Oh God! God, God, God!
The problem was that she hadn’t been realistic enough in the beginning. Conall was a special man, with a big presence; he’d taken up a lot of space. You didn’t cut someone like him out of your life without undergoing some adjustment. She’d been mildly delusional thinking that it would be easy. Coupled with the fact that this was her first break-up in her forties, was it any wonder she was struggling?
But, on the positive side, other than this newfound fear of holidays with a repressed lesbian, she was coping. Drinking a bottle of wine a night, admittedly, sleeping very badly, admittedly, picking up the phone to ring him twelve times a day, admittedly, but coping.
Day 41 (early hours of)
“Three double espressos,” Lydia said.
“There’s only one of you,” Eugene said. She could hardly see him through the steam of the cappuccino machine.
“I’m knackered,” she said. “I’ve got to last through till nine.”
Eugene looked at the big greasy clock on the wall. It was 4:20 a.m. “You’ve a while to go yet. Anything to eat?”
“Something loaded with sugar.”
“Grand, I’ll bring it all over.”
She turned, looking for a free seat. The place was crowded with taxi drivers tucking into middle-of-the-night breakfasts and—Gdansk!—she saw a familiar friendly face. “Hey, Odenigbo!”
Odenigbo jerked his head up, looked alarmed, then smoothed all expression from his features and gave her a short, cool nod before, very deliberately, twisting away.
Irkutsk! Not Gdansk at all. “It’s full in here,” she muttered to Eugene. “I’ll be outside.”
Closing the door on the noise and the steam, the night air cool against her hot face, Lydia swallowed hard. Odenigbo blanking her, now that was harsh. But only an eejit would expect that Gilbert’s mates would stay friends with her. Loyalty and all that. She understood it. She’d done the dirty on Gilbert; of course his compadres would close ranks. But she minded. She missed the other Nigerians, they were fun. And what about Gilbert having done the dirty on her! The unfairness of it!
She needed to talk to someone. It was twenty-five past four in the morning—what were the chances that Poppy was awake? Quite high, actually. She was getting married in five weeks; she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months.
R U awake?
Ten seconds later Poppy rang. “You got me at a good time. I’ve just had a nightmare about the flowers and I’m lying here shaking. What if they’re mortifying?”
“But they’re flowers. How can they be mortifying?”
“Mum was at a wedding last week and she said the flowers were hideous.”
Yes, but Mrs. Batch was a sour old boot who found fault with everything. If she was admitted into heaven, she’d kick up a stink at reception and demand to speak to the manager and complain at the top of her voice that everything was too radiant and blissful.
“Your flowers will be cool, cop on, Poppy! I’m never getting married if this is what it does to you. I just got blanked by Odenigbo.”
“Oh! That’s harsh. But you wouldn’t expect me or Sissy or Shoane to play nice if we bumped into Gilbert.”
A little silence followed. They both had their doubts about Shoane.
“You’re right, yeah, I’d go mad. I just got a . . . you know, it was a reminder, I suppose. Do your test on me, Poppy!”
“Just yes or no answers, right? Question one: Your life is over?”
“No.”
“You’ll never meet another man again for as long as you live?”
“No, no, I will, I’d say.”
“When—and I say when and not if—you think of Gilbert being with the other girls, you want to tear your skin off?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sorry for all those times you told your good friend Poppy to shut up when she said he had a family and six children back in Lagos?”
“No.”
“Oh. Sure?”
“Would you stop!”
“Moving on. You keep fantasizing about him arriving at your door and offering to do anything—”
“—to burn his Alexander McQueen jacket, the one that cost over a thousand euro, to show how sorry he is.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. You told him you loved him?”
“You know I didn’t.”
“He told you he loved you?”
“No, I’d have told you.”
“Did you love him?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping the Poppy Test would tell me.”
“Did he love you?”
“Well, obviously not if he was riding other girls.”
“Had you made plans to go on holiday together? Maybe a mini-break in Barcelona?”
“No, but not because he wouldn’t. Because I can’t—”
“The Poppy Test deals only with yes or no answers. So that’s a no. Let me add up your scores. Okay. There was very little to this rel—Well, I’d hardly even call it a relationship. It’ll hurt for a short while, quite badly, but there’s no depth to the wound. Like a paper cut.”
“A paper cut!” Lydia was liking the sound of this. “I know what you mean. Really, really sore, surprising like, especially because it was only a bit of fecking paper. Not like a huge big sword that they execute people with in the Al-Qaeda videos.”
“For a few days every single thing you do will hurt.”
“Then it’ll stop?”
“And you won’t even notice it going. You’re not thinking you might get back with him?” Poppy asked delicately.
Lydia snorted. “No way. I wouldn’t take him.” Anyway, it was complicated. It wasn’t like other breakups where only one person was in the wrong and the other could wait like a smug martyr for pleas for forgiveness. They were both wronged and in the wrong and it meant they were stuck.
“Good. You’ll be grand and there’s plenty more where he came from. Lagos,” Poppy added.
