‘I just want to make sure she eats something…’
‘Why don’t I try?’ Ted offered gallantly.
But Molly stuck her bottom lip out and let it tremble theatrically at the suggestion.
‘Thanks, but…’ Clodagh wearily continued battering a spoon against Molly’s sparse but clenched teeth. Nothing doing. Now that Molly had an audience, there was no chance that she’d eat a thing.
‘Have some scrambled egg, love,’ Clodagh urged.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s good for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s protein in it.’
‘Why?’
As well as refusing to eat proper food, Molly had recently started on the ‘Why?’ game. Earlier that day she’d asked twenty-nine ‘Why?’s in a row. Clodagh had gone along with it in a fatalistic curiosity to see how far it would go, but she’d cracked before Molly had.
‘Your hair’s gorgeous.’ Ashling admired, stroking Clodagh’s thick honey-gold tresses.
‘Thanks. I got it blow-dried for tonight.’
Then Ashling remembered the newly papered front-room and ran in for a look.
‘It’s fantastic!’ she enthused eagerly on her return. ‘It totally changes the mood of the room. You’ve a real eye for colour.’
‘I suppose.’ Clodagh was no longer terribly interested. She’d been very excited about her new wallpaper. But now that it was done, satisfaction and fulfilment evaded her.
Suddenly everyone looked ceilingwards as an eruption of bloodcurdling shrieks broke out in the room above them. The rinsing of Craig’s hair.
‘It really does sound like he’s being burnt alive,’ Ashling giggled. ‘Poor little thing.’
After a while the shrill screams died down into hysterical whimpers. Back to the force-feeding.
‘Everyone has to eat their dinner if they want to grow up to be big strong girls.’ Clodagh approached once more with her spoonful of scrambled egg.
‘Why?’
‘Because they just do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Why?’
‘Just FUCKING because.’ Clodagh clattered down the spoon, bouncing yellow particles around the table. ‘This is a waste of time. I’m going to get ready.’
As Clodagh swept from the room, Ted passed Ashling a shocked, wide-eyed, ‘Jayzus!’ look. ‘Bad idea to let children see your weakness,’ he observed, knowingly.
Clodagh stuck her head back in. ‘I used to think that too. You wait until you have children yourself,’ she accused. ‘You’ll have loads of rules and none of them will work.’
Ted hadn’t meant to criticize Clodagh. It was just that he’d thought his tough-love approach to child-rearing might help her. He felt misunderstood and acutely embarrassed. Even more so when Molly pointed her spoon at him and crowed maliciously, ‘Mummy hates you.’
Clodagh belted up the stairs. No chance of having the long, relaxing aromatherapy bath she’d planned. Barely time to have a quick shower before scribbling on some make-up. Then, reverentially, she put on the pink and white little slip-dress that she’d bought the day she’d gone shopping with Ashling. It had hung in the wardrobe ever since, its pristine newness a reminder that her social life was non-existent.
She watched herself anxiously in the mirror. Bloody hell, it was short. Shorter than she remembered. And see-through. But when she put on a black half-slip to cover her modesty, she just looked stupid, so she took it off again. Underwear on display was fine, she told herself. Better than fine. Compulsory, actually, if you wanted to call yourself well-dressed. Her problem was that she’d been in jeans and T-shirts for too long. So she stuck her feet into high sandals, told herself she looked brilliant and appeared at the top of the stairs like a movie star making an entrance.
‘How do I look?’
Everyone gathered below, gazing up. There was a kind of nonplussed pause.
‘Fabulous,’ Ashling enthused, a split-second too late.
Ted was open-mouthed with admiration as he watched Clod-agh’s treadmilled legs making their way down the stairs.
‘Dylan?’ Clodagh enquired.
‘Fabulous,’ he echoed.
She wasn’t convinced. She was sure she’d seen a caveat in his eyes, but he was smart enough not to voice it. Craig, however, was unencumbered by such reticence. ‘Mummy, your dress is too short and I can see your wonderpants.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Yes, I can!’ he insisted.
‘No, you can’t,’ Clodagh corrected. ‘You can see my knickers. Boys wear wonderpants and girls wear knickers… Unless they’re Ashling’s friend, Joy,’ she muttered to herself, astringent bitchi-ness erupting from nowhere.
