by Claire Allan
Still, she had made them promise that she could come along for the debriefing the following day when they had arranged to meet en masse at the Country Kitchen for breakfast. Even Lorraine was eager to come along to that. The scandal of the Loony Lone Parents was giving her a new lust for life, she said, and Ciara was delighted to see her more alive than she had been in years.
All that aside though, she still had to cope with calling over to Eimear and Co that evening without making it look like she was baby-sitting. She was almost the same age as Eimear after all and, while the pair of them had shared a good heart to heart after James’s outburst, Ciara was still very much aware that they still had the potential to be sworn enemies. Ciara was Ben’s ex and the mother of his child – even though he refused to admit it – and Eimear was his latest squeeze. If Eimear was anything at all like Ciara had been two years previously she would be unwilling to hear a word against the gorgeous Ben Quinn. But could Ciara really keep her mouth shut?
“C’mon, baby,” she said, lifting Ella from her cot. “Whatever happens today I think it’s going to be interesting. Whoever said life was boring in Rathinch?”
As Ella ate her breakfast a short time later Ciara filled in the remainder of her college application form. “Watch out, Lois Lane,” she grinned, “there’s a new gal in town and if she is in luck she might just find her Superman.”
44
“James has been charged with assault.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Detta asked as she emptied her make-up bag on Ruth’s dressing-table.
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?”
“Well, yes, it is. But, you know, having him dragged through the courts will just bring this whole sorry mess to everyone’s attention.”
“But doesn’t everyone know anyway? Isn’t that what Rathinch – with all its good points – is about? Gossip spreading like wildfire?”
“Well, yes, but you know the courts make it more official.” Ruth lifted a tube of pale foundation and examined it closely. “There’ll be a reporter there from the local paper and everything. Can you imagine it? Me getting battered, in black and white, in a newspaper for anyone to read.”
“Tomorrow’s chip paper,” Detta said, taking the tube of foundation from Ruth and handing her an altogether more suitable colour.
“They don’t actually wrap chips in newspaper any more,” Ruth said. “Health and Safety or some other such bollocks.”
“Well, tomorrow’s firelighters then, or tomorrow’s litter-tray filler. Whatever it is, it’s in one ear today and out tomorrow. I don’t mean to be flippant but everyone is too busy leading their own lives and worrying about their own sorry problems to focus too much on yours.”
Ruth sniffed and sat down on the bed.
“Sorry,” Detta said sitting down beside her. “That wasn’t meant to sound as harsh as it did. It’s just that, well, the main thing is he gets his comeuppance for being an awful gobshite.”
“But what effect will it have on the children? To have a daddy before the court? They’ll be mortified.”
“No more mortified than they felt seeing him knock lumps out of you,” Detta said matter of factly. “But there are places which can help. They can talk to the kids, talk over what has happened and help them keep it in perspective. I’ll get you a number if you want.”
“That would be just lovely,” Ruth said, sagging with relief.
She was getting truly fed up with these thoughts running around her mind. It was there morning, noon and night as if a light had just gone on. Even though she had known for the last umpteen years what a bastard James was, it was as if she was only really, truly accepting it now and it was there all the time. It had been there when Dr Donnelly had come and spoken to her and signed her off work for a week. It had been there when she had forged her new friendship with Lorraine over a packet of Coconut Creams and it had even bloody been there the night before when she went to the chippy. It was like a constant sing-song in her head “Battered wife, battered wife, battered wife!” When someone had ordered a battered sausage she had almost replied “You called?”
And at times she was okay with it all. She would smile even – get a surge of joy that it was finally done forever. Life was going to change for the better now and she was young enough to make her life work for her. Yet at other times she wanted to curl up in a ball and put her hands over her ears to block out the world.
But somehow, amid all this confusion, she had managed to get herself talked into a night on the town in Derry. Detta handed her a brush and told her to get to work.
“What’s this for?” she asked, looking at it. It didn’t look like a blusher brush and it was much too wide for eye-shadow – not that she ever wore eye-shadow.
“Your foundation!”
“With a brush? Are you mental? You don’t use a brush – you use your fingers or a sponge!” Ruth laughed.
“No, my dear, these days we use brushes. We use them to sculpt and highlight and define. Now let’s get you sorted. Trust me, once you try a brush you’ll never go back.”
It was strange, Ruth thought. Detta had never looked like a person obsessed with her appearance. That’s not to say she looked like one of Wurzel Gummidge’s spare heads, but she didn’t seem high maintenance. She wasn’t as obviously groomed, plucked and preened as Niamh, and Ruth very much doubted her clothes were of any designer variety, but nonetheless here she was tipping the entire contents of Debenhams’ make-up hall all over her bedroom.
She had brushes, lotions, potions, powders, liners, creams, mascaras aplenty. Ruth thought of the crumbling case of pressed powder and stubby red lipstick languishing in her own make-up bag and blushed. She knew nothing about make-up. Eimear had tried to talk her into buying some decent products a while back but she had shrugged it off. She was, she was happy to admit, scared of the stuff and convinced that should she even try and give it a go she would end up as a tangoed, streaky-faced painted doll.
