A Gift to You (27 page)

I walk briskly towards the bakery and order an extra-large chocolate buttons cake, Joanna’s favourite.

‘Mam, this is “
The Best Birthday Ever
”,’ she whispers to me a week later, as she and the gang ‘hang out’, chomping on pizza and
wedges and discussing the pros and cons of choir and singing class versus speech and drama, and the various teachers involved.

‘And you know something, it’s great Kristen couldn’t come, ’cos there’s no fighting, and Lisa was
so
relieved,’ my daughter confides.

‘You know, Kristen’s not going to be around much any more. There’s not much point; you don’t really get on, do you?’ I say to Joanna. Relief washes over her.

‘Not really, Mam. Is that OK?’

‘Of course it’s OK.’ I hug her. ‘You don’t have to like everyone,’ I explain.

‘Phew, that’s a relief, ’cos even though I tried to, I just couldn’t like that girl any more!’ Joanna exclaims.

‘I know, love. You did your best and that’s all that matters. So forget about everything except having fun. Let’s go light the candles.’

I watch my daughter’s shining face as her sister and friends bellow, ‘
Happy Birthday!
’ and I’m overwhelmed with love for her. She did try hard with Kristen. She
has a good spirit and I’m proud of her, and a little proud of myself too. I also did my best with Victoria over the years, but as I explained to my daughter, you don’t have to like
everyone and that’s true for me too.

I cut the cake of ‘The Best Party Ever’ and watch, contented, as my daughter, surrounded by friends who truly love her, hands around the plates. She gives the one with the biggest
slice to Lisa Delaney.

‘Thank you, that was a superb massage.’ The scrawny, birdlike blonde woman tightened the belt of her towelling robe around her waist and nodded at Emma.

‘Thank you, Mrs Staunton,’ Emma said politely, handing her a small bottle of Perrier. ‘Don’t forget to drink plenty of water.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The woman slid her hand into the pocket of her robe, took out a folded five-euro note and held it out to Emma. ‘My partner is booked in for waxing with you
this afternoon. We’re going on a cruise down the east coast of the States, including the Hamptons and Nantucket. He’s only agreed to get his back and neck done. If you could persuade
him to get his chest hair waxed as well it would be
wonderful!
If not I’ll have to dye it for him.’ She rolled her huge chocolate-brown eyes. ‘Grey chest hair is so
ageing
on a man. So
do
try and convince him to have it done won’t you?’ She gave a brittle smile and ran her fingers through her expertly highlighted hair.

‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Staunton.’ Emma held open the door for her, wishing Ms Pipe-cleaner Legs would buzz off so that Emma could have a few minutes’ peace to prepare her
treatment room before the next client came.

‘Excellent.’ Adrienne Staunton gave one last flick of her tousled mane, sweeping past Emma with a waft of bergamot and aloe vera.

Emma exhaled deeply, closing the door before crossing the tiled floor to open the shuttered blinds. She stood for a moment, gazing out at the vista of luxuriant emerald lawns, and the
chocolate-brown loamy shrubbery bursting with voluptuous red and pink rhododendrons and purple and white heather. Beyond, the midday sun adorned the molten sapphire sea with a tiara of glittering
diamond rays that cascaded to the far horizon. She might have her lunch outside on the small private patio that led off the staff dining room of the luxurious, cliff-top health spa she worked in.
It would be nice to breath the salty sea air and feel the heat of the sun on her face. Today was her birthday and when she had finished work her husband was taking her away for the weekend to a
small boutique hotel in Seville, for a long weekend. The salon manager had told her she could leave at three. Her bag was all packed and she was ready to go straight to the airport.

Humming to herself, Emma prepared the plinth for her next client, placing fresh soft towels on top of the exotic patterned silk covering with its amber, honey-gold and burnt amber shades that
matched the colour palate of the room. Jasmine-scented candles flickered in their shadowed niches in the walls and the soothing tones of New Age piano music played in the background.

She cleaned the small sink area and washed her hands before setting the temperature on the warmer oven for her next client’s hot stone massage. She closed the blinds so that the room was
once again a womblike cocoon in the flickering candlelight, and went to fetch her client from the spacious airy lounge that looked out to sea.

