Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

Has he answered yet? Has he said anything else? Don’t keep me in suspenders.

  Desperate Daisy

  To grace.adams@northernpeople.co.uk

  Subject: re: The joy of moral support

  Grace,

  Is Daisy single? I’m just curious, you know. Would she be free perhaps to offer me some moral support on Saturday night, do you think?

  If you feel awkward about that scenario let me know. It might be weird for you, but I would like to take her out for a drink.

  Shaun

  (Eternally embarrassed)

  To: onefunkymamma@ntlworld.com

  Subject: She shoots – she scores

  Whaddya doin’ Saturday night? G

  To: grace.adams@northernpeople.co.uk

  Subject: Does this mean what I think it means?

  Grace,

  If you are winding me up I will give you the biggest steever up the arse ever!

  D

  To: onefunkymamma@ntlworld.com

  Subject: This is no wind-up

  He wants to take you out on a date. I’ll mind Lily. Say you will! Gw’an, ya will, ya will, ya will!

  G

  xxx

  To: grace.adams@northernpeople.co.uk

  Subject: I have just shat myself

  Okay then. If you don’t mind. D

  X

  I grin to myself as I pass on the two phone numbers and let them do the rest of the planning themselves. Of course, I should be jealous – I should be heartbroken that two people are finding romance when I’m heading for Divorceville – population me – but I’m excited.

  This feels right. This feels like it could work for Daisy and, as I’ve met Dr Dishy already in the flesh (and what glorious flesh it is too), I’m pretty sure he won’t turn into some skeleton from her closet that she would rather forget.

  Oh yes, I love it when a plan comes together.

  By the time I reach Susie’s to pick Jack up my mind is in turmoil. I’m stupidly excited by Dishy’s date with Daisy (you see it even sounds right), but I’m nervous about my own impending dalliances with destiny. I’m not sure what to expect from the counselling but, all that aside, I’m even more nervous about my own ‘date’ with Aidan on Saturday afternoon.

  As I ring the doorbell, Susie appears, looking more frazzled than ever. Usually an expert at keeping cool, calm and collected in the face of even the most violent temper tantrum from her charges, today there is a distinct throbbing of the vein in her temple which tells me life is not all rosy.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, seeing Jack walk towards me, his wee eyes red raw from crying. He is clutching his favourite Tigger toy and taking gulping breaths as if he has just sobbed his heart out.

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I just haven’t been able to settle him all day,” Susie says, tears springing to her own eyes. “He hasn’t wanted to let me out of his sight and, well, I have Molly and Zach to look after too and I had to put him down sometimes.”

  Jack is cuddled into my arms now, nuzzling at my neck, stroking my hair.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I tried Calpol and taking him out for a drive, but he just cried the whole time. Have you any idea what might be upsetting him?”

  Of course I know what is upsetting him. He misses his daddy. He is confused. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on in his wee life and the goalposts keep moving. I know how he feels, because I feel the same myself and I’d love to spend the day clinging to someone’s legs and crying until I made myself sick – because maybe it would make me feel better.

  I can’t tell Susie that though. She doesn’t know about the big split – we decided not to muddy the waters by telling her – and I don’t want to tell her now, despite her obvious upset.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I imagine he’s sickening for something. I’ll see how he is in the morning and if he isn’t improved I’ll let you know. Don’t take it to heart!”

  I leave, feeling utterly wretched.

  And feeling utterly wretched there is only one place I can go – to see Mammy. We pull up outside and Daddy is beside the door of the car before I can put the handbrake on. He is waving at Jack, lifting him out and chatting to him nine to the dozen about Bob the Builder as I lock up and head into the house.

  Mammy sticks her head through the kitchen door and enquires if everything is okay and I just shake my head and cry.

  “I’m messing up my child’s life,” I say, flinging myself onto the sofa for dramatic emphasis.

  Being Mammy she waits for me to continue before humouring me with her hushed tones and soothing remarks.

