‘You didn’t think I’d find out at all, did you?’
He’s got me there. I really didn’t think he’d find out, and everything would be fine. But everything hasn’t been fine. Not for a while. And it has nothing to do with Piotr, really.
‘My housemate, Aisling? And then my mother has to tell me she saw you at the General with him! Do you have any idea how tormented I am imagining how long you fancied him for? Were you giving him the eye behind my back?’
‘No!’ I really wasn’t. I mean, Piotr was always a ride, I suppose, but until John and I broke up I never saw anything in him. And besides, John basically had a girlfriend when we were broken up.
‘What about you and Ciara?’ I counter, before he has a chance to speak again. ‘Do you not think I was hurt when you turned up with her? Had you fancied her since we met her in Tenerife? Were you just waiting for your chance to … to … stick it in her?’
‘Aisling! Come on! Stop that!’
But I’m off. I want to hurt him. I want to hurt him like he hurt me when he got with Ciara. I thought that getting back together and grieving together over Daddy would heal us, would make us stronger. But I was wrong. It all comes pouring out of me.
‘And you didn’t see me calling you a slut, did you, when you were parading around with Ciara? Oh no! But it was okay for you to say it to me in front of everyone! My daddy had just died, John. Piotr was there. I needed someone. I am not a slut!’ I would have expected to be crying at this point. Roaring. But my eyes are dry and my chest is heaving.
Sadhbh warned me about this. She warned me about meeting up and the horrible things that might be said and how hurtful it might be. ‘People have a huge capacity to say awful things to each other, Ais,’ she said gently on the phone last night. ‘Don’t make it so bad that you can never come back from it. It’s John. You’ve spent your whole adult lives together.’
Her words are ringing in my ears now as we gaze at each other angrily across my small room. Me sitting on the bed where we’ve lain together so many times, my head on his strong chest, watching episode after episode of The West Wing on my tiny portable telly. He got me the boxset one Christmas, and we were never allowed watch an episode without the other person. It has helped me no end in table quizzes. Nothing like pulling an answer about filibustering out of the bag when you’re in second place and there’s a bottle of vodka and two bales of briquettes at stake. John’s across from me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles, and I see a tear drip from the end of his nose onto my Forever Friends rug.
My eyes begin to water. ‘What’s after happening to us, John?’ The hot tears spill over onto my cheeks. ‘We’ve gone all wrong.’ Full-blown crying now. Shoulders shaking, the whole shebang. John doesn’t look up but in a sad voice says, ‘I don’t know, Ais. I don’t know.’
We’ve grown apart. It was so good for a while. For a short, lovely while after we got back together it was warm and safe and us against the world. Us against my grief about Daddy. Us against everything. But it didn’t last. ‘You’ve outgrown him, Ais.’ Sadhbh’s words from last night ring in my ears again. ‘He’s all you’ve ever known.’ She’s right. I have outgrown him. So much has happened in the past year. I can imagine a life without him. It makes me so sad, but I can.
‘John, do you think maybe this isn’t right for us anymore?’ My voice sounds remarkably steady.
He looks up in horror, more tears streaming down his face now. But in the next instant his face softens. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I think maybe you’re right.’ He smiles through the tears and continues, ‘I can’t believe it, Ais.’
He crosses the tiny space between us and sits down beside me, our shoulders touching and both of us looking at our hands. He stretches his big dry palm out on my lap, inviting me to hold it one last time.
‘Remember the first time you held my hand walking into Maguire’s and the place nearly came down with the jeering?’ I sniff, placing my hot little paw, wet from tears, inside his.
‘I do.’ He squeezes. ‘I didn’t care … that much.’ He smiles. ‘Remember the time we went to Amsterdam and you were so paranoid about people thinking we were doing drugs?’
How could I forget that? We were only going to Amsterdam because we won the flights in a GAA raffle, not to go berserk on hash cakes or what have you. I made sure we went to every museum we could find so I’d have something to tell people – Mammy, especially – when we came home. There’s nothing I don’t know about Van Gogh. Suddenly John starts to laugh … and laugh and laugh. Really creasing himself.
