CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Juliet checked that she had her passport, e ticket, keys to the villa, sunglasses, reading glasses and her mobile phone. It was 4.15 a.m. and she was getting the 7 a.m. flight from Dublin to Malaga. Her check-in was 5 a.m. She’d tried to book a seat on the afternoon flight, but she hadn’t a hope. She’d been lucky to get a seat at all. It was the height of the season, and both Ryanair and Aer Lingus were almost fully booked. It didn’t matter what time of year you flew to Malaga, she reflected, as she sprayed Chanel No. 5 on her wrists and neck, the flights were always full, and they rarely came up as special offers.
Juliet caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her hazel eyes were bright, and a faint flush of excitement shone through her sprayed-on tan. Her navy cotton jacket, white sleeveless top and white trousers looked smart and summery. Her ash-blond hair hung in a soft bob, and her make-up, subtly applied, emphasized her high cheekbones. She looked what she was, an affluent, well-groomed, classy wife whom no one would give a second glance. They were ten a penny on Malaga flights. It was a flight she had taken many times, but today was different. Today, she was going away without telling her husband.
It was so liberating, she thought gleefully, switching off the light. The house was still, with just the odd familiar creak and groan of tired timbers and ageing water pipes, the moonlight fashioning a painting of willowy silhouettes of leaves and branches on the wall opposite the landing window. In the guest room across the landing, Ken’s snores rumbled thunderously and, slingbacks in hand, Juliet padded silently past his room and downstairs. Her husband’s snores didn’t cease, and she turned off the alarm and let herself out of the house, confident that he wouldn’t wake. She hadn’t bothered with breakfast; she’d have coffee and croissants at the airport.
Her taxi was waiting at the wrought-iron gates. She’d instructed the firm they had an account with to flash the lights when the driver got to the house. She opened the boot of her Volvo and hoisted out her Samsonite. To make her departure as secret as possible, she’d packed her case the day before and stowed it in her car so that Ken wouldn’t see it. The first he’d know that she’d gone was when he got up at 6 a.m. and saw her bedroom door wide open and the bed made. For the first time ever, there was no freezer well stocked with home-cooked dinners, no extra shopping done for all the basics. His dirty linen basket was full. This time, Ken was well and truly on his own – well, apart from Gina’s assistance.
That would give him a good shock. Juliet smiled at the taxi driver as he took her case, and settled into the back seat for the journey to the airport. The pearly light to the east, dawn’s kiss, lifted her spirits even more. The start of a new day and a new life.
From now on, it would be all about her. Ken’s rude awakening was just beginning.
Karen nearly gave herself lockjaw, sitting in the crowded airport restaurant sawing at a pale, un-appetizing slice of rubbery, curled-up bacon accompanied by leathery, overcooked scrambled eggs. ‘They have some nerve charging those prices for this rubbish,’ she complained bitterly, ‘and it’s always cold by the time you get to the table.’
‘Sausages aren’t bad,’ Connie said cheerfully, starving after the rush to get up in the middle of the night and the long drive to the airport.
‘They call this toast? It’s as white as my legs were before I fake-tanned,’ Karen snorted, holding up a piece of grey-white bread, which had seen a toaster for about eight seconds. ‘They get away with it because people don’t complain. The French would never stand for this.’
‘There there, you’ll be fine,’ soothed Connie. Karen was not a morning person. This middle-of-the-night stuff was a complete trauma to her.
Her sister-in-law grinned. ‘Sorry. The older I get, the grumpier I get. Honestly, I could grump for Ireland.’
‘I’d noticed. I think it’s called the menopause. I wouldn’t know yet, of course. I’m younger than you. I’m only peri!’ Connie buttered a croissant and slathered it with jam.
‘Ha ha, smug bitch!’ Karen made a face at her. ‘Now, madam, we’re officially on holidays – what’s the piece of news you’ve been holding on to since last Saturday? You promised you’d tell me on holidays.’
‘We’re not in Spain yet,’ Connie teased.
‘And you won’t be getting there in one piece if you don’t enlighten me. Now come on . . . spill!’
