by Claire Allan
Sinéad is still silent, apart from the ever-so-subtle sucking sound that comes with each inhalation of her cigarette followed by the slow exhalation. I watch the smoke curl and rise above her, heading in the direction of the window. I realise I am actually jealous of it and its escape route.
“Seriously, I’m sorry,” I continue. “You know me – I never take time off unless I really need it.”
Silence.
“The thing is, you see, I had to see the doctor because I kind of had a bad weekend.”
She speaks at last. “Aye, Louise was telling me you were out clubbing till all hours on Friday night.”
Fuck. I forgot Louise spreads gossip like rats spread the plague, and now if I admit I was lying to Louise then I’ll look like an unholy arse for pretending to have a life when I so clearly am lacking in the life department. I pause, glancing around the room in the vain hope that the shovel I can use to dig myself out of this particular hole is waiting for me to grasp on to it for dear life.
Sinéad speaks again. “So I knew there must be something up because, God love you, Grace, it wasn’t today nor yesterday you saw the inside of a club. Are you having some kind of wee breakdown or something?”
I’m shocked by her perceptiveness – but then I suppose she didn’t get to where she is in the world without being able to read people.
She grins and exhales. “For fuck sake, why in Christ would you tell Louise you were out clubbing? You should know she would tell everyone else in the office and while she’s too dim to realise it’s pure-bred bullshit, some of the rest of us have a bit of savvy.”
I’m embarrassed now. I can feel my face flush, the red heat rising to my cheeks. “Ach, I just wasn’t quite awake when I saw her and it was the first thing that came into my head,” I say, rolling my eyes as if I’m joining in the Grace- is-a-stupid-big-eejit joke.
“Grace, I’ve never known you to be concerned about what other people think,” Sinéad says and suddenly I wonder is she really that perceptive after all. “Now, do you want to cut through the bullshit and tell me what exactly is wrong because we have a magazine to put out and if I’m not mistaken there are several fucking huge holes in pages where all the parenting shite should be.”
(When she puts her mind to it my esteemed editor is quite the wordsmith – but she does like to use the odd expletive or two – I’m almost immune to it now.)
So how do you tell someone, in five minutes or under, that you are kind of having a not-quite-midlife crisis and you are now officially a member of the loony brigade complete with tablets which may make you drowsy?
I opt for the Sinéad-Flynn, no-bullshit approach. “Well, the thing is,” I say, taking a deep breath and then allowing the words to tumble out, “I kind of did have one of those wee breakdown things – just a wee one, mind – not enough to affect my work or anything – with the exception of yesterday, which I’m sorry about. But I’m getting help now, honest, and I’m on tablets and the copy will be done by five this evening.”
She lights another cigarette, looking kind of amused and shocked at the same time by what I have told her. “Holy fuck, Grace, why didn’t you let me know?”
“Well, I didn’t actually know myself. It kind of crept up on me. One minute I was eating egg-and-onion sarnies on Buncrana beach, the next I was sobbing under a blanket. Kind of funny in hindsight . . .” I trail off.
“Do you need more time off?” She actually looks concerned. “I can fill the space and you can rest.”
The offer is tempting. I could just turn on my heels now, say goodbye to Dermot and go home and crawl into bed for a little while. Or maybe a long while. And then, when I wasn’t feeling so dog-tired any more, I could go and get Jack from Susan’s and we could spend some quality time together. I could start to make it up to him – prove to him I’m a good mammy after all.
But strange as it sounds, I don’t want time away just now. I need my routine – my daily dose of Dermot – a demand on me to get out of my pit in the morning because I know if I don’t have that then I will become one of those big fat ladies who actually stays in bed so much my body will merge with the mattress in some freaky biological phenomenon.
It also dawns on me that I actually enjoy my job – the writing part anyway. Okay, I’m not the best in the world at answering the phones and I don’t really enjoy all that networking and other such bullshit but I like the writing – the drafting of words, the designing of a page, the meeting people who want to talk to me about themselves and allow me into their lives.