‘What?’ I demand. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Remem– remember–’ He can hardly get the words out. ‘Remember you thought the hotel was spying on us? You – you put a plaster over the peephole and made me check the lamps for hidden cameras and microphones.’
He’s right, I suppose. I was a nervous wreck the whole time. I was sure we were going to get done for something or get something planted on us. Drug mules, the pair of us!
‘Well, aren’t you glad I did and we didn’t end up on Banged up Abroad?’ His laughter is contagious, though, and soon I’m hooting too, still squeezing his hand. As our laughter subsides I ask him: ‘Remember the last night in Amsterdam, though, when we found the lovely restaurant with the burgers and the waiter thought my name was Ash-knee and gave us the free bottle of wine?’
‘Yeah,’ John says. ‘Yeah, I do’. Silence falls between us as we think about that night. Walking back to the (bugged, I still swear it) hotel hand in hand, drunk as skunks on the free wine and laughing like drains through the streets of Amsterdam.
John shifts around on the bed, turning to face me, breaking the silence. ‘Aisling.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You were never with Piotr before that, were you? You never … you never kissed him before that?’
‘No! No, never! Never anyone, John.’
He sighs. ‘Okay, okay, just checking.’ He’s teasing, but his bad attempt at a joke is poorly timed.
I mull over it for a minute and then, quietly seething and wracked with guilt, I turn to him. ‘Jesus Christ, who do you think I am? I’ve told you. It was once. I was in bits. It never happened again. How many more times do you want to ask me about it?’
And like that, our hands are broken. There’s a million miles between us again. John sets his jaw and retorts, ‘Well, you’re free to go out with him now anyway.’
I sigh, exhausted by it all. ‘John, I don’t want to go out with Piotr. I’m not going to be going out with Piotr, and I’ve told him that. It was all just a stupid mess. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I really am. But you hurt me too. We hurt each other. Let’s not do it anymore. Please.’
We sit in silence on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, for what seems like an age. We both cry at different points. John first, more tears dropping off the end of his nose onto his hands. I put my arm around him and he clings to me suddenly, sobbing. I’ve never seen him cry like this. I grip him so tightly that I feel like my fingers might go through his shirt. After minutes, or hours, he retreats. Then it’s my turn to weep. I think about us dancing to Snow Patrol in the kitchen at a party. I think about the time he made me a ‘Couch Kit’ for my birthday: a Legally Blonde DVD, Toffypops, fluffy slippers, multiple face masks and a mini kettle I could plug in right beside the couch. That was years ago. Long before duplicate Pandora bracelets. I cry for all the times he drunkenly told me he loved me. ‘I love me county,’ he slurred to me one year when they got through to the quarter-finals of the All Ireland and he drank too many of those fruit cider yokes. ‘I love me county, Aisling. But I love you more.’ That one makes me cry the most. He hugs me then. Clinging to me, his fingers digging into my shoulders.
At some point I lie down, exhausted, shoes still on. John curls in behind me, recreating those oh-so-familiar spoons, his warm breath ghosting at my neck. Downstairs I hear Mammy in the kitchen, scraping a pot and opening and closing the o
ven. But we don’t move. I hear Paddy Reilly come and go, checking something about lambs and something else about fodder. I listen to the faraway noises and I listen as John’s breathing gets deeper. At some point I must drift off myself, spent from the crying and the laughing and the emotion of it all. I dream that we’re at a funfair, flying around on one of those treacherous chair-o-plane yokes. They’re faster than they look. In the dream, I’m swinging around and John’s ahead of me, looking back and laughing and reaching for my hand, but I can’t catch it. I wake in total darkness and sit up, willing my eyes to focus. I can sense that John is still there, sitting on the edge of the bed. How long has he been like that?
‘John?’
‘Yeah.’ He leans over and switches on the bedside light.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s two. I’d better go.’
‘You don’t have to go. You can stay. We can watch The West Wing. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just watch The West Wing and pretend none of it is happening, just for tonight?’
I know it’s over but I still don’t want him to go. Not just yet. I want one last night of sleeping with my head on his chest, his leg over mine and the duvet ending up on the ground, like usual. No funny business. Just … Aisling and John.
