‘Coming?’
It was Rick, standing up, waiting for her. He didn’t make eye contact, he never did. He tolerated her and she never had managed to lose the fluttering fear when she was around him.
‘Coming.’ Steph gathered her things. ‘Sorry,’ she said to him.
They began the aeroplane-exit shuffle. There were six of them together: Steph and Rick, Miriam and Hugh, and Theresa and Harry, Hugh’s partner at work. They seemed nice, thought Steph. But when you meet someone for the first time at dawn, you don’t ever get a clear impression.
Miriam looked over Hugh’s shoulder and back at Steph. What actors we are, Steph thought, flashing an Oscar-winning smile. But there was something in the air. Danger. Why, she thought, exactly had Miriam arranged this trip? Was she playing some kind of game? What was going on?
And she had to act the dutiful, happy wife as well. It was the first time Steph and Rick had been together for a long time. They lived together, slept in the same bed, ate food at the same table, but it never failed to surprise Steph how impersonal the intimate could be. Living with someone and not speaking, seeing someone naked and never noticing.
And now, they were away together in Rome. She felt suddenly awfully awkward.
The noisy, bantering group took a taxi to their hotel and then the couples split up, each twosome making their way to their rooms. She and Rick busied themselves opening suitcases.
‘Nice room,’ tried Steph.
Rick nodded back. ‘Yeah… nice room.’
‘Pity about the weather.’
‘Yeah… it’ll be a wet match.’
‘Muddy…’
‘Muddy, right.’
That was more than she had got from him for years, so Rome was obviously working its very special magic.
‘So… what is everyone doing?’ Steph was not part of the organizing committee for this weekend. It was clear her role was tag-along, and it was all too obvious that Rick didn’t want her along.
‘The match is at five,’ he said. ‘It’s lunchtime. They are all going for something to eat. That,’ he paused, ‘suit you?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘Miriam knows Rome. She says there’s a place by the Spanish Steps.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘O’Donoghues.’
O’Donoghues?
‘Is it a pub?’
‘Yeah…’
‘An Irish pub?’
‘Well, it’s a restaurant as well,’ he said. ‘Not just a pub. Anything wrong?’ He was taunting her, willing her to show her pretentious side, her arty side, to remind her just how out of place she was on a rugby weekend.
‘No… yes, we’re in Rome?’ She couldn’t help it. This was the city she loved, a city of incredible art and culture and of history. And they were going to an Irish pub? Just give up, Steph, her inner voice counselled. Just go with it. You have made a massive mistake just being here. Just get through it. Survive.
‘So?’ he said, with a sneer. ‘We’re not here to see the Sistine Cathedral, you know? No sightseeing or paintings.’ With one word, he dismissed who she was. ‘We are here for a rugby match.’
‘You’re right… you’re right.’ Get through this. ‘Sounds perfect.’
She looked out of the hotel window at the tiny street below, the yellow stone, the people hurrying about, and the sound of the church bells. It brought back the two months she’d spent in the city as an art history student when they stayed in a hostel so grotty Steph was sure they would get bed bugs. They didn’t. Another wonderful miracle of that summer.
She and her friends, Pippa and Eileen, were totally penniless but filled with coltish excitement and swarmed the city soaking up the art, the atmosphere, the life. They starved all day and then at six o’clock would buy a slice of pizza, which they ate sitting on the fountain in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, watching the tourists, the street performers, the kids playing football. An everlasting summer in the eternal city. They did have one indulgence every day. After the pizza, they would wander over to the Campo de’ Fiori and buy from Nico’s, the best gelateria in the city.
She felt transformed when she returned to Ireland. But it all dissipated. And real-life, grown-up life kicked in and, the following autumn, she got the job in Mrs Long’s gallery and later that year she met Rick.
Last thing she’d heard was that Pippa was in London and Eileen had disappeared with a musician somewhere. Last seen in Spiddal carrying a bodhrán. At his precise moment, she would love to disappear with a man with a bodhrán. And that’s not something you wish for every day.
