The Crowley Girl
‘I saw Henry’s post on Facebook,’ a woman said to Keelin in the siopa that afternoon. ‘Looks like he went all out for Valentine’s Day! That man has you spoilt rotten, so he does.’
Keelin smiled, handing over a twenty-euro note to pay for the sliced pan and bottle of white wine. Stuffing them in a cotton shopping bag, she hurried up the hill to Hawthorn House. In the study she sat at the computer – the Birdwatching folder was gone, she couldn’t help but notice, long since deleted – and she typed Facebook into the search bar. Henry had uploaded a photo of the enormous bouquet of flowers he’d had specially delivered from the mainland that morning, and the homemade pavlova in the shape of a heart, adorned with strawberries. Happy Wife, Happy Life, he had written underneath, adding a PS – Credit to our lovely housekeeper for helping me with pudding! There were dozens of gushing comments already, telling Henry how impressed they were, what a ‘lucky girl’ Keelin was to have a husband as thoughtful as he was. He often did this with social media, posting regularly about his ‘incredible’ wife, how wonderful his children were, how fortunate he was to live on Inisrún, and to be surrounded by such gifted artists at the Misty Hill retreat. They were like pieces of a jigsaw, she and the children and this house, slotting neatly in place to make a picture of perfection to present to the world.
Keelin took a deep breath and shut down the computer. It was 2009 now; a new year, a fresh start, and she had promised herself – and Henry – she would put all that unpleasantness from Christmas behind them. Nessa Crowley was back at UCC, Seán told her when she bumped into him while walking past Peadar Ó Súilleabháin’s bench the other day – ‘Keels!’ he said, embracing her. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you for weeks. Where’ve you been hiding, girl?’ – and, according to Seán, his neice wouldn’t be back on the island until Easter at least. Needs to buckle down, apparently. You know what students are like, he laughed.
Not that any of this was Nessa’s fault, Henry explained to her. Alex had been using his stepfather’s computer for a school project – that naked photo of Nessa had been sent to Alex’s email account, not his. I don’t know what he was thinking, saving it to the desktop, Henry said, Evie could have seen it, for goodness’ sake. But I didn’t know what to do, I’m not the boy’s father, I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries. I panicked, and I made an error in judgement, I admit that. But how could you think I would cheat on you, Keelin? Especially with Alex’s girlfriend? Do you think I’m capable of doing something like that to you?
Henry kept talking, reiterating everything he had already said until Keelin felt like he was carving the letters into her bones. Nessa Crowley is a child, he said. Why on earth would I be interested in her? I love you, Keelin. Do you honestly believe I would do this to you?
She didn’t know what to believe. She could have asked Alex to confirm the photo was his, that was the most obvious solution, but the thought of doing so made her squirm with embarrassment. (And what if her son said, What photo? What are you talking about, Mam? What would she do then?) She was exhausted, trying to pretend for the children that everything was fine; Evie already demanding to know when she would next see her beloved Nessie. Keelin would smile, tell the little girl that Nessa was busy with college but she’d be back soon, avoiding her husband’s eye as she told the lie. If she divorced Henry, she’d have two failed marriages under her belt at the age of thirty-six, two children by two different men. Who would have her then? And where would she even go if she did leave? She kept waking in the early hours of the morning, her nightgown damp with sweat, but instead of counting sheep to help her fall back asleep, Keelin began to count numbers. She spent hours calculating different budgets in her head, trying to figure out how much money she would need to support herself, Alex, and Evie without the Kinsella safety net, but the figures never seemed to add up correctly. It was impossible.
‘What are you going to do?’ Henry asked her when he came home that evening, and somehow she knew her husband wasn’t asking about Valentine’s Day dinner or what television programme she wanted to watch for the night. It was time for Keelin to make a decision about the future of their relationship.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘I love you. You must know that.’
‘I love you too,’ she said, and for the first time in their marriage, she wished it wasn’t true.
‘Let’s have a party.’ He sat next to her on the sofa. ‘It’s your birthday next month – that’s the perfect excuse to throw a bash.’
‘My thirty-seventh,’ she said. ‘Not exactly an important one.’
‘I think all of your birthdays are important, darling,’ he said, and he kissed the inside of her wrist. She recognised that look on his face. He would want to have sex with her tonight. They hadn’t fucked since Christmas Eve, since before she found out about Nessa Crowley’s swallow tattoo. She thought of a client she’d worked with, years ago, an anxious woman with mottled hands who started every sentence with ‘I know this is going to sound crazy but . . .’; the same phrase all her clients used when they described how their partners had terrorised them until the victims were convinced they were the ones who were insane. There were rules in my house, this woman had told Keelin. You did not say no to my husband. You did not answer back. You did not keep him waiting, if you knew what was good for you. What about sex? Keelin asked her. The woman had looked away, flushed. First job of the morning, last job at night, she said, her voice so low that Keelin had to strain to hear her. Whenever, wherever, however he wanted. And in that moment, Keelin had felt so sorry for the woman, but she’d felt grateful too, grateful she had Henry, who had awakened something in her that she hadn’t even known was there. How could she have known, before him, that her body would respond so intensely to being called a whore, a dirty little slut, until she was crying out, begging him for more. She had thought what they shared was special, but when Keelin closed her eyes now, all she could see was that photograph. How slim the body was, how spare the flesh covering its bones. The black ink against the pale skin, a bird flying across snow. The legs spread, proudly; there was no shame there. Nessa was a girl born in a different time to Keelin, a different Ireland, a country that sold condoms in pub toilets and Playboy magazines displayed in plain sight in village newsagents. Nessa didn’t see her body as something that she should cover up or hide away for fear of what might happen to it. Nessa saw her body as something to be proud of.
‘A party?’ she said. The Kinsella parties were notorious. Champagne, nudity, cocaine, ketamine and weed. Burning turf and fire bright, everyone coming up as one, like they were made of shooting stars. She would look around and think how beautiful the guests were, how lucky she was to be among them. The chosen ones.
‘We can invite your friends,’ he said. ‘Johanna, obviously, and Susan. Seán Crowley too, if you’d like.’
‘No,’ she said. She had been avoiding their phone calls, instructing her husband to tell Johanna she was at the shop or out for a walk whenever her friend called. She couldn’t bear the idea of them seeing her like this, of knowing what a mess she had made of her life, again. If they got close enough, they would see how broken she was; they knew her too well; they would be able to smell the pain coming off her. Her friends would try to fix her, and some things, Keelin was beginning to understand, could not be fixed.
‘What do you say, Keels? A party for your birthday?’
‘Do whatever you want, Henry,’ she replied, pushing his hands away from her. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to have him touch her. ‘You always do.’