Good news. Lily, thanks be to God, Allah, Buddha, Santa – anyone up there who listened to me – has ended her obsession with going up to total strangers in parks and on buses and asking them if they’re her dad. Course the odd time she’ll still crawl into my bed early in the morning for a cuddle and a little chat, then completely out of left field, in her early morning croaky voice she’ll ask me, ‘have you found my daddy yet, Mama? You’ll find him weally soon, won’t you?’
And I’ll pull her in tight to me, kiss her, tell her that Mama never makes promises she can’t keep and faithfully promise that one day she’ll get to meet him. One day.
By the way, to great jubilation from every single one of my colleagues at work, I’ve now shifted our first editorial meeting of the morning to a far more civilised nine a.m. start, mainly so that Lily and I can get to share these precious mornings together. Sod the whole lot of them in work, I figure; I’m making more time for Lily and if they don’t like it then as Jake says, they can feck right off. Helen gets to spend the rest of the day with her, but early mornings are mine, all mine. And it happens far, far less often than it used to, but Lily still sometimes stuns me by letting something slip that shows just how clearly the whole dad subject weighs on her little mind.
The other day being a case in point. Lily waddled into my bedroom just before seven, clambered up and snuggled into me, still warm and woozy from sleep and telling me all about a dream she had where she accidentally got locked into Smyths toy store for the night and had the best time of her life, till police came to rescue her the next morning and found her sleeping inside a Wendy house. Then, just as I was drowsily hauling myself out of bed and asking her if she’d like porridge or fresh fruit for brekkie while she was, as usual, demanding Coco Pops, suddenly she looked at me with those wise little eyes and out of nowhere said, ‘Mama, how come some kids have two daddies and I don’t have any?’
Well, that woke me up. And when I got to the bottom of it, it turned out that a little girl called Daisy she’d befriended in the park has not only a biological dad but now thanks to her mum’s remarriage, a stepdad too. So I give Lily my first line of explanation about how all families are different then proudly tell her that yes, I can safely promise that someday we’ll find her dad. That she’ll get to meet him properly. Well her round blue eyes, eyes so like Jake’s it would nearly astonish you, instantly brightened at this as she flashed me that gorgeous, gappy little smile, then happily scrambled down to the kitchen with me for breakfast.
You just wait, my little darling, I thought smugly to myself. You just wait till you see the rare gem that Mama is prepping for you. Because finally, finally, finally now my cunning masterplan is almost in place. Come the fine day, when I eventually think the time is right for Lily and Jake to meet, what’ll she find waiting for her? A tall, handsome, fair-haired, well-spoken teacher, with her exact size and shape eyes, same fair, freckly skin, same crinkly, slightly crooked smile. Someone Lily can be proud of and look up to, like all little girls’ dads should be.
Like I say though, the ‘where’s my dad’ chats are happening with far less frequency now, mainly, giving credit where it’s due, down to Helen and the unbelievable way that she’s bonded with Lily ever since she first moved in here, all those weeks ago.
Ah Helen. I feel churlish and mortified beyond belief at myself when I think back to how jealous I felt back then, listening to Lily excitedly rattle off all the fabulous, fun excursions she was having with her ‘new best fwiend, Auntie Helen’. Because now, with a hunk of burning humility in my gut, I have to admit, I was horrible to be so envious of her, and owe her nothing but the biggest debt of gratitude all round.
Most astonishing of all to report though, over the past few weeks, Jake and I have even become the unlikeliest of friends. Good friends too. I can tell him things that I can’t tell anyone else, that no one else could even possibly begin to understand. And he listens patiently and can always find something in whatever I’m stressing or fretting about to make me laugh at.
I know; me. Laugh. Actually throw my head back and hold my sides till the giggles pass. Before I met him, I hadn’t had a decent belly laugh in so long, I’d nearly forgotten what my teeth looked like.
Day after day, night after night, he’ll patiently give me wise and measured advice that I may not like hearing at the time, but which always and inevitably turns out to be the right course of action to take. And he’ll say absolutely nothing while I rant on and let off steam about whatever office politics happen to be in play, then calmly reduce all my stresses and worries to their proper proportions. A real friend, in other words.
That rare and precious jewel that I’ve never had before.
Not for the first time, another totally disconnected thought strikes me. Although I go around inwardly congratulating myself on changing him for the better, could it in fact possibly be the other way around? It is him that’s having even more of an effect on me? Because I see how he is around people and slowly, I’m learning from him. I see how friendly and unfailingly polite he is to everyone that comes into his orbit, from waiters in restaurants to the guy who sells The Big Issue on the corner of the street. How warm and interested he is; the way he always has a few words for everyone. And bit by bit, I’m starting to do the same.
Another thing too; can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s like ever since I met him, I’m a far more relaxed person to be around now. Not that I’m sure anyone’s even noticed, but I’m eating better, sleeping better, getting far fewer ulcer cramps (my own personal barometric stress warning). I’m just more contented, more grateful for everything I have. Laughter lines are starting to appear on my face in the most unexpected places.
In the past few weeks, after the longest time, I’ve somehow found my smile again.
‘So tell me this Eloise,’ Helen asks me, ‘what’s your long-term plan here? With Jake, I mean.’
It’s still relatively early but I’ve just managed to crawl home from a meeting with the night editor, so Helen and I can have a badly needed glass of wine and a catch-up chat about our respective days. Another new habit and one I’m really starting to enjoy.
Tonight though, she sounds a bit distant and stressed, which is unlike her. Throughout all this, she’s been a staunch supporter of the leg-up in life that I’ve been giving Jake, on the principle that what’s good for Lily is good for us all. So I grab the bull by the horns.
‘Helen, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’s all this about? Is something bothering you? I mean, I don’t get it. Why are you asking me about long-term plans all of a sudden?’
‘Hmmm?’ she says distractedly, focused on an episode of Come Dine with Me on TV.