  “He cried all day at Susie’s. I don’t think she ever wants him back and it’s all because I’ve left his daddy and destroyed his sense of security.”

  “Oh Grace,” Mammy says, sitting down beside me and taking my hand in hers. “Children are resilient. He’ll be fine, and as for Susie, well, she is more than able to cope with this – and well, if she isn’t, you can always call in a few favours with that Daisy one.”

  “I think I’m calling in enough favours with her as it is,” I say, sighing loudly.

  “Pish,” Mammy says, “Daisy knows what side her bread is buttered on. That is what friendship is all about and sure as eggs is eggs there will be some time when she needs you and you will be there – like that time with The Dirty Bastard or whatever his name is.”

  “The Mighty Feckwit,” I answer, begrudgingly. Typical of Mammy to bring her no-bullshit approach to my life when I’m trying desperately to feel stupidly sorry for myself.

  “Now,” she says, getting up and putting on the kettle, “stuff happens to children that you can’t help but they get over it. Gracie, you survived all that happened to us when you were wee, didn’t you?”

  I nod, and keep to myself the fact that I’ve earmarked it to talk to Cathy about tomorrow at my counselling session. Which reminds me, tomorrow – counselling session – feck!

  “Balls!” I proclaim, sitting forward with my head in my hands. “I’m so unceasingly fucking stupid.”

  “Language, Grace,” Mammy says matter-of-factly while setting the cups out.

  “Sorry, Mammy, I’ve just remembered I’ve as good as told Susie she can have time off for good behaviour tomorrow and I’ve got an appointment I can’t get out of.”

  “Good thing you have Daisy then,” Mammy retorts, putting the Fondant Fancies onto a plate. “Now get this down your neck.”

  Pushing the Fondant Fancies away (they make my teeth hurt anyway) I take a sip of my coffee and relax. Mammy is right, I’ll cope and Jack will cope and, as she always says, this too will pass.

  “Oooh, I forgot to tell you,” I say sitting up excitedly. “Daisy has a date with Dr Dishy!”

  “That sexy young thing we saw that time I took you?” Mammy asks, sitting down beside me once again.

  “Yes,” I reply. “On Saturday night. He wants to take her out for a drink.”

  “Grand,” Mammy says. “It’s about time she got laid.” And I nearly choke on my coffee.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  Jack goes to sleep after three read-throughs of Bunny, My Honey and a large cup of warmed milk. The exertion of his day of crying has obviously taken its toll – usually it would take five read-throughs. He was in remarkably good form all evening with his grandad. The pair of them had lain on the floor of the living room and played races with the stock of toy cars kept in Granny and Grandad’s house for such occasions. I had heard them squeal with laughter while I talked with Mammy about the big date between Daisy and Dishy. Mammy has already said that Daisy Stevenson works as a name and I’ve had to tell her to get a hold of her senses.

  I kiss my boy on the head, softly stroking his gorgeous curls, and head out to the back garden where Daisy is sitting browsing through the Next Directory – desperate to find a new look for Saturday night.

  “Hey, babes,” I say and plonk myself down.

  “Grace, I literally think I’m going to vomit with nerves,” she says, si
pping a glass of wine.

  “No, you won’t, hon. You deserve this. You can manage and you know there won’t be any nasty surprises this time.”

  “I suppose,” she says, sighing, “but that still doesn’t tell me what I’m going to wear.”

  “Let’s have a squizz then,” I say, pulling the book towards me and we sit looking at sparkly tops and fancy shoes for two hours, pleasantly ignoring my impending counselling session and the date with disaster that my meeting with Aidan is bound to be.

  By the time we roll into bed we have agreed to make a sojourn to the Foyleside Centre after the counselling session to pick up the outfit of choice. Niamh, Daisy’s assistant at Little Tikes, has agreed to hang on to both Jack and Lily until six so we get a free run of the shops. As I drift off to sleep, it’s nice to feel that life can be carefree–almost – sometimes.