“I’m fine, Sinéad,” I say. “Trust me, if I need time off I’ll tell you about it, but for now I’d rather just keep going and see what happens.”
“You sure?” she asks, stubbing out her cigarette and throwing her office window open wider. “Because I’m sure we could manage if you needed it.”
The wee niggly voice in my head is wondering if she’s trying to get rid of me, and I find myself unsure of my own thoughts. I try to find my determination, and affirm that yes, I’m sure. I want to go to work. (Who’da thunk it? – as my dear old daddy would say.)
“Thank fuck for that!” she laughs. “I thought we were hammered there. Jesus, Grace, don’t ever do that to me again. I mean, get sick if you want, and I’m saying this with my best Human Resources head on me – if you need time off, take it – but taking that HR head off and speaking as your boss, thank Holy Christ and the wee donkey you will still be here.”
I laugh, realising that even though I’ve just been sworn at profusely, my boss actually values my contribution.
“You should have seen that fecking photo shoot yesterday,” she adds, rolling her eyes as she offers me some chewing gum. “There was no one to supervise but John, and he didn’t know where to look. I swear he hasn’t seen so many women in the one room in his whole life.”
I grin at the thought of grumpy John, our cantankerous sports columnist, soothing the egos of ten famous mums and their children.
“That,” I say, “I would pay to see.”
I stand up to leave, aware that a deadline has to be met, but as I turn to reach for the door Sinéad stops me, adding: “Look, Grace, don’t be afraid to talk about what you’re going through. You’d be surprised how many of us have been there before.”
I nod and walk back to my desk, astounded that someone as level-headed as Sinéad could ever have experienced any kind of difficulties. She seems so calm, so in control. Just goes to show, I realise, you don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life.
I’m up to my eyes proofing the photo-shoot page while simultaneously trying to deal with a worried parent whose two-year-old refuses to have his nails cut when Louise sashays over to my desk and takes up her usual position, perched on the edge.
She lifts the proofs from where I’m looking at them, studies them, sighs and puts them down again. Craning her neck round she looks at the copy on my screen and tries to show a genuine interest in parenting problems and all the while I’m just getting on with it, waiting for her to speak.
“Gra – ace!” she trills, somehow finding an extra syllable in my name.
“Yep?” I answer.
“Have you thought any more about ‘Changing Your Life for Northern People’?”
I wish I could tell her just how much I’ve thought about it. How it’s taken up almost every minute and hour and my thoughts for the last four days, but instead I take a deep breath and answer, “Yes, I have.”
“And?” she answers, drumming her perfectly manicured fingers on my desk.
“Okay then,” I answer. “As long as you don’t, and I mean this, ever ask me to wear my underwear for a photo shoot or ask me to reveal my weight.”
Louise looks almost speechless. I can see her fight the urge to jump up and down and do one of those stupidly annoying girly squealing thingies. “Oh Grace, that’s amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
So I guess it’s official. I’m a (guinea) pig – but it doesn’t really scare me any more. Y
ou see, yesterday, as Dr Dishy and I talked things out – after he had shunted Mammy out of the office so we could talk honestly, I told him about Louise’s experiment and he asked me what I had to lose from taking part. Of course, I had answered that my dignity was the obvious answer, but he countered that crying in a hotel in the middle of Donegal was hardly awe-inspiring behaviour.
I had been shocked by his honesty. I was expecting him, given his obvious youth and good looks, to merely hand me my prescription and send me out to the face the world. I was not bargaining on the good talking-to that came with it.
He said he believed that if I wanted to change, really wanted to change, I would have to face some of my demons. Of course, he hadn’t forced me to agree to the life change – but he had given me enough food for thought to know that signing up for this was going to either kill me or cure me and I was hoping, as indeed was Aidan, that it would do the latter. As Aidan and I had cuddled last night, talking through our fears as best we could (given that I still don’t have much of a fecking notion why my brain has hit meltdown) he said that this experiment of Louise’s could be the perfect chance for me to take control of my life – a life I have for a long time only felt like an observer of.