‘Are you listening?’
‘What? Oh, emm, yeah, I mean no, it’s nothing. I was just a bit … worried about where this is all heading, that’s all.’
‘Come on hon, if there’s something you want to say to me, then I really wish you’d just come straight out with it. Besides, what exactly is there to worry about here? Haven’t I for once in my life done someone a decent turn?’
One of the many, ahem, criticisms frequently levelled at my head in work is that not only do I never put myself out for anyone else, but that I’ve never done one single, disinterested nice thing for another human being ever in my life. And now, sod the lot of them, I have. So what in the name of God could be bothering Helen now?
I even reach out to grab the remote control and turn the TV onto mute, so there’s no avoiding my question.
‘Yes, yeah,’ she nods, ‘of course you have, it really sounds like you’ve worked wonders on the guy. I wasn’t for a second suggesting otherwise.’
‘So, what’s up then?’
‘Well,’ she goes on, swirling her wine round the bottom of the glass, ‘it’s just that …’
‘Just that what? Helen, please tell me. Because if I’ve done something I shouldn’t, I’d be very curious to know exactly what it is.’
‘No, no it’s not that you’ve done anything wrong, it’s just, well, you’re such a great one for plans and more plans and plans within plans …’
‘And?’
‘… And you seem to be really pally with him now.’
‘Oh come on, now what’s so awful about that? It’s … I can’t describe it, but it’s just comforting to have an actual friend. A buddy. Particularly a tough male one who makes me laugh whenever he threatens to sort out Seth Coleman,’ I smile. ‘Mainly because I know he’s not messing. He really would if I asked.’
‘No, no, that wasn’t what I meant at all,’ she muses, totally lost in thought and staring at the stressed hostess on Come Dine with Me getting her dinner guests steadily drunker and drunker to compensate for a curry that looks not unlike pig slop. Prison food, as Jake would say.
‘What, then? Come on, you have to tell me.’
‘Just thinking ahead really, I suppose,’ Helen eventually says, not able to look me in the eye.
‘Ahead to when exactly?’ I say, exasperated now.
‘Look,’ she eventually says. ‘I know I’ve never even met Jake …’
‘We’ve already been over this, hon. You know it’s impossible. For starters, who’d take care of Lily if I was to introduce the two of you?’
‘I know, I know all this,’ she says, stretching out to the bottle of Pinot on the coffee table in front of her and generously topping up both our glasses.
‘But the fact is, I can’t stop myself from thinking ahead to whenever you decide the time is right for him and Lily to meet up. In a heartbeat, the minute she meets him is the minute Jake realises you’ve been holding back on him all that time. You don’t think he’ll wonder why you kept the fact that you had a daughter from him? A daughter that’s his? Because how exactly do you think that’ll make him feel? And how exactly do you suggest explaining that one away? Or is your plan right now to just disappear out of his life as quickly as you came into it, leave him to his own devices and just hope and pray that he’s still on the right track, by the time Lily is old enough to track him down for herself? Because it seems to me that your work with him is done. You’ve woven your magic and transformed an ex-con into an upstanding middle-class teacher, who you probably make go around with a tweed jacket and matching leather elbow patches to prove it and who, knowing you, you’ll have driving round in some teachery style Fiat Punto in no time …’
‘I do not … !’
Though come to think of it, not a bad idea.
‘Eloise, all I’m saying is this. You’re dealing with a human being here, not another project that you’ve successfully managed. Yes, you and he are now the unlikeliest of friends and that’s terrific, if it’s what you want. You really like him; I sometimes think an awful lot more than you even know. But friends don’t lie to each other or keep things from each other. And you’re keeping so much from him, it makes my head spin. So just be honest with him. Because sooner or later, the day will come when he’ll find out exactly how much you were holding back. And what I’d very much like to know is this; what’ll your master plan be then?’
And as she’s chatting, suddenly out of nowhere, a new and disconnected worry hits me square in the face. I sit bolt upright in the chair and just stare straight ahead, miles away.
‘What is it?’ Helen asks, sensing the shift in mood.
‘Just thought of something else. Oh shit, I can’t believe it never struck me before this.’
‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘Well … All along I’ve blithely assumed that I’d one day introduce Lily to Jake and that he’d automatically love and adore her the way everyone loves and adores her and would immediately want to be a part of her life. But supposing I’m wrong? Suppose I’ve read the whole thing arseways?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s something that neither of us has considered. Just say I come clean to Jake as you suggest and he baulks at the whole idea and wants absolutely nothing to do with Lily? Which, let’s face it, the guy would be perfectly entitled to do. Not to mention legally entitled; you should have seen the amount of paperwork at the Reilly Institute they showed me, all of which has to be signed by prospective donors, clearly stating that they’ll not pursue any rights of access to any offspring. The question is … What do I tell Lily then? That I know who her dad is, but that he wants absolutely nothing to do with her?’
She doesn’t answer me. And all I can do is keep staring distractedly into space, mulling the whole thing over.
A long, long pause worthy of a Samuel Beckett play, before Helen eventually breaks the silence.
‘You want my advice?’ she eventually asks, distractedly swirling her wine round and round the glass.
‘Please,’ I say, sounding and feeling like a total dullard.
‘Plan A, you come clean with him. Now, without delaying it any longer. You do what friends do, and you tell him the truth. It’s a bit late in coming, but better late than never. And I mean everything – about why you tracked him down, about Lily, and most of all, why she’s the real reason you wanted to give him a bit of a boost up in life. He may not take it well, may be shocked, even annoyed with you for not being straight with him after all this time, but in the long run, at least you’ll have got it off your chest and done the right thing. And if he doesn’t want to see Lily, then at the very least you’ve been honest with him and given him the choice.’
‘And what’s your plan B?’ I ask Helen, in a tiny voice that I hardly recognise as my own.
