Mr Right for the Night (25 page)

Olive  arrived  eventually,  apologetic  and  out  of breath. ‘I’m desperately  sorry,’  she pecked  the  air near Victoria’s left ear. ‘Forgiven?’

‘What kept you?’ Victoria asked crossly. ‘I’ve been waiting  fifteen minutes.’

‘Sorry,’  Olive  looked   sufficiently  upset.   ‘Wow, what a coat!’

‘Thanks,’ Victoria fingered the leather collar. ‘Don’t ask how much it cost.’

Olive hadn’t  intended  asking.  She didn’t  want  to be depressed  for the rest of the week.  ‘So how  are all the party  preparations  going?’

‘Nightmare.’   Victoria   killed  her  cigarette.   She hailed  a passing  waiter.  ‘My friend  here is looking for a drink.’

‘Has everyone RSVP’d?’

‘Are you mad? Abou
t  half of them haven’t.  Igno
rant feckers.’

‘So who hasn’t replied?’

‘Well, Valerie in Australia.’

‘Well, that’s fair enough,  her reply is probably on the way.’

‘I suppose,   but  you  know   with  e-mail  and  all that  nobody  really  has  any  excuse.  And  Margaret hasn’t  got  back  to  me  either.  She’s a  funny  one. You  know  she’s  separated, don’t  you?  Apparently her  husband  was  giving  her  more  than   the  odd slap.  Imagine!  I  dunno   if  she’ll  show  up  at  the party  at all.’

‘Poor Margaret.’ Olive looked  sad.

‘Oh,  she’s  not  the  only  one  to  have  fallen  on hard  times,’ Victoria  continued. ‘A number  of our ex-classmates  are in a bad  way. Not  everyone is as lucky as you and I, Olive.’

She  gave  Olive  a  triumphant  little  smile  even though   secretly  she  didn’t  think   Olive  had  done particularly well at all. She worked in the civil-yawn- service  and  had  married   her  boss,  a  dull  dreary- looking man with the personality of a double-glazed window.  They lived in an estate  where  rotten  little locals played  ball on the road  and  sat on her front wall. Ugh.

But apparently all of the women  in Olive’s office had had a kind of a thing for him – so Olive in her own way thought she’d got a bit of a catch. Ha! The office stud! Ha!

‘What about  Carmen?’  Olive asked.

‘Carmen’s coming,’ Victoria brightened. ‘With her boyfriend.  Lovely lovely guy – one  of the  Stohans
– property and  racing,  you’ve heard  of the family, I’m  sure.  Mind  you,  he isn’t showing  any signs of committing to  poor  old  Carmen. And  I mean  it’s not  like he’s not  in a position  to tie the knot,  you know  –  from  a  financial  point  of view.  I wonder  what’s holding him back?’

‘Maybe she’s holding  back?’

‘Ah  rubbish,   sure  why  would   s
he  hold   back? You’re very nai
ve, Olive.’

‘But  they’re  living  together   so  the  relationship must be quite serious.’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ Victoria scoffed. ‘That is not the same thing at all.’

‘Is Anna Allstone coming?’

Victoria lit another cigarette.  ‘Who?’

‘Anna Allstone.’

‘I don’t remember  her at all.’ Victoria  frowned.

‘You must.  She was . . . I dunno  . . . blonde  with kind  of  chubby   cheeks  . . .  nice  girl  though   . . . quiet.’

‘I’ve no idea who  you’re talking  about.  Who  did she pal around with?’

‘A girl called Claire,  she was . . .’

‘Oh yes, I remember now, ha ha. Little and Large. Ha ha ha ha . . . No,  I don’t  suppose  she’s coming, I haven’t heard  from  her yet. Pity really. She might have provided us with a good giggle.’

Outside  The  Barge in  Ranelagh,  Claire  sat  in  her car listening to great big heavy drops  of rain pound the  windscreen.  With  big  baby  blue  eyes Andrew watched  his  mother  from  where  he  was  strapped into  the  back  seat.  She stifled a yawn.  She’d been waiting  nearly two hours  now.

The pub  was  beginning  to  empty  out.  Suddenly she felt terribly  lonely and  silly. What  in the name of  God  did  she  think  she’d  achieve  by  spying  on her  husband  in the  middle  of the  night?  It wasn’t normal. None  of this was.

