Woman to Woman (24 page)

This was hilarious. She was advising him on the best way to tell the boys that he now lived with another woman. Ironic wasn’t the word for it.

“That’s a great idea, Aisling,” he said sounding grateful.

Thank you for making this easier.”

“I’m only doing this because I’m up for the Nobel Peace Prize,” she answered sarcastically.

“And because I want to protect the twins as much as possible. It won’t

do them any good to have us screaming at each other.” .

“You’re great,” Michael said. Thanks. I’ll see you on Saturday, then?”

He hung up and Aisling did the same with relief. At least they’d talked. They had actually conversed like two adults.

That had to be good, surely? She’d been dreading hearing from Michael and yearning for it in equal amounts. One part of her wanted to scream abuse at him, the other wanted him to come back, to hear him beg forgiveness and tell her he adored her still.

But there was no point harbouring secret hopes of a reunion when it was obvious Michael wanted her back like he wanted a hole in the head. This way, she was forced to meet reality face on.

“Mum, can we go out to play with Greg?” demanded Phillip, appearing in the kitchen with a football in his hands.

“All right, but stay in his garden if you’re playing football.

Don’t play on the road, OK?”

“Yeah.”

Phillip was gone in a flash.

“Be back by eight Aisling shouted after him.

The front door slammed loudly. It was nearly seven, time for Emmerdale. The dinner dishes were still on the kitchen table but she didn’t feel like tidying up. She quickly put the milk, butter and the cheese back in the fridge and left everything else. Time enough to do it later. Two weeks ago she wouldn’t have been able to leave the mess without tidying up.

Every dish would have been washed, dried and put away in fifteen minutes and she’d have then swept the kitchen floor and hoovered up the crumbs.

Not any more, she thought. There were no prizes for faultless housekeeping in the real world.

By Thursday evening, she was exhausted. Too exhausted to join Fiona at aerobics.

“Come on, you’ll love it!” wheedled Fiona on the phone.

“Nicole’s got her friends in and if you send the boys over, Pat will

look after them all. You can do the beginners’ class.” “Oh, Fee, I really don’t feel up to prancing around in my awful old leggings and spare tyre. It’s so long since I did anything like that, I’d be hopeless,” Aisling answered.

“I’d really prefer it if you lent me one of your library of exercise tapes. I can start at home and that way I won’t feel so flabby and unfit when I finally go with you.”

“OK. But you’re definitely coming with me next week, aren’t you?”

Aisling laughed.

“You never give up, do you? Let me get semi-fit before I go to the gym, Fee. I don’t know if my selfconfidence could face jumping up and down like an elephant in the middle of a group of Cindy Crawford lookalikes.”

There won’t be anyone like that in the beginners’ class,” Fiona pointed out.

“The Cindy Crawford types all go to the advanced step class and make me feel like a heifer.”

“I’m never going near that place if there are women who can make you look fat!” Aisling was horrified at the thought. I’ll come over and pick up Mr. Motivator or Jane Fonda now and go for the burn later.”

“Nobody “goes for the burn” any more,” Fiona rebuked her.

“Even Jane admits she was wrong about the “no pain, no gain” motto. Anyway, she’s had plastic surgery so I’ve lost my faith in her. She’s too old-fashioned and I hate Mr. Motivator. I’ve got a couple of step videos that are easier when you don’t have a step; you could try them. You should also try Callanetics.

It’s not fat-burning but it’s great for streamlining your shape.”

That sounds painful,” said Aisling.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” Fiona answered cheerfully.

Callan Pinckney’s soothing American voice was telling Aisling how to stand with feet hip-distance apart, with one hand on her hip and the other reaching upwards. Painfully upwards. The video had only been on five minutes and Aisling already felt tired.

She didn’t think she could reach a little bit more than she thought she

could, as Callan kept saying encouragingly to a class of very flexible-looking people.

Her arm was going to wrench itself out of her shoulder if she reached over any further. Thank God. She’d done it.

“Do one hundred Callan said crushingly.

“One hundred!” shrieked Aisling out loud, already wondering if she had ruptured something vital. You must be mad. But Callan wasn’t listening. She was leaning over like a gymnast, gently moving her body back and forth, seemingly without excruciating pain.

