Part 8 (2/2)

I laughed, and as the laugh turned into a yawn I realized how tired I was. I had woken up in the travel-brochure harmony of Los Almiras some sixteen hours earlier and now I was in the midst of broken marriages, missing wives and lesbian sisters.

'Come on,' said Lucy, gathering up our things, 'let's get you home to your man. It's been a long day.'

'You really are a dark horse, Lucy. I'd no idea all this was going on.'

'I guess you never know what people are hiding,' said Lucy, with a smile, as we left the pub.

We strolled up O'Connell Street, enjoying the relative brightness and warmth of the evening, and rounded the corner into Hartstonge Street. It was just as we were about to part at the steps to my building that we saw him. He was sitting, crumpled, on the floor in the foyer. He saw us immediately and was on his feet in seconds. He was distinctly embarra.s.sed to be caught like that. He looked as if he hadn't slept or eaten in days.

'OK, Kate,' he said. 'I think you know something about this. What's going on?'

His voice was forced. He was trying to be calm but it was costing him a huge effort.

I could only tell him I knew nothing. 'Mike,' I began, 'this is the first I've heard of it. I had no idea.'

'Oh, come on,' he said. 'You knew what was going on. Lucy said you knew something.' This was where Lucy jumped in to say, no, that wasn't what she'd said, she'd just thought I might have a clue as to what was up with Jean. His face was contorted now, an ugly expression I'd never seen before forming across his features.

'What is it with you girls?' he almost spat. 'Has none of you any respect for what it means to be married?'

I knew he probably didn't mean it but it hurt to hear him say that. He was looking directly at me as if he truly despised me. Suddenly I forgot that this was about Jean and nearly launched into an explanation of my past (and present) behaviour, but Mike wasn't hanging around to hear it or anything else.

'I'm wasting my time here.' He barged past us and tried to get out of the door but missed the subtle lifting mechanism. He tugged at it, making a racket that would have woken the dead. I tried to a.s.sist him in raising the catch, but as soon as I was near enough, he shrugged me away. Tears of frustration were running down his cheeks; I would have given anything to help him. Eventually he got the door open and slammed it behind him without another word to us. Lucy and I turned to each other. Neither of us had ever seen Mike like that.

After everything had finished between Daniel and me, I resolved not to feel any guilt about it. I'd decided I'd been hurt as much as anybody and I tried to convince myself I'd done nothing wrong. That's the story I stick to mostly. At times like this I feel wretched and crave absolution. I've even thought about going to confession, but I don't know if there's enough of the Catholic left in me to believe in the forgiveness, even if I could muster the courage to confess to a priest. It would be such a quick fix, yet it isn't really the wrath of G.o.d I'm worried about. I suppose living with occasional wretchedness is the price I have to pay.

Lucy and I decided there wasn't much point in mentioning this incident at home so we made a quick phone call to say we'd seen Mike briefly and he was still quite upset. We didn't know what else to do. One thing was for sure: this break-up was for real and it didn't look like there would be a way to fix it.

I had expected Keith to be in bed but he was still up, laying out his clothes for the next day. 'I looked for something of yours to iron,' he said, 'but I couldn't find anything clean.'

'Oh, for G.o.d's sake,' I snapped, rather unfairly, 'who cares about clean clothes?' I knew he was only being helpful, but Keith and his concerns seemed rather mundane right now. I wondered if I walked out on him would he still be putting a crease in his trousers or would he be out wandering the streets like a madman?

'Come on,' I said to him, 'let's go to bed. I don't even know if I can face work in the morning.'

He put the iron away and followed me into the bedroom.

8.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel far too well dressed for the world. I feel like I'm not feeling anything. I get out of bed and have a shower without realizing I'm awake. I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee and I don't remember boiling the kettle. Then I get dressed. First, I pull on my underwear, which is usually fas.h.i.+onable, clean and matching although there are times when it's not. Then I put on my suit. That's where the real problem lies. I was never meant to wear a suit. There's something about a tailored suit that puts a strain on my mind. I can feel the fabric on every part of my body. 'Conform,' it's saying. 'Conform. Disappear into the background. Be indistinguishable from the crowd. Do not be yourself.'