  Chapter 19

  Switching on my computer, and drinking the first of my requisite eight glasses of water a day I see my daily email from lifecoaches.com is telling me to clear out the clutter of the past to move on with the future – how appropriate for the day that is ahead! There is an email from Dishy, with research on ‘Depression – the Curse of the Working Woman’ and another from Charlotte at Weightloss Wonders reminding me to set an exercise goal. (When am I going to fit that in, I wonder? Does traipsing round the shops count?) Lesley at City Couture is reminding me to wear my most supportive underwear for Tuesday’s makeover and Louise has sent a curt email outlining her ideas for the feature – which she has also copied to Sinéad in a bid to look efficient.

  I look across the office at her and she is giving me a death stare from her desk as she talks on the phone – no doubt to Briege, her partner in crime – about what a god-awful bitch I am.

  Sinéad walks down the stairs into our office area – known to all who work here as The Pit. You see Northern People is very glam and ‘with it’ and our salubrious surroundings reflect just that. We, the lowly hacks, are situated on a low-level floor so that all those who enter the building look down on us – the performing monkeys – as they go about their business. I’ll admit it looks good, but I’m always just waiting for someone to spit on me from on high or drop something on my head.

  Sinéad smiles her hellos, puts her doughnuts on the central desk and sits a bag of grapes on mine – winking and walking on through to her own office. I can hear an audible huff from Louise, who puts her phone down and saunters over towards my desk.

  “Mind if I have a share?” she asks and sidles her skinny arse onto the side of my desk.

  “Help yourself,” I mutter, turning my attention to answering my emails, and filing the remainder of my copy on Child Tax Credits.

  “Are you feeling better then?” Louise asks, biting a grape in half and putting the remainder in the bin. I’m guessing her calorie count is now fulfilled for the day.

  “Just peachy, thanks,” I say.

  “Grand,” she replies, “because I have the mother of all treats lined up for you this afternoon. We’ve arranged an induction for you at the local gym.”

  “That’s very thoughtful, Louise, but I have something planned for this afternoon. You should have checked the group diary for my appointments.”

  “I’m sure you can reschedule,” Louise says. “This is the best gym in town. They don’t give just anyone an induction.”

  “I’m sure that is the case,” I reply, “but I can’t reschedule. This is very important.”

  “I’m Health and Beauty Editor, Grace,” Louise fumes, “and what I say goes.”

  “Not this time, it doesn’t. Take it up with Sinéad if you have a problem, but I can tell you now I won’t be going this afternoon – or any afternoon – to your gym. I’ll decide what humiliation I want to heap on myself next, not you.” Louise stands up, turns on her designer heels and storms towards Sinéad’s office. I’m not concerned, I’ve told Sinéad all about the appointment – in fact, if anything I’m proud of myself. Three weeks ago I would have put Louise first, cowered under my desk and sent a hundred panicky emails to Daisy asking how the hell I was going to get myself out of this one. I sip my water, smile to myself and wait to see a kowtowing Louise walk back out of the office to her desk. It doesn’t take long for Sinéad to give her the flea in her ear I was hoping for and then an email pops up on my screen.

  To: grace/editorial/northernpeople

  Subject: Well done!

  I don’t what has got into you, Grace, but I’m glad Louise has been put in her place. Saves me having to give her skinny arse a kicking myself. Keep up the good work.

  Sinéad

  By lunch-time Daisy has texted to confirm she will meet me at Cook Counselling. She has also informed me that Jack is having a whale of a time in the toddlers’ room and already has a girlfriend. Yes, he is still a little clingy and has been giving Auntie Daisy loads of cuddles, but he is as happy as a little piggywinkle in poop apart from that.