Tonight though, she needed a little extra help and the look of sheer joy on Detta’s face as she mixed together her moisturiser and foundation was a sight to behold.
“Let’s glam you up,” Detta said and set to work. “And let’s forget about all this old nonsense and go out and have a great night for ourselves.”
By the time she was transformed, Ruth was giggling like a schoolgirl. Detta had opened a bottle of sparkling wine and borrowed a CD player from Eimear and played some cheesy seventies tunes while they had got ready. They had just completed a resounding rendition of “Enough is Enough” and were wailing through a rendition of “I Will Survive” when Liam pulled up in his car outside. They stumbled out, the strains of the chorus echoing around the village as they went.
Eimear had laughed as she closed the door after them, shouting that she would be good for Ciara, her bad humour at being told someone would be popping in to check on them disappearing.
For once, as Ruth slipped into the back of the car and fastened her seatbelt, she felt happy to leave her house knowing it wouldn’t be trashed by the time she returned.
“Wow,” Liam breathed. “You two look fabulous.”
“Are you trying to say we don’t always look fabulous?” Detta asked with a wicked glint in her eye which sent Ruth into a further fit of giggles.
“Have you two been drinking?” Liam asked – with his best stern-daddy voice.
“Only a little bit – and come on, this is a night out. We are supposed to be enjoying ourselves!”
“I thought we were supposed to be making sure Niamh doesn’t make an eejit of herself?” he replied, looking in the rear-view mirror at them both.
Ruth focused on him and noticed the well-creased lines of a brand-new shirt and the not-so-faint-whiff of aftershave and smiled.
“So that’s why you have your Sunday best on then?” she said.
“Nothing wrong with making an effort,” Liam said gruffly.
“That’s just exactly what we were
thinking,” Detta replied with a smile and Ruth looked from one to the other as it dawned on her that there might just be more to this night out than making sure Niamh was fine.
45
“Today is the first day of the rest of my life,” Niamh told the cold marble gravestone in front of her. “I know you might not like what I’m going to do, Seán, but you would admire my ballsiness. You always liked that. You would hate it if I did nothing. You would hate it that we weren’t both fighting it out over your memory, but whatever you and she had – well, it’s not the same as what we had. I was your wife and I deserve that memory so wish me luck because today I’m sorting this out once and for all.”
Niamh hadn’t intended to go to the cemetery. Her day was going to be busy enough with her hair appointment and nail appointment – not to mention getting the children settled with her parents and dealing with the inevitable one hundred and five phone calls from Robyn asking her to reconsider her plan. She had decided that morning that she was going to switch her phone off. She was on a high now – she was ready to deal with this and whatever answers Caitlin was going to give her they had to be better than the answers she had running through her head.
So no one was more surprised than she was when she found herself at Seán’s grave in the biting cold. The twins were conked out in the car and she was glad of it – she couldn’t imagine having this conversation with them there. His grave still looked tidy – the grass had barely grown in the two weeks since her last visit and there were no flowers there left to wilt. She hadn’t left him flowers since she found out about Caitlin. Suddenly a chorus of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” flooded through her head and she shushed away the image of Neil Diamond giving it lilty with Barbara Streisand.
“Right. Wish me luck. You would like what I’m going to wear tonight – sassy and stylish with a first-class pair of fuck-me boots. You would really like those,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m so raging with you, Seán – raging that you didn’t give me the chance to kick your sorry ass. Raging that you never had the chance to beg me not to leave and tell me you love me. I’ll not forgive you for that.”
Niamh stood up and dusted the dirt from her knees. She had to be going if she was to make her appointments. She was determined everything would run like clockwork today.
* * *
Her hair looked different – not telly-makeover different – but different enough. Instead of her sleek blonde bob she had choppy layers all over in a rock-chick style. Her hair wasn’t so blonde either – it was now streaked with honey and caramel highlights which complimented the gorgeous make-up job Leigh at Natural Touch had done. Her hands felt smooth as silk thanks to the luxurious manicure she had enjoyed and now she enjoyed tapping her acrylic nails against the table in the bar, as she waited for the barman to bring her a vodka and cranberry. Normally she was a wine girl – or, to be honest, a champers girl – but she needed double Dutch courage tonight and vodka was the only drink that was going to cut the mustard.
Okay, so she had been calm and collected before. Her scene at Seán’s graveside had been the epitome of a strong woman. All that was missing was her digging her hand in the soil and then standing up and declaring she would never go hungry again – or something. But now, despite the glorious make-over, her amazing boots and a delicious new bracelet purchased in Argento that very afternoon she felt a little out of control.
She hadn’t seen Caitlin since the funeral. Who was to even know if Caitlin was in? She could be sitting here like a prize idiot waiting to drunkenly knock at a locked door while Caitlin, for all she knew, could have been on the other side of the world.