Ever since I became self-aware I have been obsessed about my appearance. Somewhere between the ages of one and two, when I realized that the little girl in the mirror was me, I've been trying to alter her. It's been exhausting at times, but always fun. When I was a teenager I went through a Goth phase mainly because of a boyfriend I had for about three weeks, and because I had the time. I used to get stared at constantly and, of course, that was part of the attraction, but now, when I get dressed up in my big fancy work suit and n.o.body looks, or if they do, it's only to nod acceptance, I realize that I was much more myself in the ridiculous black get-up than I ever could be in my stylish two-piece.

When I was at school I was one of those silly girls who knew that, with a little sustained effort, I could do quite well in the Leaving Cert. There were loads of us. Our school was small, single s.e.x and highly academic. It specialized in turning out very confident young women who would enter the professions but would probably leave them before too long to get married. Therefore it didn't matter what you chose to study at college as long as it sounded good. There was, of course, a small number of girls who had their heads screwed on much better than the rest of us, who thought about the future as something real that might affect the rest of their lives. They chose career paths they hoped would bring them satisfaction and fulfilment. As I said, I was not one of those girls.

All of us Delahuntys have good brains; we get them from both sides of the family. But while most of the older ones had no great desire, or were not expected, to dazzle with their jobs, by the time us later ones were leaving school, the whole country had become gripped by Leaving-Cert points mania. It was the newest status symbol, replacing the foreign holiday and the brand-new car. Whose son got medicine? Whose daughter just missed veterinary? Whose child got pharmacy with points to spare? If you had the ability, you were expected to perform.

My own parents, being sensible in the main (even my mother, when it comes to such things), tried to impress on me the importance of choosing a career I would be suited to, of picking a college course based on my likes and apt.i.tudes. My father, in particular, encouraged careful thinking and prudent choices. He did not encourage my choice of law. 'I don't think it's for you, sweetheart,' he said.

But I was determined. Several others in my cla.s.s were going for law, and my determination to beat them, if nothing else, kept me focused. In the end we all got it. I'm the only one still practising (yikes!), even though I was easily the least suited to it. At the time, my father was recommending I think about an arts degree, which would probably have suited me but it would have meant wasting my points so I dismissed it. He suggested the art college where Lucy had spent four happy years, but I knew that wasn't for me. I'm much too square. So I lined up the high-points contenders and picked them off one by one. Definitely not medicine. It seemed much too like hard work. I'm not keen on blood either (I flinch at the sight of a nail cut too low), and a white coat would do nothing for my figure. Ditto veterinary. Ditto dentistry. (Why would anyone want to be a dentist?) And pharmacy seemed too much like shop-keeping. And so, in the year I did my Leaving Cert, the only big hitter remaining was law. Hence, I chose law.

Now here I am at my desk, dressed in my Quin and Donnelly suit, wondering what I should have done differently.

It was while I was sitting there, idling with some correspondence, that I had a phone call from Jean.

'Hi there', she said, maybe meekly.

'Hi there,' I said, as flatly as I could.

'I hope you don't mind me phoning you at work.'

'I mind you phoning me at work as much as I mind you phoning me,' I said, rather pedantically.

She ignored the tone. 'I won't keep you long.'

'Why are you ringing me? Why aren't you ringing Mike?'

'I need to talk to you first.'

'Why? I've nothing to say to you.'

'Please, Kate. I will talk to Mike, but I want to talk to you first.'

'You're an absolute b.i.t.c.h, you know.'

'Yes. Yes, I know.'

Well, good.'

Now that that was out of the way I could give way to my curiosity and talk to her.

'Look, I know it must have been weird for everybody but it was something I had to do. I thought you might understand.'

'Why does everybody think /would understand?'

'Well, you feel things strongly. You're not afraid to do what you need to.'

I wasn't sure what she was talking about. Did the fact that I was insane enough to have an affair with a married man qualify me as a couples counsellor?

'I'm not going to justify what you've done, Jean.'

'I know. That's not what I want. Look, will you meet me? Can I buy you a drink?'

I was in need of a drink. When?'

'Whenever you can get off work.'

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