Woman to Woman (16 page)

What a bastard.

“Are you listening, Aisling?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. There’s one thousand five hundred in the account. I left the details on the dressing table. I’m going to close the current and cash save accounts. We don’t need joint accounts any more.”

She sat down on the bed, only half listening. He’d consulted a solicitor over a month ago, that was how sure he was that their marriage was over.

“I can’t believe you’ve been coldbloodedly planning this without telling me,” she said slowly.

“I haven’t time to discuss it,” he said harshly.

“I’ll look after the boys financially, but I’m not keeping you in luxury for the rest of your life. I’m not a bottomless pit, Aisling.

You’ll have to get a job. You’ve always said you wanted one, anyway.”

“And you never wanted me to get one she screamed.

“You absolute bastard! I’d like to kill you!”

“I don’t have time to listen to your insults,” Michael said coldly.

“I’ve a job to do. Unlike you.” With that, he hung up, I leaving Aisling mouthing furiously at the dialling tone.

The note was on her pillow, a page ripped from a notebook and covered with Michael’s distinctive scrawl. A small, blue lodgement receipt was under it.

“Aisling, I’m sorry you aren’t here. I wanted to talk to you about money and about the boys. I’ve opened an account for you and put half of the holiday money in it. I’d like to talk to the boys myself, it’s important that they hear it from both of us. I’ll ring you later about coming over this evening.”

That was it. No ‘love, Michael’. Well, he didn’t, did he? Damn him. He even expected her to wait patiently for him to turn up in the evening so they could tell the boys together. He could bloody well stuff his idea of dropping in when he wanted. He’d have to consult her before he set foot in the house. If Michael wanted to fight, she’d fight back!

Fiona thought it was a brilliant idea.

“Of course Pat can help you get a job! He’s always moaning about hiring twenty-year-old office juniors and having them leave as soon as they’re trained to work the computers properly.”

Fiona sat down on one of the Morans’ pine kitchen chairs, scarred from endless Dinky toy games, and crossed long, sleek legs encased in black lycra sports leggings.

“He’d jump at the chance to hire someone like you.”

“Do you really think so?” Fiona was as generous as she was eccentric. Aisling didn’t want her to badger poor Pat into hiring their suddenly single neighbour as a huge favour. If she was going back to work, she certainly needed a leg up, but not charity.

“I’m very rusty, Fiona, and I’d be eager to learn, but only if Pat thinks it would work,” she said earnestly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Aisling. If you can whip up a four course meal in two hours without becoming hysterical when the freezer packs in and defrosts your homemade ice cream into slop, then you’ll have no trouble answering a few phones.”

“And Daddy adores you, you know,” Fiona added with a smile.

“He always wants to sit beside you at dinner parties and you’ll probably have to fight him off once he sees you sitting!

all secretarial behind the reception desk!”

Despite herself, Aisling burst out laughing, thinking of Fiona’s imposing and steely-eyed barrister father trying to inveigle her into his office for a passionate session on an antique desk strewn with legal tomes and writs.

“I just can’t see that happening.” She grinned.

“Well I certainly can,” replied Fiona.

“Since Mother left him, he like a fourteen-year-old who’s just discovered what sex is all about and is anxious to try it out as often as possible. I told you that he almost ended up in bed with one of the bridesmaids at my cousin’s wedding?”

“Really?”

“You have no idea what he’s like. Mad as a March hare and twice as randy. The thing is, women just love him, they always have Fiona paused to light up a cigarette.

“I know,” she muttered, “I don’t know why I keep smoking these things if I’m so keen on being fit. Pat gives me the same bloody lecture every day, but a girl’s got to have some vices.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” protested Aisling.

“I can hardly talk about being fit under the circumstances. My thighs haven’t seen the inside of a pair of lycra leggings for years and if my stomach gets any bigger, I’ll need those horrible roll-on things Granny wore.”

“Over my dead body,” Fiona said firmly. The only roll-on product modern girls use is deodorant, my dear. Aisling Moran, career woman, is going to be sleek, healthy and devastatingly sexy, even if I have to personally drag you to the gym three times a week.”

She got up and stuck her cigarette under the tap for a moment.