Andrew  began  to whimper. It was  way past  his bedtime.

‘Don’t cry, pet,’ she pleaded softly. ‘Mummy’s going to bring  you home so
on.’ She switched  on the head
lights, turned on the engine and put the gear in reverse. Suddenly  she  froze as her world  seemed to come to a  halt.  There  they  were.  God.  Simon  and  Shelley. Together.  She  was  in  her  little  black-leather  mini, sheltering  under Simon’s big black  umbrella.  He had his arm around her shoulder. They were laughing.

Laughing.

And Andrew  was in the back crying.

Claire  felt  sick.  Andrew’s  whimpering   became louder  and  louder.   Claire  was  panicking.   Should she get out now or just drive home and decide what to do from there?

Then something  made her blood  run cold.

Shelley had  reached  up  and  kissed  her  husband full smack on the lips.

Right, that  was IT!

She jumped out of the car and slammed  the door. Walking  boldly towards them, she didn’t notice the rain saturating her head  and neck.

‘Simon,’ she screeched.

Her husband froze. So did Shelley.

‘Simon,’ she was  a lot  closer  now,  ‘get into  the car.’

‘Wh . . . what’s the matter?’

‘GET INTO  THE CAR, DO YOU HEAR?’

‘Go on, Simon,’ Shelley urged.

‘But what  about  you?  Will  you  be  okay  to  get home?’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Claire roared  at him. ‘If she’s able to go around stealing other people’s men, she’s well able to get her little ass home  to whatever  hole she crawled  out of.’

‘How  dare  you  speak  to  me like that,’  Shelley’s eyes  hardened. ‘As if I’m after  your  husband. You really need to get yourself a life.’

‘A life like yours?  I don’t  think  so,’ Claire  said acidly.  ‘Come  on,  Simo
n,  we’ll carry  on  this  con
versation  at home.’

In stony silence they walked  to the car.

‘Why did  you  bring  Andrew  with  you?’  Simon seemed astounded to see his son in the back seat.

‘Well, I was hardly going to leave him home alone while his mother was out spying on his father chasing whores.’

‘Chasing whores? What on earth is up with you?’

‘I saw you kiss that  stupid  bitch.’

‘She kissed me. That’s  Shelley’s thing.  She kisses everybody.’   Simon  shrugged,   ‘It’s  just  her  thing. I’m  sorry  it bothere
d you  so much.  It won’t  hap
pen again.’

‘Well, I won’t be around to witness it if it does.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see,’ Claire said quietly.  ‘You’ll see.’

‘Dad? Hi, it’s me.’

‘Deirdre? Is that you calling from America? Don’t you be wasting  your money now.’

‘No, Dad,  it’s me, Claire.’

‘Oh  it’s you.’  Her  father  paused.  ‘Well,  there’s nobody  here.’

Claire hated the way he always said that.  She was tempted  to say ‘Actually, Dad,  it’s you I wanted  to talk to.  How’s  life? Seen anything  on TV recently? Any new spuds in the garden?’

But she didn’t.

‘When will Mum  be back?’ she asked instead.

‘I don’t  know,’  he  sounded  irritable. ‘She’s out with your Nan.’

‘I was thinking  of coming  down  to see you,’ she tried to sound  cheerful.

‘Well, you’ll have to let yourself in. I can’t be here waiting  for you.’

‘That’s no problem.’

She heard  the phone  go dead.

‘Bye bye,  Dad,’  she muttered. He  was  probably rushing  out  to  buy  a  few  balloons,   she  thought sarcastically.  Oh   well,  she’d  made   up  her  mind now.  She was  leaving.  Andrew  was  coming  with her.  Simon  would   survive.  Of  course  he  would. With  a  VBF like  Shelley who  needed  a  wife?  Let Simon  wonder what  the  hell she was  up  to  now. Let him see how much fun it was.

She scribbled  her  goodbyes  on  the  back  of  an envelope.

Gone   to  Mum’s.   Don’t   know  when   I’ll  be back.  Claire

P.S. Don’t  forget to feed Blackie
.

She propped it  up  on  the  kitchen  table  against  a bunch  of  dying  flowers.  There,  that  should  make him stew.

Poor Blackie seemed upset to see her pack the car boot. It was as if he knew  being left at home  with Simon wouldn’t  exactly be a bundle  of laughs.