Steph watched Rick as he pulled something out of his suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom. He reappeared, hair lightly gelled, his broad shoulders jumpered and jacketed, his jaw set, full-on Alpha mode, as though she didn’t already know who was boss.
O’Donoghues was absolutely fine. If you didn’t try to remember you were in Rome. Harry and Theresa were very nice and Steph spent most of her time chatting to them, Rick with Hugh and Miriam. She often wondered about Hugh. He was a nice guy, as far as Steph could tell, wildly indulgent of his wife’s flirtatiousness, but he seemed utterly in the dark by how far she’d taken it. He also seemed to like Rick, almost looking up to him. Rick was like the popular boy in school, Hugh wanting to be just like him. But what would he say if he knew the truth that his so-called friend was sleeping with his wife?
Steph thought of all that art out there, scattered around the city, but she quashed her inner art history student. Instead, she tried to focus on why exactly she was there. She was still trying to pretend to the world that she and Rick were a happily married couple doing married couple-y things. The pretence was exhausting.
Everyone began drinking heavily and, when it was time for the match, God only knows how they got to the stadium, all of them several sheets to the wind. Steph spent the match with one eye on the pitch and the other on Miriam, laughing away, the life and soul of the group. She’d even managed to make a green rugby jersey look sexy, having had it taken in at all the right places. The fact that Ireland won by sixty-two points just made everyone even more jubilant and want to hit the bar even harder. Steph tried to look as thrilled at the rest of them.
Back in the centre of Rome, they piled into a bar, full of green shirts, and Steph ordered a large glass of red wine. She could feel it going straight to her head. Rick was talking and laughing loudly – he looked happy. Far removed from the distant, chilly aggression he exhibited just for her, Hugh and Miriam laughing at his jokes. She felt tired, broken, self-esteem in tatters at her feet, her life a categorical failure. After the horror of the communion and now they were rubbing her face in it. It was as though being here in Rome was ramping up Miriam’s excitement levels somewhat. She was flirting and laughing, lapping up Hugh and Rick’s attention.
Steph was getting drunk and she knew it but she couldn’t just stand there anymore and take it. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said sweetly to Theresa and Harry. She stood up and walked over to Rick, standing in front of him. The gang stopped and looked at her. ‘Rick?’
He looked up, his eyes hooded. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’ He was pretty far gone too.
‘Rick, I want to go home.’ Scene-making wasn’t usually her thing but adrenaline and alcohol had taken over.
‘Home?’ He laughed. ‘It’s a bloody long way to go home. I don’t think the night bus comes this far.’ He looked at the group to receive a snicker of approval. There were a few awkward smiles but Miriam had her game face on, concerned. She knew where the line was. She was not going to laugh blatantly at Steph.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, the hotel.’ You are still my husband, she thought. You still owe me this much.
‘The hotel?’ He actually laughed. ‘Stephanie, love,’ (this was a term of en-sneerment) ‘we’re on fucking holiday – we are in Italy. Weekend away.’ She could see his nostril hairs and the sweat glistening on his forehead. ‘We are – sweetheart – having a good time. You
should try it sometime.’
No one was laughing now. Everyone could feel the tension, the anger between them.
‘I don’t feel well.’ Steph could feel her knees give way slightly as she tried to brazen it out, the wind in her sails having dropped dramatically. She was in the doldrums, and didn’t know what her next move would be. She wished she hadn’t said anything, she wanted fresh air and to be anywhere but here.
‘Well, I feel fucking fantastic,’ he said. ‘And if you want to go back to the hotel, I will see you later. Much later. Right?’
‘Please?’ Oh my God, she was begging him. Stop it, Steph, stop it, she implored herself. You are making a holy show of yourself… She didn’t listen. ‘Rick. Come with me. Please?’
