CHAPTER ELEVEN
On way 2 Meadows & Byrne 2 meet D around ten. C
Barry read Connie’s text as he sat in his dressing gown on the wraparound balcony drinking a mug of tea. The wind had died down from the previous day, and the early morning sun shone over a pearly, flat, calm sea. Faint wisps of fog hugged the hill of Howth, and only the cawing of the seagulls disturbed the peace around him.
Barry inhaled deeply, drawing the tangy salt-flavoured air into his lungs. This was his favourite time at the weekend. Winding down, enjoying the vista from the balcony, having two whole days away from the office, with time to read the paper from cover to cover or get in a game of golf or a walk on the pier with Melissa. Then dinner and drinks with friends in a good restaurant, or as guests at the various dinner parties they were invited to.
Years ago, Aimee would join him in his recreational activities but, nowadays, after a lie-in, she spent much of her time catching up on emails or working out in the gym, and they’d only get together if they were going out socializing. Certainly, in the past year, as she had become immersed in work, their time together had waned. It would be nice having coffee with Connie and Debbie. Enjoyable and companionable . . . like a real family at last.
He finished his tea and went inside and put his mug in the dishwasher. The cleaner had been the previous day, and the kitchen gleamed. The sunlight glinted on the stainless-steel taps and drainer. It could have been a kitchen in the pages of an interior-design magazine. They’d spent a fortune getting a new state-of-the-art kitchen installed, but the irony was that Aimee was rarely in it, even though she was the one who’d pushed to get it. Barry had been perfectly happy with the kitchen they’d had previously. It was a showhouse kitchen and more than adequate for their needs. But Aimee had been to a dinner party too many and seen too many upgraded kitchens and had to have one herself, despite the fact that, these days, she rarely did more than pour herself a glass of wine or make herself a cup of coffee in it. Whatever cooking was done, he did it. Otherwise, they lived out of the Butler’s Pantry and Donnybrook Fair. Just as well they were both earning hefty salaries; it was an expensive way to eat, he thought wryly, as he ambled down the hall to wake Melissa.
His younger daughter was already propped up against her pillows, busy texting. He shook his head when he saw her, tousled head bent, fingers flying across the keys. Kids these days were superglued to their phones. He’d heard a psychologist on the radio talking about how youngsters were texting late at night and, as well as suffering sleep deprivation, were often being bullied by phone. He should take that damn phone away from her at night. But that wouldn’t go down too well.
‘You know, you shouldn’t be recharging that phone in your room at night. I read somewhere it’s not good for you. All those electromagnetic rays and things, they fry your brain,’ he said mildly, sitting at the side of her bed and ruffling her hair.
‘Oh, Dad.’ She threw her eyes up to heaven.
‘I mean it. It’s really not good for you. I hope you don’t sleep with it under your pillow like Madonna does.’
‘She’s like sooo your generation, Dad. Trying to be cool,’ his daughter scoffed.
‘So who’s cool?’ he teased, a tad miffed at her superior dismissal of his Madonna fandom. ‘Amy Winehouse with a bird’s nest on her head? Now her brains are fried.’
‘Yeah, but she’s legend. She can really sing. No, no, no.’ Melissa hummed ‘Rehab’, the song so familiar that even he knew it.
‘Are you coming for our Saturday cup of coffee with your old, uncool dad?’ he asked lightly, hoping she’d say yes. Lately, she hadn’t been so eager to accompany him on his Saturday-morning jaunt to get the paper and coffee and doughnuts.
‘You’re not old,’ she said stoutly, and that made him feel even worse, that she felt she had to reassure him about his age. Barry sighed. Middle age was the pits. Fifty plus. Invisible to women. As high as he was going to go on the career ladder. A Madonna fan. That about summed him up right now.
‘Well, come on. It’s a lovely day, let’s have our coffee al fresco opposite the yacht club.’
‘OK.’ She grinned at him, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose so similar to Debbie’s, and so endearing.
‘That’s my girl,’ he said heartily, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. How much he feared losing her, as she grew older, when coffee with her dad would be a chore and not a pleasure. He wanted to tell her how lonely he would be when she flew the nest. Hell, he was lonely already, he thought with dismay, wondering would relations with Aimee ever thaw, or would she keep up the brittle façade a lot longer.
Aimee never told him she loved him these days. She never showed much interest either in what went on in his business, when once she’d been full of enthusiasm and suggestions. She was so completely consumed with her own career now; she might as well be on another planet. Even their sex life, which had always been pretty satisfying, had dwindled over the past few months.
Was this how Connie had felt all those years ago when he’d withdrawn from her and their marriage? He’d treated her pretty shabbily, when he looked back on it. She was a very forgiving woman and one he’d taken for granted. She was going out of her way for him this morning so that he could bring Melissa to ‘bump into’ Debbie. He was glad he’d bought the little painting of Greystones Harbour for her. It was a pity he couldn’t give it to her today but they were supposed to be meeting by chance and, besides, he could hardly present Connie with a gift in front of Melissa, just in case it got back to Aimee, who would be less than pleased to hear that he was giving his ex-wife presents, particularly with the frostiness between them since the wedding. It would take a miracle to dissolve that. He’d give it to her when she came back from her holidays, and he’d tell her how very grateful he was to her.
