Mistake Read online

  ‘More or less,’ replies Ivo. ‘I would have paid for someone but she said Dad didn’t want a stranger staying in the house.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I say. ‘Elderly people don’t like their routines disrupted. Anyway, I’m sure your dad was pleased to see you, no matter what you fought about.’

  Ivo says nothing.

  ‘Blood is thicker than water,’ I add. Just because it’s a cliché doesn’t make it untrue.

  ‘Lizzy has always wanted us to reconcile. I think she hoped that if I came often enough, one day we’d turn into the type of warm and loving family you have. In her dreams!’ He shrugs dismissively and I wish he’d tell me the details of the row. But he doesn’t and so I ask about his mum, who didn’t feature in his narrative.

  ‘She died when I was small.’ There’s a finality in that statement that means I don’t say anything more, although I’m wondering if she was part of what went wrong between Ivo and his father.

  ‘Well, I accept it must be difficult for you to come back and look after your dad, especially when it means having to take a flight from wherever you are. But it is only one night a week, and Lizzy is doing all the heavy lifting.’

  ‘You’re on her side.’

  ‘I’m not taking sides,’ I say as mildly as I can. ‘All I’m doing is pointing out that she’s there all the time, which must be hard.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to be,’ says Ivo. ‘Like I said, I was prepared to pay—’

  ‘Sometimes it’s about more than money,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not her secret sister?’ he asks. ‘That’s what she said too. She made me feel . . .’ He breaks off; clearly he can’t find the right word to express his emotions.

  ‘He’s your dad,’ I say. ‘No matter what kind of difficulties you’ve had in the past, he’s still your family.’

  He exhales sharply. ‘There are some things I can’t forgive.’

  ‘You don’t have to forgive him if it was that awful,’ I point out. ‘Being there is enough.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He picks up his coffee cup but puts it down without drinking anything. ‘I can’t believe I caved in. I bet Dad would’ve come around to an overnight nurse or something in the end.’

  ‘Maybe deep down you do want to reconcile with him,’ I suggest.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ There’s a certainty about his words that’s quite shocking.

  ‘If you’re going to keep coming over, you should do it with a good grace,’ I tell him. ‘There’s no point in being angry about it every single time. You are,’ I add, before he says anything else. ‘I can feel it as soon as you get into the car.’

  Ivo gives me a sceptical glance.

  ‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘I knew there was something.’

  ‘I thought I was cool,’ he says.

  ‘You were,’ I assure him. ‘But possibly not the way you mean.’

  He laughs suddenly, and the atmosphere, which had been getting tense, lightens considerably.

  ‘Lizzy tells me I can be a right pain in the arse,’ he says.

  ‘I would never say that about a client.’

  ‘Do you think I’m a pain in the arse?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t. I think you’re a great client and you seem like a decent person. So did the therapy help with the row?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He shakes his head. ‘That was more for the childhood stuff.’ His voice is calmer now and I know he’s not going to tell me what that was. ‘It worked. After all, I managed to go home for the first time in nearly twenty years, no matter how little I wanted to. Maybe it’s easier because I didn’t grow up in Banville Terrace. There aren’t any memories for me there.’

  ‘You might be right,’ I agree. ‘Listen to me, Ivo – you’ve done great. You have a fantastic job and a wonderful girlfriend . . .’

  ‘How do you know that?’ He looks amused.

  ‘Because you couldn’t afford to do all this if your job wasn’t fantastic. And you clearly love . . . Annabel . . . if you’re bringing her out for flashy dinners and buying her expensive gifts.’ I suddenly feel awkward again. I’m not the one to be lecturing him about his family or telling him who he loves. So I drain my cup and stand up, saying I should go. For a moment I think he’s going to ask me to stay, but he stands up too, his coffee still untasted.

  ‘Thank you for today,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you halfway to Kildare and back again. And sorry to have bent your ear about my problems, which aren’t really problems at all in the grand scheme of things.’

  ‘Everyone’s problems matter in their own lives,’ I say.