‘Steph,’ he smiled an unfriendly smile. ‘Either get yourself another drink or go back to the hotel. I’m staying here.’
He shook his head at the gang, almost rolling his eyes. They smiled slightly awkwardly at him. No one knew quite what to do. She saw Theresa smiling at her, trying to encourage her to come and sit with them again, but she’d had enough. Harry patted the seat between them.
For a moment, she stood there, wondering what to do, what her next move should be. The room was spinning and the noise of the shouting and roaring became unbearable.
But Steph was defeated and there was no way back. It took me this long to realize it, she thought, but I lost this battle years ago. Why didn’t I move on and move out long ago? And now I’m stuck. This is what my life looks like. It stretched into the future, unchangingly, unhappily forever.
She stood there, unsteadily, but Rick took charge. ‘I think, sweetheart, it might be a good idea for you to go back to the hotel.’ He smiled at her.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will.’
She got her bag and coat, nodded at Harry and Theresa and glanced at Miriam who had a look of fake-concern on her face.
‘See you later,’ she mouthed. Steph ignored her.
And that was it. There was nothing to do but walk out, leaving them all behind. It took her a while to get her bearings and she began to walk in the direction of the hotel. And then she heard someone calling her name.
Hugh.
‘Are you all right?’ he said.
‘Yes, yes of course,’ she said. ‘Just too much to drink.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ he said. ‘We’ve all had too much to drink. Come on, I’ll walk you back.’
When they got to the hotel, they stood there. She wondered if Hugh knew about Miriam and Rick, but he didn’t, she was sure of it. He was a nice guy. Why would Miriam and Rick do this to him? He didn’t deserve this deception either. And what about Aoife, their daughter? Did no one think of collateral damage?
‘Okay, then,’ she said, ‘thanks for getting me here safely.’
‘It’s no problem,’ he said. ‘But Rick should have done it, though. Walked you home.’
‘Well,’ she said, not knowing what to say. Of course her husband should be the one making sure she was safe, but for so many reasons, Rick wasn’t her husband, not in the true sense, not in any important way. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You look after yourself, okay?’ he said.
‘I will.’
And Hugh stood there until she had woken up the concierge and was safely inside the hotel.
The next morning, she woke early. Rick asleep beside her. At least he isn’t with Miriam, she thought, grateful for the smallest and most minuscule of mercies, horribly aware it should never be something any wife should be thankful for. Stumbling to the bathroom, she looked at the woman in the mirror, make-up was smeared across her face like a clown gone bad.
What to do, how to recover? Was it even possible? Was this her life now, the shamed woman, the outcast? Should she make a badge? ‘Don’t talk to me. I am mad. I’ve been a fool and I’ve lost control and I have no idea how to get it back.’ It would have to be quite a big badge, then.
She showered and dressed and left Rick’s sleeping corpse on the bed. He wouldn’t know or care where she had gone, he’d just be sleeping off his hangover until it was time to go to the airport but she knew exactly where she was headed. To a little cafe on the Piazza della Rotonda facing the Pantheon. She and her friends from all those years ago would gather there first thing, for strong espressos into which they would sink sugar lumps, turning it into something they could just about drink. And it hadn’t changed. Everything seemed the same, she could have been twenty all over again.
Except… except everything was different, with her at least.
A couple were sitting there under the awning, laughing and spooning the froth from their coffee into each other’s mouths. Honeymooners. Steph warmed her hands around her cappuccino and ignored them.
She texted Rachel.
Ciao Bella! Hope all is well and the three of you are having a lovely time.
She stopped. And thought of Rachel and how she was the only person who really mattered in all this, and how strong her feelings were for her, a mother’s love. The most powerful bond of all.
I miss you. I love you xxxx.
She sent it off.
She left the cafe and the lovebirds behind and went across to the Pantheon before doing some quick souvenir shopping for Rachel and whoever else would like a present from Rome. There was a service going on. She sat down on the edge of a pew, listening to the Latin Mass, hoping for a sign from God? An answer? Absolution? Forgiveness?