“I’ll talk to Pat when I get back from my step class and find out what’s the story work wise There’s always someone away and hiring temps from the agencies costs a fortune. He’ll be thrilled to get his hands on you. Well, Daddy certainly would.”

Aisling giggled again. No matter what disaster hung over life like a dark cloud, a few moments in Fiona’s company listening to her spiky and bitchy comments on life in general could raise anyone’s spirits.

Through Fiona’s eyes, Aisling was changing her life for the better, going back to work as a confident and mature woman.

Not for a moment would Fiona see Aisling as a terrified and lonely wife, suddenly single and unsure of what life held for her and her two sons.

That was part of her charm, Aisling realised. Fiona viewed life through tinted glasses and if they weren’t always rose tinted they certainly made everything in life look more interesting.

If her husband of ten years decided to leave his fun-loving, tennis-mad wife, Aisling knew that Fiona would take a deep breath and start again, searching for a better life and a faithful mate without being destroyed by the breakup.

She watched her friend pull on a pink sweatshirt over the tiny hot pink lycra leotard which Aisling reckoned wouldn’t fit one of her thighs. Tanned from frequent trips to the Finucanes’ villa in Spain and a perfect size ten thanks to aerobics every second day, Fiona looked fantastic.

When she was dressed in the exquisite clothes she adored shopping for, with her long nails beautifully manicured, her gold Cartier watch catching the light and her rich chestnut hair shimmering from endless salon treatments, she looked every inch a rich bitch. Thank God she wasn’t.

Aisling remember the day the Finucanes had moved into the huge red-brick house across the road, a fleet of removal vans lined up outside full of expensive-looking pieces of furniture. At least ten harassed men in overalls spent the afternoon carrying furniture into the house, struggling with huge pine wardrobes, enormous squashy sofas and a gleaming dining-room table which looked big enough for at least twenty people.

Aisling couldn’t help peering out of her bedroom window, fascinated to see what sort of furniture the new neighbours had. A tall, immaculately dressed brunette roared up in her sporty black car and marched into the house with a small fluffy dog in tow. Aisling decided that her new neighbour was obviously some high-powered career woman and wasn’t the sort who’d be interested in coming over for morning

So she got quite a shock when Fiona arrived on the doorstep two days later, introduced herself and asked were the people two doors away totally mad or just mildly insane?

“All I said was that my husband and I had moved in across the road and

that we wanted to say hello to everyone when the poor dear turned white as a sheet, told me she didn’t want to buy anything and slammed the door in my face,” Fiona complained.

“She’s deaf explained Aisling, ‘and probably a little bit mad into the bargain. If you think she’s bad you should meet her brother. He stills thinks it’s 1944 and he’s working undercover as a spy in France.”

“Isn’t there anyone normal living around here?” demanded Fiona.

“We’re pretty normal,” Aisling replied.

“Most of the time, anyway. Do you want to come in for coffee?”

“I’d love to. If I don’t get at least four doses of caffeine into my system before eleven in the morning, it goes into shock. I could go home and bring some disgustingly sweet biscuits if you want any?” she offered.

“Believe me, I’ve got loads of disgustingly sweet things here. Too many in fact.”

They’d been friends ever since. Sometimes they did their shopping together, chatting volubly while they waited impatiently in the supermarket queue or wandering through clothes shops while Fiona shopped and Aisling vowed to diet.

She’d always urged Aisling to join her in the gym or come playing tennis with her friends. Now she gave Aisling a determined look as she picked up her keys.

“You’ve got to get out and you’ve got to start looking after yourself, darling. I’ve seen enough girls fall to pieces when their marriages go sour and I don’t want to see it happen to you. Tomorrow you and I are going shopping for trainers and I don’t want any arguments, right?” She grinned and poked Aisling in the arm.

When Fiona had gone, Aisling went into the sitting room where Phillip was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating Rice Krispies and watching some spiky-haired DJ counting down the Top Ten hits. There were comics and football cards strewn all over the carpet, along with two empty crisp packets and Phillip’s discarded socks.

“Phillip, this place is a mess! Tidy it up.” “Why? Who’s coming?” he answered back smartly.