  ‘I guess so.’ He smiles. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll be coming back again. I’m fed up with it all.’

  I want to say that today was a storm in a teacup, but I don’t.

  ‘I’ll let you know, of course. I’m sorry if it inconveniences you.’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ I say. ‘I have plenty of other clients to take your slot.’ Then I give him an apologetic look. ‘That sounds terrible. As if I’m happy to bump you for someone else. I didn’t mean it like that. Simply that you don’t need to worry about my business.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘But I’ll be sorry if you don’t come back,’ I add. ‘I enjoy the drive to Kildare.’

  ‘I’ve been very demanding in getting you to pick me up so early on Saturday mornings.’ He frowns. ‘It’s because I didn’t want to stay a moment longer than I had to, but I’m sure you’re busy on Saturdays with your children. The last thing you need is a crack-of-dawn start.’

  ‘I’m quite happy to be up at the crack of dawn,’ I say. ‘I like driving best when there’s no traffic on the roads. So it’s never been an issue.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ve been thoughtless.’

  ‘You’re the client!’ I remind him. ‘You’re paying for my time. You don’t have to be thoughtful. Besides, you’ve been paying me over the odds, which has been great. So I’ll actually be quite sorry if I don’t see you again.’

  ‘That’s nice to know.’ He takes his phone from his pocket, checks it, and then leaves it on the table.

  ‘Will you need me in the morning, or would you prefer to get the shuttle to the airport?’ I ask.

  ‘The shuttle will be fine,’ he says.

  ‘OK.’ I suddenly think of something else. ‘Um . . . if you’re not coming back, you’d better take the perfume.’

  ‘The perfume?’

  ‘That you bought for your girlfriend’s birthday? That I’ve been keeping in my glove compartment for the past couple of weeks?’

  ‘Oh, yes, the perfume.’ He thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. ‘Keep it,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t possibly do that.’

  ‘Please,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to bother to check my bag in just for the perfume, and besides, as you said yourself, I brought Annabel out for a very flash dinner. And bought her a necklace. And got her a voucher for some ridiculously expensive spa as well as a vintage Hermès bag she’d been wanting for ages. So I’ve more or less clawed my way back into her good books and she’s forgiven me for missing her birthday dinner. The perfume would be too much.’

  ‘It really wouldn’t,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not a big believer in massive birthday celebrations,’ says Ivo. ‘We’ve done hers. I truly don’t want to revisit it.’

  ‘You can give it to her as a “just because” present,’ I say.

  ‘Just because?’

  ‘Just because you love her.’ I grin. ‘People should do things for other people not only on birthdays and Christmas, but “just because”.’

  ‘Hmm. You’re clearly far more generous than me.’

  I’m not. Because I’ve never brought anyone for a dinner where the main course costs a hundred euro!

  Ivo’s eyes light up.

  ‘You can accept the perfume as a “just because” from me,’ he says with a note
of triumph in his voice. ‘Because you’ve been so patient today and because you listened to me talking complete bollocks about my family and were nice about it. Think of it as a thank you.’

  I’m not at all certain I should accept a gift from a client. I don’t remember Dad ever doing it. Though I took Gina Hayes’s book, didn’t I? And the phone covers from Leona Lynch. And I have a sort of long-term loan of Thea Ryan’s beautiful umbrella. So it wouldn’t be something out of the ordinary for me to take the perfume too. And yet it feels like it would.

  ‘I’d really like you to have it,’ he says.

  It would be a shame not to accept it in the spirit in which it’s being offered. Besides, he’s right, he’s already given Annabel loads. And I might never see him again.

  ‘In that case, thanks very much,’ I say.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He moves closer to me and for a nanosecond I think he’s going to kiss me. My heart somersaults. But then he extends his hand and I shake it.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Lehane,’ I say.

  ‘ Au revoir , Mrs McMenamin,’ says Ivo.

  I can’t speak French. But I understand that.

  So perhaps he’s saying he’ll be back after all.

  Which is a surprisingly cheery thought.

