Mistake Page 9

  Tom prefers the Lynx gel that was Dad’s. We don’t have that, so he uses the Johnson’s shower soap instead.

  They both emerge from their showers looking bright-eyed.

  I love them. More than anything. And I want to do what’s best for them always.

  Half an hour later, there’s a ring at the doorbell and my heart flips because I know it’s Dave here to pick them up. I hear them clatter down the stairs and their excited chatter when they open the door and he comes in. They miss him.

  He’s been a good husband.

  Who made one mistake.

  I should forgive him.

  But it was a terrible mistake. And I can’t.

  The pendulum swings wildly from side to side as I prepare to go downstairs.

  ‘Hi, Roxy,’ he says when I walk into the hall. ‘You’re looking sharp this morning. Though you looked even better last night.’

  I’m still in my suit and blouse, although I’ve exchanged my high heels for flip-flops.

  ‘Have you got your overnight bags?’ I don’t respond to him but turn to the children instead. ‘Toothbrushes, pyjamas, clean jocks and socks?’

  ‘Mum!’ Mica gives me a disgusted look. ‘You can’t say jocks and socks for a girl.’

  ‘Knickers, then,’ I amend.

  ‘Mum!’ She’s even more disgusted. ‘You can’t say that out loud either.’

  I grin, and she shakes her head. Maybe this is the beginning of the end of her unconditional love for me. Maybe we’re getting to the point where I’m becoming an embarrassment to her.

  ‘Why don’t you come home with us now?’ she asks. ‘We can stay at Granny’s again tomorrow.’

  ‘Because Granny needs me today,’ I lie.

  ‘Because she’s still bereaved?’ Mica’s blue eyes look thoughtfully at me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When does she stop?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She lowers her voice as she speaks to me. ‘I understand she needs us, but so does Daddy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I agree. ‘We’ll sort something out soon.’

  ‘I want you to come with us,’ says Mica.

  ‘Not this time.’ I can’t lie to her.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Tom doesn’t care whether I’m with them or not, and I’m grateful to him for butting into what was becoming an awkward conversation.

  Dave hustles them out of the front door and they climb into the van. They love being in the van. It’s more adventurous than a normal car, even Dad’s Mercedes. He turns back to me and tells me he meant every word last night. Both the words of the song and what he said to me later. Then he takes a wrapped box out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘For you.’ He drops a kiss on my cheek and walks to the van.

  I wave them away before unwrapping Dave’s gift, which turns out to be a bottle of Happy, the perfume I’ve worn for the last ten years. He knows how to push my buttons.

  I go upstairs and leave it in my room. I spend a few minutes sitting on the edge of my bed before coming down again. Mum’s in the kitchen, peering inside one of the cupboards.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘There’s loads of stuff here, thanks to you.’

  I’ve done the shopping for the past few weeks and have exchanged Mum’s tendency to wait till the very last minute to get what she wants for my insatiable buy-one-get-one-free habit. The cupboards haven’t been as full in years.

  ‘Least I could do,’ I say.

  ‘Sooner or later I’ll have to go to the shops myself. But I’m not . . . I don’t want to yet.’

  She hasn’t been out on her own since Dad died.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ I tell her. ‘There’s no rush.’

  She puts her arms around me. ‘You’re a good girl, Roxy.’

  I give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we go out for lunch today?’

  She hesitates, and then nods.

  ‘Avoca?’ I suggest.

  ‘In Malahide?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Avoca is a beautiful town in Wicklow, but there’s a quirky shop and café of the same name that has a branch in the grounds of Malahide Castle, a local tourist attraction. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive and I often visit with the children, although we don’t always go into the café, where the cakes are decadent. Gina Hayes would approve of the high quality of the food, although she’d probably have a fit at the luscious slices of rocky road and caramel chocolate.

  I change out of my suit and trousers into jeans and an almost new floral T-shirt that I’m thankful I remembered to pack when I left Beechgrove Park. The sun is splitting the sky now and I’m wearing a pair of Mum’s sunglasses, because sunglasses were something I didn’t think about when I left Dave. She says she’ll do the driving as I’ve already clocked up a couple of hundred kilometres today. I agree, though I’m a terrible passenger and I keep braking involuntarily whenever she gets too close to the car in front.

  The traffic is heavy on the way out to Malahide, which isn’t surprising. The pretty coastal town is a magnet for tourists and Dubliners alike, especially on a day like today. But there’s plenty of parking in the castle grounds, despite the hordes of people already walking around the extensive estate. You’d never guess we were just fifteen kilometres from the city centre, though, because as well as the beautiful gardens, the castle is surrounded by sports pitches. I love it here. It’s an oasis of greenery.

  ‘Walk or lunch?’ I ask Mum.

  ‘Better have a bit of a walk first,’ she replies. ‘So that we can have a cream cake without feeling guilty.’

  I grin, and we link arms as we begin.

  I’m expecting more talk from her about my situation with Dave, but instead she chats about the times she came here with Dad and how much he loved it, and how he was glad that local people had access to land that was once the preserve of the very rich.

  ‘I can’t imagine owning all this,’ I say as I look across the rolling parkland. ‘It must have been amazing.’

