Happy Ever After (8 page)

‘I just don’t want to go, Mom. Why do I have to? It’s only going to be full of old people and people your age. It’s going to be majorly boring, and Sarah and I were going to go to hang out with Clara for a couple of hours, ’cos she’s going to her villa in Spain tomorrow and we won’t see her for a month.’ Melissa was whining, feeling very sorry for herself at having to attend a dreary art exhibition where her grandmother was showing her silk paintings. It was Juliet’s first exhibition, and she’d invited the three of them to attend.

‘Listen to yourself. How selfish are you, Melissa Adams? Your grandmother is very good to you, and she asks you to do one thing and you whinge and moan like a spoilt brat. Life isn’t all about you, you know. You can phone Clara when we get home,’ Aimee snapped as she dropped her briefcase on the sofa and kicked off her high heels.

‘Bitch,’ muttered Melissa under her breath as she stalked off to her bedroom. Her mother was being so mean since the wedding. She was a real crosspatch. OK, she’d found the empty alcopop bottles that she and Sarah had been drinking from on the day of the wedding, and Melissa had pulled a fast one by not wearing the dress Aimee had wanted her to wear, going in her Rock & Republic jeans instead, but she’d been well punished for that. Her mother had given the precious jeans to a charity shop. If anyone had a right to be cranky and unfriendly, it was her, Melissa thought angrily, giving her bedroom door a good slam and flinging herself on the bed. Going to an art exhibition was something Nerdy Nolan and Turdy Sampson would do. How sad was that? She picked up her phone, and her fingers flew over the keys:
Can’t come 2 Clara’s. Have to go to Gran’s thing. Tlk ltr. X

She sent the text to Sarah and got a sympathetic
Bums. Poor u. XXXXXXXX
in return.

She went to her wardrobe and pulled out a pair of white jeans she hadn’t worn since last year. They’d been very tight, she remembered as she slipped out of her combats and stepped into them. Melissa was more than pleasantly surprised that they fastened without a struggle, and she spent five minutes twisting and turning, looking at herself critically in the mirror and noting every bulge and flaw. She wasn’t eating anything else today, she decided, even though she was starving and her stomach was rumbling like crazy.

She lay back down on the bed and picked up a magazine she’d bought earlier. She read how a celebrity had lost half a stone in a week to finally get to the prized size zero, and then she turned the page to read how Posh maintained her zero size by drinking a special tea. She’d definitely give that a try, Melissa decided as she read her horoscope and saw that a new romance was coming her way. Perhaps she might meet a hunk at the art exhibition – but, somehow, she seriously doubted it. She lay sprawled on the bed, picking at a spot that had been annoying her all day.

Aimee rubbed her aching feet and yawned. How she would love to collapse on to the sofa and stay put for the rest of the evening. The last place she wanted to go was her mother’s art exhibition, but she couldn’t let her down. Juliet was so excited about it and, to be fair to her mother, she rarely imposed on her. From what Aimee had seen of her mother’s paintings so far, she had a natural talent for art. Juliet had been terribly upset at having to give up playing tennis because of injury and had thrown herself into her new hobby. If
she
had to live with her father, she’d need a hobby that engrossed her too, Aimee thought caustically, wondering what he would have to say to her tonight. Several of Ken’s golfing buddies had been at the O’Leary wedding, and she wondered had they made any comment about it.

Well, her autocratic father, the esteemed Professor Davenport, wouldn’t be able to look down his aquiline nose at her career for much longer, she thought, strolling out on to the wraparound balcony of their penthouse. Aimee gave a deep sigh which came from the depths of her. Today was the day she had worked towards all her working life, and the prize had finally come to her. She’d been offered the position of managing director of a new company. Roger O’Leary and Myles Murphy, two of the country’s leading businessmen, had come to her with a proposal to set up their own events and catering company, which would cater for the very top-end clients – clients who didn’t have to ask the price of things, clients who wanted seriously to impress, clients to whom money was no object, clients like themselves, who owned helicopters and private jets, who holidayed in Sandy Lane and the Maldives. The mega-rich. The people thoroughly insulated from recession, who would never have to stint on their entertaining.