  Chapter 16

  I’ll be home pretty much at the time I expected, thanks to stopping off for the coffee. I’ve never, ever had coffee with a client before and I’m feeling a little guilty. At the time it seemed the right thing to do, but now I’m thinking that if Dave went for coffee with a female customer I’d be peeved with him. I wonder why I should feel that way – is it because I wouldn’t have trusted him even then? Or because plumbers usually don’t have coffee with their customers? At least, not in fancy hotels. Their right to have coffee at any time on the job is, of course, unshakeable.

  I think again about Ivo’s relationship with his dad and wonder how it all went wrong. Nobody I know has had long-term estrangements from their families, although there are plenty of short-term arguments and fallings-out. Sometimes even defriending on Facebook! But no matter what, we all manage to resolve our differences. Nevertheless, it must have been something massive between Ivo and his father to lead to such a long silence. And then Lizzy got him home. It’s always the women who fix it in the end.

  I stop thinking of him as I get into a brief pissing contest with a truck driver who seems to want to force me off the road. I break the speed limit to get ahead of him and then berate myself for feeling the need. I hate being behind huge lorries, that’s my excuse.

  I’m five minutes from the Beechgrove estate when the phone rings. For a moment I think it’s Ivo Lehane again, changing his mind and wanting to be brought to Kildare after all. And I’m actually planning on how I’ll turn the car around, and what I’ll say to Dave, when I see from the caller ID that it’s Thea Ryan. She apologises for the relatively short notice but she’s to be a guest speaker at a charity lunch the following Friday and she’d like me to drive her. Just there, she adds; her daughter – who’s involved with the osteoporosis charity – will drop her home.

  Even if Ivo changes his mind and comes back to stay with his father next week, I’ll have time to drive Thea to her lunch. So I confirm her booking. I turn down the next offer, less than five minutes later, to collect some businessmen from Heuston station on Tuesday evening, though. I need to be home for the children.

  I’m pulling up in front of the house when the phone rings for a third time. I can’t believe I’ve become so in demand all of a sudden. But this call is from Alison, who tells me that her tax friend can see me on Monday morning. I didn’t realise that she was going to make an actual appointment for me. Even though I’m nervous about the idea of meeting a proper business person as their client instead of their driver, I can at least ask him about the merits of selling the car versus keeping the business going. And that will mean I can have a sensible conversation with Dave about it, with all the relevant information at my fingertips. I’m not going to say anything tonight, though. No need for him to know.

  When I walk into the kitchen, he’s tucking into pizza and chips at the kitchen table with Mica and Tom, even though I left more chopped salad in the fridge. Emma and Andrew, their friends, are there too and they chant a ‘hello, Mrs McMenamin’ at me before they all head into the living room to watch TV. Emma and Mica have obviously resolved whatever differences they had, which I’m happy about. If only adults could do it as easily.

  ‘Want some?’ Dave asks as he opens the pizza box to reveal the last slice.

  It smells great and I’m starving. But I take the salad out of the fridge and put the kettle on for a cup of tea, even though the coffee I had with Ivo is still swilling around my stomach.

  ‘Good day?’ asks Dave as he puts the last piece of pizza on his own plate.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘There was something on the news about an accident on the M50,’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Caused a delay.’

  ‘But you made reasonable time.’ He glances at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Yes.’

  I don’t say anything about coffee with Ivo Lehane. It’s not important.

  ‘We have to talk properly about this taxi stuff.’ Dave goes to the cupboard and takes out a box of Mr Kipling pies. He opens it and puts a cherry Bakewell on the plate in front of him.

  I’m absolutely not going to have this conversation until after I meet Alison’s mate. But I can’t stop myself from telling Dave that I’m a chauffeur, not a taxi driver, and that he’s already said he’s fine with me driving until he comes back from Wexford. So there’s nothing to talk about.

  ‘I know what I said,’ he tells me. ‘But I honestly think it’s going to be impossible for you to keep a schedule going during the rest of the school holidays.’

  ‘I’ve managed so far.’

