Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  I’ve never told anyone that before, not even Daisy because she would tell me I’m gorgeous and talented and a fab mum and she just wouldn’t understand that I’m none of those things.

  She didn’t know me back when I was full of enthusiasm. She doesn’t know the dreams Aidan and I used to share, as we talked into the wee small hours. Most of all she doesn’t know that what makes his disappointment so painful is that it is only mirroring the disappointment I feel in myself. I had it all, the world at my feet and yet here I am, tied to this humdrum existence. Why pretend to be something I’m not?

  Louise was right. There I’ve said it, the one sentence I swore would never pass my lips in my entire life, but I realise that I do need a change. I do need to make something of myself, to shed this (blubbery) skin. I need to make Aidan look at me with love again, not with friendship, not with affection but with full, burning, passionate take-me-to-bed-or-lose-me-forever love.

  Because, looking at him, ignoring his indifference to me and that surging hurt I feel because of it, I see the man I do still love. I see the man who, despite his failings, I want to be with. And I know that somewhere, deep down, he has to feel something for me too.

  I realise, as I start to cry into the remains of the Death By Chocolate, that I may be drunk.

  “Daisy will bust my arse for wasting a good dessert,” I mumble before paying the bill and we both head home to sleep. The morals of Holy Catholic Ireland are safe for another night.

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  It’s funny how my mind likes to rationalise things so that they won’t hurt so much any more. Thinking about it, Aidan never actually said I was ugly, or fat, or a (guinea) pig.

  I lie awake, and think about everything that has happened. No matter how tired or drunk I feel, I just can’t fall asleep.

  If I was happy and confident in what I was doing and how I was looking, then I would not have hesitated in telling Louise to fuck off. The fact that my reaction was to sob like a lunatic in the toilets before dashing across town for a Caramel Rocky with Daisy speaks volumes. Likewise I wouldn’t have looked to Aidan for reassurance and been devastated when none was forthcoming.

  I don’t want to change. Or, to be more accurate, I’m too scared to change. I just want to be good enough as I am. I want God to realise my intentions are good and let me wake up gorgeous and confident and looking more than a little like Jennifer Aniston.

  I’m scared to face the truth. I broke into a cold sweat when they weighed me at the antenatal clinic when I was expecting Jack and at least then I had an excuse for my rounded belly and swollen breasts. I had to fight a very strong urge to stick my fingers in my ears and shout “La la la la, I can’t hear you!” every time a doctor or well-meaning midwife tried to mention it. So to reveal it to Louise, of all people, would be hell on earth.

  That’s not to say I’ve ignored what I’ve become. I’ve maybe not acted on it in the way I should or could have done, but I’ve not ignored it. It has been there whispering in my mind every time I’ve moved up a dress size or noticed a foundation tidemark on my chin or realised I really should have washed my hair the night before.

  But I don’t need Louise and her interfering little ways to sort this out. I’m a strong confident woman. I can do this. I can make myself into the person I want to be, by hook or by crook. I can be stunning. I can be confident again. I can be a wanton sex goddess that makes my husband drool with lust every time he sees me. I can be a fantastic mammy – heck, better than that, I can be a yummy mummy!

  Finally, as the sky starts to brighten, I fall asleep and it’s another joyous dream where I’m shaking my skinny ass at Louise and giving Aidan the finger as Dermot and I (I feel we are close enough to be on first-name terms) ride off into the sunset.

  Chapter 3

  It’s strange waking up in a house without Jack. I’m so used to the alarm clock that is his singing at seven fifteen that I wake automatically even though the house is silent. You could set your watch by that child – in fact I don’t think our battered old alarm clock has had a look-in since he was born.

  Aidan is still fast asleep beside me when I stir. His breathing is threatening to turn into a loud rumbling snore until I dig him gently on the arm and he rolls from his back, quietening down almost immediately.

  The sun is streaming through our blinds, casting shadows against the wall, warming the room. The traffic is just starting to move and I can hear birds singing in the distance. I stretch sleepily before getting up, getting showered and making my way across town to collect Jack.