‘OK,’ Connie relented. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘What!’ Karen couldn’t hide her exasperation.
‘Aimee’s up the duff!’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Karen’s eyes widened. ‘Oh! My! God!’
‘So don’t tell me I never give you any good gossip,’ Connie said smugly, sitting back sipping her coffee and enjoying Karen’s reaction to the news.
‘Who told you?’
‘Melissa let it slip . . .’ Connie regaled Karen with a rundown of the previous Saturday morning’s events.
‘I wouldn’t be in her shoes for anything.’ Karen found it in her heart to be sympathetic to her detested sister-in-law. As a woman who juggled career and family life, she understood all the difficulties Aimee’s pregnancy and a new baby would entail. ‘I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, not at her age, with a career and a teenage daughter.’
‘I know. Even I found it easy to be sorry for the woman, despite our history. Barry’s totally stressed, but, interestingly though, happy enough to have another child.’
‘How things have changed,’ Karen murmured, remembering her brother’s dismay when Connie had become pregnant with Debbie.
‘I know,’ Connie agreed ruefully.
‘When’s it due?’
‘Early next year, I think.’
‘I better save up for an outfit for the christening,’ Karen drawled. ‘Designer labels only. The Holdens’ daughter is getting married in September. And it’s black tie. John will have to get a monkey suit. What a pain in the ass.’
‘You might get something nice in Marbella,’ Connie suggested.
‘You mean in one of those boutiques where they don’t even have price tags? Ha! I don’t think so,’ scoffed Karen. ‘Come on, let’s go treat ourselves in the duty free.’
Connie finished her coffee and picked up her bag. ‘This is my favourite bit of travelling,’ she remarked ten minutes later, as she selected several glossy magazines and then meandered over to the books.
‘You buy two, and I’ll buy two, and I have a couple of good thrillers in my bag, so we’ll have plenty to read,’ Karen advised. As she browsed the bookshelves, Connie could feel herself beginning to relax. The prospect of ten days doing nothing other than reading, sleeping and eating was so appealing, and Karen was the perfect holiday companion. How lucky was she? Connie thought gratefully as she picked up a book called Party Animal, a collection of stories about pets by all her favourite authors, the royalties of which went to animal charities.
Oh, lovely, she thought, dipping into it, and feeling a pang of loneliness for Miss Hope. Her little cat had rubbed against her leg when she was leaving, and Connie had lifted her up and burrowed her nose in her silky black fur, wishing she could take her with her.
That loving little pet had got her through the loneliness of Debbie’s leaving, and yet so many people just didn’t like cats. She’d be lost without hers, she thought, as she added Party Animal to her selection of purchases.
‘Oh, this is the life I was born for, Karen,’ she said happily, three-quarters of an hour later, as they made their way along the jetway to the massive green and white Aer Lingus airbus.
‘Wish we were turning left – that’s what I was born for,’ Karen murmured, as she stepped through the doorway of the plane and turned right for economy.
‘Dream on,’ grinned Connie, following her down the aisle to a side row with just two seats. As she reached up to put her duty-free bags into the overhead cabin, a woman passing to the seat behind jolted her.
‘I beg your pardon,’ the woman said, and did a double take. ‘Oh . . . Connie, isn’t it? Karen, hello. Are you off to the Costa too?’
Good Lord, it’s Aimee’s mother, Connie thought, dismayed. She’d met her at a few of her ex’s family gatherings over the years, when she and Aimee had been on speaking terms.
‘Juliet! Isn’t it a small world!’ Karen exclaimed. ‘Is Ken with you or are you travelling on your own?’
‘I certainly am,’ Juliet said briskly, settling herself into the seat behind. ‘All I have to worry about is me, thankfully.’
‘Well, enjoy your flight,’ Connie said politely. She wasn’t sure if the older woman knew about the dust-up between her and Aimee on the steps of the church at Debbie’s wedding.
‘I will indeed.’ Juliet smiled, and there was no animosity apparent, Connie noted with a sigh of relief. It would be horrible to have an ‘atmosphere’ to ruin the start of her much-needed holiday.