Poppy was right about one thing: there were always more men coming on-stream. Even if Lydia was still waiting to meet one who didn’t eventually disillusion her with his sappiness or his faithlessness or his outrageous stupidity. “You know what, Poppy? With men? It’s not the despair that kills me—”
Together, they chanted, “—it’s the hope.”
“When will I be over Gilbert?” Lydia asked.
“It’s been three days? Give it a week. Can I go back to my nightmares now?”
Lydia wanted to keep talking. She wanted to blurt out how she hated herself for thinking Gilbert was worthy of her. But if she said that, Poppy would bollock her for having abnormally high self-esteem and that other girls wouldn’t like her if she went around saying that sort of thing.
And there was something else.
“What about . . . him, the other . . .” Lydia choked on the word, “. . . man.”
“Andrei, the flatmate you accidentally slept with? This is not an area the Poppy Test covers.”
“But what do you think?”
“I think that every time you look at him you’ll feel guilt, confusion—”
“Revulsion.”
“Revulsion? That bad?”
“I haven’t been able to be in the flat with him since . . .”
Since that moment—well, moments—of nutjobbery. As soon as it had ended, she’d legged it out of the flat and hotfooted it over to Gilbert, trying to convince herself that if she fessed up, it might make it not have happened. Christ, how wrong could you get? She discovered that yes, it had happened and, worse again, that she and Gilbert were no longer a going concern. The very thought of Andrei had been so repulsive that she literally hadn’t felt able to breathe the same air as him. But there had been nowhere she could go—Gilbert’s house no longer being an option—so she’d cruised around all night, picking up a fare here and there. When she eventually came home, at around 8:30 in the morning, Andrei had left for work. And in the few days since then she’d slipped into a different work schedule, dri
ving through the night and coming home to sleep only when she was sure Andrei had left for the day. In a few weeks’ time, he was going to Poland for his summer holiday; maybe she could avoid seeing him until then.
“Personally,” Poppy said, “I think Andrei’s quite ridey. I can see why you—”
“Please! No! Stop!” Her skin crawled at the thought that they’d—arrgh!—had sex. Sex! Arrgh, arrgh, arrgh!
“Okay, revulsion. You’ll blame him for the breakup with Gilbert. But you’ll have to suppress it until one of you moves out. Learn to live with it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told Gilbert.”
“Wouldn’t change the fact that he was cheating on you.”
“Yeah. I’m better off knowing.” For the millionth time, fury rose in a big red wave.
“Lydia, I must go back to sleep now. Forget Gilbert. Laters.”
Poppy vanished, leaving Lydia alone with her thoughts. She couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed. This time a week ago, even four days ago, her life—almost all of it—had been great. She’d had a hot man and he had friends she liked and together they’d formed a little community, almost a family, then that mad business with Andrei happened and suddenly everything was arseways. If only she’d known how good things were.
Irkutsk! She kicked an empty can, and it bounced a few times along the pavement, the noise ugly in the peaceful night air. She really didn’t feel good. She and Gilbert, they’d had a connection. It had felt pretty solid but all it had taken was one short conversation to destroy it. They’d both come out of it looking bad—selfish, disloyal and shallow—and that was enough to put the brakes on any chances of dramatic jacket-burnings and getting back together. Not that she’d have him back, she thought, as her imagination kindly provided a couple of pornographic images of Gilbert riding some mystery girl and another wave of red fury rolled upward from her gut. Fuck him.
A loud rapping noise made Lydia jerk awake. Her face was slumped heavily on her steering wheel, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart was racing. She lifted her head to see Jan’s startled face peering in through her car window.
“What you doing?” she heard him ask.
What indeed? She was too stunned from the abrupt awakening to speak. Anyway, she didn’t know what was going on. Confused, she took stock of her surroundings. She appeared to be in her car. Parked in Star Street. It was daytime. Sunny.
“I thought you have heart attack.” Jan sounded hopeful.
Clumsily, she unwound the window. “What time is it?” Her tongue was thick.
“Nine-thirty.”
“In the morning?” Since she’d switched to night duty, her body clock had gone haywire.
“In morning. I work now. Late shift.”
It was all coming back to her. After her three coffees and doughnut, she’d got the fare of her dreams, taking her all the way to Skerries. But that was where her luck had run out. When she returned to the city center she’d spent over an hour waiting behind countless other taxis at a stand, and at about seven o’clock had given it up as a bad job. She’d driven home and parked in Star Street, then realized it was a Sunday and far too early for Andrei to have woken up and gone out, so she’d settled down to wait. At some point she must have fallen asleep.
“Do I have a mark on my face?” she asked. “From the steering wheel?”
“Yes. You are a Toyota person now and forever.”
“Is . . . ah . . . who’s at home?”
“No person. Andrei is out.”
That was all she needed to know.
She let herself into the empty flat and though the need to go on the net came upon her suddenly and urgently, she had to have a shower first. She still didn’t like washing herself, but over these last few days, for the short scalding seconds she was under the water, she scrubbed until she was red and tingling, trying to erase Andrei’s besmirching touch. Aaargh!