  ‘But is managing enough?’ he asks. ‘Surely the kids deserve more than that. I’m not trying to be obstructive,’ he adds. ‘All I want is what’s best for everyone.’

  Which I’m sure he does. But do I count as everyone? Because if continuing driving is something I want to do, isn’t he obstructing me? Does what I want not count? Or am I being monumentally selfish?

  ‘I want life to be easy for you,’ Dave says when I stay silent. ‘Back and forward to the airport all the time, getting up at the crack of dawn to drive to Kildare – those things are making it hard.’

  ‘Actually, I won’t be going to Kildare in the morning after all,’ I say. ‘Mr Lehane doesn’t need me.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of good news.’ A wide grin breaks out on Dave’s face. ‘I can think of quite a few ways to pass the time instead. And all of them are good ones!’ He leans across the kitchen table and kisses me.

  As I kiss him back, I realise that there are two things I haven’t told him about today: the proposed meeting with the tax adviser, and the coffee with a client. I don’t usually keep things from Dave. But now, it seems, I do.

  Even though I don’t have to wake up early, my eyes snap open exactly at the time they would have done if I’d been picking up Ivo. Through the shade of the curtains I can see that the sun is already up. Dave is out for the count, but I’m totally alert. I slide out of bed and go downstairs, first peeping into the children’s bedrooms to check on them. Like their dad, Tom and Mica are sound asleep.

  I decide on tea instead of coffee for a change, and sip it as I look out into the garden, where a red fox is balancing precariously on the dividing wall between our house and Julie Halpin’s. Our eyes meet for a moment, his as tawny as his fur. Then he seems to shrug as though I’m not interesting enough for him, and shimmies down the other side of the wall. I hope the lids are secure on the bins in the front so that he can’t scavenge from them, and I go into the living room to look out and check. They’re fine, but seeing the Merc reminds me that I left the perfume Ivo Lehane gave me in the glove compartment. I won’t get it now because the sound of the front door
opening and the beep of the alarm disarming would probably wake either Dave or the children. But I make a mental note to take it out later.

  I return to my tea, open my iPad and check my Instagram account. Leona Lynch has liked the photos of Mount Juliet and added a comment that if she ever stays there, I can drive her. I like her comment in return. As I scroll through Leona’s most recent photos, I think of Gina Hayes and check to see if she’s on Instagram too. Of course she is – naturally her photos are mostly of fabulous food, including the chopped salad that has become a staple in my healthy-living regime. I like the chopped salad post and comment that it’s delicious. I’m still looking at food pics when Dave, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, walks into the kitchen.

  ‘What on earth are you doing up?’ he asks as I close my iPad.

  ‘Internal alarm,’ I reply. ‘I’m used to waking up to go to Kildare on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘You only did it a few times,’ he objects.

  ‘Yes, but you know how I am. It sort of imprints itself on me.’

  ‘Come back to bed.’

  ‘Tom and Mica will be awake soon.’

  ‘Soon, but not yet. Come back to bed. I told you I had things I wanted to do with you.’ He puts his arms around me and his hand slides down the front of my pyjamas.

  I leave the iPad on the table and go back to bed with him. But even as he’s doing things to my body that are very pleasurable indeed, I’m thinking of Instagram filters and how to make my posts more interesting.

  The children are surprised to see me when they get up later.

  ‘Why aren’t you off with Ivo?’ asks Mica.

  ‘Ivo?’ Dave looks at me questioningly.

  ‘That’s the Kildare client’s name,’ I tell him.

  ‘Mum told Granny he was a bit weird.’

  ‘Weird? In what way?’ Dave looks at me in concern.

  ‘Not weird weird,’ I say. ‘Just . . . odd.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Roxy, what on earth does that mean?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I’m not going to share Ivo’s life story with Dave. What happens in the car stays in the car, even if it was actually in a hotel. ‘Family trouble mainly. And Mica . . .’ I turn to my daughter, who looks up from her phone. ‘We don’t discuss clients ever. Their lives are private.’