“Dad?”

Aisling felt that knot in her stomach again, the one which sprang into action when she thought of the effect Michael’s departure would have on the twins.

The night before, she’d told them their father was going to be away for a week. She didn’t know what to say and decided that she’d break the news to them gently.

Paul had simply looked surprised.

“I thought Dad was coming to watch us play soccer on Saturday he said slowly.

“Will he be back in time?”

“I don’t know, darling.” Feeling guilty for lying and even guiltier for stopping Michael coming home to tell them himself, Aisling gave Paul a kiss on the cheek and turned to say goodnight to Phillip. Dressed in his favourite Manchester United pyjamas with a comic propped up in front of him, he gazed at her steadily but didn’t say anything.

Aisling kissed him and gently stroked the purple bruise on his left arm he insisted he’d got from banging into the goalposts at school.

“Goodnight, Giggs, or is it Cantona tonight?” she asked. “None of them,” he answered dully. She forced herself to smile and left the door ajar on her way out so the boys would have the glow of the landing light for comfort. She switched off their light and headed downstairs.!

She went straight for the drinks cabinet and a stiff gin and!

tonic.

Phillip knew something was wrong. Of course he did. Children detected every nuance of their parents’ relationship,” she’d read in a magazine once. Phillip certainly did. Michael always said that Phillip was a budding investigative reporter inquisitive, pushy and as unstoppable as a freight train.

“Why?” was his favourite word.

This time, Phillip, I don’t know why, Aisling thought morosely. She stared blankly at the comics and crisp wrappers scattered on the rug. The place needed hoovering as usual.

She had to tell the boys. She should have told them last night.

There was no point pretending everything was OK. They’d find out sometime. Phillip looked up at her, the TV forgotten and anxiety in his big, sad eyes.

“Is Dad coming home today?”

Phillip’s question didn’t surprise her. She looked at his earnest, questioning face, those dark eyes reminding her so painfully of his father. Decision time. Don’t be a coward Aisling. Tell them now, you have to. “Where’s Paul?” she asked resolutely. “Upstairs,” he answered.

Aisling went to the bottom of the stairs.

“Paul,” she called.

“Come downstairs. I want to talk to you.”

He ran down the stairs noisily, jumped the bottom two steps and landed heavily on both feet. Sockless of course. If Phillip wasn’t wearing his socks, Paul wasn’t either.

Running into the sitting room, he skidded to a halt and thumped down on the floor beside his twin. He picked up one of the crisp wrappers and looked inside.

“You’ve eaten mine!” he said accusingly, glaring at Phillip.

“I didn’t.”

“You did …”

“Quiet!” shouted Aisling. Damn, she hadn’t meant to shout.

“Boys, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,” she began in a softer tone.

“It’s about your father and I …”

She stopped, aware of the enormity of what she was about to tell them. What words could you use to say ‘your father’s left me’, she asked herself? They were still looking at her, mini versions of Michael, the same features, the same colouring.

For a brief moment, she remembered the day she’d told him she was pregnant. Wrapped up in their own private world as they walked through Bushy Park on a freezing March day, they’d gone through names they liked and tried to imagine what their baby would look like.

“Like you, I hope,” she’d smiled, wanting their child to have Michael’s dark looks instead of her own pale skin and mousey hair.

“No, you,” he’d murmured, pushing aside her parka hood to kiss the soft

curve of her neck. Phillip and Paul were still staring at her, waiting much too patiently. Poor kids, she thought, they knew something was wrong. All she could do was soften the blow, make it as friendly as possible.

Even though her heart was full of rage at what Michael had done, she couldn’t use the boys like Exocet missiles, turning them against their father as ammunition in a marital war. She shouldn’t have told Michael to get stuffed when he’d rung the night before..

She tried again.

“Dad and I have been fighting lately, and …”

Jesus, what could she say? He’s gone, he doesn’t live here any more? It all sounded so horrible, so final. If they were only a few years older they could understand. But at ten, how could they be expected to?

“Dad has moved out for a while, boys. He hasn’t been happy “Why, why wasn’t he happy?” asked Phillip anxiously.