Mr Right for the Night (21 page)

It was  late.  She’d go  to  bed.  She’d put  on  her sexiest nightie instead  of the old tracksuit she’d got used  to  sleeping  in.  Maybe  Simon  would  want  to make mad passionate love to her when he got home. She was  his  wife.  She was  young.  She was  pretty. Still. And
they  said  women hit their sexual
pe
ak sometime
in
their thirties.  This was not
the time to let herself go.

She popped into the baby room.  Andrew was breathing  softly.  Claire smiled.  It  was a
miracle that herself and Simon had produced this incredible little being. She had
to make this marriage
work for An
drew’s sake. She shut the door
quietly.

Slipping  on  a  flimsy  nightie,  Claire  sank  onto the  huge  bed  with  feather  pillows  and  sumptuous duvet. She remembere
d  buying  this bed.  The mari
tal  bed.  She’d  felt  so  grown  up  in  the  furniture shop  discussing  the  different   types  of  beds  with the  salesman.   The  mattress   couldn’t   be  too  soft because Simon’s back  wasn’t  the best. And the bed with the shelves underneath would  probably be the best-buy.  Nothing  too  fancy  or  too  fashionable. Because they didn’t intend  replacing  it every couple of years.  And  nothing  too  ridiculous
  either,  like a four-
poster, say.

They’d  had a lot of fun  in that  bed
,  Claire  gave a little smile. Of course,  these day
s it was used for sleeping and not much  else. Andrew’s  arrival
had made sure of that.

It  was  funny,   the  baby  had  dominated  every waking  hour of his first few months in the world. Claire’s
unobtainable
dream  had been  an  uninter
rupted night’s sleep. Now  she longed for something else. A bit of passion.  Some spice. She remembered an article she’d read in the dentist’s waiting room.  It was all about jazzing up your sex life. It wasn’t the type of thing you’d like people  to see you reading. Some of the tips were bizarre.  Like dressing up as a maid. Claire knew that that was out of the question.  Sure if Simon saw her in an apron  and a frilly white hat,  he’d presume  she was  doing  a massive  spring clean. If she messed around  with  chocolate  sauce, Simon would  be furious  for soiling the bed clothes. There’d been a number  that  you could ring to
order a catalogue.  But suppose they delivered it to  Mrs Murphy next door
by mistake?

Anyway,  surely the tips were for people  married  a  long  time?  Or  weird  people.  Not  for  a  normal healthy young  couple.  No,  there  had  to be a better solution than resorting to shameful sex toys. Suppose they  had  a  fire  that  burned  everything  except  the glow-in-the-dark  dildo?  Or   suppose   Anna  called over one night when they were away to feed Blackie and stumbled  acros
s a box of canary-coloured con
doms.  After all people couldn’t  help having  a little snoop  around. Even though  they’d rather  die than admit  it.

Claire  had  to start 
re-igniting  the flames of pas
sion.  Simon  would  then  see her  as a woman  once more. Not  just the mother  of his son. She’d have to stop talking about nappies et cetera. ‘There’s nothing  as dull as a woman who can talk about nothing other than her offspring,’ her mother  had once said. She’d been right.

Claire  awoke  in  the  darkness   to  the  sound  of rain  thundering on  the  roof.  She sat  bolt  upright  in  the  bed.  Where  was  Simon?  A  wave  of  cold perspiration  engulfed  her.  Her  mind  was  racing. What  had  happened to him? Why hadn’t  he come home?  She  leapt  from  the  bed  and  tore  into  the spare   room.  The  neatly   made   single  bed  hadn’t been  touched. She  ran  to  the  window  and  pulled back   the  curtains.  The  car  was  gone.  Oh   God, suppose  he’d  crashed?  Suppose he  was  lying  in  a ditch  somewhere   covered  in  blood?   Caught   in  a whirlwind of panic  she thought  about  ringing  the police. But they might  laugh  at her paranoia. They probably knew  about  husbands who  stayed  away for the night. She returned to the main bedroom and tried Simon’s mobile. ‘The customer  you are calling is unavailable. Please try again.’

Anna was single again.