He considers it for a minute and then gives a shuddering sigh and shakes his head. ‘No, I’ll go. I’ll let myself out.’
John stands up, stretching his long legs and his long arms, and just stands there for a moment, his back to me. He turns, gives a weak, sad smile and says, ‘Bye, Aisling. I suppose I’ll see you when I see you.’
I thought I’d cry all night, but I don’t. I switch off the light and lie there in the darkness, picking through my brain for some more inspirational break-up quotes. Majella would be a big fan of firing them up on Facebook after a shift in Coppers didn’t text her back. ‘Don’t stress the should-haves. If it could have, it would have.’ And her personal favourite: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because that gobshite is now somebody else’s problem.’ They don’t really apply here, though. What’s that one Auntie Sheila has on a magnet on her fridge? It was Marilyn Monroe or the Dalai Lama or someone who said it. ‘What’s for you won’t pass you.’
That’s it. What’s for you won’t pass you.
Chapter 20
Half of the people in this queue are honeymooners and the other half seem to be going on stags and hens. Well for some. What’s wrong with a bit of Carrick-on-Shannon or Kilkenny? We’re lucky we’re going this week and not next week. There’s a fight in Vegas next weekend between the ‘next McGregor’ and some Russian lad. There’s great hype over it but I’ve never heard of your man, truth be told. I can only imagine the number of home-improvement credit-union loans that are funding the trip. Would you blame them, though? It’s not often we get to show our sporting prowess on the world stage. Mammy still tells the story of Daddy threatening to remortgage the farm in 1990 when Ireland got through to the quarter-finals in Italy. She nipped it in the bud fairly fast, and he made do with painting half a herd of cattle green, white and gold and threatening to name any future children ‘Packie’ or give them the middle name ‘Cascarino’.
Sadhbh arrived for the flight wearing something she described as ‘airport pyjamas’. They look too posh to be actual pyjamas, but they do appear to be fierce comfy. I nearly wish I’d invested in a pair myself but my tracksuit bottoms and old BGB Gaels hoodie are nearly as good. Sadhbh almost took the hand off me when I told her me and Maj were going to Vegas. The new job is fairly hectic, and I think living with Fionnuala and Mairead is taking its toll too.
She won’t say much in front of Majella, of course, because they’re her pals, but Fionnuala had her parents staying in the house last weekend and they all slept in the room together, Fionnuala on the floor and the parents in her queen bed. ‘It was like something out of The Hills Have Eyes,’ Sadhbh insisted to me, traumatised. Then when Sadhbh was trying to watch Sunday Brunch Fionnuala’s father came in and told her to switch over to mass on RTÉ One.
‘Will you move again?’ I hiss at her as Majella heads up to the bar for three celebratory proseccos in Terminal 2.
‘Sure where would I go?’ She hisses back. ‘I can’t afford anything on my own, and better the devil you know for the moment, I suppose. I could end up in a house share in Santry with some fella who wants to put my knickers in his pillowcase at night. There’s not much else going.’
‘And what about … himself?’ Sadhbh’s still being fierce cagey about this new fella she’s seeing. Not a hint of him on Facebook, still haven’t met him and all I know about him now is that his name is Donal and he’s ‘on the music scene’. Sure, who isn’t on the music scene in her gang?
‘Oh, he’s away a lot with work. But I stay with him a good bit – whenever I can, really.’
‘Any photos? Any goss?’ I’ve tried to play it cool on multiple occasions, but she surely owes me some detail at this stage. And me single and sad. She dismisses me with a wave of her hand and deftly changes the subject.
‘How are you, anyway? About John and everything?’
I’ve been mostly alright. I feel calm about it. I’m not up the walls like I was worried I would be. I’m more worried about being unemployed, truth be told. Although, the more I’ve been at home the more I’ve been dragging my heels on trying to find a new job. I’m worried about leaving Mammy. She keeps telling me what a huge help I’ve been to her and how she could never run the show on her own. I worry about the farm all the time. I’m convinced a ‘For Sale’ sign is going to go up any day. I can’t bring myself to ask her about it, though. I’m not ready for that kind of conversation, and I know she’ll tell me in her own good time. The idea of handing over our home and all of Daddy’s memories to someone else is too much to even think about. I’m worried about everything. I envy Paul, so far away in Australia.