Dr Dishy had reminded me that, even though Louise had come up with the idea initially, he could see no reason why I, an intelligent woman (yes, he did think I was intelligent despite my obviously manic condition in his office) couldn’t pull a few strings to make things work in my favour. And this was exactly what I was about to do.
Once Louise had started breathing normally again (about two seconds before I was going to slap her across the face to calm her hysteria, more’s the pity), I added my killer conditions. “This is going to be on my terms,” I said. “There will be no, and I mean no, colonic irrigations or other nasty invasive procedures. This will be a holistic approach to improving my sense of self-worth as well as my physical appearance. You will not talk about my weight to any one in the office. You will not gossip and you will give me full copy approval on everything you write.”
Louise looks stunned. She has the appearance of a bunny caught in the headlights, her eyes darting a little wildly, searching for an escape route. She isn’t used to Assertive Grace – well, how could she be when I’m not even used to her myself? With every sentence, every word, I’m pushing my own boundaries faster and farther than I ever thought possible. I’m actually shocking myself for the first time in a long time and it feels amazing.
Louise’s mouth is flapping open and shut a little, trying to find the right words to assert her authority but as far as I’m concerned she can go and scratch.
“But I’m Health and Beauty Editor, Grace,” she says. “I’m the one who approves copy here.”
“But I was Health and Beauty Editor for a long time,” I smile sweetly. “I think this little project will be safe in my hands, don’t you?”
At that I pick up the phone and dial that old pretend number again, making it very clear the conversation is over. When she slopes back to her desk, looking dejected, I give Dermot a little smile and whisper: “Me and you, kid, on top of the world!”
I know I have a week to get used to the idea of changing my life – a week to think about what and how I want to change and I intend to savour every moment. I’m not saying I’m not going to want to chicken out, because I know more than most how the path to hell is paved with good intentions.
I have tried to get my life in order before. My starvation diet before my wedding proves I can find willpower if I really need it, but this is about more – much more – than looking good in a lace gown. You see, this time I want to capture that magical feeling but I don’t want it to be just for one all-too-short day. I want it to last.
Dr Dishy has ordered that I come and visit him at least once a week in this initial period, more often if need be. He wants to make sure my mental status is stable, that I’m not about to go running off to wee hotels in Donegal at the drop of a hat. He also wants to make sure that I carry through on my promises to find out what is making me so damn miserable and work to change those negative little thoughts into positives.
Now I’ve made those first moves I feel proud of myself. I feel ready to take on the world and, if Louise would just stop sulking at the other end of the room, I could be completely relaxed and happy.
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s Aidan, showing an uncharacteristic concern for my morning in the office.
“How did it go?”
“Surprisingly well. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Did you tell Louise you would do the whole ‘Change Your Life’ thing?”
“Yup, I sure did.”
“And how did she take it?” he asks, and I can almost hear the mischievous little grin in his voice.
“Not the best,” I say, feeling the smile creep across my face too. “I told her I’m calling the shots on it and it won’t be some namby-pamby colonic-irrigation Botox-fest.”
“Good for you, but do you have to talk about those colonic thingies? Jesus, I’m having my breakfast!”
“Sorry,” I grin.
“So,” he adds, and I wonder what he is getting at. “Yes?” I reply.
“Grace, now that’s one down and one to go.” “What do you mean?”
“You need to phone Daisy. She’s spitting fecking chips that you went away and didn’t call her.”
Feck. Daisy. I hadn’t really thought about her up until now, but Aidan is right. She will be going bananas by now and much as I love Daisy down to her wee tartan knickers, the last thing any sane person in this world would want to do is get on the wrong side of her.
