A Part of Me and You Page 6

  I gulp at the very thought of it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A drink? Tonight?’

  ‘I … I couldn’t, Matt,’ I stutter. ‘You know that I couldn’t go out tonight, not if Galway won the world championship. No way. Not tonight.’

  His silence irritates me slightly.

  ‘Are you still there?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, of course I’m still here,’ he says. ‘Look, forget I mentioned it. I just think sometimes it’s good to keep busy and distracted. I know it’s working for me and you’re doing well at work, aren’t you?’

  ‘Doing well?’

  ‘Shelley, I’m trying my best here. I’m stuck in Belgium and missing you like crazy and this is killing me to be away today of all days but I hate the thought of you sitting at home alone tonight. Please do something. Don’t be on your own. A drink with friends won’t change things and crying at home on your own is never going to bring her back!’

  That hurt. I know I shouldn’t be sitting home alone all the time, I know he is right, but I am absolutely heartbroken at his suggestion that anything I do or don’t do might make me think she is coming back. How could I celebrate a stupid football game today? How could he even think of such a thing?

  ‘I have to go. Sorry. Chat to you later, bye Matt.’

  ‘Shell?’

  ‘Bye.’

  I hang up and jump when the doorbell sounds as a customer enters. I look up, and just as I had anticipated, it is the lady with the wig again – only this time she doesn’t look as glamorous as she did before.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask her, breaking my own rules around overstepping the mark when it comes to conversation that doesn’t involve fashion stock or clearance sales. ‘You left in a hurry earlier.’

  ‘I’d like to buy that dress, please,’ she says to me, flustered. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t brought proper clothes with me. I can’t believe I’m here … and I can’t really afford to go shopping and let’s face it, I won’t get much wear out of it but just … I’ll take the dress.’

  And at that she bursts into tears.

  Juliette

  ‘I’m so sorry for all this,’ I sniffle, handing over my debit card as the unaffected shop lady packs my new dress into a very fancy paper bag. ‘It’s not like it was a big row or anything, it’s just the thoughts that it triggered, you know, it got to me and I haven’t let anything get to me so far. Not this time. This time I was meant to be strong. That’s why I’m here. To be strong. For her. To do the right thing. For her.’

  I am rambling to a stranger and the poor woman is as white as a sheet behind the small counter as she hands me the very trendy bag.

  ‘You know, I got some gorgeous new stock in just after you left,’ she tells me, as if on autopilot. ‘Some really nice stuff so if you want to come back again and try on more, you’re very welcome. I can do discount so don’t worry about price. No point you shivering on your holidays.’

  ‘I can’t come back again. There’s no point me buying a lot of nice clothes, not now,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t have time to wear them.’

  Was she not listening to a word I said? Maybe it’s a good thing she wasn’t. Maybe that’s how she was trained, you know, to be professional and not indulge in anything more than small talk with strangers. Just take the money and run and all that. Maybe I shouldn’t be ranting and raving like this to someone who has no idea of why I am here or what little time I have left.

  ‘Okay, well the dress you chose really suits you,’ she says, tugging at her hair. ‘I’m glad you came back for it. It’s very you. It suits you. It suits your hair, I mean, your wig. Sorry! I’m not thinking straight. Thank you. For your custom.’

  Apart from her annoying hair fiddling, she is almost robotic and I feel like shaking her by the shoulders. A dying woman has just broken down in front of her two eyes and she is too wrapped up in her new fucking stock to notice.

  I open my mouth to let it all out but then I look into her eyes and I see they are totally glazed over with tears, and the agony in her eyes runs through me, sending shivers down my arms and into my fingertips.

  ‘You’re not okay yourself, are you?’ I ask her and she hands me a tissue, again mechanically like she is trying to block me out. I wipe my nose and dab under my eyes. I wasn’t stupid enough to wear that cursed mascara again this time.

  She shakes her head and keeps glancing at the window, at the door, as if in fear of someone coming in and seeing her.