Molly, engaged in the act of washing her hands with blackberry jam, was the only person who seemed not to care what Clodagh wore or didn’t.
‘You look very well too,’ Ashling said to Dylan. And indeed he did, in his unstructured, navy suit and biscuit-coloured shirt.
‘You sweetheart,’ he grinned.
‘Ponce,’ floated into Ashling’s ear, so small and contemptuous that she almost thought she’d imagined it. It seemed to emanate from Ted’s direction.
‘Are we right?’ Dylan looked at his watch.
‘Just a minute.’ Clodagh was in a flurry of leaving phone numbers. ‘Here’s Dylan’s mobile,’ she scribbled. ‘And here’s the number of the restaurant just in case the mobile’s out of coverage…’
‘It’s not likely to be a problem in the middle of Dublin,’ Dylan interjected.
‘… and this is the address of the restaurant, if you can’t get us on the phone. We won’t be late.’
‘Be late,’ Ashling urged.
Clodagh grabbed Molly and Craig, hugged them fiercely and said – without much conviction – ‘Be good for Ashling.’
‘And Ted,’ Ted added, bunching his mouth in what he thought was a suave manner at Clodagh.
‘And Ted,’ Clodagh muttered.
Just before they left, to wish them God-speed, Molly firmly placed a blackberry-jam-covered hand on Clodagh’s bottom. Unfortunately – or maybe it was fortunately – she didn’t notice.
30
As soon as Clodagh closed the front door, pitiful wailing from Molly and Craig began on the other side. With a helpless look at Dylan, Clodagh turned to go back in again.
‘No!’ he commanded.
‘But…’
‘They’ll stop in a while.’
Feeling as if she was being ripped in two, she got into the taxi and submitted to being driven into town. Fucking unconditional love, she thought bitterly. What a terrible burden it was.
Their table at L’Oeuf was booked for seven-thirty – they’d been given a choice of seven-thirty or nine, and Clodagh felt that nine was far too late. She was often in bed by then. She liked to get a few hours’ kip in before having to rise at four a.m. to sit and sing songs in the dark for an hour. Dylan and Clodagh were the first diners to arrive. They proceeded in hushed, reverential silence into the empty, white, Grecian-columned room and Clodagh became ever more anxious about her dress. It seemed to draw astonished looks from the po-faced staff. Trying to tug it down to make it longer, she hurried to the safety of the table. She’d been out of the loop too long and no longer knew what was the right or wrong thing to wear. Sinking into her chair and shoving her thighs under the forgiving cover of the table, where the error of her on-display knickers was hidden away out of sight, she gratefully ordered a gin-and-tonic.
As she perused her broadsheet-sized menu, twelve or fourteen black-and-white-attired staff stood to attention in various parts of the silent room. When she looked up from her menu, they’d all exchanged places, but neither she nor Dylan had seen them move.
‘It’s like something out of a science-fiction film,’ she whispered.
Dylan laughed, the sound loud in the empty room, and Clod-
agh’s head abruptly tightened as she experienced that peculiar feeling again – that she didn’t know him. But this was the man she’d once thought she’d die if she didn’t possess. Stirred by an echo of that intense love, she was suddenly struck dumb. Perplexed because she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him.
Only for a second. Then, of course, she had oodles of stuff. I mean, she thought, loose with relief, this is Dylan.
‘Do you think I should take Molly to the doctor?’
Dylan didn’t answer.
‘If she doesn’t knock off the hunger-strike soon,’ Clodagh chattered, ‘I’ll really have to. She’s getting no nourishment from all the chocolate and –’
‘What are you having to start?’ Dylan interrupted, brusquely.
‘Oh! Oh, I don’t know.’
‘The menu’s spectacular,’ Dylan said, a little too pointedly.
‘Oh right.’
‘Can’t you forget about the kids just for a couple of hours?’
‘Sorry. Am I driving you mad?’
‘Round the bend,’ he agreed, in exasperation.
