CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ken Davenport hurried to his parking space in the Blackrock Clinic. His rounds in three private hospitals had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and he had a game of golf booked for eleven. He was hungry, and he was looking forward to his breakfast. He allowed himself a cooked breakfast once a week, bacon and sausages grilled rather than fried. He was, after all, a heart surgeon; he knew the dangers of clogged arteries.
He sat back into the soft black leather seat of his Merc and dialled home. It was his custom to phone Juliet when he was leaving Blackrock to tell her he was on his way, so she could start cooking. To his surprise, the phone rang out and went to the answering machine.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said loudly. ‘And I’ve a game of golf booked for eleven. Could you put out a polo shirt, a pullover and my cream trousers? Thank you.’ He hated talking to bloody machines. Why hadn’t Juliet answered? How long was she going to keep up this bloody nonsense and stay in a huff with him? She hadn’t even put out his cup and saucer and a plate for his croissant the night before. He always ate something light before rounds on Saturday, knowing he was going to have a substantial breakfast when he got home. The traffic lights were against him, and he tapped his fingers impatiently against the wheel. His stomach rumbled. He hoped his wife had heard the message, he was absolutely starving. The lights turned green and he scorched out of the Blackrock Clinic and headed for Ballsbridge.
‘So you’re on your way and you’ve a game of golf booked, bully for you.’ Juliet Davenport’s nostrils flared as she listened to her husband’s message.
She’d recognized his number on the caller ID and had let the answering machine take it. Ken had some nerve, expecting that she would cook him breakfast after the way he’d behaved the night before. And, even worse, expecting that she’d put his clothes out for him. She sighed as she turned over and pulled the duvet up to her shoulders. He expected it because she’d done it for him for more years than she cared to remember. The little wifely doormat. It was her own fault that he treated her like a servant sometimes. But the day of reckoning had come. Worms turned. He was going to find that out sooner than he thought.
What a rare treat it was to have a lie-in on a Saturday, she reflected, snuggling down with the latest Cathy Kelly novel, which she was thoroughly enjoying. Her book-club reading list was heavy going this month, and Juliet wasn’t in the humour for any of the worthy titles suggested. She wanted a good, meaty book she could get her teeth into, not something she had to plough through, and Past Secrets fitted the bill perfectly. She was deeply engrossed when she heard her husband’s car crunch over the gravelled drive.
The lord and master was home. She heard his key in the door, and heard him stride briskly to the kitchen. She could imagine him sniffing the air, wondering why he wasn’t smelling the enticing aroma of sizzling bacon and sausage.
Ha ha! she thought nastily as she heard him thunder up the stairs.
‘What’s wrong with you? Why are you still in bed? Are you sick?’ he demanded as he barged into their bedroom.
‘No,’ she said snootily, putting her book down momentarily.
‘Where’s my breakfast then?’ He stared at her flabbergasted.
‘Get it yourself. I’m not your servant. I’m having a day off,’ Juliet said coldly, and picked up her book.
‘Well . . . well . . . what am I going to have to eat? I’ve a game of golf at eleven. I need something substantial.’ He was aghast.
‘Do I look like someone who gives a toss?’ Juliet retorted, and turned her back on him and resumed reading her page-turner. She knew he was apoplectic with fury and it gave her immense satisfaction.
‘I’m disgusted with your behaviour,’ he said icily.
And she couldn’t help herself. Juliet started to laugh. She saw the look of outrage on his face.
‘Oh, listen to yourself, Ken. Don’t be so pompous. I’m not one of your poor unfortunate underlings. I’ve seen the skidmarks on your underpants, remember?’ She turned to face him.
‘What’s got into you? That’s appalling, Juliet, you should be ashamed of yourself.’ He was slack-jawed with shock.
You’ll be a hell of a lot more appalled when you find out I’ve booked myself on a flight to Spain on Wednesday and you’re going to have to cook for yourself, she thought, feeling hugely liberated as he turned on his heel and marched downstairs.
She could hear press doors slamming and the clatter of a frying pan. Why didn’t I do this years ago, she wondered, tuning him out, and carried on reading.
