As always Philip spent the rest of the Saturday morning engaged in his den, doing whatever it was he always did behind that closed door. Esmée, on the other side, tended gently to their offspring and two hours later they all piled into the car. To an ignorant bystander they presented a possible picture of a perfectly happy family.
* * *
As such they drove to the airport: Esmée the dedicated homemaker and he the handsome breadwinner sitting slightly agitated in the passenger seat with the children chirping happily in the back. But as she parked, a little haphazardly much to Philip’s continued irritation, in the busy drop-off zone outside the departures terminal she knew different.
He joined her at the rear of the car where she extracted his bag from the boot, eager now to have him gone so she could get on with the next phase of her scheme.
“Here . . .” He handed her a filled-out cheque, his neat scroll presented beautifully, as always, in perfect blue ink. “Your allowance.” He pushed the offensive item towards her, frustrated by her momentary reluctance to take it.
Should she?
“And I’d like you to account for it all this time,” he said, translating his irritation into an ungracious and nasty action.
She lifted her eyes from the valuable slip of paper to her husband’s face and saw, not for the first time, a distance from which she now accepted they could never recover. Taking the cheque from him, she retreated with reluctant acceptance, knowing that to turn it down just wasn’t an option. A multitude of stinging retorts queued on the tip of her tongue, itching to be released, but she was tired. Scrapping with him there on the tarmac of the busy airport was pointless. Instead she took a controlled breath and placed the cheque into the breast pocket of her sloppy red fleece. Throughout the entire transaction she held his stare, stubborn, bitter, seething. She so wanted to slap his nasty little face. Could feel the sting in her throat, and his cheek on her hand. But she was helpless, restrained, and once again he had the upper hand. Her inner voice, the voice of command and reason, held her back and reminded her that this would be the last time he could humiliate her. Or so she thought.
“Be good for Mum,” he warned the children through the open window, his pointed finger loaded with menacing caution, “or I’ll bring you nothing back.”
They were used to his abrupt tone. He hadn’t always been like that but it seemed that as Matthew and Amy got older, old enough to be more than playthings that could be handed back to their mother, he cared for them and understood them less. This emotional detachment manifested itself as retail substitution and where tenderness and affection failed, gifts delivered. So he bought them whatever they wanted: new DVDs, kitchen sets, footballs, basketballs, rugby balls, new dollies; all they had to do was ask. It drove Esmée nuts because what he so obviously failed to realise was that five minutes of his undivided attention would probably have satisfied them more. Time to stop and play with them and all their fancy toys. But he was always too busy, even to give just a single hour of his precious time. Something always got in the way of his empty promises, something always more important or distractingly significant.
Looking at him now as he threatened their children through the window, those damned butterflies erupted in her tummy. This was a moment, a milestone moment that she would never forget: they were together for the last time as a family unit.
“Goodbye, Philip,” she whispered as she watched him go. Sliding back into the driver’s seat, she put the car in gear and drove away, glancing only briefly in her rear-view mirror to watch him disappear from view as he entered the terminal building.
Chapter 2
The bell didn’t have a chance to finish its cheerful chime before Esmée had whipped open the door to greet her tardy friend.
“Fionnuala Higginbotham,” she said in mock reprimand, using the full version of her friend’s name purposely, “where have you been? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”
“Relax, Es,” replied her crimson-lipped friend. “I just got a little side-tracked, that’s all – but not to worry – I’m here now!” and she raised her arms overhead with regal aplomb, just for effect, before pointing to the large cardboard boxes that sat beside her feet on the doorstep. “Here, help me with these,” she directed, bending down to pick the nearest up and thrust it forward for assistance. “And there’s a heap more in the car.” She indicated over her shoulder with a quick flick of her head towards ‘Daisy’ parked half-off half-on the kerb at the end of Esmée’s short cobblelocked drive.
“Auntie Finyyyyyyy!” came the collective screech of delight as Matthew and Amy, sliding in stocking feet on the timber floor, came to an abrupt halt at the knees of their adored guest.