She was all set. Andrew,  dressed in a fluffy yellow cardigan,  was strapped into the back seat.

Three   and   a  half   hours   later   she  arrived   in
Limerick.

Her mother  was in a tizzy because the spare room wasn’t  made  up.  Every  window  in  the  place  was open to let the air circulate.  Claire  shivered.  It was freezing.

Her  sister  Aileen  was  lying on  the  sitting-room floor munching  Taytos,  a big green towel  wrapped around her head. ‘Claire!’ Her big chubby face broke into a smile when  she saw her sister. ‘Andrew,  coo chi coo  angel baby.  It’s your  Auntie  Aileen. Yes it is. Oh yes it is.’

‘Aileen, would  you ever get dressed,  you big lazy lump,’  Claire’s  mother   barked.   ‘Honestly,   Claire, you  arrived  at  a really  bad  time.  I can’t  have  you disrupting everyone  like this.  Aileen’s supposed  to be studying  for her finals and that  brother of yours is hoping to pass his leaving.’

Aileen  made  a  face  behind  her  mother’s  back.

‘Talk  to  you  later,’  she  said.  ‘I dunno   why  you bother  coming to visit. Once I leave home I’ll never put foot in this house ever again.’

It  was  funny,   Claire  thought,  when  you  were away  from   home   you   lived  with   this   kind   of misconception  that   you  missed  your   family  and they  missed  you.  But  in  reality   they’d  probably never even noticed  you’d left in the first place.

Mrs Fiscon pinched Andrew’s cheek and frowned.

‘He’s very thin.’

‘He’s not  thin,’  Cla
ire  scowled.  ‘He’s just  nor
mal.’

‘Are you feeding him the right food?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘You don’t want to be giving him too much sugar,’ her mother insisted. ‘I made that mistake with Aileen and look at her now. She’s huge.’

‘She’s studying,’ Claire countered.

‘Well, she’s down here every five minutes with her head stuck in the fridge. Both of them have me driven demented.’

‘Poor Mum.  You’re worn  out.’

‘I notice  you’re looking  a bit worn  out  yourself.’ She  picked  up one of her father’s  white  shirts  and draped  it across  the ironing  board. ‘When was the last time you got your hair done?’

‘Mum,  I’ve  been  up  to  my  eyes  looking   after
Andrew and . . .’

‘I raised five children and never missed my weekly hairdressing  appointment.’ Her  mother  patted  her coiffed auburn bob. ‘What about  that  money I gave you? Have you bought  something  nice yet?’

‘No,’ Claire admitted guiltily.

‘You’ll have to pull up your socks, Claire. You’re thirty  going on fifty
. You’ll just have to cop your
self on.’

Claire’s father trudged  in from the cold and threw his hat  and coat  onto  the kitchen  table.  ‘Claire,’ he acknowledged his eldest daughter.

‘Dad,’  she  returned the  acknowledgement. The Fiscon household was  not  one  where  you’d throw your arms around someone and give them a big hug.

Claire  suddenly  thought of Anna’s home  and  all its  walls  plastered   in  photos   of  the  family.  The pictures on these walls were of cows and sheep and tearful-looking members  of God’s family.

‘He’s the image of me.’ Mr Fiscon picked his only grandchild  up and threw him in the air. Claire was about to object but didn’t when she heard Andrew squeal with laughter.  ‘He’ll be a fine rugby player.’ Claire’s father  had  played  rugby  for Ireland  and was  somewhat of  a  rugby  hero  in  the  area.  His son Mickey was a bitter  disappointment to him. He didn’t see why grown men would run around a field after  a ball. He was more  into  poetry  and  jazz and stuff that  meant  something.

‘George, hang up your coat,  dinner’s ready.’

Her husband obediently  cleared  the table.  Aileen was called down.  Mickey was nowhere  to be found. As usual. He thought family dinners  were naff.

‘Did you  make  sure  to  leave  plenty  of  food  in the  house  for  Simon?’  her  mother  asked  between mouthfuls of Shepherd’s pie.

‘Of course I did,’ Claire lied. Of course she didn’t. The whole point  of going away was to make Simon suffer. If she’d left him any food he wouldn’t  notice she was missing.

‘He’s a fine lad, Simon.’ Mr Fiscon spoke with his mouth  full. He adored  the fact that  his son-in-law could talk for hours  about  rugby.