At a Time Like This (9 page)

I had to listen, for what seemed like hours, to the damage I was doing to my body while wearing my favourite stilettos. I even got diagrams to prove it. Reduced circulation of the blood.
Achilles heel. Crushed metatarsals. Did I know that seventy-five per cent of the body weight landed on one small part of the sole of the foot? Did I realize the impact of concrete, the aches and
pains caused by bad posture, the increased likelihood of arthritic knees? Well, no, I hadn’t known all of that, but I still wasn’t giving up my high heels. Nora was glowing throughout
this conversation, her feet looking the size of canal barges. I could feel my level of tolerant affection towards her begin to slip. It irritated me that she lurked so deeply in Frank’s
shadow. It was as though she disappeared in his company, that he was her eyes, her voice, her likes and dislikes. That night, she was wearing some ugly navy suede walking shoes that may have
distributed her weight evenly, but they sure as hell did nothing for her legs. Finally, we agreed that the occasional wearing of high heels was just about okay, but by then I was nearly asleep.
There are times when I have wished for Georgie’s ease with rudeness. I’d love to have it, just for the odd occasion, but I can’t seem to manage it. That’s why the prospect
of another night in Frank’s company at Nora’s twenty-first became almost too much to bear. But as the day of the birthday approached, Nora changed her mind.

‘I’ve decided I’m not having a party for my twenty-first after all,’ she announced one evening, while Claire was making a huge dish of lasagne. I always loved it when it
was her turn to cook. I hated when it was Georgie’s. I’d swear that she did her worst in the hope that she might not be asked again. No such luck, neither on her part nor on ours. We
had to endure her burnt offerings twice a week. Our flat was nothing if not democratic in the preparation of food. Being broke was also a great incentive to get creative with soya meat substitute,
cheap brands of pasta, and the stretching power of tins of flavoured tomatoes. And Claire was always inventive: she did things with herbs and fresh garlic and tiny portions of mozzarella cheese
that brought us from the lows of student stodge all the way to the dizzy heights of the delicious. She made food that looked and tasted a lot better than it should. I learned a lot from Claire in
the kitchen department. I think the only one of us who didn’t was Georgie. And that was because she didn’t want to.

‘Oh?’ said Claire now. She looked up from her cheese sauce, fixing Nora with that under-the-hair quizzical gaze that we had all come to know. ‘No party at all, then?’

I asked ‘Why?’ almost at the same time, covering Georgie’s sigh of relief.

Nora shrugged. I thought she was being far too casual, not like her usual self at all. I began to smell a rat. ‘Mammy and Daddy are taking all of us out to dinner in the Gresham. They
thought it would be nicer for us to celebrate as a family’

I said nothing. I could see Georgie working up to a response.

‘That’s a good idea,’ she said quickly and with a little too much enthusiasm.

‘That will be lovely’ said Claire, her warmth genuine. ‘A really special night. And we can have dinner here, too, to celebrate. Just the four of us, some day after your
birthday. Or before it, if you’d like?’

‘Why not tonight?’ said Georgie at once. ‘I’ll get us some wine and we’ll give you your present and make an evening of it. Nothing like spontaneity! What do you
say, Nora?’

I could see Claire stifle a smile. She and I were both able to read Georgie’s mind on occasions like this. Maybe we’d picked up the talent from her. Nora had already more or less
invited herself to dinner that Saturday and I could see how Georgie’s train of thought was working. I’m stuck with her anyway, so why not make a virtue out of necessity? Besides, the
present was in Claire’s bedroom, waiting to be wrapped. The three of us had already clubbed together and bought her some cookery books she’d been hinting about for months. I think we
always knew she’d be the first one of us to get married. Nora wanted a kitchen of her own more than any other woman I’ve ever known. I have often envied her that simplicity.

And on the night in question, celebrate is what we did. Lasagne, yet another screw-top bottle of grotty Pedrotti, some candles, a roughly wrapped set of cookery books and hey presto: the evening
settled into a party. To be fair, Nora was fine – perky, even, and appreciative of her present in a way that I found touching. Even Georgie left her alone; her comments all evening were
neutral, rather than provocative. I think the relief of having no party to attend had something to do with her benign approach. Looking back, Nora probably already knew what was going to happen at
her birthday celebration the following weekend, and so she was more at ease. But she wasn’t about to give anything away, not that night. And I don’t blame her.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ groaned Georgie as the evening came to an end. We waved and closed the door behind Helly Her father had come to collect her, as he often did. I never quite
got that, that over-the-top kind of protectiveness. It’s not as though her family had broken apart in the way Claire’s had done, or even silently imploded, like mine and
Georgie’s. Georgie’s parents, as well as my own, never bothered all that much to hide their hurry to be shut of their children. Or child, as in Georgie’s case.