I’ll be in agony tomorrow, Aisling muttered to herself as she leaned, watching the counter on the screen clock up every little movement. She had to give up at 54 but Callan and her class stuck it out to 100.

Masochists. Then it was time for the other side.

“It must be good for you if it hurts that much, mustn’t it?”

Aisling eased herself gingerly onto a bar stool in Larry Murphy’s on Baggot Street.

“Current exercising wisdom doesn’t recommend pain Jo said, as she picked up the bar food menu.

“I’ve never done Callanetics myself, but I’ve heard it’s brilliant for toning you up. I suppose it’s hard at first because your muscles aren’t used to the movements. What do you want to eat?”

“A cheese sandwich on brown bread and a cup of tea Aisling answered.

“That sounds good Jo replied, and proceeded to order a sandwich for Aisling and fisherman’s pie and chips for herself.

Aisling was going to say something about how that eating for two stuff was all old hat and just made you chubby as well as pregnant, but she thought better of it.

“You look good, anyway, even if your muscles are in agony Jo commented, taking in Aisling’s definitely less bulky shape.

In a long navy skirt and slim-fitting pink silk blouse, Aisling was looking better than she had for years, the long-hidden fine bone structure beginning to show on her face.

After years of wearing only the barest hint of makeup, she had started putting foundation, eyeliner and mascara on in the mornings as well as the usual eyeshadow and lipstick.

Seeing Vivienne so smartly dressed and perfectly made-up every day made Aisling realise that the barefaced look she’d worn for trips to the supermarket wasn’t suitable for the

Her indigo-blue eyes were fringed by darkened lashes, a careful smudge of eyeliner highlighting what had always been her best feature. The coral lipstick she’d always favoured had been thrown in the bin by a

disgusted Fiona who’d produced a pinkish-mauve one instead and insisted on painting it on with a brush.

“Fiona, I’ll never get to work in the morning if I have to use a brush to put my lipstick on protested Aisling during the mini make-up session on Wednesday night.

“You don’t have to paint it, but it does stay on longer that way,” Fiona said firmly, as she rooted through Aisling’s top drawer.

“I can’t believe you have silver eyeliner, Ash!”

“Jo and I bought loads of it in a discount shop when we were going through our Abba phase,” Aisling attempted to explain.

“It was supposed to make your eyes look bigger if you put it on the inside lower rim …”

“Give me strength! You’d look like a reject from a Seventies Top of the Pops Special if you wore that,” said Fiona.

“Why are you keeping it?”

“I can’t bear to throw anything out.”

Fiona held up a bottle of congealed bronze nail polish.

“Darling, I think this has to go. In fact, let me throw all of this out.” She poked around in the drawer with flawless oyster coloured nails, dislodging two Mary Quant eyeshadows in what looked suspiciously like glittering purple and sky blue.

“Very Charlie’s Angels, but not so good for anyone over seventeen, despite what they’ve been wearing on the catwalk lately. Dump this junk, Aisling, and I’ll bring over some decent stuff for you. I do tend to overspend at the cosmetics counter and you may as well get some use out of my binges.”

Aisling laughed.

“Tend to overspend.” she said.

“Famous last words, Mrs. Finucane!”

She was glad of Fiona’s expert advice though. Her own attempts to look made-up hadn’t been precisely successful.

Pumping the brush in and out of her elderly mascara tube had left her with lashes like tarantula legs. With the right materials, however what she reckoned was around thirty pounds’ worth of Fiona’s expensive Lancome stuff she was getting much better at applying subtle amounts of cosmetics and with excellent results.

“Fiona gave me this self-tanning stuff and I put some on last night.” Aisling revealed, as she poured a few drops of milk into her tea.

“It really does perk your complexion up.”

“Whatever it is, you look great,” complimented Jo.

“Maybe you should market the Dump Your Husband Diet.”

Aisling giggled into her tea. You could never stay maudlin for long around the irrepressible Jo.

“I think it’s too much of a crash diet Aisling pointed out. A bit too shocking to the system.”

“I’m on the Seafood Diet.” announced Jo, taking a bite out of a fat-glistening chip. “I see food and I eat it.”