Chapter 8
We’ve only had one major falling out before, Daisy and me – but, trust me, the Troubles, Hiroshima, and the Easter Rising combined were calmer and altogether more civilised affairs in comparison. At the time The Great Falling Out, as it has come to be known, seriously threatened the future of our friendship and it had taken a good few weeks and virtual banging of our heads together by Mammy for us to see sense. It had taken a month or two longer for that bond of friendship to re- establish itself because some things said in that horrible heat of the moment were not so easy to forget in the cold light of day – on both sides. The worst of it was, it had all been over a man. A stupid feckless man. And it had all been a terrible misunderstanding. But, as I have said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
I can feel my heart sink at the thought of calling Daisy now, but I know the longer I leave it the worse it will be and, as it stands, things are going to be pretty damn shocking anyway. I couldn’t bear a screaming match down the office phone however, and if I dare nip out Sinéad will have me hung, drawn and quartered so I opt for the coward’s way out instead: a text message.
I decide the simpler the better, so I send the very basic message of “Dais, mst tlk. Pls can we mt after work. Finish @ 6?”
The phone silently mocks me, as I try and lose myself in my problem column, perilously aware of the impending deadline. A half hour passes, then an hour, then two. My stomach is grumbling with a mixture of hunger and nerves but just as I make to get up and walk to the shop for a quick bite to eat, my phone beeps into life, playing the theme from Sex and the City, aka Daisy’s Theme.
It is a text message. “Pssd off with u. Y didn’t u tell me?”
Oh dear, she really isn’t one bit happy at all, is she? My heart beats a little faster.
Sitting back down I text back. “Soz. Head fecked. Pls can we mt? 6 @ urs?”
A few moments later, I get my reply: “Buzy 2nite. Washing hair. Call u ltr”
This is bad, very, very bad. A sick feeling washes over me. I want to fix this, but I’m not sure how.
❃ ❃ ❃
Somehow I muddle my way through the rest of the day. My emotions soar from being really excited about the changes I’m going to make to plummeting at the mess I have made of the only friendship that has ever really mattered to me. Of co
urse Daisy is pissed off. I would bust her arse if she ever pulled a stunt like that on me, but then I wasn’t thinking rationally at the time. Christ, I don’t even think I was thinking full stop.
Shortly before five, Aidan phones for a progress report. (Wow! Two phone calls in one day and none of them asking me to locate anything!) I tell him of my worries, of Daisy’s reaction, and he orders me to take a bottle of wine and a king-size Galaxy round to her house straight after work and that I’m not to leave until it is all ironed out. I try to tell him I’m too much of a coward but he will have none of it.
“It’s an order, Gracie,” he says. “Get a taxi home when you are suitably sloshed and the pair of you have fallen in love again.”
Aidan gets my need for a friendship with Daisy. He has always been one of those blokes who could talk to anyone and charm the birds from the trees. He has never really understood how I, as a journalist, could be so painfully shy when I’m away from the comfort and armour of my desk.
He knows about the bullying I suffered at school. In the early days of our relationship he even offered to track the offenders down and break their legs. (Jokingly, I hasten to add.) But what he never could understand, whether it was because he has always been surrounded by friends or because he is a man, is the loneliness I have felt at not having a best friend.
Not having had sisters, or indeed a friend to talk to at school, made for a very lonely childhood. I think that is why I immersed myself in books and writing – finding fictional friends for myself when I couldn’t find the real ones. While Aidan could never understand why I didn’t have friends hidden in every corner, he knew that once I met Daisy something in me shifted. I became aware I was somebody who was worth something. The healing process from all those years of bullying began, and that is why, even armed with a bottle of wine and a king-size Galaxy, my heart is thumping like crazy as I walk that pathway to that familiar red door with the stained-glass panelling on either side.
I knock on the door and can hear the sound of Lily coming haring towards me at lightning speed, the click- clacking of her dress-up heels rattling loudly against the period tiling.