Ken cursed viciously as spits of oil spattered his expensive grey suit after he’d cracked two eggs into the pan. This was indefensible. Juliet was behaving totally out of character and in a most spiteful and disgusting way. What had got into her? Her menopause was over. She couldn’t blame that. She looked healthy; he didn’t think she was sickening for anything. Was this all because he hadn’t come to her silly art exhibition? If that was all she had to worry about in life, wasn’t she damn lucky, he thought angrily, as he buttered a couple of slices of bread. How did he deal with this . . . this defiance . . . he wondered? It was something new to him. He wasn’t used to being defied and dismissed. No one had ever treated him with such disrespect before. Juliet was the last person he would have expected to behave so unspeakably. He was at a loss.
Ken cursed again as he broke the yoke of the first egg when he flipped it over. The sooner his wife came back to her senses the better. And he would have to make it abundantly clear that, in future, throwing tantrums was just not acceptable.
God, he felt dog rough, and he smelt pretty iffy too. Bryan shifted on the sofa and winced as a beam of light sliced through the blinds, causing him serious difficulties. He should have just stuck to the coke – he’d been up, ready for anything, the life and soul of the party; coming down with pot had been a mistake, big time. He glanced at his watch and groaned when he saw the time. Twelve fifteen, Debbie would have a fit. It was a wonder she hadn’t been calling him on his mobile. Maybe she had and he hadn’t heard it.
He slid it out of his jacket pocket and was surprised to see that he hadn’t had any missed calls, and neither were there any messages. She must really be in a snit and rightly so, he thought guiltily. He’d behaved like a total prat. Spent a fortune on drugs, crashed out on a mate’s sofa, like he was some idiot twenty-year-old.
He strained to see the keys on his BlackBerry and tapped out a text message to her. He needed to cop on to himself. He wasn’t being very fair to Debbs. They were married now, and this wasn’t the way to treat her, he chastised himself silently. That was it; he wasn’t going on a bender again for the next six months at least. He must have spent at least 500 euro last night, trying to keep up with Kev and the others, he remembered, utterly dismayed. Five hundred smackers out of his salary, and a maxed-out Visa card and a multitude of bills unpaid. Debbie probably wouldn’t talk to him for a week.
Bleary-eyed, he gazed around the lounge. There were bottles everywhere, and the remnants of an Indian takeaway lay strewn on the low glass coffee table. The stale smell of pot hung stagnant, wreathed around him in a taunting reminder of his folly.
There was no sound other than the muted clamour of the traffic on the quays below and a rumbling snore from somewhere across the room. Bryan peered around and saw that some guy was asleep in one of the recliner chairs by the window.
He moved his tongue around his mouth. He was parched. He heaved himself off the sofa and made his way out to the kitchen, which was in an even worse state than the lounge. Half-empty takeaway cartons littered the island and countertops. Beer bottles, champagne bottles, cans, soggy green garlic bread and dried-up olives. He opened the massive double-door fridge, took out a litre of Tropicana and drank it straight from the carton. The chilled liquid revived him somewhat, and he took a couple of slices of smoked salmon from a plate and ate them hungrily. He took another slug of orange juice, wiped his hands on some kitchen roll and walked out into the hall.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar, and he could see Kev and a naked blonde sprawled across the massive bed, asleep. His house would fit in the shagger’s bedroom, he thought enviously, as he walked further down the hall to the bathroom. It was only after he’d had a slash and was washing his hands that he realized that a pale-faced redhead was asleep in the bath, wrapped in a duvet. She opened her eyes and tried to focus. ‘No worries,’ he said hastily, closing the door behind him. He heard her begin to puke noisily and was mightily relieved she hadn’t done it while he was there. He let himself out and took the lift to the foyer, feeling grubby and grotty. Maybe the smoked salmon hadn’t been a great idea, he thought, as the air hit him and nausea swept over him. He swallowed hard. But it was no use. He knew he was going to barf. He managed to make his way down a small lane and was wretchedly sick. Definitely the last time, he swore as he straightened up. It wasn’t worth it. A rat scarpered out from behind a pile of rubbish sacks, and he shuddered. He took a few deep breaths and emerged back on to the quays, feeling decidedly ropey. He needed to cross the river and go and collect his car from the car park at work. Then he’d better get home and face the music. Debbie hadn’t answered his text. He was in the doghouse for sure.
