Sunday morning
She was thinking of Réaltín as her eyes closed. She sank back into the sofa and felt Gerry’s hand tighten its grip on her shoulder. It felt nice, protective. He was taking care of her. Like she took care of her daughter.
She had dreams for Réaltín, dreams as fierce and as optimistic as the ones her own mother had once had for her. The university education, the good job. That bloody photograph on the sitting-room wall with the mortarboard that had been so hard to keep on in the wind. It had all worked out so very well.
It would break her mother’s heart if she knew how depressed Miriam had been these past two years. It was just all so difficult. The rushing around, the mad dash from bed to childminder to work and then back again. The evenings spent changing nappies, making bottles, scraping half-eaten dinners off the kitchen floor, picking up toys when the child was finally down before collapsing into bed and waiting to be dragged from sleep again. Endless. She loved Réaltín, loved every inch of her, but it was hard, doing it on your own.
So when MammyNo1 had sent her the message about the night out, it had sounded like a great idea. She needed a laugh. A few drinks, a chat with girls who all knew what she was going through. A bit of fun. And then they hadn’t bloody showed up, and while she’d been sitting there on her own, looking like a complete eejit, who’d walked into the pub? Only Gerry Mulhern, from the UCD days. Alone, and looking for a quick drink before heading home.
He was broader than he had been in college, better dressed, more polished somehow. She could almost imagine he was taller, if that didn’t sound ridiculous. Gerry.
‘Y’okay there?’
She must have said his name out loud. She smiled sleepily and nestled closer to him. Gerry Mulhern. It had taken him a moment to recognise her. The past five years hadn’t been as kind to her as they had to him. But then he did the whole kiss on the cheek, howerya doing, my God it must be how long? thing. And she decided to stay and chat for a while. He was on his own, he said. Lived in the area, often dropped in for a quick pint. The place was convenient if nothing else. They’d both looked around then, at the sticky tables and smeared counter, and laughed at the same time. She had said hers was a G. and T. And then he insisted on buying a second round.
The last time they had met, that night in the college bar, had been horrible. She hadn’t been able to see past Paul in those days, and Gerry had just been one of the lads, Eamonn Teevan’s slightly gawky mate. But after a feed of pints and a couple of shots that someone thought would be a great idea, he told her he was in love with her. She had been so taken aback she had laughed, right in his face, and called him ridiculous. She still remembered how shattered he’d looked as he fished the words out of the tequila. And then the rage. He had been so angry. He said terrible things to her that night, words that echoed around the bar and sent her hurtling first for the door and then the safety of Deirdre’s bedsit. At the time she had thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
But that had been a long time ago. Now five years, one child and a broken relationship later, she knew what real misery felt like. That night in UCD had been typical drunken student stuff, nothing more. A bit of drama. And it looked like Gerry was cool with it now as well. He worked in TV, he told her. Still mates with Eamonn Teevan after all these years. He wasn’t married, wasn’t in a relationship. No time, he grimaced, and mentioned his fourteen-hour days.
It sounded like an interesting life, nothing like her own. She was, what? A mammy? A lecturer? The head of a single-parent family, according to the census form. Once, she had been the best-looking girl in third-year English. Most of the lads in the class had fancied her; she had known it, deep down, even though she had been too wrapped up in Paul to take advantage. They wouldn’t fancy her today, not if they saw her carrying the extra two stone that had been an unwanted gift from her daughter, wearing the wornout clothes she had neither time nor money to replace. Gerry Mulhern said all the right things though. Told her she hadn’t changed. Comforting lies.
He put his wine glass on the table and his hand brushed against her chest, softly enough for it to appear accidental. Then he stroked her in a way that wasn’t accidental at all. She shivered. It had been a long time since anyone other than Réaltín had touched her. She was just so tired though. Struggling to stay awake. Gerry was lovely. But this wasn’t the right time.
His hand was caressing now. Stroking and smoothing. She felt warm breath on her cheekbone. A kiss descended.
She had only wanted a drink, and a chat. A laugh. She had wanted to remember what it felt like to be that girl in third-year English. Nothing more.
‘No.’
But the word was slurred, her tongue thick in her mouth. Alarmed, she realised she was finding it difficult to open her eyes. The pressure on her breast increased as he found the nipple and pinched it roughly.
‘No, Ger.’
She shook her head, moved forward on the sofa.
‘Gottagohome …’
The arm pulled her back, pinning her down.
She took a deep breath and concentrated on getting the words out without slurring.
‘Serioushly, no. It’s been really lovely, but …’
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
It was then she realised that he didn’t sound drunk at all.
‘Hey.’
She kept her voice soft, anxious not to antagonise him.
‘Not tonight, okay? Maybe I can get your number?’
‘Yes. Tonight.’
She was gone then, for a moment, and then there was corduroy under her cheek. She was lying on the sofa and his hands were raking at her waist.
‘Jesus, Gerry …’
She heard, as if from a great distance, how weak her voice sounded, and then realised he was laughing.
‘You haven’t changed that much, have you, Miriam? Still the prick tease. You’re not running out of here tonight though.’
Her eyes closed again. She had to move. But his weight was pressing her down and there was something else, a fog, a heavy blanket covering her, immobilizing her. His hands moved downwards.
‘No, Gerry.’
He laughed, patted her on the hip almost playfully and asked the question again.
‘What’s your Netmammy password?’
It was so incongruous, so irrelevant to the situation that she would have laughed if she hadn’t been so shit-scared.
‘Why …?’
‘Just tell me! Stop with the questions and just tell me.’
She thought it was best, to do what he told her.
‘Sheep! It’s sheep. Now, please, let me go.’
‘You always had a great imagination, didn’t you, Miriam? Well, imagine this.’
Roughness between her legs, the seam of her jeans being forced upwards.
She needed her voice back, needed to scream. Lay still for a moment and then lunged forward, her knee connecting with his body. He hadn’t been expecting the movement and fell back, just a fraction, but it was enough to give her space to move.
‘You stupid bitch …’
Air against her face, she forced open her eyelids.
And felt his grip on her arms.
‘You’re not getting away again.’
Five years had made no difference at all.
She struggled as he carried her into the bedroom. She was reminded once more of her baby girl, how she protested when she didn’t want to sit into her buggy, arched her back, kicked, screamed. But Mammy was always bigger and Mammy always got her own way. A jerk, and his fingernail ripped against her cheek. A kick, which connected only with the bedpost. And then there was blackness, and falling. Réaltín. She had so many dreams for her little girl. Her eyes grew heavy. Réaltín. She was thinking of her baby as they closed.