The Hat Shop on the Corner (23 page)

‘Of course you do, pet,’ Constance had agreed, opening a bottle of champagne. ‘You and Chris are the perfect couple. It’s only natural you want to get married. I’m so excited for you. Chris will be a wonderful husband. You know I couldn’t be happier for you both!’

‘I know,’ beamed Sally, hugging her. ‘It’s so exciting organizing a wedding and everything is going to be such fun!’

The wedding was to be in September. Constance had studied the rough guest list that Sally had drawn up, and even a very quick perusal had showed at least two hundred names.

‘It’s quite a big list!’

‘Well, Chris is from a big family. His mum is one of six and his dad has five brothers and two sisters, and of course they are all married and have loads of cousins. Then there’s our lot, my work friends, a few of the guys I was in college with and my schoolfriends. Mum, I don’t know how I can shorten it.’

Constance’s heart sank. The thought of organizing a big fancy wedding at this particular time of her own life filled her with dread. She had always imagined Sally’s wedding as one of the most joyous occasions of parenthood, herself and Shay the proud mother and father of the bride. She had never envisaged an alternative scenario. And what about paying for this wedding?

Would Shay pay for it, or would he expect her also to contribute towards it? At the moment they were at daggers drawn, trying to reach agreement on some sane form of maintenance payments. She thanked heaven that at least there was no mortgage on their big five-bedroomed detached home.

‘We had always planned to sell the house once the kids were grown and buy something smaller,’ Shay argued, forgetting to mention the part of the plan that involved buying a small low-maintenance exclusive townhouse in their own area and a spectacular holiday home in the south of Spain.

‘You know, I can’t afford to keep renting,’ he complained, ‘and I’m too old to take on a new mortgage.’

She had bitten her tongue and refused to retort that age hadn’t stopped him taking on a new woman.

‘If we sell the house and divide up the proceeds fairly, there will be enough for both of us to purchase a property outright.’

She had dug her heels in and refused to budge. What was it the lawyers always said? Possession was nine-tenths of the law.

‘Did you discuss this with your father?’ Constance asked Sally.

‘Yes, Mum, of course. Daddy wants me to have the wedding I want. The one we always planned.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. Glad he’s paying.’

‘Of course he’s paying,’ replied Sally, tumbling out a mess of wedding brochures and magazines from her brown shoulder bag. Constance searched for her glasses. Sally, their only daughter, had always been her father’s pet. From an early age she’d had her doting dad wrapped round her finger, so if Shay had agreed to pay for Sally to have an expensive wedding, well then, an expensive wedding was what he was going to get. She would make damn sure of it!

The organization of a daughter’s wedding had certainly helped take her mind off her other problems as there was so much to be booked and arranged.

The wedding would take place in their local church with a reception afterwards in an antique-filled Georgian mansion, Kildevin House, about an hour and a half from Dublin. Then there were the flowers, the cars and, most important of all, the dress. Constance was impressed when Sally made an appointment with Marcus Foley, one of Ireland’s most expensive dress designers.

‘You will come along with me, Mummy?’

‘Of course, darling, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Constance sat in the cream leather chair of the Molesworth Street shop-cum-studio as Sally had a second fitting for the dress she would walk up the aisle in. She looked stunning, so young and vivacious. The smooth cream satin followed the slim curves of her figure and accentuated her glowing skin and long neck and curling blond hair.

‘Sally, you look so beautiful,’ she cried, overcome with emotion.

‘Most of the mothers cry,’ assured Marcus, passing her the tissue box.

Sally twirled slowly round, looking at herself in the long mirrors.

‘I just can’t wait for Chris and Dad to see me in this dress.’

Constance was momentarily stunned. So far all she had been thinking of was Sally and Chris’s day; now she realized that, as the father of the bride, Shay would have to be involved in a little more than just bankrolling the wedding.

‘Chris will think you even more adorable than ever and your father will be proud as punch, I know that.’

Marcus wanted to shorten the sleeve a fraction, have a little more lace detailing on the back panel.

‘People will see it as you walk up and back down the aisle after the ceremony,’ he advised, scribbling in his notepad and pinning the sleeve.

Sally and herself agreed to return in two weeks to collect the dress. Constance’s heart gave a lurch when she saw the bill, relieved that Shay was the one paying.

Afterwards they had walked over to Avoca for lunch. Both of them ignored the temptations of the menu and desserts and opted for chicken salad and a glass of wine.

‘Mum, I don’t know what I’d do without you helping me,’ confessed Sally. ‘I’d never get it all organized.’

‘That’s what mothers are for,’ Constance said, laughing, so pleased that the bond between herself and Sally was so strong and that they had such a close relationship.

‘Mum, have you got your outfit for the wedding?’

‘Don’t worry, Sal, once we have you fixed up I’ll go and look for something for myself.’

‘It’s just that since Dad left you haven’t hardly bought a stitch.’

Constance had no intention of enlightening her daughter to the fact that her precious father was reluctant to give her a euro more than he had to. She was managing to pay the bills and save a bit for a wedding present for Sally but the likelihood of his forking out for an expensive outfit for his ex-wife to wear was slim.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’

They were sipping their frothy cappuccinos when Sally broached the subject of the invitation list.

‘Mum, there’s no way of getting round this so it’s better I say it out straight to you.’

Constance looked up. Sally seemed serious, hesitant even. What could it possibly be?

‘Dad wants to bring Anne-Marie to the wedding.’

Constance felt like she had been punched in the stomach.

‘When did your father tell you this?’

‘He called round to the flat last night. Chris and I . . . we tried to talk him out of it, Mum, but he wouldn’t listen.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ she gasped. ‘Your father wants to humiliate and embarrass me on your big day. The most important day of his daughter’s life! What kind of man is he?’