  Louise is still giving me the Evil Eye from across the office, which I’m trying desperately to ignore. I try to put myself in her place. If I was still Health and Beauty Editor, would I like it if some wee upstart (not that I’m wee, or an upstart for that matter) came along and started making demands? In fairness it was Louise’s idea, initially, for the feature. She did approach me and ask me to lose weight. She did set up the makeover at City Couture, the sessions with Charlotte and the yet-to-be-experienced manicure and pedicure treat at Natural Nails. Okay, she seriously overstepped the mark with the Botox and face-lift suggestions. She has run roughshod over my feelings as regards what I feel comfortable with and she still seems more obsessed with making me look good than feel good – but I’m guessing she deserves a little credit after all. I look up and see her chewing the top of her Biro, staring out the window at the sunshine. She looks every inch the professional. Her kitten-heel shoes look perfect at the end of her long, tanned legs. She is wearing a pinstripe pencil skirt and a white, scoop-necked top which shows off her assets. Her blonde hair is twisted into an effortless chignon and she looks as though she has stopped off at the Clarins counter for a makeover before coming into work. No doubt her look is somewhat helped by the reams of freebies which arrive on her desk on a daily basis.

  I look again at my collection of samples – today including a non-spill sippy cup and some herbal teas to calm the most overstressed of mothers – and I feel a little jealous.

  It’s not Louise’s fault I went off and got pregnant – not her fault that she was appointed Health and Beauty Editor in my absence. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on her all this time.

  So I stand up, in my RBTs and fitted blue T-shirt, and make my way over to her desk. “Look, Louise, I want to apologise if I was snappy with you earlier. I appreciate all the work you’ve put in and I think you’ve had some brilliant ideas, but this is very personal for me.”

  She raises her hand to stop me from talking. “Don’t worry about it,” she drawls. “I’ve read the proofs and I can see your life is much more of a mess than even I gave you credit for. Do whatever you want. Don’t worry about me –I’ve enough on my plate. I’ve heard the new manager of Jackson’s is single again and that’s more than enough to keep me busy.”

  I want to grab her by her perfectly preened chignon and swing her around my head until her bony body smashes into a wall. I want to say something that will destroy her so utterly that she dares not darken my personal space again. I want to slap her silly. In essence, I want to turn The Pit into a modern-day arena and challenge her gladiator-style to a fight to the death – but I don’t, of course – I just turn and walk back to my desk. Suddenly I’m fifteen again and back in class while Lizzie O’Dowd tells everyone I made a holy show of myself. And just like then I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete feckwit, or a total bitch, or just a weak, pathetic person. So much for feeling victorious at the New Me – Louise is obviously a much tougher competitor than I thought.

  Just then an email pops
up on screen.

  To: grace.adams@northernpeople.co.uk

  Subject: Good Luck!

  Hi Grace,

  I hope you got the copy earlier on depression and the working woman. Give it a read. Apart from that, good luck for today. Don’t expect miracles, but give it a chance.

  Let me know how it all goes, Shaun

  To: shaun.stevenson@doctors.org

  Subject: re: Good Luck!

  Thanks, Shaun, I’ll think I’ll need it. G

  Cook Counselling is based in a building close to Brooke Park and, as a result, Brooke Perk. Daisy and I have just enjoyed a coffee there in almost stunned silence and I just feel too nervous to talk. The nerves are such that I have not even told her about Louise’s latest onslaught – or perhaps that is because I have simply been too embarrassed to reveal all.

  The building is old, one of those terraced houses that smell of varnish and wood. The reception area is painted in pale creams with a selection of stylish prints on the wall. An oil burner is alight on a shelf and the smell is comforting, but still my nerves are jangling. I’m on my second cup of water from the cooler and have just returned from my fourth trip to the toilet. We are sitting on a comfy sofa, listening to a radio in the background blare out a discussion on the state of the city’s schools. There are two other people in the room – one is Lisa, the cheery receptionist who has asked me at least three times if I need anything. She has told me there is a veranda to the rear of the building where I can get some air if I need to.