ‘Tell Kevin we’re finished, I’m leaving the country!’ to her bewildered parents. She knocked over the hall stand and two potted plants in her panic; and even the little holy-water font ended up crashing onto the tiled doorstep, and the ceramic praying hands fell off it. Then she pelted out into the street, and ran down the road, waving for a taxi.
She, Kate Winters, was going to run away to Paris, and set up her own exclusive salon, selling designer handbags. She would design them herself. How hard could it be? Art college, and a degree in design? Who needed those s
illy things? Her passion for bags would see her through. It was so obvious, that this was what she had been born to do. Why had it never occurred to her before? She dropped a couple of bags on the Lisburn Road when she was leaping into a black cab. (One red bag with a picture of tulips on it, and one black velvet opera bag covered with plastic emeralds.) She banged the door of the cab shut behind her.
‘For God’s sake, get me to the airport,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve got a flight to Paris to catch!’
‘Which airport, love?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ cried Kate, and she bit down on her credit card, leaving faint teeth-marks on it. ‘Whichever one has the most flights. And hurry!’ She sat hunched forward on the seat and her face went numb, and she was only barely aware of the houses and shops and the people walking along the street. She was trembling all over; she felt sick and dizzy. She tried to control her breathing, but she lost track of the seconds, and concentrated instead on her Parisian boutique. She would have a counter covered with silver mosaic tiles, and a big mirror like the ones in royal palaces, and she would learn French and eat baguettes and posh cheese, and maybe have a little lapdog to keep her company while she became a millionaire. She would tie a bow in the dog’s hair.
‘Hurry up,’ she gasped. ‘I’m going to miss the plane.’
‘You’re the boss,’ muttered the taxi-driver, as he pressed the accelerator.
28. High Drama at Aldergrove
When Kate arrived at the airport in tears, the panic attack had subsided and she was left feeling worn out and very sleepy. The driver pulled up at the terminal, opened the cab door for her, and waited patiently while she rummaged for payment in several handbags. She had barely enough cash with her to pay him. And then she remembered she had no passport. She couldn’t get to Paris tonight. Maybe she could fly to London and stay in a hotel and have Shirley post it over? When she went into the cafe for a cup of tea to think things over, everybody stared at her and some people thought she was a pedlar selling handbags and reported her to Security. Two grimfaced young men promptly turned up and asked her to come with them. They took Kate to a private room and she had to explain that she was getting married soon, and that she was just a bit nervous about it, and that it was all a simple misunderstanding. The young men were very sympathetic. They knew that all women could be very emotional at times. They gave her a few shopping bags to keep her handbags in, a cup of tea, and said she could make one phone call from the office.