‘He says Anne-Marie is his new partner. They live together, share everything, and that she is entitled to be there for his daughter’s wedding.’

‘That pig of a man! I can’t believe he would even think of such a thing. Has he no sensitivity?’

Sally looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s set on it, Mum. He says if Anne-Marie can’t go he’s not coming!’

‘Not coming to your wedding? I don’t believe it!’ she blurted out. ‘Your father has to walk you up the aisle. Are you telling me he’s prepared to give up that privilege for that little . . . I wouldn’t let myself down by saying the word.’

‘Mum, he’s serious. He really is.’

‘Will he still pay for the wedding?’

‘He says he will pay for it but he won’t come.’ Sally’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I love both of you and I want both of you to be at my wedding. I couldn’t bear it if one of you wouldn’t come.’

Constance felt so angry she could have throttled Shay if he had been in the vicinity. She was furious that her husband would even consider holding them to ransom like this just to satisfy his whim of introducing his new lover to their close family and friends.

‘He can’t do this to me,’ she said forcefully. ‘It’s your wedding day, Sally, and your father can’t just go and ruin it for us.’

‘It’s only a day!’

‘A big day!’

‘That’s what Chris says,’ whispered Sally. ‘A day to bury the hatchet, forget the past.’

Constance knew that there was absolutely no chance of burying the hatchet unless it involved sticking it into her husband’s skull.

‘Over my dead body is your father bringing his girlfriend to your wedding.’

‘I understand how hard it is for you, Mum,’ said Sally, ‘being left on your own, but it’s just that Dad . . . well, you know how stubborn he is.’

‘Like a mountain goat! You tell your father to take a running jump along with that girlfriend of his,’ said Constance sarcastically as they gathered their things together and paid the bill.

Back at home in Blackrock, Constance O’Kelly had collapsed into bed, overwhelmed. She knew she shouldn’t let the mention of Shay or Anne-Marie reduce her to this stupid quivering mess of a woman, but she couldn’t help herself. She had never imagined herself alone in this house, scrimping and scraping to pay the electricity and the gas bill. She didn’t know what she was going to do next month when the insurance on her car was due for renewal. Shay had paid all the bills year in year out but now she had to do it herself.

‘You’re daft, Constance,’ advised her friend Helen Kilmartin, ‘rattling around in this big house with the boys gone and Sally getting married.’

‘I know, but it holds far too many memories. Why should I agree to sell it just so that Shay and his fancy woman can get their hands on some money?’

‘Selling it would sort out your finances too.’

‘Helen, this is my home,’ she retaliated. ‘I’ll not let Shay and his girlfriend drive me out of it.’

‘Forget that pair,’ urged her best friend. ‘If you sell the house, do it for you! Think of the extra money you would have. The security you’d have, the savings.’

Constance knew that a large family home on Cross Avenue with a generous garden would fetch a premium price. Over the past few years Shay had fended off approaches from a number of Dublin’s top auctioneering firms. But the thought of selling and moving out was too scary. She couldn’t do it. How could she bear losing the home she had lovingly created and kept for the past twenty-five years?

Despite what Shay said, she had made economies. It had almost choked her the day she had to give notice to Annie Finnegan, their home help, after years of loyal service to the family, but there was no way Constance could justify the cost of someone coming in to clean the house and do the ironing and laundry now that she lived alone. She had also dropped the expensive gym membership that she rarely used – besides, the very thought of facing the ladies’ dressing room and meeting people who would be curious about her business made her shake.

‘You can’t hide away and pretend this isn’t happening,’ cautioned Helen. ‘You have to go out and face people.’

Constance didn’t want to face anyone. As far as she was concerned, if Shay had dropped dead or been killed in an accident she would have had all the sympathy in the world from her neighbours and acquaintances and distant family. The fact that he had run off with another woman was a severe embarrassment. Everyone was reluctant even to mention her husband’s name. God blast him, she thought to herself – he couldn’t even do the decent thing and die!

Her best friend had proved a tower of strength over the past year and had helped her keep her sanity.

‘You are not going to let Shay think that you are utterly hopeless and can’t manage on your own, Constance. It’s high time you showed him that you are your own woman, not some stupid cast-off.’

Constance had washed her hair and blow-dried it with the utmost care, put on her good beige suit and a black top and a comfortable pair of black court shoes, ready for the trip to town to get a wedding outfit. She studied herself in the mirror: she looked and felt like a sensible middle-aged woman. Running into the church in Clarendon Street she had just caught the end of Mass and lit a candle to St Teresa to give her the strength to stand alone, like so many other women.

Helen was waiting for her outside Brown Thomas’s with a determined expression on her face.

‘Will we go for a coffee?’ Constance suggested.

‘No,’ insisted her friend, ‘it’s much better to start now while the changing rooms aren’t busy and the assistants can give us their time.’

‘Perhaps we should look somewhere else first?’

‘No, we’re starting at the top – Louise Kennedy, Paul Costelloe, John Rocha . . .’

Constance’s heart gave a lurch as she followed Helen on to the designer floor of Dublin’s most exclusive fashion shop. She had always considered herself a good dresser but the sophisticated and expensive clothes all around her seemed made for catwalk models, not for ordinary women.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think they are just beautiful . . . but not for someone like me.’

‘They are especially for someone like you,’ contradicted Helen, lifting four items off the rails and passing them to her. ‘Now go and try them on.’

In the privacy of the changing room she leaned against the mirror and tried to compose herself. She must be gone mad.

‘Have you got the cream on yet?’ ordered her friend.