Suddenly she felt very foolish. Who had she been kidding coming up to Derry all lipstick, powder, paint and killer heels? Even the sexy new haircut couldn’t hide the fact she was highly likely to be five minutes away from making a complete eejit of herself. As the barman sat the drink down in front of her she gave him a weak smile and knocked back as much of it as she could without choking on an ice cube. He gave her a strange smile back and she flushed. Tempted as she was to explain to him just why she needed a drink so badly, she refused to become one of those drunken middle-class women who spilled their guts out to barmen as they sat alone on a Friday night.
She felt a pang then for Robyn. Her phone had remained switched off all day and she was determined it would remain off – nonetheless, a little part of her wanted to phone Robyn and beg her to come and join her at the bar.
She sat back, took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure. She tried to find a focus in the room that would help her centre herself – but all she found was Seán‘s ex-partner Kevin, surrounded by a fair smattering of the great and the good of Derry. Of all the bars, in all the world, he had to be charming the pants off his clients in this one. “Shit,” she muttered a little too loudly, just as he looked up and stared right back at her. Whether he was powered by an excess of wine and fine whiskey or whether he was just trying to act the big man in front of his guests, he called her name loudly across the bar. Then, like Moses parting the Red Sea, he stretched out his arms in an exaggerated hug and walked towards her declaring loudly: “Oh it’s so nice to see you out and about again, you poor dear!”
Oh Christ, Niamh bit back. It was bad enough she was sitting drinking alone in a bar without Kevin, the wanker, drawing everyone’s attention to it. She plastered on yet another fake smile and allowed him to hug her even though the smell of the body odour from his shirt made her gag.
“Oh my sweet Niamh,” he continued.
Drunk, she decided. He was definitely and undoubtedly drunk. My sweet Niamh? What the hell was that about? He might even have been on drugs.
“We have missed you,” he bellowed in her ear.
Why he needed to bellow was a mystery – everyone else in the bar had fallen into a hushed lull while they watched the scene unfold.
Glancing over Kevin’s shoulder she saw elbows nudge elbows, hands try to cover up unsubtle whispers and a number of sympathetic glances in her direction.
“Here, come, say hello to everyone,” Kevin continued, almost pushing her off her stool and in the direction of his crowd of cronies. Those who knew her – or knew Seán to be more exact – looked at her with sympathy. Those who didn’t were clearly intrigued.
“This,” Kevin said waving his hand in her general direction “is Niamh Quigley. You all know – knew, sorry, knew, Seán, our former partner at the firm? You know, he died in that awful, awful accident. Well this is his wife, sorry, widow. Doesn’t she look lovely?”
Through his muddled introduction he glanced at her a few times, reddening with embarrassment and she would have saved him if she had been in a kind mood. But her kind mood had evaporated. Here she was, like a human exhibit in Show and Tell being humiliated by a drunken buffoon. She wondered should she give everyone a twirl – show off the post bereavement loss of weight – her rake-like bum in her designer skinny jeans?
Kevin’s guests mumbled their hellos – a couple extended their hands and told her solemnly they were sorry for her troubles. Her chunky gold bangles jangled crudely as she shook their hands, aware of her choppy new hair cut bobbing up and down – like she’d just stepped out of a salon. Which she had, of course. She was hardly the advert for “destroyed young widow in a haze of grief”. She had more of a look of a vampish man-eater about her. She could feel the women in the group stiffen up and begin to regard her as a threat. “Ha!” she thought. She wouldn’t touch another man if her life depended on it.
“So,” Kevin said looking over her shoulder, “Are you here on your own, or are you waiting for someone?”
His face had adopted a sympathetic look. He clearly thought she was on her own and she was taking to drink. The scandal would be mighty. He would have a great old time relaying her descent into alcoholism in the Magistrate’s Court on Monday before proceedings started.
Of course, she thought blushing, he was half right. She was on her own. She wasn’t a drunk t
hough, not yet, but she could be tempted. That vodka and cranberry had tasted good and without it she was not sure she could have survived the last two minutes without decking Kevin right across his drunken face.
“Erm,” she said, glancing back at the bar, “I’m just waiting for someone. They shouldn’t be long.”
“Well, why don’t you join us until your friend arrives?” he winked, pulling a chair from a nearby table and sitting it close to his own.
Niamh’s heart sank. She knew that if Kevin was going to be in this bar for as long as he normally sat in bars on Friday nights she would be sunk. But she could see no way out. She would slip away soon – sneak out via the toilet window if necessary. She might as well be the talk of the town for a really good reason.
“I’ll get you another drink,” Kevin bellowed, waving his hand towards the bar to call over the waiter in an arrogant manner. Niamh cringed at his gesture – thinking he could order anyone and everyone around. He really was an insufferable asshole, but then, when she thought about it, Seán would have done the same thing.
“What are you having?”
“Vodka and cranberry,” she replied. The sooner oblivion came, the better.