‘Right, Muffin, I’m just going to have a quick shower. Be ready in ten.’
‘OK, Dad,’ Melissa agreed distractedly, head bent to read a reply to the text she’d just sent. At that age, friends were far, far more important than parents, he acknowledged, leaving her to her phone and heading for the shower.
Aimee was still fast asleep, her face, flushed pink, half hidden by her hair. Even in sleep she looked worried and stressed, as if her dreams were fraught. She was going to have to step back and chill a bit, or she’d burn out, but how did you tell a driven, ambitious, successful woman that? She’d only accuse him of sour grapes or of being sexist, or something in that vein.
How the world had changed, and how the roles had been reversed, he reflected, stepping under the powerful jets of water. Or was this what came of marrying a woman a good deal younger than himself? Was this second-marriage syndrome just about him, or did other men in similar circumstances feel the same way? He should set up a club, the Second Husbands’ Club. Now, wouldn’t that be interesting, he grinned, as he soaped himself and let the steaming water sluice over him and wished that he had a hot, horny woman to share the shower with.
Meet u in the People’s Park l8r just have 2 go 4 coffee with Dad, Melissa texted Sarah.
Can’t meet u until afternoon, have 2 clean bedroom, have visitors coming. Mam on rampage like a volcano. All hell going 2 break loose if my sis doesn’t get out of bed soon. U’ll probably hear her yelling in yrs, came the dejected response.
Ok. Stay calm. c u when I c u, Melissa texted back and put away her phone and hurried into the shower. She stank, she thought, sniffing under her arms. She needed to shave. She ran the razor over her skin and winced when she cut too close. Her mom got her underarms waxed, but Melissa had tried it once and howled with pain and never went back to have it done again.
She wasn’t really in the humour to go and have coffee with her dad. She was beginning to find their Saturday morning ritual a little boring, especially now that she wasn’t eating junk food as much, but she knew her father looked forward to this time with her, and he was a very kind father, she had to admit. Much kinder than her mother. She scowled, remembering her Rock & Republic jeans. Her mother was far stricter than her father and always had been.
Melissa showered quickly and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. The jeans were pleasingly loose around her waist, and the T-shirt didn’t make her arms look chubby any more. She slipped into a pair of new, red, chunky wedges which she’d bought a few days ago but hadn’t worn yet, and stood in front of the mirror twirling around as best she could on them, admiring her new, improved shape. She’d lost nine pounds since the wedding, and it was deeply, deeply satisfying. Her stomach was rumbling, and she was starving, but she’d only have a regular coffee with no sugar or milk and definitely no doughnut. The coffee would keep her going until she met Sarah later, and she could have a smoothie and coffee for lunch. A thought struck her. She’d need her purse out of her bumbag. She’d given the bag to her mother to mind at her gran’s art exhibition the previous night after the strap had broken.
Melissa clumped down the hall, not yet used to her new footwear, and slipped into her parents’ bedroom. Her dad was still in the ensuite, and she stared around, looking for Aimee’s handbag. She was just edging past the end of the big bed when she tripped over one of her father’s shoes and staggered, jolting the bed.
‘For God’s sake, Melissa, would you watch where you’re going? I’m trying to have a lie-in,’ her mother snapped irritably, gazing at Melissa through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Sorry, Mom,’ apologized Melissa hastily. ‘I just wanted to get my purse out of my bumbag.’ She grabbed Aimee’s handbag, opened it and looked puzzled, as she saw no sign of her little red bag.
‘It’s in the Prada, not the Louis Vuitton,’ Aimee said blearily.
‘Oh, right, thanks,’ Melissa murmured. She turned to see where the other bag was and caught her heel in the valance, tottering like a marionette as she fought to regain her balance.
‘Will you take those shoes off? You can’t walk in them!’ Aimee exclaimed, exasperated, as Melissa landed in a heap on the floor and the contents of the bag went flying.
‘What’s going on?’ Barry emerged from the ensuite, rubbing aftershave into his jaw.
‘I tripped,’ Melissa said plaintively.
‘She can’t walk in those ridiculous shoes,’ Aimee retorted, yawning as she brushed her hair away from her face. ‘It’s the first Saturday I’ve had a chance for a lie-in for ages, but it’s impossible to have one in this madhouse.’ She couldn’t hide her irritability. ‘Pick that stuff up, and go away and leave me in peace, the pair of you.’
‘Go back asleep,’ Barry said calmly, hauling his daughter up off the floor and bending back down to pick up the scattered contents of his wife’s bag.
He did a double take when he saw the long, narrow, rectangular box. ‘What’s this?’ He looked at his wife in astonishment, holding it up.
‘Pregnancy test kit,’ Melissa read out helpfully. And her jaw dropped. ‘Oh my God, Mom! Are you pregnant?’ she exclaimed, in absolute horror.