  ‘But unjust,’ says Mum. ‘Your dad was right about that. Whatever you think about people who’ve made their fortunes today and are buying up land, at least it wasn’t handed down to them for nothing like it was by those ancient landowners.’

  My parents are big into the notion of inherited wealth being a bad thing. Even if Dad did leave me his car.

  ‘Was her family wealthy?’ I ask suddenly.

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Estelle’s. The farmer’s daughter that Dad was in love with. Did they have a big farm? Is that why they were angry about her and Dad? Because he was a working man from Dublin?’

  I’ve been thinking of Estelle and Dad on and off ever since seeing the photo. She looked so vibrant and full of life that it’s hard to imagine she was basically assaulted by her own father. The knowledge has been niggling away at me. That it happened, that Dad was beaten up too, that he did nothing about it. I wish Mum had said that he’d gone to the police. I wish he’d looked after Estelle a bit better.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ says Mum.

  There’s a finality in her words that nevertheless makes me think there’s more to be said. And yet she’s clearly not going to say it. So I don’t push her and we chat about inconsequential things as we walk around the grounds before ending up at the visitor centre.

  ‘We definitely deserve those cream cakes,’ says Mum when we go into the café and stand in front of the (frankly sinful) cake display.

  After a bit of soul-searching, though, we both go for individual vegetable quiches and decide to share a rocky road. Feeling virtuous, we carry our trays to one of the very few tables near a window and sit down.

  It’s ages since I was out anywhere socially with my mother. The last few months have been filled with hospital and then hospice visits, and neither of us was ever in the mood to go out after them. I realise that by coming here, we’ve turned a page.

  And
that feels good.

  We’re just cutting the piece of rocky road in half when we hear a sudden squeal and then a small tornado launches itself at Mum.

  ‘Granny!’ cries Tom. ‘Have you saved a seat for us?’

  There are two spare chairs at our table.

  ‘Of course.’

  Mum isn’t in the slighted fazed by the sight of my son, but I look around anxiously and see Dave and Mica following him. Dave is carrying a tray laden with food.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ he asks, putting it down on the table before we have a chance to object. Not that I would, with Tom already clambering onto the chair beside me. Mica takes the one opposite and Dave appropriates a spare one from another table.

  ‘This is great,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise you guys would be here.’

  ‘Did you know we were coming, Mum?’ Mica’s eyes are wide and I can tell from her voice that she wants me to say yes.

  ‘Not for certain.’ It’s the closest I can get without lying to her.

  ‘Have you already had something to eat?’ asks Dave. ‘Or is that it?’ He nods at the shared rocky road and Mum explains that we had quiche earlier. Tom makes a face and Dave laughs.

  ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘We were in the playground earlier. Look.’ He takes out his phone and shows us the pictures he took. Most are of the kids, but there’s a selfie of the three of them too, which he says he’s going to post on Facebook. I’m careful about posting pictures of the children on Facebook and only do it occasionally, but ever since I walked out, Dave posts one any time they’re with him.

  ‘You don’t look very bereaved now, Granny,’ says Mica. ‘Are you better?’

  ‘Nearly better, sweetheart,’ Mum replies. ‘A little bit longer with all of you living with me and I’m sure I’ll be right as rain.’

  It’s not fair that she has to answer questions like this. I’ve brought it on her. I’m a selfish cow.

  ‘I like living with Granny,’ says Tom, who’s digging into a huge slice of chocolate cake. As much of it is in his hair and on his face as has gone into his mouth.

  ‘So do I,’ agrees Mica. ‘But it’s only for the holidays. While she’s bereaved.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say.

  Dave reaches across the table and takes my hand.

  ‘I can’t wait for you all to be back where you belong,’ he says.

  Mica is watching me, so I simply smile at him. I know it hasn’t reached my eyes.

  My stomach is churning too much to eat the rocky road, so I wrap it in a napkin and tell Mum I’ll save it for later. Much as I know the children would like it, I’m not letting them have any more chocolate today.

  ‘We’d better go,’ says Mum. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘Can we help?’ asks Tom.

  ‘No, sweetie, you have a nice day with your dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be dropping them back a bit earlier than usual,’ says Dave. ‘I have to go out in the afternoon.’

  I want to ask why, but I don’t.

  ‘See you soon.’

  It’s ridiculous to be kissing my own children goodbye like this. But if I leave Dave, that’s how it’s going to be in the future. And no amount of pretending to be a chauffeur with a business of my own will compensate for that.

  I hurry out of the café.

  I wait till I’m in the car before I cry for the first time since Dad died.

  Chapter 9

  Mum doesn’t say anything about my tears even when we get home. Neither do I.

  That night, we sit in and watch Thea and Desmond Ryan talk about their new show on TV, and I feel a surge of pride that I’m her driver and that the business is still doing well. It’s my way of honouring Dad and keeping his memory alive.

  ‘You don’t have to, not for Christy’s sake,’ says Mum when I remark on it. ‘He’d understand.’

  I tell her that it’s for me as much as for him, and she looks concerned.