  Saturday is such a busy day for Aidan, I normally let him sleep it off while I designate the weekend as time solely for me and Jack. It’s when I forget about being a working mammy and we head out to town, or to ‘soft play’, before ending the day with a huge, sticky ice cream or chocolate bar shared sneakily in the car on the way home.

  There will be no ice cream for me today though – this is my new regime. My that’ll-show-’em attitude whereby I’ll knock their proverbial socks off.

  I feel fresher today, despite my lack of sleep, as if the worry of the last twenty-four hours has been lifted off my shoulders. I know if I think about it all too much I’ll start to wallow again so I make a firm resolution to think as little as humanly possible for as long as possible.

  Dressing in my comfiest tracksuit bottoms and oldest T- shirt, I scrape my hair back and rub a damp facecloth over my face, commending myself all the while that it isn’t a baby wipe. Already I feel the New Me emerge. She who has perfect skin and follows a proper skincare regime.

  Drinking my morning coffee and shunning the buttery toast that usually goes with it, I breathe in, out and relax. I know I have to make a plan to get this to work. I’ll show ’em! In the words of Maria in The Sound of Music, I have confidence in me.

  Striding out the door towards the car, I throw Jack’s buggy in the boot and vow we will go for a walk and get some much-needed exercise in. We will become an über-fit family who go on adventure holidays and are permanently weather-beaten from all our strenuous activities. Mentally I’m already planning how to write my slimming success story for Northern People and dreaming about wearing a slinky and kinky outfit for the photo shoot.

  My body will be a temple at which all lay people shall come and worship. There will be No Excuses, with a capital N and capital E this time. Failure is not an option.

  Of course, it’s not long until the first wobble comes along. There is a square of Galaxy sitting on the dashboard. It has started to melt in the sun and looks deliciously gooey. The balmy July morning air means I can almost smell its chocolatey goodness and my stomach does a little flip-flop, reminding me that Grace cannot live on coffee and affirmations alone.

  A battle has started, between that wee angel on one shoulder and the dirty fecker with the horns on the other. The wee devil tells me one square won’t hurt, as long as I count it into my calories for the day, while the angel gives me that I’m-very-disappointed-in-you look usually bestowed only by Mammy. The guilt inspires me to eat the chocolate and on I drive, vowing to start again on this quest to find the New Me.

  I’m almost at Daisy’s when my phone rings and herself, with a fractious child in the background, declares loudly I’m to bring milk as she is all out and why hadn’t I warned her that Jack turns into the Tasmanian Devil if he doesn’t get Weetabix for breakfast?

  I pull in at a nearby shop, grab my purse and run straight through the door and straight into the path of Louise, who, you’ve guessed it, looks as fresh as the proverbial daisy. She is wearing gorgeous figure-hugging jeans, the kind I can only dream about wearing, some bejewelled flip-flops and a breast-hugging white T-shirt. Her hair is scooped back off her face with a pair of designer sunglasses and her shopping basket contains a pineapple, a copy of Hello magazine and a fruit smoothie.

  She looks at me, casting her eyes on my messiness with that dreadful up-and-down stare you normally reserve for criminals or fat people wearing Lycra. It is too m
uch to hope that God will suddenly clothe me in an invisibility cloak and let me escape unnoticed from herself.

  In fairness, I should have known that if I had the audacity to step out of the house without my make-up, and wearing these oh-so-comfy tracksuit bottoms, I would bump into someone I know. It was just an extra celestial bonus for whoever enjoys getting a laugh on high that today that someone happened to be Louise.

  “Grace,” she smiles, “how are you? No wee man with you today? Goodness, you look tired!”

  I smile back, clasping my purse to my stomach in the vain hope it will hide my bulgy post-baby rolls and reply that I am fine, just on my way to get Jack and, with a laugh and a roll of the eyes for effect, that tired.