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Plan B is you cut all ties with him. Starting from now. Stop hanging round together. You’ve helped him all you can, so now call it a day. Because leaving aside the fact that he may not even choose to be a part of Lily’s life, what you’re doing is so grossly unfair. You’ve made friends with someone who at the end of the day, you’re effectively leading up the garden path. You’re deceiving him. Every bit of time you spend with him, you’re more or less lying to him. So just think for a second; how would you like it if someone treated you like that? I know you say it’s lovely to have a buddy, but trust me, this is not how friends treat each other. So I don’t envy you either of your two options love, but that’s the way it is. Come clean with him, or else stop being deceptive. And the only way to do that is to step away from the vehicle.’
Then she looks keenly at me.
‘So what’s it to be?’
Still silence from me.
‘Come on! Not like you to dither.’
I can’t articulate this out loud, but, well, cutting ties with Jake just doesn’t appeal. Not at all. I’d … I’d miss him. He’s the only pal I have that I’m not related to and I can’t even get my head around what life would be like without him.
‘Eloise?’
I lace my fingers through my hair with sheer frustration.
‘Okay then, but you won’t like it. I honestly don’t know what to do, is the answer. All I really want is for everything to stay just as it is. Until I decide what to do and more importantly, when the time is right to do it. Helen, for once in my life I’m happy just the way things are. Can’t I for the moment at least, just continue in the bubble I’ve been living in? Please?’
If I thought that no one in work could tell that a subtle change has come over me lately, it seems I’m very much mistaken. Early the next morning, I’m at my desk, scanning down through the ad pages for next weekend’s Culture section. Yet another God-awful task that falls to the senior editor; it seems the T. Rexes on the floor above me in their infinite wisdom have decreed that on top of everything else my job entails, I now have to comb through each and every single one of the ads we place in all editions, to make sure that they’re ‘fully in keeping with the tone, image, and content of the national paper of record.’ Like they thought people would ring up the Post classifieds wanting to sell vibrators or second hand dildos. As if I hadn’t quite enough apart from this shite-ology to be getting on with, but that’s a whole other story.
(Shite-ology. New hyphenated word I’ve picked up from Jake. Not to self; stop using it in work.)
Anyway, it’s barely eleven a.m. when there’s a gentle tapping at my office door and in comes Rachel; lovely, cool, calm Rachel who in all the years we’ve been working together I’ve never seen act with anything other than Prussian efficiency and unfailing politeness to one and all around her. Rachel that would nearly put a debutante just out of a Swiss finishing school to shame.
And now she’s in front of me, sobbing, actually sobbing, hot tears spouting out of her poor, bloodshot red eyes and trembling like a shock victim.
I’m instantly on my feet and over to the girl like a bullet, gently putting my arms around her and almost cradling her, the way I cradle Lily whenever she’s heavy with sleep, into the chair opposite my desk.
‘What? What is it, tell me what’s wrong?’ I ask her, rubbing my arms up and down her shoulders, the way you see coastguards doing with swimmers who’ve narrowly survived drowning.
‘It’s H-H-Harry,’ is all I can get out of her, between gulps of tears. Harry, I remember is her boyfriend, and dad to her little girl, who’s only about six months older than Lily.
‘Tell me, pet. Tell me everything you can.’
God love the girl, but it takes roughly ten minutes to get the whole story out of her, she’s that distraught she’s having difficulty putting two sentences together. Meanwhile, I whirl efficiently all around her; getting Kleenex, fishing a bottle of Rescue Remedy from the bowels of my handbag and sticking my head out the door to grab a passing intern, telling her to run across the road to Slattery’s Bar and not to come back without a good, decent shot of brandy.
Back to poor Rachel, who seems to be breathing that bit easier now.
‘I know I sh-shouldn’t even be taking up your time like this, Eloise,’ she stammers, ‘… And I’m so sorry to do this to you, but it’s just that, that …’
‘Shhh, it’s OK. You can tell me. That what, love?’
‘I’ve … I’ve come to hand in my notice. I’m so sorry to let you down, but I can’t go on like this any more. I just can’t.’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ I tell her softly, perching down on the ground beside her. ‘You’re going absolutely nowhere until you tell me exactly what’s wrong with you, and with Harry too, for that matter. Tell me. Come on, we’ve known each other a long time and you can tell me anything. We can talk about your wanting to leave later. First fill me in on whatever’s wrong with you, because that to me is far more important.’
My office phone and mobile ring simultaneously and keep ringing and I completely ignore both of them. Just keep looking at her, waiting on her, willing her to talk as soon as she’s ready to. She looks at me in dull surprise at my not rushing off to deal with the calls, seemingly astonished at my even giving her the time of day. But something in my eyes must convince her that the tiger-blooded dragon boss of old has softened a bit because, when the shot of brandy arrives and when I’ve made her knock it back in a single gulp, the colour slowly starts to seep back into her cheeks and finally, she starts to tell me in broken sentences exactly what’s wrong.
Harry’s broken up with her, it seems. They’re together nearly five years, have a gorgeous little girl called Molly, and the bastard announces to her just this morning that, quote, ‘I can’t do this any more, I need to be with someone more committed to me.’ This, by the way, communicated –wait for it – via email.
And that’s not all, it seems. Even though he was made redundant from his job in an IT firm about six months ago and has basically been financially dependent on poor Rachel ever since, he still had a go at her for putting in such long hours, claiming that not only was Molly growing up barely knowing her own mother but that it put unfair pressure on him being the only caregiver and having to run the whole house by himself.
An accusation that stung me like a bleeding viper, I’ve had it levelled at my own head so many times in the past, by the long string of nannies who’ve all walked out on me. Makes me sick to my stomach that any woman should be punished and accused of bad parenting, just for having no choice but to work hard to keep the show on the road.