‘Well?’ Sadhbh nudges me. But I don’t want to get into it now.
‘I’m grand. I’m grand. So back to this Donal. When are we going to meet him, or see him at least?’ I’m starting to think that maybe she’s made him up.
‘Okay, but you have to promise to keep your cool. I wasn’t sure if it was going to last and he’s really weird about “going public”, but … here.’ Sadhbh swipes through the photos on her phone and lands on one of her lying back on a couch, laughing, and beside her is …
‘Mother of God herself on the Cliffs of Moher! You’re going out with Don Shields!’
‘Shhh, Aisling. Be cool,’ Sadhbh admonishes, but she’s laughing.
Don Shields is huge news. Huge. He’s the lead singer of The Peigs. They were just on one of those American talk shows – I can’t remember which one. Presented by one of the Jimmys. And one of their songs was used in a Vodafone ad over in England. No wonder he’s ‘away a good bit with work’– I saw him in a pair of Calvin Klein jocks on the side of a bus last week! I’m nearly sure Majella tried to chance her way backstage to drink Buckfast with The Peigs at Electric Picnic last year. They were the only reason she went.
‘Majella is going to lose her mind! Don Shields was her phone wallpaper for ages until Pablo came along. I can’t believe this, Sadhbh! She and a few from Mary I followed them around the country in a minibus before they made it big in the States.’ I grab the phone out of her hand, on the hunt for more snaps, but she reefs it back off me again.
‘Aisling! Number-one rule of other people’s phones. Never swipe without permission!’ Did I just save myself from seeing Sadhbh in her pelt? Or Don Shields, for that matter? I’ve never taken a ‘nude’ in my life. I’d be too afraid that the hackers would get me.
‘Anyway,’ Sadhbh continues, ‘he’s really sound and down to earth and lovely but I knew … some people would go mad when they knew it was him, so I just wanted to be sure. And …’ She stretches out her lower lip in a you-might-kill-me way.
‘What?’
‘He might be in Vegas. He might meet us there, I mean. It’s a total coi
ncidence.’ The words fall out of her like cement out of a mixer. ‘But I swear I didn’t know when we booked it. I know this is a girls’ weekend. It’s just a coincidence that the band are playing a showcase in LA this weekend and he said he’d try to come for a night. Don’t kill me.’
Majella arrives back at the table, clutching three flutes and swaying her hips, singing ‘Vivaaa Las Vegas.’ I struggle to sit up out of the deep chair in the airport bar, my legs impeded by my backpack and the inflated neck pillow attached to the side of it. I’ve been on long flights before, of course – I’ve been to New York twice for Christmas shopping – so I have the deep vein thrombosis socks and the earplugs and everything. This Vegas trip is epic altogether, though. Nine hours to Atlanta, an hour’s wait and then another four and half hours to Las Vegas. I’ve set my Fitbit to remind me to get up and walk every hour (it does that with a little vibrate anyway, to be fair, but I’ve set it to beep as well, just to be sure). I’ve googled what films are going to be on the flight, and I have the latest Marian Keyes audiobook on my phone. I’m all set. I’m delighted to be fitting in a visit to another US city, to be honest, even if it does mean a day of travelling. It’s a lot of flying for three days away, but, sure, going on a transatlantic flight is nearly like a holiday itself with all the free food and entertainment. I must pick up some Atlanta fridge magnets and see about getting a stamp in my passport.
The flights weren’t too bad considering we booked them last minute. I’ve committed to spending a bit of my redundancy money, egged on by Mammy, and Sadhbh is the same. Feck it. The bit of sun will do us good, and when Majella went to Vegas three years ago with her Chicago cousins she won $300 and swears blind she saw Linda Martin trying to cross the road in an Elvis wig. We have a suite with adjoining rooms booked in the MGM Grand. I’ve heard of it, and Majella says there’s a great gift shop, so it seemed like a good pick.
‘What time is it now?’ Majella gives me a nudge. I catch Sadhbh’s eye, which is glinting away, and she can’t keep the smirk off her face.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 15