  “I was out clubbing last night. It was mental. I’m wrecked,” I reply, hoping she doesn’t ask me where I was supposed to have gone because I really can’t remember what they changed the name of Squires to.

  Of course, I could just tell the truth – that I was awake half the night mulling over her rudeness, her assumption that I would be willing to humiliate myself in the pages of our magazine for all to read – but I don’t want to give her that upper hand once again. She needs to realise that, just because I’m hurtling towards the wrong side of thirty and weigh slightly more than I should, that doesn’t mean I can’t shake my funky-groove thang on the dance floor.

  “Good for you,” Louise replies. “You should have given me a call. Me and Briege went out too. It was mental. I didn’t get to bed till four – the bags under my eyes must be dreadful!”

  I look at her shiny skin and I know I should compliment her obviously very expensive skincare regime and her youthful good looks, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. “Cold teaspoons will sort those out, or haemorrhoid cream,” I answer, fighting the urge to bash her over the head with a two-litre carton of milk and a packet of Caramel Rockies.

  “I’ll give it a go,” she smiles before waving goodbye and heading to the front of the queue to pay for her goodies. I take up a safe position beside the vegetables and wait for her to leave before I feel safe enough to move myself.

  It only takes ten minutes to get to Daisy’s house in the quiet morning traffic and it seems that I’m about the only person in her street up and about. The air is still, the only sound I can hear is the distant humming of a lawnmower and I take a minute to allow the peacefulness to wash over me before heading to her front door.

  Daisy’s house feels like home. Sometimes I swear it feels more like home than my own house. She lives in the kind of house I used to draw pictures of when I was a little girl, flicking through Mammy’s catalogue picking the kind of furniture I’d love to have when I grew up. In fact, when I was small Daddy would drive me down this very same street, nestled close to the university, and tell me one day he would love to live here. I can see why it appealed to him so much. When you drive into Daisy’s street it feels as though you are leaving behind all the worries of the world and stepping back in time.

  The house has a red door, and for some reason that calms me. I like red doors; they feel welcoming and homely. On each side of the door stands a stained-glass window, in hues of reds and greens. Daisy swears she hates them. She thinks they are old-fashioned – but I think they add character and when the light shines through them at just the right angle her hallway lights up and it feels as comforting as church.

  As I open her garden gate (yes, a proper white picket garden gate) and walk up the path, I hear a giggle coming from inside. It is a laugh I swear I would recognise from the other side of the world – that infectious giggle of my son.

  Daisy is singing to him and as I put my head around the door I see him dancing merrily alongside Daisy’s four-year- old Lily, who stops just at that moment to tickle him and make him scream even louder.

  This is what parenthood should be like, this effortless joy – this sitting on the floor as the sun streams in the windows, singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ – this contentment. Lily looks up from her singing, sees me standing in the doorway and an amazing smile sweeps across her face, making her cheeks look rosier than ever. Her dark curls hang loosely over her forehead, damp from the exertion of running around all morning and I grin and wave as she hurtles towards me like a mini-hurricane shrieking “Auntie Grace, Auntie Grace!” Her chubby arms envelop me in what we like to call a Big Squishy – that most lovely of hugs that only a child can give.

  “Hey, Schmoo-face!” I giggle, squeezing her back.

  Witnessing this commotion Jack looks towards me, joins in the screaming and toddles over at the speed of light, using my body as a braking system to stop him flying out the door. I pick him up.

  “My mammy,” he soothes, stroking my cheek, and I grin, enjoying every second of this delicious contact.

  “I’ll put the kettle on!” says Daisy, pulling herself up from the floor. She grabs the Weetabix from my carry-bag as she walks past to get to the kitchen.

  If I’m jealous of Daisy’s front door and picket fence, I’m even more insanely jealous of her kitchen which always has the smell of fresh-baked cookies and fresh-cut flowers. A stunning pink Aga, something I have coveted for many months, stands at one end while, at the other, two large and impressive French doors open onto a gorgeous expanse of lawn where a slide-and-swing set sit alongside a sandpit.