Steve had  sat up in the bed on Saturday  morning and decided the relationship was affecting his studies. Anna also  sat up and lit a cigarette.  A spring  dawn was creeping  through  the curtains  making  the room look yellow. She in
haled the smoke deeply and won
dered how she could leave the room with her dignity still intact.

A little  something  in  Anna  had  died,  as  it  did when any man  suddenly  decided  he didn’t  want  to share  his  life  with  her  any  more.  It  was  an  ego thing. It bruis
ed  her. She knew the whole ‘studying’ thing was rubbish.  Women  weren’t as naı¨ve as men thought.  But  thankfully  she  wasn’t 
that
   cut  up. Perhaps  the  fact that  Steve had  given her the boot before  made  it easier.  At least she didn’t  have t
hat terrible   sense  of  despair   she’d  felt  in  the  past  – that  she’d  never  ever  again  find  someone  else  to love.  Realistically  she knew  she didn’t  love Steve.

He was  a nice guy, a nice young  guy who  simply had neither  the time, the money  nor  the interest  to take her out.

Life went  on.  She’d learned  that  much  over  the years.  She  was  ma
ture   now.  No  more  bombard
ing  her  ex-loves  with  frantic   phone   calls,  telling them  she  thought they  were  different,  as  if  guilt could  somehow make  them  come  back.  No  more slamming  down  phones  hysterically,  mourning for days and  then going out  and  repeating  the process all over again.

She was all grown up now, or so she liked to think. She  wouldn’t  be  twenty   again  for  anything.  How had  she  walked   around  with  so  little  self-respect? God, it seemed like ye
sterday. Those days spent hang
ing  around  student  bars  throwing  herself  at  guys who  showed  zero  interest.  Guys  who’d  eventually got  off  with  her  because  they  were  so  drunk  and she’d  just  happened  to  be there.  A horrible  thought struck her. If twenty seemed like yesterday,  then forty was like . . . like tomorrow. Oh  God.  Oh  God. Oh God.

‘I agree with you,’ she told Steve, reaching  for an empty coke can to deposit  her cigarette  butt.

‘If you  don’t  start  slogging now,  you’ve a lousy life ahead  of you.’

Steve didn’t seem too delighted by her enthusiasm.

‘You sound  like you wanted  this too,’ he said.

‘You’re right.’ Anna  reached  for her T-shirt  and yanked  it over her head.  Her  smile was practically sellotaped  on. ‘I’ve kind of moved on . . . met s
ome
one else . . . someone  older,’ she grinned  plastically, knowing how much that  would  hurt.

‘Right,’ said Steve.

‘Right,’ said Anna.  ‘Now where are my socks?’

Like  a  warrior  bracing   for  battle   Claire   pushed Andrew’s bu
ggy down Dún
Laoighaire pier. She didn’t see the young couples strolling arm in arm alongside her. Didn’t  notice  the kids racing  in circles around her or  the excited  dogs barking  joyfully,  delighted with  their  weekly  dose  of fresh  air.  She saw  only the pale Irish sky and bleak uncertainty ahead.  She hadn’t slept at all last night. Simon had arrived home this morning.  At seven.

He’d showered wordlessly and left again. No explanations.

She’d thrown his shirt, tinged with cigarette smoke and  beer  stains  in  the  wash  along  with  Andrew’s soiled bibs. How  in the world  could  their  marriage survive this kind of carry on?

Reaching the end of the pier, she settled herself on one of the benches  and  resumed  normal  breathing. The wind was playing havoc  with  her hair  and  she punished it by trapping it in a scrunchie. As usual the sun was dancing over the hills at Howth. Why didn’t she just go and live there,  she thought wearily.

‘Still here?’  A hand  on  her  shoulder   made  her start.

‘Tom!’ Her  face br
oke  into  a smile upon  recog
nizing him.  ‘How’s  it  going?  It’s nice  to  see you again.’

‘Ditto,’  he  laughed   and  patted   Andrew’s  curly head.

She hadn’t  honestly  expected  to  bump  into  him again so soon. Though she had to admit, the meeting wasn’t totally  unexpected. He’d told her he walked the pier regularly.

He sat down  beside her.

‘Guess what?  I spoke  to  Emma  yesterday.  She’s made it to Australia  and is loving it.’

‘Great.’ His face lit up. ‘I’m delighted  for her.’