She began to settle down. After all, she was in a lovely restaurant with her lovely husband. They were drinking gin-and-tonics and eating tomato bread. Delicious food and several bottles of wine would soon be on their way, and her children were safe at home with two people who weren’t paedophiles or child-batterers. What could be nicer?
‘Sorry,’ she repeated, and this time really did study the menu. ‘I see what you mean,’ she acknowledged. ‘Oh, they’ve mussels. And goat’s cheese soufflé. Bloody hell! What’ll I have?’
‘Starter or soup,’ Dylan said thoughtfully, ‘that is the question.’
‘“Or?”’ Clodagh challenged. ‘What’s this “or” word? I think what you mean is “and”.’
With the desperation of one who rarely gets out, Clodagh over-ordered wildly, mad-keen to wring as much enjoyment as possible from this infrequent treat. Starters and sorbets and soups and side-orders. Main-courses and red wine and white wine and water.
‘Sparkling or still?’ The waiter asked, his hand hurting. Now he knew how Tolstoy felt, having to write War and Peace.
Puzzled, Clodagh looked at him – surely it was obvious? –’Both!’
‘Very good.’
‘Is there anything else we can order?’ Clodagh shivered gleefully, when he’d gone.
‘Not for the moment,’ Dylan laughed, swept up in her enthusiasm. ‘But wait till we’ve got this consignment out of the way.’
‘Will we have dessert and cheese?’
‘’Course. Irish coffees?’
‘And dessert wine. And petit fours.’
‘French coffees?’
‘Mais oui! I might even have a cigar.’
‘That’s my girl.’
By the time they were a couple of courses in, Clodagh was dreamy from food and drink, but still bothered by an inability to relax. Then she realized what the problem was.
‘It’s such a long time since I’ve had an uninterrupted dinner that I can’t break the habit,’ she said. ‘I keep getting the urge to jump up and cut up other people’s dinners for them… See your man over there?’ – she indicated a New-York-loft-boy type who was playing with his food – ‘I want to stick a bit of his filet mignon on a fork and say, “Open wide for the birdy.” In fact, I think I will.’
Dylan was half-appalled and amused as Clodagh pretended to stand up. Then she stopped and twisted and turned anxiously.
‘Why… ? Why am I sticking to the chair?’ She put a hand down to investigate. ‘I’ve a patch of black sticky stuff on my bum. Tar, maybe. Damn, on my lovely new dress. How did I manage that?’ Tentatively she brought her fingertips to her nose, sniffed, then started to laugh. ‘It’s blackberry jam. Bet it was Molly, the little brat. She’s a scream, isn’t she?’
‘She’s brilliant.’ Dylan wasn’t entirely undreamy himself.
‘Would you say they’re all right?’ Clodagh asked, suddenly anxious.
‘Of course! And Ashling and Ted have the mobile number. They’ll ring if anything goes wrong.’
‘Like what? What could go wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Give me your mobile and I’ll make a quick call.’
Dylan’s eyes pleaded with her. ‘Can’t you just leave it for one night? We’ve only been gone an hour.’
‘You’re right,’ Clodagh agreed. ‘I’m being ridiculous.’
She turned her attention back to her chowder.
‘No, I can’t bear it,’ she burst out.’Give me the mobile.’
With a sigh Dylan handed it over.
‘Hello, Ted, it’s Clodagh, just checking that everything’s OK.’
‘We’re having a blast,’ Ted lied, as Ashling held her hands over Craig’s and Molly’s agape mouths.
So, can I have a word with them?’
‘They’re, um, busy. Playing. Yes, that’s right, playing with Ashling.’
‘Oh. Well, then, see you later.
‘It’s very annoying,’ Clodagh said mournfully, as she snapped the phone closed. ‘They drive me mad all week, I can’t wait for even five minutes away from them, then I go out for the evening and I worry about them!’
‘We can go home if you want,’ Dylan said tightly. ‘And have oven-chips and a non-stop string of demands.’
‘When you put it like that… Sorry, Dylan. I am actually having a nice time. A very nice time.’
Not quite the same could be said of Ashling and Ted. It had taken ages for Craig and Molly to stop crying after their parents had left. They’d eventually quietened down – but only after they’d commandeered the telly to watch The Little Mermaid and Ted had to forgo watching Stars in Their Eyes.