Unlike Adrienne Staunton who had chattered her way through the treatment, her new client, a weary middle-aged woman with elderly parents, a stressful job, and three teenage children, was happy
to lie silently on the plinth and let Emma and the stones work their magic. As she gently massaged the woman’s shoulders, feeling the knots of tension begin to soften, she felt a surge of
satisfaction as her client let out a little snore. Job well done, Emma congratulated herself, pouring more oil onto her palms as her client sank deeper into relaxation.

‘I see you had Adrienne Staunton; you won’t go too far on the tips you get from her,’ Rita Moran, another therapist, said sourly as they ate lunch together an hour later at a
small round table on the patio. ‘She’s beginning to look a tad overdone, isn’t she? Those plump lips and cheek fillers are
so
obvious. Nothing subtle about them.
She’s got a new fella too, I hear.’ Rita took a bite out of her chicken-tikka wrap and followed it with a gulp of tea.

‘Well, whoever he is, he’s coming to me for a back and shoulders wax and she wants me to persuade him to get his chest done too. They’re going on a cruise, it seems.’
Emma finished her baked ham and chutney sandwich and raised her face to the sun, loving the beneficent heat that radiated through her.

‘Some hotshot consultant, apparently. The wife found out he was having an affair with Widda Staunton and threw him out. Adrienne’s giving him a make-over apparently. She’s got
him dyeing his hair and eyebrows and pounding the treadmill. I give it six months,’ Rita said sagely. ‘And then he’ll be begging the wife to take him back. Adrienne’s hard
going by all accounts.’

‘Yeah, she’s totally self-absorbed. She never shut up when I was massaging her. She’s trying to organize a charity gala, apparently, and is having terrible trouble getting her
set to take tables after Angela Kerins and Rehab and the CRC debacles.’ Emma stretched, catlike.

‘I wouldn’t bloody well take a table even if I
had
the money, paying those fat cats massive salaries and pensions, instead of it going to the charity. What a rip off! My
mother supported those charities out of her
pension.
I’d love to sue the shaggers and get her money back.’ Rita glowered. ‘Good luck to Adrienne and her charity gala
– those days are gone.’ She stood up. ‘Better go, I’ve got Antonia Kavanagh-Keogh, no less, for a full body.’

‘See if she has any racing tips,’ Emma grinned, gathering up her plate and mug. AKK, as she was known, was married to one of the biggest horse breeders in the country and was never
out of the society pages and glossy lifestyle magazines.

Ten minutes later, she headed for the lounge to collect Mr Barnes, of the hairy back and shoulders. Emma was interested to see Adrienne’s new ‘fella’, as Rita had called
him.

There were two men in white robes, strangely incongruous, among the small clusters of women. One a broad-shouldered, tanned rugby type in his thirties, the other tall and thin with dyed chestnut
hair, his skinny calves white, hairy, matchstick thin, his bony bunion hammer toes sticking out of the top of his spa slippers.

‘Mr Barnes?’ Emma called politely, knowing immediately which of them was her client. The older man put down his paper and uncoiled himself from the lounging chair.

‘Hello!’ he said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. Some men took to the spa experience like ducks to water; others hated it. Emma was fairly sure her new client was one of the
latter.

‘This way please.’ She led the way down the opulently carpeted hallway towards the treatment rooms. There was something vaguely familiar about the man flip-flopping awkwardly down
the corridor beside her. Had she seen him in the society pages? Emma wondered, opening the door to let him precede her into her candlelit domain.

‘I haven’t had this procedure done before,’ he said curtly, folding his arms and pursing his thin lips. He had a pointy aquiline nose, and deep-set hazel eyes. His face was
crumpled, saggy, and lugubrious, and she suddenly remembered where she had met him and his gloomy bulldog visage before.

Feck my ass, it’s John Paul Barnes!
Emma barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping as recognition slowly dawned and she recognized her former gynaecologist. She swallowed hard
and struggled to hide her dismay. He clearly didn’t recognize her. So JP Barnes had hooked up with Widow Staunton. What a pair. They were welcome to each other!

‘It won’t take long,’ she managed, proud of her fake poise. ‘It’s very simple and straightforward. Mrs Staunton mentioned something about having your chest waxed as
well?’ Emma arched an eyebrow at him, utterly relieved that he still didn’t appear to realize that she was a former patient.

‘Oh, did she now?’ JP snorted grumpily. ‘Our agreement was back and shoulders. That’s women for you, never satisfied.’