“Hey there, guys!” Fionnuala cried with equal enthusiasm. “And how are my two favourite buddies today then?” She collapsed to the floor beside them, preparing to wrestle regardless of her skinny jeans and strappy stilettos, and wrapped both of them in her bare arms to plant firm kisses on each of their cheeks.
As always Matthew recoiled, escaping efficiently from her grasp, shrieking wildly. At six years of age, kissing girls, no matter how old, just wasn’t cool. He pulled a disgusted face and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, dragging the bright red lipstick all over his grimacing features – it was all part of a well-rehearsed game.
Fionnuala Higginbotham, or Fin, as she was known to her friends, was Esmée’s best and only remaining friend from her Fine Art college days and like a snowfall in summer she, the only daughter of the late Lord and Lady Higginbotham, was extraordinary and totally unexpected. An accomplished honours student, Fin if she so chose would never have had to work a day in her gifted life, but despite this she focused her enormous talent on painting abstract and wholly modern explosions of colour – because she could. This, coupled with her parents’ heritage and high profile, meant that she was the golden child of the elite social circle, with her commissions taking pride of place in the homes, offices, restaurants and galleries of the Irish rich, influential and famous. But the thing that Esmée loved most about Fin was that there were very few things she took too seriously, not even herself or her craft, and often she wondered about the sanity of her many customers who paid extortionate amounts of money for a unique signed ‘F Higginbotham’. These painted forms, she explained flamboyantly to her many admirers and begrudging critics, came easy to her. Her work, she expanded, was about “the balance of shape, colour and a little bit of madness”. But despite her laudatory claims, incredible rise to fame and superfluous earnings, Fin remained a good friend and confidante to Esmée. Her down-to-earth attitude and never-failing ability to always find an alternative outside-the-box perspective was like a magnet for Esmée. She couldn’t help but be drawn to Fin’s infectious and deliciously spontaneous nature.
Philip, on the other hand, disliked Fin intensely and although he would never openly admit it he resented this single reminder of his wife’s wild, blithe and irresponsible days as an art student. With not a good word to say either about Fin or to her, he habitually infuriated Esmée with his persistently offhand and, more often than not, just plain rude comments about her best friend. His attitude was so obvious that to try and conceal it was pointless and the more Esmée pleaded with him to at least try and be civil, the more obnoxious he became until eventually she, with Fin’s consent and understanding, simply stopped pleading. But her artistic friend gave as good as she got without ever going so far as to cause further grief for Esmée, refusing – much to Philip’s disappointment – to let his nasty jibes get to her. Once again knowledge reigned supreme as Fin quickly and wisely recognised that he feared her because she was a constant threat and a dangerous reminder of what Esmée could have been and still had potential to be.
“What ya doing, Fin?” little Amy enquired with great curiosity as she watched her adopted aunt pull box after box from Daisy’s boot.
“Helping your mummy, pet,” Fin replied, throwing a knowing glance at Esmée.
Wi
th her curiosity unfulfilled, Amy turned instead to her mother. “Mummy, what’s Auntie Fin doing with all those big boxes?” she asked, picking up the largest of the lot, almost twice her tiny size. “This can be my house,” she declared decisively as it swallowed her up from her teeny head to weenie toes, only for her to trip over the threshold, propelling the box across the hall and her face onto the step, whacking her nose on it.
With the small blood-spill from her nose mopped up and the novelty of Fin’s arrival, along with the mystery of the curious pile of empty boxes well and truly dissipated, the children quietly retreated to the den where the prospect of watching Scooby Doo seemed far more interesting than listening to Fin and their mother chat about adult stuff.
Esmée cast a final motherly glance at the now captivated children, gently closed the adjoining doors to the kitchen and leaned against them to breathe deep and then release the captive volume of air slowly through her pouted lips.
“So tell me,” she enquired, pushing herself away from the doors to cross the tiled floor and collect two mugs from the cupboard while Fin filled the kettle, “what could possibly have ‘sidetracked’ you on today of all days?”