  The children run outside to play while I take up my favourite position on the comfy chair beside the doors. There are pictures everywhere that Lily has drawn – tacked up, framed alongside the family pictures of generations of smiles. It’s the kind of room you can feel the love in as soon as you enter it. No, it won’t win any design awards but it feels like the safest place in the world.

  The table beside me is scattered with paints and assorted art-work from Lily and Jack’s morning efforts and I find myself amazed that Daisy could be bothered to be so creative with the children when she does this every day at work. I think I would be more tempted to go down the Barney DVD route myself.

  After carrying two bowls of cereal out to the child-size picnic table in the garden, Daisy comes back in and takes her usual position on the worktop looking out the kitchen window.

  She throws me a biscuit, sips her coffee and asks me: “How the feck are you anyway?”

  I have the good grace to reply that I’m okay and I’m halfway through the biscuit when I realise I’m supposed to be trying to be good and I’m already on my way to writing today off as a bad effort. I put the biscuit down on the table and throw it a dirty look. The angel on my shoulder would be proud of me.

  “Would you believe I bumped into Louise in the shop?” I grimace. “Talk about Sod’s Law. I swear she looked amazing and there was me looking like something a cat dragged in, threw up on and dragged back out again.” “You’re too hard on yourself,” Daisy says, biting into her biscuit and letting out a gentle holler at Lily not to feed the sand to Jack. “I’m sure there aren’t many people out there who look amazing first thing on a Saturday morning, but you don’t do too bad for yourself.”

  I look at my tracksuit bottoms and battered trainers and want to hug Daisy just for saying something nice – but I fear she might panic that I’m losing it altogether to be displaying such affection on a Saturday morning.

  “Have you thought any more about Louise’s offer?” she asks.

  “Well, I did, almost all night,” I reply, “and I don’t think I can do it, Daisy. I don’t think I want to be so public about being a lard-arse – I mean everyone would read it and I would be under so much pressure to be successful. You know me – not one to deal with pressure at the best of times.” (Again a trait I really should have warned my employer about when applying to be a journalist.)

  “Do you want to change?” Daisy asks, staring out the window and avoiding my gaze. I know she is going into serious-conversation mode. She must have been thinking about yesterday’s events too. Sensing my silence, my awkwardness, she continues, “Not that I think you need to, but sometimes you seem unhappy in yourself. Do y
ou think this could be a positive way to improve your life?”

  Another of my illusions is shattered. I’ve always thought I’ve seemed perfectly happy when talking to Daisy. Sure I’ve barged the bit out about wanting to put Aidan’s manly bits through a mangle for his unhelpful attitude at home, and yes, if I think about it, I’ve given out about Louise on one or more occasions – but generally we’ve always had a laugh . . . haven’t we?

  “Ach, shite,” she mutters, “I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? I’ve upset you. Grace – look, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to find out how you feel about things. If you tell me you’re happy, if you tell me you’re okay the way things are – and I do love you the way things are,” she adds, hastily, “then I will leave you alone and we’ll talk no more about the day that is forever to be known as Black Friday.”

  I put my cup of coffee down, and put on my best I’m- always-happy smile and say, with a degree of confidence I’m not sure I’m feeling: “Daisy, I’m as happy as the next person. Of course I want to change my appearance, but I want that to be on my terms. I want to be a foxy, sexy chick who turns heads. I want to be the yummy mummy at the school gates. But what I don’t want, and I mean this, is for the readers of Northern People to see me standing in my bra and knickers with my weight blazoned across my tummy in bold print. For Christ’s sake, Daisy, my old maths teacher could read it! The wee woman who does the ironing for me could see it! I would be mortified beyond words. I would be a social pariah. I would have to leave town before someone called Greenpeace in to rescue me. Not a fecking chance!” I finish with a flourish, not telling her, and as such breaking the bonds of our friendship, that the person I don’t want to see this most disgusting of sights most of all is me.

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