‘It will be over in a flash. Lots of men get it done. It makes sense to get it all done at the one go,’ Emma assured him matter-of-factly, folding over a triangle of the cover sheet
on the plinth. ‘I’ll leave you for a few moments to get out of your robe and, if you decide to get your chest waxed, I’ll do that first, so lie on your back. If not, lie face
down, with the sheet over you from the waist down. Make yourself comfortable, Mr Barnes,’ she said politely, before closing the door behind her.

Emma walked slowly to the water cooler and poured herself a drink. She couldn’t believe that a man who had been so dismissive of her, so arrogant and patronizing towards her when she was
at her lowest and most vulnerable was lying on her plinth, at her mercy. A waxing virgin, so to speak.

Flashes of their last encounter five years ago came to the surface.

‘I’d like to have a hysterectomy,’ she’d told him after telling him the sorry saga of her gynecological history. ‘I have endometriosis; it’s made my life a
misery. I have to come off the Pill because of my age. I don’t want all that pain and sickness to get worse. I want it gone.’

He’d held up his hand impatiently. ‘There are other avenues to explore. I feel you are being too hasty. I think we should consider treating you with the Mirena—’

‘No, I don’t want it. I don’t want a synthetic hormone inside me; and besides, there’s a history of cancer in my family.’

‘Studies have proved the Mirena is quite safe in that regard,’ he interrupted dismissively.

‘It’s not my periods that cause me the most pain – it’s ovulating,’ she argued in desperation, seeing that he wasn’t listening to her. He already had a
treatment plan formed in his head, no matter what she said.

‘How do you know you’re ovulating?’ He gazed at her patronizingly over the top of his bifocals. ‘You probably have a low threshold of pain,’ he added briskly,
standing up. ‘Try the Mirena for a year. I’ll do an endometrial ablation and insert the coil on the same day. You won’t need to stay overnight. My secretary will make the hospital
booking and attend to the details.’

‘But I don’t want—’ Emma protested.

‘Here’s a leaflet; it will explain everything.’ He wouldn’t let her finish, clearly not interested in what she might or might not want. ‘It works for thousands of
women.’ He thrust a leaflet into her hand, opened the door and practically shooed her into his secretary’s office before striding out to the waiting room to bring in his next
patient.

Emma shook her head, remembering her dismay, frustration, rage and indignation. She had left John Paul Barnes’s rooms two hundred euros lighter in her bank account, with a glossy leaflet
telling her stuff she already knew, and feeling like the powerless young teen she had once been, who had been sent from Billy to Jack and back again because of her ‘painful
periods’.

She’d wanted to barge through his door and roar at him. ‘I’m a fifty-year-old woman who has endured more pain than you ever will and I damn well know when I’m ovulating,
you patronizing prick.’

Even now, five years later, she could still remember her helpless fury.

‘I have the very man for you; he’s extremely in tune with women, and he’s a friend. Let me get you an appointment,’ one of her well-connected, long-standing clients had
offered, when they had been discussing gynecologists while Emma was giving her a pedicure.

‘Oh, I don’t want to go to another male gynae
ever
!’ Emma demurred.

‘Listen, sweetie, some of the women are worse than the men, believe me,’ Jill St Clare said grimly. ‘I’ve been to so many of the species. This guy will sort you. He
sorted me. Trust me.’

Emma smiled. Jill had got on the phone there and then, and within the space of eight weeks Emma was wombless and almost pain-free.
And
she’d had the satisfaction of knowing that
JPB knew she’d ditched him for someone else. That was the icing on the cake. As she’d lain against her pillows in languorous post-op lethargy, dosed with morphine, enjoying the much
longed for tea and toast, her mobile had tinkled. It was JP’s secretary, Anthea, reminding her that she was booked to have her procedure the following Monday.

‘Oh, you may cancel that,’ Emma said sweetly. ‘I’ve just
had
a hysterectomy.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the secretary, and Emma grinned, imagining the immaculately coiffured Anthea’s dismay. No doubt, she was even clutching her pearls. ‘Who did
it?’ the other woman demanded.

‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. He’s renowned for his work and knows how to treat his patients. You may tell Mr Barnes, I not only had endometriosis but I had
adenomyosis, also. That sends pain levels soaring ever higher, even for someone who has learned to tolerate pain like I did, not that he’d ever understand that. Bye-bye.’ Anthea’s
sharp intake of breath at this unheard of lack of respect for the godlike Mr John Paul Barnes had been music to Emma’s ears and she’d sipped her tea and eaten her toast and felt a
million dollars.