She ate another chip, put her head to one side and stared at her friend with narrowed eyes.

“Your hair she announced after a moment.

“You should do something with your hair.”

“Like what?” asked Aisling selfconsciously, smoothing back the escaping tendrils from her pony tail. Her wavy curtain of light brown hair reached to about four inches below her shoulders and was too long and unruly to leave it loose when she typed. She never coloured it-and rarely used the hair dryer but Aisling knew her hair would have been nicer in something more elegant than a pony tail.

“James, my hairdresser, could do wonders with your hair Jo said enthusiastically.

“You need a little lift, a better shape or something. But it needs to be cut.”

“I’ve had it this length for years Aisling said defensively.

“It’s handy. I can tie it back.”

Ash, you need something career-womanish now, not handy.

Anyway, tying it back is the only thing you can really do with it at that length. It would take years off you if you cut it. You don’t need to do anything radical, you know.”

Aisling still wasn’t convinced.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Softer, shorter, more feathery.” Jo was getting into her stride

“With highlights.”

“I’m a bit old for highlights said Aisling morosely, remembering the Greek summer when she’d first met Michael. Her hair was longer then, longer and bleached gold in the sun. She was never going to look like

that again. “Do you want some more tea?” asked Jo.

“I’m so thirsty, I just have to have another pot. I’m off coffee for the baby’s sake.”

“No thanks.” Aisling could feel the tears coming. Damn, she’d been doing so well. She hadn’t cried since Wednesday when she’d opened her bedside drawer and found the snapshot of the family outside Kilkenny Castle two summers

Michael had been shading his eyes from the sun and an eager eight-year-old Phillip had moved away to talk to the friendly American woman who’d offered to take the picture for them. They’d looked such a family then, a unit. Staring at her own smiling round face as she held Michael’s hand and tried to hold onto Paul’s T-shirt, Aisling wondered if they really had been a happy family at all. Or if she had believed in the perfect family, while Michael had been planning his affair?

She’d cried. Bawled her eyes out in fact, and woke up with red, puffy eyes which didn’t go terribly well with the red blouse she’d carefully ironed the night before.

“I haven’t cried since Wednesday,” she said wetly, searching in her handbag for a tissue.

“Sometimes I feel so strong and determined to succeed, and sometimes I just cry.”

That’s allowed Jo sighed.

“I feel like sobbing my eyes out half the time, in between those moments when I dream of strangling Richard with his camera strap.”

“I’m sorry sniffled Aisling.

“I didn’t mean to whinge. Has Richard not got in touch with you yet?”

“Yes and no answered Jo flatly.

“Yes, he got in touch and no, I won’t be seeing him again. Ever. Unless I’m called up to identify him on a slab in the morgue, that is. A girl can dream.”

Shocked out of her tears, Aisling stared anxiously at her friend. Had pregnancy scrambled her mind?

“Richard is a little shit announced Jo after a moment.

“Correction, he’s a big shit. Another pot of tea, please.”

“He did come and see me she explained to Aisling.

“Bearing gifts and begging forgiveness. Or so I thought. That big

shit let me take him to bed. He let me think everything was wonderful, fine, hunky dory until I found out that he’s still going to London. With Sascha, the rocket scientist, I have no doubt,” she

“I have my suspicions about that bitch and my ex-beloved.”

“The pig!” Aisling was outraged.

“Oh I did better than “pig”, I can tell you that said Jo with satisfaction. That bastard had better keep away from me for the rest of his life or he’ll be getting dentures fitted!”

“Jo, you’re priceless! Tell me, what really happened?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Do you know, my life is turning into one of those mini-series things from the States.

You know the sort of thing She loved him, but he had a deep, dark secret that rocked her to the very core of her being in a deeper voice than I can do, of course. I quite fancy Jaclyn Smyth in my part or should that be Jane Seymour? It needs one of those dark, sultry and depressed heroines anyway. I can’t imagine who should play scumbag himself.”

Jo took the tea from the barman.

“It’s nearly half one,” she said.

“When do you have to be back?”

Two. But it’ll only take me five minutes from here.”

“OK. Here goes. The story of my life: part twenty-six.”