It had been an exhilarating meeting. Roger had proudly introduced her to Myles, a tall, distinguished man in his late fifties who said little but took everything in, interjecting a pertinent comment here or there. A far different type to the loquacious Roger, whose enthusiasm for the venture could hardly be contained.

‘I’ve been thinking Celtic Carousing Events and Catering would be a good name,’ he declared exuberantly. ‘You know – the Celtic tiger and all of that. Let’s be a part of it.’ His little round face, glowing with excitement, reminded Aimee of one of those big cookies that had two currants for eyes and a red cherry for a nose. Aimee and Myles glanced at each other. ‘Tacky,’ she could almost hear Myles say.

‘Perhaps a bit obvious; a little more subtlety might work better,’ Myles murmured. ‘Especially now that the tiger’s more of a scrawny cat,’ he added dryly, referring to the economic downturn.

‘Oh!’ Roger was disappointed. Subtlety was not his strong point. He liked to be full on.

‘How about something like Hibernia, which is the ancient name for Ireland? Or Hibernian Festivities . . . Celebrations . . . Dreams . . .’ suggested Aimee.

Myles nodded. ‘I like it,’ he approved. ‘More class.’

‘You see, I told you she was the woman for the job, Myles,’ Roger said, generously accepting defeat, rubbing his podgy little hands together and winking at her. ‘Now, with your contacts and ours, we can’t fail. We’ll rent some impressive offices, with good views, maybe here in Ballsbridge—’

‘A more central location would be better, actually, Roger, and with easy parking,’ Aimee pointed out. ‘Businesspeople like yourself who are in town a lot might find it less time-consuming than having to make the journey out here. No one knows better than you that time is money.’

‘True,’ he agreed.

‘But then, on the other hand, I would most likely travel to meet clients of the calibre we’re looking at, in their own offices or homes, should they prefer,’ she suggested.

‘Of course, of course. Naturally, there’ll be a car to go with the position and a salary commensurate with your skills.’ He named a figure that made her eyes widen. It was twice what she was getting at
Chez Moi
.

‘It’s important that you make a good impression – you know, give an idea what the company is about, so you can choose a top-of-the-range car. We don’t want you driving around in a little Yaris,’ he chuckled, delighted with himself.

The corner of Myles’s mouth lifted, and he smiled at Aimee. ‘Appearance is everything indeed,’ he murmured, and she laughed and began to relax as they got down to the nitty-gritties of how the company would be financed and what would be expected of her if she took on the challenge. It was the career opportunity of a lifetime, and she’d earned it. She should be dancing for joy.

Now Aimee rubbed her hand across her washboard stomach, achieved through hours in the gym and constant vigilance over what she ate and drank. There was a baby in there, and that baby was going to muck up everything she had worked so hard to achieve. If she was going to get rid of it, she’d want to do it sooner rather than later. She had to make up her mind and stop dithering. What was the point in having a baby when she would only resent it? Surely it would feel the vibes of anger and resentment flowing into it in the womb. Why would it want to be born to a mother who just didn’t want it?

Aimee felt tears well up. This should have been the happiest day of her life, and here she was feeling trapped, resentful and deeply troubled. And there was no one she could talk to about it. She’d let all her friends fall by the wayside in her rush up the career ladder. The only one who might have kept the news to herself was Gwen, and she hated Aimee’s guts now, after the incident on the day of the wedding. She’d accused Aimee of snubbing her and wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. That left Jill and Sally. What was she going to do? Just pick up the phone and say to them, ‘Hi, I’m up the duff, and I want to get rid of it, what advice can you give me?’ She could just imagine the jungle drums working overtime after that.

‘
Did you hear, Aimee’s knocked up and wants to do something about it . . . what do you think of that then?
’ Sally, who was pregnant herself and happy about it, would be shocked. Jill might understand. Jill was a successful careerwoman like Aimee. Of the trio, Jill was the one who was most like her in outlook. But no doubt Gwen had gone to her and Sally with her sob story, and Aimee wasn’t sure what sort of reception she’d get if she made contact. She made a face. She couldn’t
bear
to be the subject of girly gossip. That just left her mother and Barry.