  ‘I’m fine, but thank you,’ she says to me. ‘You said red was your colour. There’s a lovely red—’

  A stray couple of tears escape from her eyes, causing her to stop and take a breath. She doesn’t wipe them. She tries again.

  ‘There’s a lovely size twelve—’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ I reply. ‘Forget the size twelve red whatever it is you are trying to sell to me, please. You’re not okay at all, are you?’

  She shakes her head again but still purses her lips in defiance.

  ‘Thank you very much … for your custom.’

  She nods and I’m waiting for her to say ‘have a nice day’ like it’s rehearsed in her script but she doesn’t so I leave her to it. She evidently isn’t as prone to public breakdowns in front of strangers as I am.

  ‘You are very welcome,’ I reply and then I say it for her. ‘Have a nice day.’

  I slip off my sandals and damp shorts and lie on top of the bed in my room that overlooks the harbour of Killara, and I breathe in the sea air that creeps in through the open window of our cottage. The blue dress from the vintage boutique hangs on the wardrobe door at the far side of the room and I wrap a tartan blanket over me to lessen the chill of the breeze.

  I close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the early evening in this little hidden gem of a place that once changed my life, and I wonder if he is out there, somewhere, walking the streets or on the boats, totally unaware that his own flesh and blood is so close to him, she too unmindful to the history of this village and her deep connection to it.

  ‘You’re way out of my league,’ he told me on the night we met, looking up under dark wavy hair and I laughed in reply. There was no way I was out of his league. I knew well that he must have had women drooling over his every word. I remember his dark brown eyes, under knitted eyebrows that made me go weak at the knees … though that may have had something to do with the cocktails and vodka Birgit and I had consumed before we bumped into him at the bar. If only he knew what he left behind when he walked away the next morning.

  And speaking of the outcome of our very quick encounter, my reminiscing doesn’t last long before I’m interrupted by a raging ball of hormones that knocks once on the door and then enters, hand on hip.

  ‘I thought you said we were going for dinner soon?’ she says, and I don’t know whether to laugh or shout at her newfound stinking teenage attitude.

  ‘We can go soon, yes, I was just about to get changed,’ I tell her. ‘Is it still raining?’

  She rolls her eyes as if I have just asked her something as obvious as what my name is.

  ‘Of course it is still raining. It’s lashing out there. I really don’t know why you brought me here. Is there a McDonald’s nearby? I’m starving.’

  ‘Starving?’ I say to her in reply. ‘Do you mean that in a literal sense because I highly doubt you are “starving”? You can’t be starved after the lunch we had earlier.’

  ‘Okay then, I’m just bored and I eat when I’m bored. Is there a McDonald’s or even a Subway or a KFC?’

  ‘No, Rosie, there is no McDonald’s here, not one Big Mac in sight for miles and miles and isn’t that wonderful?’

  Her eyes screw up and her face twists and I swear I barely recognize this person in front of me. Who on earth kidnapped my darling daughter and left me with this devil child?

  ‘How does anyone actually live here? It’s like the middle of nowhere!’ she pants. ‘They don’t have proper wi-fi and have you seen the TV?
It’s like something from the 1980s.’

  Ancient history then, obviously.

  ‘You haven’t even seen the place properly yet,’ I remind her. ‘We’ve only just got here. Give it a chance.’

  But Rosie is ready with her next complaint.

  ‘And does it always rain in Ireland? Every time I look out that window it’s pissing down. Does it rain every day?’

  ‘No, not every day, Rosie.’

  ‘I heard it does,’ she says. ‘I Googled it, after waiting ages for the page to load up and it said to expect four seasons in one day. So does that mean it might snow later tonight? Wonderful!’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t rain on Wednesdays,’ I try to joke but again she looks at me like I’m the one from another planet. ‘Look, give me twenty minutes and we’ll go and explore and see if there is any part of this village that appeals to you at all, no matter about the rain. You seemed to like that young barman earlier?’