Finally, she began to cry. Great tears rolled down her face. For what? Self-pity? Shame? Because her life – once so promising, so much fun – hadn’t turned out the way she believed, was so sure, it would. Because she was scared.
She crept out of the pew, desperately trying not to show her face. The rain was pouring down through the giant oculus, the perfect circular hole in the roof. She watched as it splashed onto the marble floor and drained away. She looked up to the sky. She had fucked her life up royally.
She turned to go, tears blinding her, and as she walked towards the vast doors, she slipped – in a totally un-metaphorical way. It was a puddle which caused her downfall and she landed spread-eagled, inelegantly. There was no more devout pilgrim that day, lying prostrate before God, but perhaps more in humiliation than true devotion.
She didn’t even properly thank the elderly woman who helped her up, instead, she was just desperate to get out of there, to forget the whole sorry weekend. Determined that it wouldn’t sully her previous memory of the city. Don’t let this define you, something inside her insisted. This doesn’t have to be your story. This is not the end. But she didn’t believe herself.
And she’d thought being caught for shoplifting was rock bottom. Surely this is it, surely life can’t get any lower?
18
Eilis
Back in Dublin, Eilis was thinking about Steph and how she was getting on in Rome. She hadn’t been looking forward to it, she could tell, however much she’d said she was. She had looked apprehensive, bordering on scared. Eilis hoped everything had gone well.
On the surface, she thought, Steph seemed to have it all. But all things, all possessions, were meaningless, unless you had love. And it was very clear that Steph lacked love and was pining for it. She was reduced to one small armchair in her large house, it was as though she had no power and was merely incidental rather than the central force of the family, the home.
I wouldn’t mind some love as well, she thought, someone to put their arms around me and tell me they love me. That person should have been Rob. But she didn’t want his arms around her, or at least when she imagined it, it wasn’t him embracing her. It was Charlie. He was infiltrating her thoughts and she would just think about his face, happy and smiling, his checked shirts, which were well-worn and well-loved, and those gardening hands. She had managed to avoid driving past the shop or bumping into him. She was determined that she was going to stop behaving like a hormonal teen and focus on her and Rob. But for this night, anyway, she was on her own as Rob had texted to
say he was staying in town again for the night. She took full advantage and ate toast and jam in bed, watching something or other on television.
He returned home the following morning, at around ten a.m., just as she was in the garden, planting her sweet peas.
‘Good night?’ She stood up, unsure quite what else to say. There was something different about him, or it was as if the atmosphere was charged in a new way. What was wrong?
‘It was all right, yeah, fine.’ He seemed unable to meet her eyes or act normally, but maybe she was imagining it. I am paranoid, she thought. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Are you going to give me an inquisition?’ he snapped. ‘I thought we didn’t do that? I thought we weren’t that kind of couple?’
‘We’re not, whatever that kind of couple is. I’m just asking if you had a good night.’ She was looking at him but he still wouldn’t meet her eye. Was he alright? What was going on? She had the feeling something had changed, something in their relationship had shifted but she couldn’t quite work out what it was.
‘I’m going in… you’re…’ He stopped. ‘Just don’t be one of those women.’
‘What?’ She was caught off-guard. He never spoke to her like this.
‘You know…’
‘I don’t know. What do you mean by that?’ She looked him, bewildered. This wasn’t him.
‘A nag.’
‘A nag?’ She was flummoxed. What was wrong with him? He never spoke to her like this.
‘There was a tone to your voice.’ He turned to go.
‘A tone?’
‘An accusatory tone. A nagging tone.’
‘I was just asking…’ she tried to change the atmosphere, but she knew she sounded desperate. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Do you want a cup of tea or something?’
‘No, I think I’m going to have a sleep.’ He began walking to the house.
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