‘BASTARD!’ I keep saying over and over again, as my hot little heart pumps into righteous overdrive and a searing fury floods through my veins. ‘Cowardly, bloody, bastard!’
‘I’m so sorry Eloise,’ says Rachel, shakily getting up to leave. ‘I shouldn’t even be bothering you with all this when you’re so busy, but now you can see why I’ve no choice but to hand in my notice. He’s gone, he’s really gone, so I’ll have to work far fewer hours on account of Molly and that’s no good in my job, is it? You need an assistant that’s here all the hours that you are. It’s not fair on you otherwise. So, so, you see, that’s pretty much it for me … Isn’t it? I’ll have to leave. Won’t I?’
Another fresh bout of sobs here, sending me flying off to find yet more Kleenex, and shoving them in front of her.
‘Rachel,’ I say, levelling with her. ‘If I ask you a straight question, will you give me a straight answer?’
She nods weakly.
‘Is that what you want? Do you really want to walk?’
Then I wryly throw in, ‘Am I honestly that much of a troll queen to work for?’
‘No! Not at all! And you know I’ve never listened to what everyone else …’
She stops herself just in time.
‘Right then. Here’s what we’re going to do,’ I tell her, all businesslike. ‘If you want to stay on as my assistant, nothing would make me happier. But as of today we’re drawing up a whole new contract for you. For starters, I’m cutting your hours right back …’
She looks at me in horror, but I cut her off ‘… with absolutely no corresponding cut in your salary whatsoever. For God’s sake Rachel, you’re here as long as I am, you’re like my right hand and not once in all those long years, to my shame, have I ever given you a single pay rise or promotion. I’ll designate one of our interns to deputise for you so you can work a normal forty-hour week. That way, at least you can be home by six every evening to be with Molly.’
She looks up at me, mouth open, the very cartoon picture caption of the word stunned.
‘Eloise – really? I mean, are you being serious?’
‘Never more serious in my life. And another thing. When’s the last time you took a holiday?’
She has to rack her brains to think. And I know well that she works almost as hard as I do; if she manages to get two days together off at Christmas, it’s a miracle.
‘Emmm’ she stammers. ‘Well …’
I shake my head and scrunch my nose up.
‘No, for the life of me, I can’t remember the last bit of time you had off either. Right then. Come on, get your coat, I’m putting you in a taxi right now and you’re taking the rest of the week off to sort out whatever’s going on at home.’
She looks up at me like I’ve lost it, like I’m the one who’s having a meltdown and not her. Like alien clones have taken over the body of Eloise Elliot and I’m some kind of avatar stand-in who looks like her and sounds like her, but who has a totally different personality. A far softer one for starters.
‘Eloise,’ she says, tears shining in her eyes, ‘are you really sure?’
‘Not taking no for an answer. Molly needs you now and you need to be with her. Far more important than any shagging job. Just promise me one thing. Don’t come back till you feel ready to. Your job will always be here for you and that’s a promise.’
By Friday of the same week, lovely, gentlemanly Robbie from Foreign, probably the only other living soul round here who puts in roughly the same kind of hours that I do myself, lets it slip that he’s missing his daughter’s Confirmation today on account of having to stay at the office to cover the election primaries live from the US.
Takes roughly an hour for this to filter back to me, but as soon as it does, I’m straight over to his desk, seeing him bent double over his computer, like he always is, working, working, working. So I tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s taking the rest of the day off so he can make it to the Confirmation and that if his deputy editor can’t cover for him, I’ll personally do it myself.
Swear to God, the thick white shock of hair sticking up on his head turns even whiter at my even suggesting this. Not for the first time, Jake’s wise words of advice come back to me: ‘Get to know your colleagues and cut them a bit of slack. You might just be astonished at the results.’
And I am astonished, not just at how good it feels to treat people well for once, but at the change in atmosphere round the office. Sure we’re all still stressed out of our heads and grinding towards the never-ending tsunami of deadlines that are part and parcel of life around here, but now there’s a light-heartedness in the air that was never there before, and what’s more, I’m pretty certain I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
By the following Saturday, I decide, what the hell, I’m cutting everyone else around me loads of slack, why not do at least a bit of the same for myself? Helen calls me to say there’s a summer festival happening in Stephen’s Green this afternoon, including a teddy bears’ picnic for under-fives, and as it’s a gorgeous, rare sunny day, she and Lily are going to bring along her favourite teddy, the appropriately named Mr Fluffles. I wish them both a fab afternoon, put the phone down, and instead of feeling the usual lump of envy mixed with guilt that I’m not there and Helen is, an idea strikes me.
Impatiently glancing down at my watch, I see that it’s just coming up to one o’clock though. Then, a flash of sudden inspiration. I could do it, I think, nothing easier. Stephen’s Green is only a ten-minute walk away from me. What’s to stop me from taking an actual lunch break for a change, instead of just shoving half a banana and an oatmeal bar into my mouth at the desk, like I do every other day? I could just surprise the two of them and turn up with a little picnic for the three of us, couldn’t I? Where’s the harm in that?
Like Jake is always telling me, the mighty pillars of the Post are hardly going to crumble down round my ears if I take a tiny break outside of here for a change, now are they? Feck it anyway, I think, Lily’s not going to be this age forever and I’m sick to my back teeth of missing out on ever doing anything fun with her. I’m taking an hour for lunch and let the Seth Colemans of this world make of it what they will.
So I do, and it’s the single most exhilarating thing I’ve done in weeks. I race into the Marks & Spencer food hall and stuff a cooler bag full of juices, sandwiches, choccie treats and an ice cream for each of us, then hot foot my way up Grafton St. through the meandering crowds of Saturday afternoon shoppers all the way up to the Green, texting Helen en route to find out exactly where they are. No messing, my heart actually swells to bursting point at the way Lily’s little, freckly pink face lights up when she sees the unexpected sight of me making my way through the crowded park to find her. And when she clocks the strawberry Cornetto I hand over too, of course.