‘I used to think you were real stuck up,’ Melissa confided as she and Debbie walked from Sandymount Dart station to the small cul-de-sac of townhouses where Debbie and Bryan lived.
‘I used to think you were a spoilt brat.’ Debbie grinned. ‘And now look at us, getting on like a house on fire. Much to the relief of our dad and my mum. I’m sorry it took so long, but better late than never.’
‘It’s nice having a sister,’ Melissa remarked, following Debbie down the small path to her front door. ‘Although my friend Sarah is like a sister to me too.’
‘Yeah. My cousin Jenna is like my sister, that’s why I asked her to be my bridesmaid—’
‘Jenna’s my cousin too,’ Melissa reminded her.
‘Oh yeah, she’s Dad’s niece. I forgot. It’s a bit weird, all these relationships.’ Debbie led the way in, just as her phone buzzed.
‘Got a text, it’s probably from Bryan. Let’s have a cup of coffee while we’re looking at the photos,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll switch on the computer and bring them up and I’ll put the kettle on while you’re looking at them.’
‘Cool,’ agreed Melissa. ‘Nice house, Debbie.’
‘It will be nice when we do it up. It needs redecorating.’ Debbie grimaced as she brought the younger girl into the dining room cum study. She switched on the computer and clicked on to the photos icon. ‘There you go. I’ll be back in a sec.’
She went back into the kitchen and took her phone out of her bag. The message was from her mother to say how much she’d enjoyed their coffee earlier and to say how happy she was that she’d invited Melissa home. Debbie smiled. Connie was great. A really loving and supportive mother. She saw that there was another message in her inbox from earlier. She mustn’t have heard it come through while she was on the Dart. It was from Bryan and had been sent in the last twenty minutes.
Sorry Debbs. I’m a prat. Going 2 collect the car and will b home then. B x
‘I won’t argue with that,’ she muttered, but she was glad to know he was up and about. She always worried when he was taking drugs. She’d seen friends end up in A&E, and she always had a fear that it would happen to Bryan some time, although he pooh-poohed her fears.
And at least he knew he was a prat, so maybe, now, having got it out of his system, he might knuckle down and start getting their finances back on track. She’d just play it cool when he came home, no recriminations, no nagging, but if he pulled a stunt like this again, he was in for the ear-bashing of his life.
She filled the kettle and spilled some chocolate biscuits on to a plate. She hadn’t had a proper breakfast; she was peckish. ‘Like a ham and tomato sandwich?’ she called in to Melissa.
‘Yes, please, I’m starving,’ her half-sister called back.
‘That makes two of us,’ Debbie said light-heartedly and began to butter the bread. She made their sandwiches and carried them out to the small mosaic table on the deck. ‘Just going up to get your prezzie.’ She poked her head in through the door.
‘These are great. Will you send them to me?’ Melissa asked. ‘I’ll write down my email address for you.’
‘Sure. Why don’t you go and sit outside when you’re ready? It’s a nice day. But don’t mind the state of the garden. We haven’t cut the grass in three weeks – it’s like a jungle,’ Debbie apologized.
‘Where’s Bryan?’ Melissa asked.
‘He had to collect the car from work. We went out to dinner last night and had a few drinks, so we didn’t drive.’
‘That’s very responsible. Dad doesn’t drink and drive any more since the points thing came in.’
‘Pour out two mugs of coffee, and I’ll be out in a minute. I might as well stick in a wash while I’m at it.’ Debbie ran upstairs, took anything white of her own she could see in her case and the linen basket, bundled them up in a flowing white skirt, grabbed Melissa’s T-shirts and hurried back down. She shoved the whites into the machine, added two tabs of washing powder and some Comfort and set the dial. At least she’d made a start.
‘Hey, these are gorgeous. Thanks so much, Debbie,’ Melissa exclaimed when Debbie handed her half-sister the T-shirts she’d bought her. The younger girl jumped up and threw her arms around her. And as Debbie hugged her back tightly, she knew that all the old bitterness and hurts of the past had finally drifted away, and that she and Melissa and Barry and Connie were a real family at last.