‘And it’s celebrity night,’ he complained bitterly.
To pass the time Ted went through Dylan’s enormous record and CD collection with jealous admiration, exclaiming when he found an impressively rare one. ‘Look at that. Bob Marley’s Catch a Fire – in its original sleeve. How’d he manage that, the lucky bastard?’
Ashling found it hard to care. Men and their music collections. Phelim used to be the exact same.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Ted burst out. ‘Burning Spear’s first two albums on Studio One! I thought you could only get them in Jamaica.’
‘Dylan and Clodagh went to Jamaica on the honeymoon,’ Ashling deadpanned.
‘Lucky for some.’ He managed to inject a world of longing into those three words. ‘… The complete Billie Holiday on Verve,’ Ted sounded like he might puke. ‘Where’d he get that? I’ve been looking for years for it!… Tool,’ he added.
‘Aha!’ He pounced gleefully on something. ‘This is a right skeleton in the cupboard! What’s Mr Cooler-than-thou doing with a Simply Red album? There goes his street-cred.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s Clodagh’s.’
‘Clodagh likes Simply Red?’ Ted’s face was a picture.
‘She used to, in any case.’
‘“Used to” is OK.’ Ted was weak with relief. He thought Clodagh was a goddess, but if she was a fan of Mick Hucknall’s he might have to reconsider. Surely no goddess could have such an inexcusable lapse in taste?
As soon as The Little Mermaid ended, Craig and Molly clamoured loudly to be entertained. But when Ted tried his owl routine on them, Molly told him to go home now and Craig began to cry. Ted took it hard, especially when Ashling hiding and reappearing from behind a paper bag had them in convulsions.
‘Little bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Loads of people would give their right arm for this opportunity.’
‘But they’re only kids.’
Craig began pulling at Ashling, demanding 7-Up. When it didn’t appear instantly, the tears started again.
‘Spoilt brat.’ Ted was scathing.
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Yes, he is. If he lived in Bangladesh, he’d be working eighteen hours a day in a sweatshop, you know… Then he’d have something t
o cry about,’ Ted added, darkly.
The evening was a very long one. Ashling and Ted had to provide a non-stop supply of laughs, stories, sweets, tickling, drinks, lorry-throwing, Barbie-football and that old favourite, Hiding Your Hand up Your Sleeve.
‘Where’s Molly’s hand gone?’ Ted asked wearily, as gleefully Molly secreted her hand up her sleeve for the millionth time. ‘Oh dear,’ he said flatly. ‘Molly’s lost her hand. Someone’s stolen it.’ Then as Molly triumphantly thrust her hand back into the public arena, Ted said moodily, ‘Oh what a surprise! Here it is again. Where’s Molly’s hand gone… ?’
When bedtime came, getting them to go to bed and stay there was like trying to nail jelly to the wall.
‘If you don’t go to sleep, the bogeyman will come and get you,’ Ted threatened.
‘There’s no bogeyman,’ Craig said confidently. ‘Mummy said.’
Ted reconsidered. Surely something must scare him? ‘OK, if you don’t go to sleep, Mick Hucknall will come and get you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Ted nipped downstairs, grabbed the CD and ran back up. ‘That’s Mick Hucknall.’
Ashling, downstairs savouring a moment of peace, looked up in alarm as a terrible, screaming cacophany broke out in the room above her. Seconds later Ted appeared, looking furtive and guilty.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘I’d better go up.’
Ashling spent several fruitless minutes trying to calm Craig.
‘What did you say to him?’ she accused Ted, when she came back down. ‘He’s absolutely inconsolable.’
Dylan and Clodagh arrived home, swaddled in the kind of loving glow that makes everyone else feel excluded and lacking. They lurched into the house, Clodagh’s arm around Dylan, his hand firmly on her bum (on the side that wasn’t covered in blackberry jam).
As soon as Ashling and Ted had been dispatched into the night, Clodagh winked at Dylan, nodded at upstairs and said, ‘Come on.’ It was exactly four weeks since the last time they’d had sex, but she was so awash with drunken magnanimity that she would have thrown in a bonus session even if he hadn’t been due one.