Day 40 (early hours of)
Katie was helping Keith Richards put his socks on. “That’s the boy, that’s it, now the other foot,” when stumbling, scuffling noises at her front door woke her from the dream. She lay on her side, frozen in her sleep pose. It was twenty-nine minutes past five, according to the red devilish numbers on the alarm clock, and she was being broken into. She listened hard and, once again, heard a series of stumbling noises, like a body falling against the wood of her front door. Shouldn’t she be doing something? Like ringing the police? Like darting into the kitchen and getting something to protect herself?
But she couldn’t believe it was happening. And she couldn’t believe a burglar would be so unstealthy. She was amazed at how unprofessional they were being.
Louder noises this time—her front door was being pushed and shoved—then came the most frightening sound of all: the metallic scratching of a key seeking the lock.
Had someone stolen her key and had it copied? Almost delirious with fear, she flicked back through her recent life, searching for a moment when her bag was unattended, when it could have happened.
There was one other explanation for this person at her door.
It could be . . . Conall.
With a click and a shove, the door opened and the person, whoever it was, was in her hallway.
“Katie,” she heard Conall ask in an urgent whisper. “Katie.”
Should have changed that stupid lock.
He knocked lightly on her bedroom door. “Katie. Are you asleep? Wake up.”
Should have made you leave your key.
The light clicked on, nearly blinding her. Conall, looking a little disheveled, was swaying at the side of her bed. “Katie, I’m going out of my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. Sorry for this,” He waved his hand to encompass him standing in her bedroom at five-thirty in the morning. “I should have rung, but it’s so late. Or maybe it’s too early.”
“So you thought it was better to come in person.”
“Absolutely!”
He was, she realized, quite drunk.
“Katie, I want to marry you.” He dropped to one knee and wobbled slightly but managed to maintain his balance.
She stared at him, wondering if she’d actually woken up, or if she’d simply moved sideways into one of those dreams where you dream you’re awake.
“Marry me,” he urged.
“Is this a proposal?”
“Yes.”
She was electrified with sudden insight. This was one of the most important moments of her life. She would marry Conall Hathaway, she would put up with his workaholism and his unreliability because there was a lot that was great about him, and every positive choice in life brings a commensurate loss. And, of course, there was the added bonus that he might change.
Yes, she thought, secure in her decision, she would be the wife of Conall Hathaway and live with all of the pleasures and unhappiness that that would guarantee if, and only if, he had brought a ring with him.
“A ring?” She prompted.
It would be a sign that their week apart had altered him, that he would be more amenable to making concessions in their future.
Conall patted one jacket pocket then another and rummaged around in his trouser pockets, then admitted the unpalatable truth. “I didn’t bring a ring . . .”
Well, that was it. The decision was made for her and the vision of her life as the wife of Conall Hathaway dissolved and disappeared.
“I would have got one but I came over here in such a rush—”
“It’s not a proper proposal if there’s no ring,” she said.
“I can get one.” Already, he had his mobile out. “Trevor, Conall Hathaway here. Did I wake you? My apologies to your good lady wife.” He was definitely drunk, Katie thought, he didn’t normally speak as if he’d wandered out of a Dickens novel. “Listen, I need a diamond ring. Right now. High end. Open up the shop, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Conall put his hand over the speaker and asked Kati
e, “Is it diamonds you want?” Like he was ordering a takeout.
She shook her head.
“Emeralds, then? Sapphires. Anything you want, just say.”
She shook her head again. He couldn’t buy his way out of this.
“Trevor, I’ll call you back.” Conall was confused. “Katie, what do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“But . . .” He was stymied. People always wanted something. “I’ve changed. I’m already different. I’m going to get a deputy. I’ll start looking tomorrow. No more long trips away from home. No much rush jobs, no more twenty-hour days.”
She shook her head again.
“But . . . why? I thought this was what you wanted?” He couldn’t make sense of this. There could be only one explanation. “You’ve met someone else?”
“. . . No . . . I . . .” Of course she hadn’t met someone else, but for whatever reason, a picture of the golden-haired man from downstairs appeared in her mind’s eye—and Conall, being the astute machine he was, felt it.
“You have!” he declared, appalled.
“I haven’t.”
But it was enough for Conall. Like a wounded animal, he had to be alone.
A taxi was approaching. A gift from the gods, he thought and stuck his hand out. It pulled up beside him and he tugged at the handle of the door and climbed into the front seat.
“Get out,” the taxi driver said. “I’m off duty.”
“Take me to Donnybrook. Quick as you can.”
“I’m finished for the night. My light’s off. Get out.”
“So why did you stop for me?”
“I didn’t. I was parking.” With an efficient screech forward, then a perfect reverse curl, she—for the driver was a she—had maneuvered the taxi into a tiny space, in one of the neatest pieces of parking he’d ever seen. “There we are, parked,” she said. “Out you get.”