It’s bliss like I haven’t known in decades, just lying on a rug on a hot summery day, watching my grown-up baby make friends and swap teddies with another little girl about her own age. Meanwhile Helen and I loll back on a picnic rug she’s brought from home, soaking up the sunshine, listening to a jazz band playing summery songs in the bandstand nearby. We natter on about pretty much anything and everything, but mainly all about her boyfriend Darren and how she hopes and prays her being away is finally starting to put manners on him, all while stuffing our faces with paninis and delicious, gooey strawberry cheesecake. Food, particularly from M&S, Helen always reckons, takes a huge amount of the sting out of being in an LDR. (her abbreviation for long distance relationship.)
There’s even a dinky little food market nearby selling local organic produce, honeycombs from Bantry Bay for five euro, that kind of thing, and as soon as we’ve hungrily guzzled just about everything in sight, Helen says to hang on, that’s she’s got a great idea. She disappears and next thing, I see her half-stumbling in her too-high wedges across the uneven grass back to where I’m watching over Lily and her new little friend, carrying two glasses of Pimms and a punnet of strawberries for us to share. Like we’re a pair of spectators at Wimbledon on a glorious sunny afternoon with not a care in the world and two Centre Court tickets to see Nadal play Federer.
‘Ah come on Helen,’ I tell her, ‘You know I can’t drink when I’ve to go back to work!’
‘One won’t kill you. It’s a Saturday afternoon for God’s sake, normal people do actually take a day off, you know.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Jake now,’ I laugh back at her.
‘Shut up and drink.’
And I do as I’m told. Nothing like it, I think, lying back on the rug, kicking my shoes off, feeling more at peace and relaxed than I’ve done in years. Loving the hot sun on my face, hearing Lily’s happy, girlish squeals and giggles as she plays with her new pal, while I lie gossiping and chatting with Helen, like real sisters.
Not for the first time I think with a massive pang of regret about all the years and years I invested as a child, and subsequently as a teenager, in being consumed with jealousy at the thought of my younger, prettier, more popular sister. Pathetic git that I was, I think now, lying back on the rug she’s thoughtfully brought from home, sipping on a mouthful of the deliciously bittersweet Pimms and contemplating the clouds above.
What a total waste, I think. How did I even allow us to ever drift so far apart in the first place? We’re not exactly a big family; there’s just the pair of us and Mum, who I see so rarely it’s a disgrace. Something else I’ll have to rectify soon. We’ve no cousins, in-laws, extended family, nothing. Helen and I have only really got each other and yet I was perfectly prepared to let all of that slip quietly away. But the reason why is all too obvious. Because of the three essential downfalls in my character; stubbornness, snobbery and a complete blindness to what was staring me in the face the whole time, that’s why.
All those long, lonely years when I could have been so much closer to Helen, had I only got over myself and realised in time what a genuinely fabulous, warm-hearted human being she really is. And okay, so she’s not bookish like me, she may not do sudoku in bed to help her get to sleep or be a member of Mensa or have a high-powered, high-octane career with all the trappings and the stress ulcers to prove it.
But at the end of the day, so what? If there’s one thing I’m determined to do now, it’s to make up for all those decades of being a crap older sister to her. Because what we have in common far outweighs our surface differences and to be brutally honest, there are times when I think deep down that she’s actually the smart one, not me. Her quality of life far outweighs mine any day; she’s taught me just to enjoy each day and appreciate the wonderful people that are around me. Just like Jake is slowly teaching me to loosen up a bit; that contrary to my whole belief system, I actually am not indispensable and that it’s okay to skive off a bit, to take stock every now and then, to stop and smell the roses.
Jake. Funny how even at the most disconnected moments, he seems to have a way of inveigling himself into my subconscious. Helen is still animatedly chatting away in the background about Darren, mentally keeping tally of the number of text messages he’s left for her so far today, versus the number she’s left for him. Vastly improving, she reckons. Time was when it seemed to be a case of out of sight, out of mind, with her in Dublin and him in Cork, but slowly that seems to be shifting. The novelty of eating dinner in his mammy’s night in and night out seems to be wearing off for him and it seems that time and distance is making him realise what a rare gem he let slip away with Helen.
Repeat guests in the tiny B&B he runs have been asking for her, wondering when she’s coming back. Staff are saying that all kinds of problems are cropping up now that never did when she was around to smooth things over. Supplies not being ordered, wages not put through the bank in time for payday: the kind of infuriating crap that would drive anyone working there completely nuts.
On and on Helen happily chats, idly wondering if she should call Darren first this evening, or wait till he calls her, then act all surprised to hear from him, in the perpetual game of ‘who’ll blink first’ she seems to play with him. Meanwhile, I fish through my overstuffed bag and produce some of Lily’s high-factor sunscreen which I lash onto my face (more than likely rash red by now).
‘Lily? Will you come over here pet, so I can put more cream on you?’ I discreetly change the subject, calling over to where the child is having the best laugh with another adorably cute little girl, with a mop of springy jet black jack-in-the-box curls that stretch all the way down to her bum.
‘NO Mama! Me and Hannah are playing teddies picnic!! Hannah’s my fwiend now!’
Now, normally Lily is a terrible little attention seeker whenever there are grown-ups around: ‘Mama look at ME!’ every two seconds, that kind of thing, but today she’s so utterly absorbed in bonding with her new buddy, she’s barely looking twice at me or Helen. And I smile, absolutely loving this newfound independence she’s developing.
‘Isn’t this just the life, Eloise?’ Helen eventually says, lying back down and stretching out on the rug again.
‘The sun? Oh yeah, just bliss …’
‘No, you eejit, I mean you and me. Being able to sit here and talk boys. Do you realise this is the first time I think we’ve ever done this?’