  ‘Mum, don’t be so gross. I just kind of liked his accent. Now, please, I’m starving.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I will be twenty minutes,’ I tell her again. ‘Can you wait that long or will you die of boredom in the meantime?’

  She lets out a deep sigh.

  ‘Can I go for a walk while I’m waiting?’

  ‘In the rain?’

  ‘Yes, I can take an umbrella. There are two by the door. Or maybe I’d be safer in one of the wetsuits in this weather.’

  I pause, wondering if I should let her go wandering alone and then I realize that we really are in the middle of nowhere and it is broad daylight and I suppose I should encourage any glimmer of enthusiasm that she shows for our stay.

  ‘Be back in twenty and take your phone in case you get lost,’ I say, knowing that this too might be the most ridiculous suggestion in the world to make. ‘Don’t go far. Just along the harbour.’

  ‘I’ll hardly get lost when there’s nothing here!’ she sulks back and at that she is gone, leaving me with the slam of not one door, but two, as she makes her way out onto the harbour pier.

  I savour the silence when the door slams shut. She is so full of anger, I just know she is. I want to protect her so much but I am tired, too tired to talk too much about anything after such a long day. I need to keep going though; I came here to spend time with Rosie so no matter how much she is grating on me this evening, and as much as I would rather crawl under the duvet than go out for dinner, I need to keep going.

  In the meantime, I rub my throbbing temples and relish in this moment I have to myself. Twenty minutes apart won’t kill us. At least I hope not.

  Chapter 7

  Shelley

  I arrive home around six and I’m so glad to see Merlin at the gate. He’s wagging his tail and barking with joy now that he finally has some company after a long afternoon on his own. He is soaked through from the rain and when I get out of the car he makes sure I am too as he jumps up onto my clothes with his muddy paws.

  ‘You’re an eejit, Merlin,’ I tell him. ‘Why didn’t you stay inside out of the rain? That’s what we made you a dog flap for!’

  He doesn’t care what I say of course and is much more interested in what I have in my shopping bag, though I can assure him the contents aren’t very exciting at all. I hate cooking for one but for the next few evenings I don’t have a choice. Well, technically I do have a choice. I could take up Eliza’s offer, or I could do as Matt suggested and call one of my ever-patient friends even though they are fed up making suggestions to help me get better. There is no getting better from grief. They say time heals but I’m not so sure of that anymore.

  Merlin follows me to the front door, still barking and wagging, and when I reach the doorstep I see why he is so excited. I sometimes swear that dog could talk if he tried and he glances up at me and then down at a bouquet of flowers that sit on the sheltered porch and back up at me again, as if to gauge my reaction to this unexpected delivery.

  ‘Gosh, I really wasn’t expecting this,’ I say to the dog. ‘Who was here, Merlin? I wonder who these are from.’

  The cerise pink, white and sap green flowers really are a sight to behold and I open the door and take them into the hall, followed of course by my trusty friend. Merlin waits and watches as I put them on the sideboard, take off my damp coat and leave my shopping on the floor, before opening the card attached to the flowers with anticipation.

  I read the greeting, take a deep breath and exhale long and hard just like I was taught to do in therapy when I need to really release some nervous energy or stress. Then I fetch my phone in my handbag to text my friend Sarah for her kind thoughts.

  Bless you for remembering, I say to her and then make my way to the kitchen to fetch a vase for the flowers and give them the attention they deserve. By the time I reach the sink she has messaged back.

  I will never forget her, she replies. Take it easy and call me if you need me. No pressure x

  I put the flowers on the dining room table and I do, to my surprise, get some comfort from how they brighten up the whiteness of the room. It was my part of the deal with Matt when he finally talked me round to staying in this house after Lily’s death to keep everything totally white. I redecorated from top to bottom, all plain and neutral with no frills, no heaviness, no colour I suppose, and most of all, no heart. Bless him, he played along and has let me take everything at my own pace, but I was and still am numb. I need my surroundings at home where we lived with her to be dumbed down too, with no memories on the walls. I put all her little paintings from playgroup that decorated the fridge into a box, while all the framed photos of her firsts – her first haircut, first tricycle, her first Christmas and each of her three birthdays – are all boxed up and in her room upstairs.