But Nora’s family was different. They were almost too ordinary, too buttoned-down and respectable. Nothing had ever fallen apart there, so why the paranoia about the eldest daughter? We
never understood it, and it was one more thing for Georgie to grumble about. Anyway, we gave Helly a good send-off. She was thrilled to bits with the whole evening. And I was glad to have had the
chance to make up for my earlier lack of enthusiasm about Frank.

‘No party,’ said Claire with a grin, as Georgie leaned her shoulder against the front door. It always needed a firm shove. ‘There you go, Georgie, no party’

Georgie turned around, her face bright. She led the way back into the kitchen, calling out to us: ‘We’ll just have to have one of our own!’ And she grabbed the bottle of
Pedrotti, holding on to it as though it was her dancing partner. She waltzed around the table and then stopped abruptly. A party of our own, with people we
invite!
On home ground! With no
hovering and no helicopters!’ She poured us all another glass of red wine and we toasted each other. And Helly, too, at Claire’s and my insistence.

I also remember that we did, indeed, throw an impromptu party. We held off on inviting people until a few days beforehand, in case the Gresham went on fire or war was declared or Helly’s
parents changed their mind at the last minute. It was a very good party, keeping up the reputation of number 12, Rathmines Road. At least, I think it was good: Claire and Georgie told me it was. My
memory of it is different – hazy but different. Given what I think Ray got up to.

Never mind that. I can still remember the look of triumph on Nora’s face when she marched into the Buttery early on the following Monday morning, where we were having what passed for
breakfast. It was one of those small habits that had developed in the flat over the months, one to help us ease our way into the start of each new week. We had breakfast together in the Buttery,
just Georgie, Claire and me, before our ten o’clock lecture. It all started because Georgie refused to do any housework at the weekends. It was a matter of principle with her. Weekends were
for fun, she said, not wasted on domestic stuff like groceries or cleaning bathrooms or changing beds. Instead, we did each of those things on different days during the week. We shopped on a Monday
afternoon, the three of us together, lugging bags of cheap fruit and vegetables from Moore Street all the way to Rath-mines Road. I hated shopping day. Naturally, on Sundays, the cupboard was
always bare. There would be hardly enough food to scrape together a dinner, and so breakfast on a Monday just didn’t happen. The few slices of grey sliced pan curled together at the bottom of
the bread bin tempted nobody. Nora always had breakfast at home, of course, but she’d sometimes arrive before we finished and join us for a cup of tea.

‘Look!’ she blurted now, and managed to knock into the table, slopping coffee into our saucers.

‘Ah, Jesus, Nora!’ Georgie said. ‘Will you for f . . .’ I gave her a look and she trailed off. Instead, she grabbed a tissue from her pocket and tried to soak up the
mess. She was feeling a little rough around the edges, as the party had spilled over well into Sunday. I was still wrapped up in a miserable combination of hangover and disappointment. I’d
got to sleep at four on Sunday morning after a crying fest that had left my eyes swollen and my face blotchy. I refused to move from my bed for the rest of the day. The upshot was that I
couldn’t sleep on Sunday night. I spent all of it reading, losing myself in
Middlemarch.
I’ve always loved the happy, romantic endings of Victorian novels. I would gladly have
stayed in bed on Monday as well, but Georgie hauled me out. I was drained, exhausted. And it had nothing to do with George Eliot. But I do remember thinking, sourly, how appropriate it was that a
woman had to pretend to be a man so that she could make a name for herself. Was there ever a time when they didn’t make the rules?

‘He’s not worth it,’ Georgie kept saying, wrenching back the curtains, pulling the duvet off my bed. Talk about a whirlwind. ‘Ray’s a shit, Maggie, and you know
it.’