I smile at her and lie back on the rug again, luxuriating in the heat, happy to see Helen if not happy and in love then at least reasonably contented with her lot – for the moment at least – and Lily so elated, playing away with her new little pal.
God’s in his Heaven, I think contentedly, all’s right with the world.
This warm, blissed-out feeling lasts for approximately another two minutes … and that’s when I see them.
Relaxed as you like, strolling through the Green, deep in chat.
Jake. But he’s not alone. He’s with a youngish woman, tall, tall, tall, so tall that when I look at her, all I see is long, suntanned legs all the way up to her earlobes, wearing skinny tight, tight, tight jeans that really only an eighteen-year-old can carry off. Looking like she’s on her way to do a promotional gig for a sports car. Long, dark, swishy hair, bracelets that jangle with her as she walks and teeth so pearly white they’d nearly dazzle you. For some reason, just looking at her makes the song The Girl from Ipanema randomly drift through my head.
In a second, I’m sitting bolt upright and rooting though my bag for my sunglasses, which thank God are the approximate size of two dinner plates and effectively cover up most of my face.
He hasn’t seen me, there’s every chance he hasn’t seem me, or Helen or …
Oh for f*ck’s sake … Lily …
I scan around to check on her, but know right well that if I even try to drag her away from her new pal and all the fun she’s having, she’ll immediately scream the whole Green down, thereby attracting even more attention to us.
Best to leave her be and hope he just keeps on walking … Please, for the love of God, don’t let him look over this way …
But it’s too late. There’s a fork in the path Jake and The Girl from Ipanema were on and of course, life being what it is, they take the path closest to us.
It’s okay, I think, my vision dimming as a dull, sickening panic starts to set in. All is not lost. If I can just keep my head and quietly sneak out of here right now, all may yet be well.
He won’t even know Helen or Lily, so as long as he doesn’t see me, I may just come out of this and live to tell the tale …
Next thing, I’m surreptitiously glancing around for either a tree or some bushes that I can make a run for, like an extra in a Vietnam War movie diving for cover, when Helen suddenly sits bolt upright, seeming to sense the tense, nervous agitation practically pinging off me.
‘You OK, love?’ she asks me, all concerned.
‘Got to go,’ I hiss at her brusquely. ‘I’ll tell you why later. Gotta run, right now. Explain to Lily for me and I’ll call you when I’m back at the …’
‘Eloise? Is that you? Jeez, thought I was seeing things there for a minute.’
Shit and double shit.
Too late. He saw me, it’s him. As ever, towering over me, eyes crinkling at the sides as his warm, trusting face breaks into a big, delighted smile.
‘Oh … emm, … Jake! Hi!’ I say, over-brightly, standing up and brushing some of the grass off my work skirt. ‘Great to see you! I was, emm, just leaving! Now!’
He seems to sense the rising hysteria in my voice, and is straight onto me, the way he’s always onto everything in a nanosecond flat.
‘You OK?’ he asks, face screwed up with concern.
‘Oh, yes! Just great! I really do have to get going now though, right NOW. So we’ll talk soon, byeeeee!’
‘Sure you’re alright?’
He and The Girl from Ipanema are looking uneasily at each other now, wondering why in hell I’m being quite this rude and anxious to get away from them. Meanwhile I’m furiously semaphoring to Helen to keep her mouth shut and at all costs not to mention Lily …
Lily. Happily playing just a few feet away from me, like a ticking time bomb.
‘Eloise, this is Monique,’ Jake eventually says, introducing her in that relaxed, easy way he has, while Monique smiles her perfect smile and says, ‘’Allo,’ very sexily in what I can only describe as a smokily throaty voice, if ever I heard one. Her face is totally untroubled either by worry or experience, I notice, which irritates me for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Like it’s somehow her fault for only looking about twenty-one, tops.
‘Monique is a student at the school,’ Jake casually chats on. ‘She’s from Catalonia, but doing great at the aul’ English, aren’t you Monique? Improving in leaps and bounds.’
‘Every day, me Engleeesh get better a leetle bit,’ she says huskily, as Jake nudges her playfully and I catch a tiny, adoring glance as she grins back up at him.
And even in the throes of my panic, even though it’s just the tiniest gesture, I feel I’m witnessing a burgeoning intimacy between them. Again, which shouldn’t bother me, but does. Your English is improving? I think cattily. Yeah, right. You sound like you’ve just been translated by Google.
And now Jake is looking expectantly from me to Helen, patiently waiting to be introduced.
F**k. Which means it’s my turn. And there’s no getting out of this now.
‘Emm … Well, this is Jake,’ I say to Helen, hoping she’ll correctly interpret the hot red panic in my eyes. That fraught, urgent look that I hope says, nod, smile, shut up and let’s get us – and more importantly Lily – out of here.
‘… And this is Helen,’ I tack on, ‘my sister.’
Helen’s eyes light up with recognition as she shakes hands with him and Monique while Jake beams even wider, suddenly realising just who she is.
‘Well, I think I owe you a massive thank you,’ he tells her kindly, the big eyes twinkling warmly down at her, ‘did you know that I’m lucky enough to be staying in that lovely flat of yours?’
A quick, panicky look from me, but there’s absolutely no need. Helen doesn’t let me down and chats away easily about how happy she is that he’s settling in, stressing that if he ever has any trouble with the stopcock in the loo or the water pump under the sink, to call her immediately. Not for the first time, I find myself offering up a silent prayer of thanks at Helen’s easy, natural way of bonding with total strangers over the tiniest thing, in this case immersion heaters and the lagging jacket on the boiler. On and on they chat about the flat, Jake filling her in on all the improvements he’s done and is doing, while I surreptitiously swivel round to check on Lily.
It’s okay. So far, I think I’m just about okay. She’s playing happily away with her new little pal about six feet behind me, her back to us, totally oblivious, not noticing anything and not running over to me yelling, ‘look at me, Mama!’ every two seconds, like she normally would.