And so began yet another tale of Fin’s great nocturnal adventures that Esmée, as always, lapped up and enjoyed. For over half an hour Fin recounted her saga while Esmée listened and laughed at what was, as always, a drama. And when the performance was over and her tale finally told, Fin let the laughter die out fully before broaching the subject of what was this day’s production.
“So. Are you ready for this?”
The comment thrust Esmée back into her own sense of reality with a reluctant thud.
“I think so,” came her sober response.
“And how’s your head?”
“Fine. I think.” Esmée paused for a moment, looking up to the ceiling, contemplating the lie she had just told before changing her mind. “Actually, I’m scared witless, terrified in fact.” Putting her mug down carefully on the table, she stood and moved to look through the windows of the timber doors that led to her small back garden: the little green space that she had tended and planted with brightly blooming flowers and shrubs, her own personal therapy. The garden that after years of attention looked mature and all grown-up, a bit like herself really, she thought ironically.
“Deep down, here,” she said, placing her hand over her breast, her breath clouding the glass, “I know I’m doing the right thing, for me anyway. But it’s not only me, is it?” She turned back to look for a possible answer, not really expecting or indeed wanting one. “What about Matthew and Amy? Am I doing the right thing for them?” Her heart through her eyes interrogated her friend. “The thing is, it’s not just the affairs, Fin, and Christ I could kill him for each of them!” Her head moved from side to side with an air of certainty. “It’s what has happened to me. I don’t like who or what I have become.” Taking a sustained breath, her eyes vacantly scanned the space in front of her. This wasn’t the first time she’d had this realisation but having yet to find a satisfying answer she, like an unsettled spirit, kept coming back to haunt it. “I have spent the recent years of my life with a man I promised to love, honour and respect, but he’s taken a selfish view of those oaths, expecting me to love him without him loving me back, to honour him while he disrespects me – when all I have ever asked of him is affection and trust and he can’t even give me that.”
Her words were quiet, considered and controlled as she attempted to reaffirm the reasons why and so answer all her questions and satisfy the part of her that hated anything other than the ‘safe’ option.
The atmosphere in the comfortable kitchen changed in a mere few sentences from playful to desperate. Sitting back into her chair at the table, Esmée took her head in her hands and, gripping it firmly as if it would explode if she let go, spat out, “Ahhh fuck!”
And Fin simply listened, patiently, affording her friend the opportunity to reason and, hopefully, realise the answers for herself. This was not the first time they had sat and talked like this, or rather that she had listened and Esmée talked. Fin was Esmée’s sounding-board and was careful not to influence her decisions, despite her own bad feelings about Philip. She had supported Esmée at every juncture and critical moment throughout her uniquely individual decision-making process. Fin was glad to be there for her friend, proud to be helping, satisfied that she was making a difference.
“Look at me!” Esmée’s hands motioned to herself from her head to her feet, to the room around her. “I’m only thirty-two for Christ’s sake and already I’m on my own!”
The absolute desperation in her voice scared Fin a little, touching her very core, and taking Esmée’s hands in her own she let her friend cry without interruption. They sat motionless, in the kitchen, waiting for the tears to stop. When they eventually did, Fin bent down and picked up her oversized bag and rummaged for a while before eventually extracting a set of keys and, placing them on the table, pushed them towards Esmée.
“It’s ready,” she said.
Esmée fingered the bunch lightly without picking them up, knowing that to do so was in a way a final commitment to see her plan through.
“Christ, Fin, I don’t know . . .” A sense of last-minute panic took over, tears forgotten as she wiped their remnants with her sleeve. “He’s a swine, but he’s still their father.”
“Look, Esmée, I can’t really help you here,” Fin said firmly, circling the table to kneel by her friend. “You have to believe in yourself and know that you’re making the right move. And, believe me, I will support you no matter what decision you make.” Massaging the trembling hands she squeezed them tight, her voice filled with such intense emotion that it shook. “What I will say is that when I first met you over twelve years ago you were a wonderful, bright, sparky and passionate girl but for the past four years, probably since before Amy was born I suppose, your spirit has broken. Your spark has gone, your passion is missing. Your belief in yourself as an individual has somehow been beaten from you and, for the first time in ages, I have seen a whisper of that same amazing woman trying to escape from this mundane world that Philip has pushed you into. You have come so far, don’t turn back now.”