‘Did you know your mother was going to the villa?’ Ken boomed down the phone to Aimee.
‘What? Dad, it’s seven a.m.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’re up planning tea parties, or whatever it is you do,’ Ken said tetchily. ‘The point is, I’ve had a text from your mother to say she is on the plane to Malaga, and she never said a word to me that she was going. There’s nothing in the fridge, there are no dinners in the freezer and there’s a load of dirty washing in the linen basket, so you better get over here and give me a hand to get organized. It’s not the housekeeper’s day today, and I’m already late for my rounds and will be late for my clinic as a result.’ Her father was clearly up to ninety.
‘I didn’t know Mum was going to Spain,’ Aimee said icily, stung by his ‘tea-party’ barb and his arrogant assumption that she could just drop everything and go over to his house to cook his dinners and do his laundry. ‘And I’m afraid I’m up to my eyes. I’m just arriving at my office, so I suggest you eat out or buy ready-prepared meals and get your housekeeper to bring your laundry to a launderette.’
Aimee reversed into her designated parking space, noting that Ian, her boss and owner of the company, had already arrived at work.
‘Well, that’s not very helpful,’ blustered her father. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you women. Your mother hasn’t spoken to me since that bloody art thing – in fact, she’s been extremely rude and vulgar,’ he raged, remembering the ‘skidmarks’ taunt.
‘She was hurt you didn’t support her. She’s always supported you, so I’m not surprised she’s gone away,’ Aimee said tartly.
‘I beg your pardon, Missy. Who pays for her lovely lifestyle, with all the perks, including a villa in Spain and all that entails? Who pays her credit-card bills? Don’t give me nonsense about not “supporting” her.’ Ken almost spat the word down the phone.
‘Fine, whatever you say. I have to go, bye.’ Aimee hung up, determined not to get into an argument with her father, which would end up reducing her to the level of a seven-year-old. She was in her late thirties, married with a teenager, and he still thought he could call her ‘Missy’ and talk down to her like a child. It was just as well he had clinics and wasn’t operating. God help any patient under his care today, she thought nastily, as she hurried into the offices of Chez Moi and took the lift to her floor. So her mother had gone to Spain without telling him. ‘Well done, Juliet,’ she applauded, delighted that her mother was showing some flicker of independence. It was time she stood up for herself and stepped out from under Ken’s shadow after all these years. She stopped for a moment and scrolled through the messages on her phone. She hadn’t bothered to look earlier. Yes, there it was, one from her errant parent.
Hello, Dear. Am on plane. Going 2 villa, don’t know how long I’m going to stay. Didn’t tell your father. Expect fireworks ha ha! Love Mum xx
Aimee grinned. Fireworks wasn’t the word for it. Ken was outraged. This was a real challenge to his authority, and he never reacted well to that, as she knew through bitter experience. Her face darkened, as childhood memories flooded back. One in particular had never gone away. She’d back-cheeked Ken on the way into the children’s library when she was about seven, and he’d chastised her as loudly as he could, so that everyone in the library could hear. The customary silence of the premises had been broken only by his strident tones as he’d told her she was an impertinent child, and did she think she was being smart by giving him cheek? He was in his element, the centre of attention. She remembered the nettle stings of mortification as she’d stood, head bowed, listening to his tirade, before he’d allowed her to join the queue at the desk, where everyone was looking at her. She was bright pink with humiliation, and on the brink of tears, but she wouldn’t let her father see her cry. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. The girl at the desk had taken her books and given her a little wink, and she’d taken some small comfort in knowing that she had an ally.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Aimee muttered irritably to herself. What was she doing thinking about something that had happened all those years ago when she had an important meeting which could decide her whole future coming up. She slid her phone into her bag and headed for her office.
Ian motioned to her to come into his office as she strode along, and she groaned silently. He was like a great big spider in there, watching everything through the glass panels.
‘So how’s La Davenport this fine morning? We’re getting tremendous feedback from the O’Leary wedding. Gallagher, Simpson want us to organize their twenty-five years in business celebration, and you, I suspect, are just the woman for the job. Edward Gallagher was at the wedding, and he was mega-impressed. He specifically requested that you take charge. Take another bow.’