Which is good. Which is great. Which means I might just get out of this alive, look back and if not laugh, then at least be able to breathe normally again, oooh, in about a decade’s time or so.
A moment later, I’m aware that all small talk has quietly petered out and everyone’s looking at me, so I pre-empt yet another bowel-clenchingly awkward silence by starting to pack up my bag.
‘Well, sorry about this everyone,’ I laugh hysterically, my voice getting higher and higher in direct proportion to how anxious I am, ‘but I’ve really, really got to get …’
‘Back to the office, let me take a wild guess,’ Jake smiles and I totally overreact by guffawing like a nutter.
‘No worries at all,’ he says, looking at me so keenly it makes me wonder just how he’s interpreting my uneasiness. ‘Monique and I have a class anyway, so we’d better make a move too.’
‘Sure! Well, have a great class, don’t let me keep you!’
Not a word out of Monique, just a curt nod and a toothy smile, so I’m guessing she’s badly in need of a few English phrases to get her by. Mind you, I think cattily, to the Moniques of this world who go around the place looking like Brazilian underwear models, I’m guessing your body language does most of the talking for you, particularly around guys.
‘Well lovely to meet you, goodbye now!’ I call out gaily, bag in hand, all ready to rock and roll.
‘I’ll give you a call, Eloise,’ Jake smiles kindly at me. ‘Hey, maybe we can meet up this weekend? Have a drink or a bite to eat, if you’d like? Knowing you, you’ll only eat a packet of birdseed and a banana to do you till Monday morning otherwise.’
‘Emm, well … You see …’
Can’t think straight, can’t answer him, can’t do a shagging thing.
‘Don’t worry,’ he grins easily, ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Then he turns to Helen and warmly says how lovely it was to finally meet her. ‘Heard a lot about you.’
Oh for Christ’s sake, enough with the bloody social niceties, just go, for the love of God, GO …
‘Likewise,’ Helen smiles back, shooting a discreet, ‘you don’t know the half of it’ look to me.
They’ve almost gone, almost, I’m nearly out of the woods, when next thing, out of nowhere – disaster.
Lily, seeing me with my bag strapped to me, immediately cops on that I’m leaving and runs over to me as fast as her pudgy little legs will carry her.
No, no, no, no, no, no, noooooooooooo …
‘Don’t go … PLEASE!’ she yells at me, while I bend down to her, hysterically trying to signal to a toddler not to call me Mama, please not now, just not now, just this one time, just not for the next two minutes, just till they’re gone.
‘I have a new fwiend!’ she grins toothlessly up at me, ‘AN … you have to say hello! Her name is Hannah.’
‘Well goodbye then!’ I say to Jake and The Girl from Ipanema, wishing, willing them to get the hell out of here. Just for the love of God, LEAVE. PLEASE. NOW.
But I’m out of luck.
Next thing, Jake is kneeling down to talk to Lily, so he’s on a level with her.
‘Well hello there, little lady,’ he grins at her while she looks up at him, mesmerised. ‘What’s your name?’
And suddenly it’s as though no air moves.
All I can do is look on, utterly helpless and dumbstruck, imagining that I see a flicker of something in his face … recognition?
Oh Christ, now my knees are physically starting to buckle.
‘Lily though weally it’s Lily Lilibet Emily,’ she tells him seriously, looking at him, totally fascinated.
Jesus, the resemblance between them is so strong it would almost knock your breath away.
Same eyes, skin, hair colour, build … It’s astonishing.
Helen has copped it too; I know by the gobsmacked, shell-shocked look on her face.
Jake MUST notice it, he can’t not. It’s not possible that he doesn’t see how alike they are …
Meanwhile I’m rooted to the spot, lantern-jawed, horrified, unable to say or do anything except stand there mutely, wishing I had a paper bag handy to hyperventilate into. For once in Lily’s life, I’m cursing the fact that she’s not a bit shy around strangers.
Helen clocks my thunderstruck expression, seems to realise that I’m paralysed and useless, totally unable to stop this and calmly rescues me, scooping Lily up into her arms and taking total control of the situation.
‘Come on pet, who’d like another ice cream? And maybe your new friend Hannah would like one too? You know, I think I heard an ice-cream van nearby, how about we go and find it?’
Oh thank Christ for you Helen, thank Christ at least one of us was able to think clearly, to act normally.
‘Yay! Tank you!’ Lily squeals delightedly, her little pink face lighting up. ‘I wanna chocolate one with pink spwinkles on the top!’
‘Come on then, let’s go,’ says Helen calmly, as Lily kicks to be let down again so she can waddle off and grab her pal.
‘She’s such a beautiful kid, a real little princess,’ Jake says simply, looking fondly after her as she waddles off happily.
‘Is she yours?’ he asks Helen simply.
A half beat.
‘I’m babysitting her,’ Helen says.
‘And she’s how old? I’m guessing about three?’
‘In a few weeks’ time, yeah. How did you guess?’
‘I’ve a nephew exactly that age. Not as much of a cutie as little Lily though.’
A tense moment, made worse by my mutely standing on the side lines, powerless to say or do anything in case I make this worse. That’s Lily’s cousin he’s talking about, is all I can think. Lily that never stops harping on about how much she wishes she had little cousins to play with. And the tragedy is that she does, she just doesn’t know it.
But thank you God; the torture, it seems, is finally over. Next thing, Jake nods and smiles, wishes us a lovely afternoon and a second later, he and The Girl from Ipanema have swished past us and on their way.
I slump exhaustedly back onto the rug again and knock back the dregs of not only the Pimms I was drinking, but Helen’s as well. If I smoked, I’d be pulling on them two at a time right now.
‘Oh my God, he is only bloody divine looking … You never said!’ says Helen, still staring starry-eyed after him.