  It’s the only room I didn’t whitewash. I couldn’t, but I have closed the door and I never, ever go in there. To do so would tear me apart in a way from which I could never recover. To me, part of her is still in that room where we shared bedtime stories and dress-up time, and where I’d slip in at night and watch her sleep under the yellow glow of her nightlight as tiny stars shone from it onto the walls and ceilings. That room was a precious place, a room full of night-time kisses, lullabies and songs and I just couldn’t, and will never, change it from how it was on the morning that she left us. I have memories in there and I have closed the door on them in case they ever get lost. Her smell, her favourite cuddle toy, her shoes, everything is in that room and they will stay there for as long as I live.

  There’s something about the very thought of her shoes in particular that chokes me up. Her tiny, shiny shoes that she loved to put on and off all by herself, thinking she was such a big girl for doing so. But she was just a baby really; just a baby who couldn’t be left alone, not even for seconds. Oh God, oh God, please help me …

  Our wedding photos are in there too tucked at the bottom of a wardrobe, our holiday snaps together with Lily, our photo albums and our home videos – they are all frozen in time because my life has ended and I have no idea how I am getting from one day to the next. No idea whatsoever.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’ I say to Merlin who is the one thing that keeps me going and functioning when Matt isn’t around. He makes me put one foot in front of the other. He makes me talk as well, as I couldn’t possibly not communicate with a face as friendly and warm as his and I swear he knows exactly when I need him. I have sat alone on many occasions on the sofa, trying to remember how to breathe, when he snuggles around my feet or puts his head on my knees in sympathy and I stroke his fur to awaken my senses and bring me back to life.

  I fetch his lead, put on my raincoat, fix up my hood and change quickly into my trainers – within minutes we are on the beach and I just keep walking and walking as usual without realizing I am moving at all.

  Juliette

  There is nothing, and I mean nothing that irritates me more than trying to get a hairbrush through a wet wig when in a hurry.

  I called this wig Marilyn Monroe when I bought her, but at the mi
nute she is more like Marilyn Manson with her knots and tangles and I feel like flinging her across the floor in frustration.

  I sit at the dressing table in my tiny adopted bedroom with the wig poised in my hand, just like the kind assistant, Dorinda from Lady Godiva’s wig making shop showed me to do and after patting it down with a towel and combing it through with conditioner spray, I still have a battle on my hands to try and resemble a normal head of hair before I go out for dinner with Rosie.

  Apart from my wig atrocities, I feel very comfortable and very bright in my new blue jersey wrap dress and not like a dying woman at all. It’s a fine dress, one which I have decided could easily be glammed-up with some heels and jewellery, as well as dressed down in flat pumps like I have chosen for now. I have to say I am delighted with my new purchase.

  I think of the lady in the shop and how she tried to hold a conversation but couldn’t, how she stuttered and stammered instead and avoided any eye contact at all with me as I paid. She was a strange fish, but then I guess no one knows what others are going through and who am I to judge? I did feel sorry for her though. She looked a troubled soul and nosiness did get the better of me for a while as I wondered what on earth could be distracting her so much from her work. A sick relative perhaps, or a row with her husband, or maybe she had had some bad news herself and seeing me prance about in a wig and getting in a fluster over a hormonal outburst from my teenage daughter, who still hasn’t returned by the way, was all too much for the poor woman who just wanted to sell the bloody dress and not hear my life story to go with it.

  I call Rosie when I realize that she has gone over the twenty minutes curfew we agreed and hold the earpiece away from my ear in preparation from the tirade I will get for fussing over her when she is only ten minutes late, but she doesn’t answer. Typical. I try again, but still no answer so I leave a voicemail which I know will irritate her even more, but then everything I do today seems to irritate her. I wonder if it really is possible for teenagers to transform into alien versions of themselves in such a short space of time. Evidently, it is. My daughter is living proof.