‘Yeah,  it  makes  me  feel  jealous.  I  should  have taken  the plunge and done it myself.’

‘Oz is great.  I think  the  climate  has  a lot  to  do with it. The sun puts people in a great mood.’

‘Well, I don’t  suppose  I’ll ever  get  there  now.’ Claire twiddled  her ponytail.  ‘I’m too old.’

‘Would you go away out of that? Sure, you’re only a young thing,’ Tom said generously.

‘Thanks.  The  fresh  air  out  here  makes  me  feel young.’

‘It  certainly   does  blow  away  those  work   cob
-
webs.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘I’m a computer analyst.’

‘God. No wonder  you spend half your life here.’

‘Well it pays the bills. But it’s far from fascinating. Ideally  I’d like  to  paint  full  time.  I’m mad  about  art . . . but that  won’t keep the wolf from the door. What  do you do yourself ?’

‘I’m a housewife.’  Claire  felt herself go crimson. Christ, she felt so old-fashioned. Like she’d suddenly arrived from another era. The word ‘housewife’ was horrible. It sounded  like you were married  to your house or something.

‘Goo ga goo . . .’ Andrew interrupted as if on cue. They both  laughed.

‘I think  that’s great,’ Tom said diplomatically. ‘If I’d . . . if I’d ever got  married,’  he continued very quietly, ‘I’d have liked to support my wife.’

‘That’s  what  you  think,’  Claire  said  tonelessly,
‘but what would have happened when the glamorous woman  you  fell in love with  turned  into  a dowdy frump who  talked  about  nothing  but  the  price  of Pampers?’

Tom  turned  to her,  startled.  With  horror Claire realized her massive blunder.  God, how could she be so senseless? Tom had lost the woman  he’d wanted  to marry.  Of 
course
he’d never thought of her as a frump. For the rest of his life he’d remember  her as she was – young,  vibrant  and  in love with  life. For a moment  Claire  felt strangely  jealous  of the dead woman. She’d  never  grow  old.  He’d never  get the chance to get sick of her.

‘I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean what I said,’ the words stumbled out awkwardly. She rose unsteadily.

He extended  a hand  and  pulled  her down  again. His eyes searched  hers. ‘You surely don’t  think  . . . you don’t think  of yourself as a . . . ?’

‘No.’ Claire  stared  at  the  concrete  beneath   her feet.

‘Because––’ he said and stopped.

‘What?’

‘Because . . . oh God, I don’t know if it’s my place to say it but  you’re one of the most  attractive girls I’ve ever met.’

And he turned  away  quickly  before  he could  see her face.

Outside  head  office, Anna  plucked  a few fair hairs off her black business-like suit. Trembling,  she tried to light a cigarette. The wind would simply not allow it. Damn. This wouldn’t do at all. Her nerves were in bits. Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d fifteen minutes  to kill. Sitting in  the  reception  area  like a spare tool was not an option. Ref
uge was sought in a nearby café
.

She  ordered   a  black   coffee,  which   burnt   her tongue. She set the  cup  down  again  and  managed to  successfully light her cigarette.  Why was she so bloody excited?  A few weeks ago she hadn’t  given a hoot.  But a lot had happened since then – Elaine’s hostility, June’s perpetual
I know you’re going to fail, loser
smirk,  Steve  and  Jake’s rapid  disappearance. She had  to get this job. If only for her self-esteem. She
had
to.

Anna noticed  to he
r dismay  that  the tiny incon
spicuous hole in her barely black tights had suddenly expanded and  a ladder  was subsequently riding  up her  thigh.  Oh  Christ,  why?  She pulled  down  her knee-length  skirt  as far as it would  go. Not  a hell of a lot else could be done now.

‘What  are  the  individual   qualities  you  feel you could bring to the new position?’ Mr Walton pushed his glasses back onto  his nose.

Anna took  a deep breath  before she answered.

‘Professionalism,  dedication . . .’

‘Dedication, hmmm.’ Mr Walton wrote something down.  His  assistant  was not  with  him today.  Was she on leave? Had she resigned? What did it matter?  Anna  chided  herself.  Why  was  she  contemplating such ridiculous trivialities during what was probably the most important interview  of her life.