‘I don’t know about you,’ is all I can mutter back, still shell-shocked and with beads of sweat slowly seeping their way from my armpits all the way down my ribcage. ‘But I’ve just had about two years knocked off my life. Now, will you excuse me while I go and have a coronary?’
I’m running late by almost a full hour when I finally do get back to the office, with a sunburnt red nose and blades of grass stuck all over my black skirt, but for once in my career, I don’t give a shite.
Can’t. I’m too shaken and trembly and still not the better of what just happened. Maybe in about five years I’ll have recovered, maybe, after some fairly intensive therapy and years spent lying on a psychiatrist’s couch, at a cost of several hundred euro an hour, but sure as hell not now.
Helen is right. I’ll have to confess all to Jake, I think, mind racing, as I step into the lift on the ground floor going up. I cannot and will not ever go through anything like what just happened. No chickening out of it or putting it on the long finger because I’m so busy having a lovely time with him, I’m just going to grab the bull by the horns and bloody well do it. No more arsing around or dithering; next time I see him, I’m telling him straight out. He said we’d chat this weekend, so when we do, I’ll suggest meeting up and I’ll just come out with it once and for all. Obviously, this will involve getting several large glasses of Pinot Grigiot into me to get up the courage, but hey, there you go.
And then suddenly I notice that the lift hasn’t stopped on the fourth floor, where my office is. Instead, it’s overshot and is now whizzing right the way up to the top floor. Where the executive suite, or the T. Rexes’ den as I like to call it, is.
Shit. I wallop the button for my own floor again, still desperately trying to calm down, and try to just concentrate on breathing; in and out, out and in, all while checking my breath for a boozy smell and picking blades of grass off my bum. One massive slug of Rescue Remedy later and I’m starting to feel a little bit more like myself. By which I mean my hands have at least stopped shaking involuntarily and the dizziness is slowly but surely beginning to pass.
Next time you see him, I tell myself sternly. Get it over with. For better or for worse. Cannot risk a repeat performance of this afternoon or else I’ll end up on a double dosage of Xanax every day of my life until Lily turns eighteen. It’s okay, I try to calm myself. I’m at the office now. It’s all over. I can breathe easy again.
Just like Tiffany’s in New York, nothing bad can happen to me here.
Abruptly, the lift stops at the T. Rexes’ floor. Another tiny panic, but I force myself to calm down a bit more. After all, it’s a Saturday afternoon, and the chances of any of the directors hanging round the office when they could be on a golf course are slim to none, aren’t they?
But then suddenly, with a heart-walloping thump, the doors glide slowly open and in gets … Oh sweet Jesus, no …
Yes. In steps none other than Sir Gavin Hume, our esteemed chairman, a sixty-something, portly, red-faced, slightly swollen about the gills figure: the Gorbachev of the print world as he’s known, liked and trusted by all. Distinguished looking, which as we all know means ugly, with money. With a reputation for being what was once politely referred to as a ‘bit of a ladies man’. In fact, you might say his default adjective is ‘flirt’, but to his credit, he’s always treated me fairly and I know for a fact he has taken my side on numerous heaves against me in the past.
Out of the whole mighty pack of T. Rexes though, this is the one who trusts me and respects me and has stood by me, and now here I am, half trembling like I was just in a car crash, with straw practically coming out of my hair, grass all over my arse, an open half-drunk bottle of Rescue Remedy in one hand and more than likely looking like a candidate for care in the community.
Oh, and lest we forget, smelling of drink too.
Shit, could this day possibly get any worse? Beside, what the hell is he doing here anyway? The T. Rexes never, ever come in at weekends; it’s practically carved in stone on the architrave above the boardroom: Thou Shalt Bugger Off Every Friday Afternoon To The Nearest Golf Course And Thou Shalt Stay on the Fairways till Monday At The Earliest.
‘Ahh, Madame Editrix,’ he smiles, seeing me.
This by the way, is what he always calls me, but then to Sir Gavin I think I’m a bit asexual, neither male nor female, so editrix covers all his options nicely. Plus it saves him the bother of having to flirt with a woman he clearly finds as unattractive as me.
‘Everything okay?’ is all he asks, a bit worriedly, taking in the hack of me.
‘Hmm? Oh, yes, fine, just, emm … you know, busy as ever,’ I smile over brightly, trying to sound cool and calm, brushing my skirt and frantically smoothing down the bushy state of my hair.
Jesus, what next? The sky opening up and a piano falling on my head?
‘Good,’ is all he says back at me a bit worriedly. ‘Good.’
Okay, the first ‘good’ reassured me, the second one didn’t.
By that evening, the Chinese whispers have all floated back to me, same as they always do.
Hot gossip. Either Eloise Elliot is having a nervous breakdown or else she’s in love. With that guy Ruth O’Connell saw her strolling down the street with a while back, eating crepes and drinking coffee, remember? Total hunk, Ruth says, real man’s man, not at all the type you’d expect Madame Elliot to be dating. And apparently she bunked off this afternoon, God knows where, and came back drunk and covered in grass, shaking like a leaf. Not a word of a lie, didn’t Gavin Hume himself meet her? Besides, there’s no other explanation for the way she’s been acting lately; did you hear what she said to Rachel before she sent her home? She said your family is far more important than any shagging job! I know, it sounds made-up, coming from her, but it’s the God’s honest truth.
And she told Robbie that we weren’t an Asian sweatshop, then gave him the rest of the day off for no other reason than to go to a Confirmation … I know, she’d have snapped at him for even asking for time off only a few months ago. Mark my words, something’s come over her and if you ask me, it’s either a heavy-duty dose of Valium for her nerves that’s making her act so weird, or else it’s all down to this new guy she’s supposedly seeing.
Just remember, you heard it here first!
And this time, I couldn’t even brush it aside, as I normally would.
Mainly because most of it was true.