  ‘D’you think you taking on his driving has anything to do with what happened with Dave?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Darling, you more or less gave up on your husband while you took over your dad’s business,’ she reminds me. ‘And you spent the rest of your spare time running after me because I was so bloody hopeless. You don’t know how much I appreciate it, but Christy certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to end up with problems because he was sick. He knew you were driving to keep him motivated. It meant a lot to him. But if you want to save your marriage, you’ll have to let it go.’

  I’ve more or less come to this conclusion myself, but I don’t want to admit it. Because this job has become very important to me. It doesn’t matter that I only started doing it to keep Dad’s spirits up. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve kept doing it for a variety of reasons none of which are truly commercial. The bottom line now is that it makes me feel good about myself. And that’s more than Dave has done lately.

  ‘It’s not possible to have it all,’ Mum says while I stare at the TV without really watching it. ‘I was brought up in a generation where we were told it was, but we knew it was a pipe dream. Something always has to give. Men like to be the most important thing in your life. And when they’re not . . .’

  I can feel my entire body clench as I pick up the remote and mute the sound.

  ‘Dave tried to blame his decision to have sex with Julie Halpin on the fact that I wasn’t there,’ I tell her. ‘And now you’re more or less saying the same thing. As though a man can’t be trusted to keep it in his pants just because his wife occasionally has other priorities. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I accept that it’s not fair,’ says Mum. ‘But men are men. And Dave is very much a man’s man.’

  ‘I’m trying very hard not to think that you’re actually taking his side.’ I can hardly get the words out. ‘He cheated on me with the woman next door, for God’s sake. And I’m supposed to think it doesn’t really matter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe that for an instant,’ says Mum. ‘And I’m definitely not taking his side. Not at all. When you turned up with your case, the only thing I wanted to do was rip his balls off, to be honest.’

  I can picture her doing it, actually. Mum can be very fierce when she wants.

  ‘All the same, I think he’s truly sorry about what he’s done. He knows what a fool he’s been. He adores you and the children. If you can’t forgive him, that’s your choice and I’m a hundred per cent behind you. Still, if you think you can, wouldn’t it be better for Tom and Mica’s sake to put it all behind you and get on with your lives?’

  ‘He has a funny way of showing he adores me.’ But even as I say the words, I recall Mica and her worried face this afternoon. I know that Mum is right about the children.

  ‘It’s not possible to have it all, Roxy,’ says Mum. ‘Really it’s not. Everyone has to make compromises.’

  What compromises am I prepared to make to save my marriage? I ask myself as I lie in bed that night. And if I make them, can I live with myself? And with him?

  What would Dolly do?

  Write a song and make a fortune, I guess. But that’s not an option for me.

  On Monday morning, I get up early to prep the car for my next job, which is collecting a young woman named Leona Lynch and bringing her to a photo shoot. Leona is what’s known as an ‘influencer’, because she does weekly vlogs about her life and has a phenomenal following on YouTube and Instagram. I only know this because I did a search on her when I took the job. I’m not really part of the YouTube generation.

  Mica, however, was very impressed when she learned that I’d be driving Leona, and has made me promise to get a selfie with her. I didn’t realise Mica knew who she was but apparently Leona is big with eleven-to-fourteen-year-old girls. My daughter has warned me not to pester her or be uncool. I promised to be as cool as a cucumber. (I also promise myself to check the parental control settings on Mica’s phone to make sure she’s not accessing st
uff she shouldn’t. I don’t want to be an overprotective mother, but discovering that my daughter is more up to speed on my client than I am was a bit of a shock.)

  I open the rear doors of the car and reach into the seat pockets to replace the magazines I leave there with ones I bought earlier. Although most people spend their time in the back of the car tapping away at their devices, I think it’s a good idea for them to have something else to browse through. Every couple of weeks or so I put the latest copy of Hello! in one pocket and a business magazine in the other. I also leave bottled water in the cup holders.

  I wipe the leather seats with a cloth and use the hand vac in the sills beneath the seats. I polish the fascia and the windows and I’m about to throw the used magazines in the recycling bin when a small card falls from one of them and lands at my feet. As I pick it up, I see that it’s not actually a card but an old photograph of a young boy standing with his right foot on a football and his left hand on his hip. He’s wearing an Ireland tracksuit, and from the appalling style of it, I reckon that it dates back to the 1980s. He’s also wearing the oversized aviator glasses that were popular at the time. A dark floppy fringe hides half his face, and his expression, behind the glasses and the fringe, is a mixture of apprehension and defiance. It’s the same look Tom has whenever I try to make him do something he doesn’t want to.

  Nowadays children are used to every second of their lives being digitally preserved, but I get the feeling this boy didn’t want his photo taken. Back when I was as young as him (I reckon he’s probably around my own age now, or a little older), none of us liked having to stand still for a picture. It was an unnecessary interruption in our lives.

  I don’t know the boy, but I feel a sudden connection to him, a shared time if not a shared past. And I feel sympathy for him too, because despite the tracksuit and the football, his expression hints at a deeper unhappiness than simply being made to pose for a photograph. Or maybe that’s my overactive imagination getting the better of me, as it sometimes does.