Unctuous little toad, Aimee derided silently, unimpressed with his smarmy sweet talk. ‘Ian, I can’t stop to talk now, I’ve a breakfast meeting with Roger O’Leary in the Shelbourne, and I need to collect some files for another meeting at nine thirty. I’ll catch you later,’ she said crisply from the doorway.
‘Oh! OK!’ He was a tad miffed. Today, her boss was wearing his pink shirt, blue jeans and a big Gucci belt. Mutton dressed as lamb wasn’t in it, or even mutton dressed as mutton! Although in his late forties, he dressed much younger, and had his hair dyed blacker than black. Aimee was convinced he was gay but in denial. Unmarried, Ian always had a blonde on his arm at functions. He lived in a tastefully decorated but sterile apartment in Blackrock that was all glass and chrome and John Rocha. He was such a self-important little diva, with his bumptious emails telling her to take a well-earned bow after the success of the O’Leary wedding. She could just visualize herself standing in front of the mirror, bowing to herself indeed, she thought crossly as she logged on to her computer. Would he yet rue the success of that particular wedding if she set up a business in opposition to him?
Aimee suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t lied to Ian when she’d said she was having a breakfast meeting with Roger O’Leary. She’d set it up after the revelation of her pregnancy the previous Saturday. She had to know one way or another what his reaction would be to her news. Would he pull out of the proposal, or would he still be keen to go ahead? She couldn’t bring herself just to take the position and say nothing. It would lead to a lack of trust, and bad feeling further down the line, and she was realistic enough to acknowledge that if the new company was to work, she needed Roger onside.
At least she hadn’t handed in her letter of resignation to Ian. If the new job offer went belly up, she still had the option of negotiating a substantial pay rise commensurate with her new, elevated status. She’d show him what La Davenport was made of, she thought with grim humour, glancing at her new emails.
She thought of her mother on her flight to Spain and suddenly wished she were going too. How nice it would be to lie in the sun for a few days and forget all the stresses and strains of her life in Dublin. Melissa had arrived home on Saturday afternoon with a request to spend Saturday night and Sunday with a friend who had just come back from three weeks in the south of France and was dying to tell Sarah and Melissa all about it. Seemingly, there was a big romance with ‘a real tasty guy’, as her daughter had put it enviously. Melissa had been so anxious to go it seemed unkind to refuse and, besides, Aimee was fed up being the baddie all the time. Barry was the one who let their daughter do what she wanted, and she was the one constantly saying no, and it just wasn’t fair. ‘Go on,’ she’d said. ‘But no drinking, or you’ll be grounded for the rest of the summer.’
‘Thanks, Mom, you’re the best,’ her daughter had exclaimed, racing off to her bedroom to pack, having first removed her wedges with a sigh of relief. Silence had descended yet again upon the penthouse after she’d left with fifty euro in her purse to tide her over. Barry hadn’t come home until late that evening, and he’d gone out on the balcony with a book and stayed reading until long after the sun had set.
She’d been working at an event at the races on Sunday and hadn’t arrived home until after ten that night, much to their mutual relief. He’d tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d just said savagely, ‘Don’t talk to me, Barry. I’ve nothing to say to you, you selfish bastard. You’re every bit as bad as my father.’ He’d walked away, taken aback at the ferocity of her onslaught.
Now that the cards were on the table between them, hostility and resentment were the order of the day. She was consumed with impotent fury. She hadn’t felt so out of control of her own destiny since her school days, when her father had insisted that she choose science subjects over art and home economics, and then made her do another year at school and repeat her science exams when she failed them.
In her eyes, Barry and her father had become one. Ken’s phone call this morning, his total lack of respect for her career and his presumptions that she would do his bidding, infuriated her. Barry’s authoritative demands that she keep her unwanted child, with no discussion of her needs or feelings, had stirred a hornets’ nest of emotions. Did men not realize that the era of the patriarchy was over? Or was it? she questioned dejectedly. Not if her life was anything to go by.