The door from the den opened slowly and Matthew’s innocent little face peeped through to the kitchen, calling a halt to Fin’s impassioned monologue.
“Are you okay, Mom? Why are you crying?”
His sad eyes peered round at her, protecting himself with the door, afraid of what he might hear or see. He hated when his mummy cried and she was doing it a lot lately. He could hear her at night after she tucked him in and kissed him goodnight. She always smiled at him, ruffled his hair and kissed his crown but he knew different. He would wait for her to go downstairs and then listen hard. He was happy when, by the time he drifted off to sleep, there were no more sounds of his mummy’s tears. Daddy was never home when she cried. He liked when Daddy came home because then Mummy wouldn’t cry.
The two women looked at each other, the impact of the boy’s questions enormous.
“It’s my fault,” Fin answered quickly, getting to her feet. “I just told Mummy a sad story, that’s all.”
Esmée went to her son and pulled him from behind the safety of the door into a smothering hug.
“Look!” she said, holding his face tenderly close to her own, putting on the biggest and most sincere smile she could muster. “Mummy’s not sad, just a little silly, that’s all.”
Matthew returned his mother’s stare and she watched as his own equally unconvincing smile built, cementing itself firmly on his little flushed face.
“Now! How about you get your sister and put your shoes on. Fin . . .” she took on the tone of a thrilling movie trailer, “is taking you on an adventure!” She threw a glance over her shoulder at Fin to signal that things were back on track.
Acknowledging this next step, Fin picked up the keys from the table and threw them to Esmée who, like a baseball catcher, instinctively
raised her hand overhead and caught them firmly in her fist.
Chapter 3
Esmée was leaving. She had two days in which to pack and move on. By the time Philip returned from Paris she and the children would be gone. With her resolve firmly back in place, there was no turning back. Not now.
She waved the children and Fin off on their day trip, leaving her a good few hours to get started. She hadn’t yet quite decided how to tell him, but that would come. She considered leaving him a note – lying, perhaps, on the kitchen table? She also thought about just calling him on his mobile and telling him over the phone before he arrived home.
Originally, she had thought it best not to say anything at all, to just let him come home, see they had left and punish him that way. But even she knew that that was nothing short of sadistic and discounted it as an option. She accepted that it was based on an unrealistic wish for him to frantically seek her out and beg her forgiveness like a repentant love-crazed fiend, sorry for his misdemeanours. In this particular fantasy he would promise never to hurt her again, to be faithful and to love her till his dying day – a flight of her active imagination for sure and not very likely. She wondered, as she picked up two of the empty boxes and climbed the stairs with a heavy heart but renewed sense of determination, how long it would actually take him to notice they were gone. Surveying the children’s room with the empty boxes at her feet, she parked that question.
“One thing at a time, Esmée,” she reminded herself aloud and began to sort through and collect the toys and books that she would take for the kids, resisting the urge to reminisce as she went.
After half an hour, both boxes were full. She was careful to pack only the things that she knew they would miss – their favourite teddies, the sleepy story books, jigsaws, games – she sifted through them all, taking some and leaving others. They would, after all, still have to come back here – at weekends probably, she thought, as she closed over the boxes – he was still their father after all. He’ll probably see more of them once we’re separated, she thought, the ironic realisation driving a searing stake of guilt through her heart, rocking her conscience to its core. And with little else to do except stop or keep pushing forward, she took the first box downstairs to close and seal it. The first was the worst, she mentally rambled, doing her level best to distract herself. The milestone. And after this one the rest should be a doddle. She re-climbed the stairs to get the others. Every other weekend, that’s when he could see them, and Wednesday afternoons, she supposed – wasn’t that the norm with separated parents?
Dark Mirrors Page 2