Aimee gazed over the panorama of Dublin Bay and Howth, oblivious to the white racing yachts scudding across the waves and the patchwork of purples and greens and ochres shadowing and lightening as the sun burst through the clouds on the landmass across the bay. She saw none of it as she stood there agonizing on the balcony. Her mother would be horrified to think she was even considering a termination. Juliet’s view was, you make your bed, you lie on it. She’d put her own life on hold to rear her children and be the kind of wife Ken wanted her to be. There wouldn’t be much sympathy for Aimee’s position there, Aimee reckoned. That left Barry. Her husband, the love of her life, the one who knew her inside out, her rock, allegedly. And how could she tell him she wanted to abort their child? She just couldn’t. She knew him well enough to know he would be against it. He’d actually always wanted another child, company for Melissa. Aimee felt this desire had something to do with trying to get things right on the second go around after making such a mess of it with Debbie.

But why should she have to facilitate his need to get things right, thought Aimee angrily. She wasn’t part of the mess he’d made of his first marriage. How ironic that most of the women she knew in second marriages wanted children, and a lot of the husbands, who had children from their first, didn’t want to go down that route again. Barry would welcome another child, and she was the one rebelling against it. If she told him she wanted an abortion, it would probably be the end of them, and things were shaky between them as it was at the moment.

It was bad enough having to tell him that she’d been offered a job that would double her salary and leave him way behind in the earning stakes. Ever since Debbie’s damn wedding he’d been touchy about his earnings. Now that she was going to be earning more than him big time, he was going to be even worse. Aimee shook her head. Men’s egos were such fragile things. She’d have been better off if she’d stayed single. She was on her own with this one, she thought forlornly, turning to go into the bedroom to get ready to go out.

Right at that moment, she had never felt as lonely in her entire life.

Barry dropped his keys and mobile phone on the hall table and glanced into the lounge. It was empty. He peered into the kitchen, wondering had anything been done about dinner. He was starving. Nothing was bubbling on the hob, the small kitchen table wasn’t set, the microwave wasn’t on and, he thought crossly, he was clearly going to have to make his own dinner. Aimee
was
home, because her car was parked in her space in the underground garage. He poked his head out into the hall and cocked an ear. He could hear the shower in their ensuite. Had she eaten? Was she interested in eating? Lately, no one in the house apart from himself seemed to be bothering with food. He yanked open the fridge door and perused the contents.

Some Brie, half a melon, a couple of slices of Serrano ham and some wilted asparagus spears. He investigated further. A dish of tapenade. Some olives and tomatoes and a carton of coleslaw.

He wanted
proper
food. Meat and potatoes and veg. Was that too much for a man to ask? He pulled open the freezer drawer and thanked God for the Butler’s Pantry as he pulled out two aluminium containers of Pepperpot Beef and Duchesse Potatoes. He marched out into the hall. ‘Melissa, Aimee, have you eaten yet? Do you want Pepperpot Beef and potatoes?’ he called loudly.

‘No thanks, Dad,’ came the mumbled response from his daughter’s bedroom.

‘Not for me, thanks,’ his wife responded.

‘Good. More for me,’ he muttered, hurrying back into the kitchen, his humour darkening by the minute. He’d been looking forward to coming home and announcing his new deal over dinner and maybe a glass of champers, and neither of the females he lived with were interested enough even to come out of their bedrooms and say hello to him. God be with the days when he’d been married to Connie and he’d come home to a cooked meal and a warm reception, he thought sorrowfully, conveniently forgetting how absolutely stifled he’d felt in his first marriage.

And
he had to go to his mother-in-law’s blooming art exhibition. How riveting would that be? He emptied the entire contents of the containers on to a plate and shoved it into the microwave before switching on the small kitchen TV to catch the six o’clock news.

Aimee appeared ten minutes later, looking immaculate in a pair of red trousers and a cream silk cami and cream shrug. She looked effortlessly elegant and chic, one of the things he’d always admired about her.

‘You look very nice,’ he ventured, offering an olive branch.

‘Thanks,’ she said tonelessly, and he wondered why he’d bothered. ‘Is Melissa ready?’ She stood with her back to him, looking out the window.

‘Don’t know, haven’t seen her.’ He opened the dishwasher and noticed that it needed to be emptied. ‘It wouldn’t kill her to empty the dishwasher while she’s hanging around at home,’ he grouched, putting his dishes in the sink instead.