I did indeed know it, but in those days I just didn’t seem able to do anything about it. I think by then I believed that Ray was all I deserved. We’d met just before Christmas, at
the twenty-first birthday party of Jean, a cousin of mine. He’d swept me off my feet. He made straight for me, the minute I arrived at the party. Came right up to me, put his hand under my
elbow and steered me out on to the tiny dance-floor.

‘And tell me, who are
you?’
he said, as though I was the most interesting person in the room, as though he’d been waiting for me all his life. Up until then, all the
really good-looking men had gone for Georgie, although she tells a different story. And she’s right, in one way. I had no problem getting dates, as she kept on pointing out. The thing was,
though, nothing ever lasted. Two, maybe three dates and that was it. I must have scared men off, or something. I don’t know.

That night at Jean’s party I was well ready for someone to fall for me. And Ray did. I have no doubt about it. He never left my side, he was eager to know all about me, he couldn’t
do enough for me. I never asked myself what might have happened, in more ways than one, had Georgie been there. Mind you, for some days afterwards, I wasn’t sure what all that attention on
Ray’s part had actually been about. He promised to call and then he didn’t. And then, finally, after about a week, he did. But only after Jean had jogged his memory, I’m sure of
it, although she’s never admitted it.

I think I have since worked it out that Ray is one of those men who gets completely involved with the moment, the present tense and whoever happens to be on his arm. When he was with me, he was
really
with
me. But when he wasn’t, he forgot. Simple as that. The next novelty took over. I remember in psychology learning about ‘object permanence’ and being so
fascinated by the idea that it stuck with me. Babies of a certain age, it seems, show great interest in a toy, as long as they can see it or hold it. Take it away from them, hide it, make it
disappear and so does their interest. Produce it again, and the interest rekindles. That’s precisely how Ray has behaved over the years. And of course, when you add remorse and promises and
fighting and making up into the equation, you end up with a very powerful mix. If I had known then what I know now, might it have made any difference to the choices I made? Maybe, maybe not. Youth,
as they say, is wasted on the young.

And so when we met for the second time, Ray and I, he managed to take me over once again, despite all my best intentions to be cool and savvy and self-contained. Things were always so intense
when we were together. I think I felt that he was mine, all mine, even though he might not have been worth the having, had I been in another frame of mind. But back then Georgie had Danny, Claire
had Paul and even Helly had her Frank. I was tired of being without someone special in my life. I was growing tired of always being just Maggie, rather than part of a couple.

Anyway, on the occasion of our first Helly-less party in Rathmines some four months after we’d met, Ray left with someone else. At least, I think that’s what he did, because he
simply vanished into the night. He disappeared without trace only to reappear later, his face anguished, his eyes full of the tears of repentance. And so, the pattern was set. Lorraine, a friend of
Claire’s, had gone missing as well, according to Georgie. It wasn’t all that difficult to put two and two together. Claire and Paul had gone to bed earlier, so she’d missed out on
this bit of gossip. I hadn’t the heart, just then, to fill in the gaps. Not yet. And that morning in the Buttery, Claire was looking bright and rested. And beautiful, of course. She was
always the best behaved of the three of us at parties – except later on, when it came to men. Once Paul was no longer on the scene. But on that morning, Helly’s face shone brighter even
than hers.

‘Look!’ said Nora, for the second time. She sounded annoyed at our lack of reaction. And look we did. There, on the third finger of Helly’s slightly pudgy left hand, was a
ring, a diamond ring of respectable size and sparkle. I think that Georgie and I looked at it stupidly, not quite getting it. Claire copped on at once, as usual, saving all of us.

‘Hel – Nora! Congratulations! Aren’t you the dark horse! Tell us, please! Sit down, tell us everything!’

We already knew far too much about Frank, of course we did. More than we could possibly have wanted. ‘Too much information’ is what young people say. The phrase hadn’t been
invented back then. But I know what it means. Tales of ‘my Frank’ used to make Georgie groan, and she would leave the room once Nora began. As I’ve said, I’ve often longed
for her ease with rudeness. But Nora was one of those people that I believe didn’t notice any of the insults that headed in her direction. She was swaddled from head to toe in something that
protected her. Maybe all that eagerness and all that pride about your own future has the ability to do that. I don’t know. All I do know is that she never once noticed anything that could be
called an offence. Victims can’t afford to, I suppose.