Aimee sighed deeply. Barry couldn’t physically restrain her from going for a termination, she knew that, but she would feel his censure like a straitjacket around her for the rest of her life if she did, and she would live with the fear that Melissa would find out. That, more than anything, was what kept her from booking her flight to London and doing what she felt was right for her.
Heavy-hearted, she finished her emails, left a page of instructions for her PA and set off to meet Roger and see what he would decide about her future. Would the day ever come when no man would have power over her? When she would be her own boss? What a wonderful notion that was, she thought wistfully, stepping out on to the traffic-jammed street. Aimee hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to bring her to the Shelbourne.
‘You really should take up that offer before the share prices jump even higher.’ Jeremy Farrell’s ingratiating tones filled the Merc as Barry drove to work along the Stillorgan dual carriageway, inching towards his right-hand turn at RTE.
‘Yes, I’ve got it all under control, will sort a bank draft for you and stick it in the post, Jeremy,’ Barry said firmly, wishing the other man would stop annoying him. He’d had numerous phone calls since their initial conversation in the clubhouse.
‘Just ring me when you have the draft, and I’ll send a courier over with all the paperwork,’ the older man said suavely.
‘Fine, Jeremy. I’ll be in touch. Cheers.’ Barry hit the off button, and the sound of Roy Orbison singing ‘She’s a Mystery to Me’ echoed from the speakers. Barry could identify with Bono’s emotive words. Aimee’s words had torn him apart. She’d called him a selfish bastard with such intensity he’d been shocked. She’d glared at him with a naked hatred that wounded him. Her rider, that he was as bad as her father, had hit home. Of course, she would think that, he had thought in dismay as he sat on the balcony afterwards, necking a cold beer. Ken was an authoritarian bully, from whom she’d struggled to obtain a modicum of respect. He had told her what to do, and laid down the law until she’d left college and started to work.
Barry had taken the wrong approach to the whole issue of Aimee’s pregnancy. He’d got her back up. He’d been too heavy-handed, he thought ruefully. He’d come on too strong at the start. He should have known better, knowing her history and what pushed her buttons. But his going at it like a bull in a china shop had stemmed from his fear that she would ignore his wishes about their baby. As it was, he might never have known she was pregnant, only that fate had intervened. He was meant to know, he comforted himself. Nevertheless, it was a black-and-white choice, and only one of them was going to be happy with the result, and, consequently, their marriage was in tatters.
He pushed all thoughts of his wife into the compartment labelled ‘Aimee’, and began to ponder his options about the share prospect. He had savings and investments, but the investments were long term and nothing he could get his hands on quickly. His best strategy was to borrow, he decided. Normally, he wouldn’t dream of borrowing for an investment, but this was such a hot prospect. He’d read up about SecureCo International Plus, and the financial pedigree of the backers couldn’t be argued with. Even with his limited knowledge of the financial world, he recognized the names, and their financial achievements were impressive.
There was no point in discussing it with Aimee, with the mood she was in; and she certainly wouldn’t sign any papers to use their assets as collateral. She’d probably use the situation as a bargaining chip to secure his agreement to a termination. In her eyes, he had rendered her powerless; she would do the same to him if she got the chance. He remembered a quote that had stuck with him, from an article by the journalist Mary Kenny: ‘Much of wedlock consists of two persons in mortal emotional combat for dominance and power.’ ‘Welcome to my marriage, Ms Kenny,’ he muttered, slowing to a halt at the traffic lights at Vincent’s.
He’d just go ahead under his own steam with the share thing. He had a small cottage his grandmother had left him which he rented out; that would do fine as collateral, and he wouldn’t need his wife’s signature. He might need the extra finance this deal would make him if she went for a divorce. Barry swallowed hard, and tears pricked his eyelids. He would hate to go through another divorce. One was more than enough for any man in his lifetime, and he’d been lucky with his and Connie’s. Barry blinked rapidly, trying hard not to lose his composure. Maybe after a while Aimee would get used to the idea of a new baby and accept her pregnancy, and things would calm down. He could only hope.