I gaze around my little apartment now as I stand on the small red button on my Dyson vacuum and the cord zips away. I have always wanted a Dyson. My power toy. It’s not eco-friendly but by God does it give the carpets a great clean! My compact apartment is neat as a pin. The air is heavy with the scent of the lavender Shake n’ Vac I’ve just liberally sprayed all over the carpets. I walk to the small cloakroom and store my little Dyson away. Moving into the double room, I run my hand down the soft maple wood on the bunk beds and tuck Jade’s privacy curtain up under her pink pillow. Tomorrow night my two babies will be snuggled up in here and I can’t wait.
It hasn’t been easy on them, any of it, but I can’t change the past I can only move forward and be the best mother I can be. Jade has grown up a lot over the past few months but Mark still seems to have come through it all fairly OK. I think ever since he got to play on the Ranelagh Rovers Under 6s he’s been in a world of his own. In the end, I had to have a quiet word in Erik Clancy’s shell-like. Sometime you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.
Four months pass and, like the old saying goes, time is a great healer. I gave up my right to stay in the family home and now I have come to terms with that. I wholeheartedly stand by my decision. My mistake. My punishment. Don’t get me wrong, I am acutely aware of the part Colin played in our eventual demise. But I’m still devastated I was the straw that broke this family.
If Colin and I had kept going. If I had left my job as I had intended to, to be a stay-at-home mummy and none of the rest of it ever happened, I still would eventually have come to resent being at home full-time again. I love my kids so, so much, but to be the best mother I can be, I need to work outside the home too.
Colin is a good guy, but even if what happened with Owen hadn’t happened I think it would have ended eventually. Probably not for many more years. We would have got on with it, like so many other couples do, and made it function, but that’s not right either, is it? How is that fair on either of us? I hope one day that Colin meets a fantastic woman. I truly do. In the meantime, we’ve arranged it so that I have the kids from Friday after school to Monday morning, when I drop them to school, and he is happy for me to help put them to bed every Wednesday night at No. 13. Believe it or not, afterwards I usually have a quiet cup of tea with him. One day, he may want me as a friend. Not yet, but I am going to keep trying. After our cuppa, I wash the cups and then I say goodnight.
I stroll back to my little apartment with my new cutlery and my fridge full of food from wherever I like to shop. I put my mini dishwasher on. I stay up as late as I want with my heating blasting all around me. I light my gazillion candles. I drink me some wine. For the first time in my life I am not answerable to anyone and when I manage to block out the guilt it is OK. Actually, if I’m perfectly honest? If I could take away the gut-wrenching guilt over what it did to the kids, the independence and peace is slowly becoming a welcome thing.
That’s terrible, isn’t it?
So that’s the deal. Twelve years over just like that, after one crazy week.
* * *
You will have noticed by now that I haven’t mentioned Owen O’Neill. I still don’t know why I felt the way I did about Owen because I feel absolutely nothing physically for him any more. Oh, I still love him and we are still great friends and he’s OK by the way. Working away on his paintings. He is still having physical therapy on his hand – all of which Colin is happily paying for – but he can still paint with it. Owen never took a legal case against Colin, and when he returned back to work after two weeks, he also handed in his notice. Again, Colette accepted. He then dutifully called me up to tell me and asked me out on a date. To see. I said no. His relief was audible.
Owen admitted what happened between us had given him a fresh creative muse and it had, his new works are incredible. It’s now his full-time job. The work is filled with passionate desire, and pain, and illicit sex.
We discussed what happened and we both agreed we had chemistry and we should both have nipped it in the bud straight away. We should not have spent so much time together and I should never have told him my marriage was in trouble.
You live and learn. Harshly.
I adore my new job. Seriously, I laugh so hard day in and day out. With Colette’s kind help, I was able to secure the funding for the St Andrew’s Resource Centre old folks bus and I take them every Friday afternoon for activities to the City Arts Centre. We do wonderful things with them, from painting, to writing little plays and putting them on for family and friends. The Steffi Street gang are even trying to teach them some of the sign language they’ve been learning. Honestly, now hand on heart, I’m glad I didn’t give up my need to work. I love it. I love how it makes me feel.
I, Ali Devlin, have moved on.
My phone beeps on my outside patio wicker table as I shield my eyes from the sun. I pick it up. It’s Corina.
Will be running ½ an hour late soooooo sorry!
I’m meeting Corina in Malan’s. Our Sunday get-togethers are now on Thursday evenings as my weekends with the kids are too precious to give up.
I move inside to my living room, my bare feet drown in the warm sun-heated cream carpet. Ruby Bomb, my newest toenail colour, hidden in the thick threads. Corina is still with Owen, I’m guessing. Owen had a phenomenal response to his art exhibition last night. Corina, as ever, had been amazing as event coordinator and PR guru. The Paschal Art Gallery on South Eccles Street had been very dimly lit with tiny, blindingly bright spotlights over each of his works. Owen had been on hand to answer any questions and hand sign any sales. Patricia, from the Beans in the City Arts Centre, had done the food just as Owen had hoped one day she would. Tiny nibbles of freshly grown foods that were mouth-wateringly delicious. Owen had looked really smart. In a white granddad-style shirt, black suede suit jacket, with ripped jeans. I was super proud of him.
I stand very still and look at one of his paintings now on my living room wall. I bought it. At least, I part bought it. I’m paying him off week by week. I know it’s us, but no one else would. Well, I’m sure he told his girlfriend. Those two are inseparable and I know they have no secrets. I step in closer and study the work. There are two straight thick black lines down each side of the painting, only curving at the end, going where who knows. A couple of shimmying lines, obviously dancing figures, stark black against the yellow of the walls, and in the background a cigarette on a table, where a candle might be, releasing dark greys of curling smoke. The centre is a huge piece of chocolate cake and all over the painting are mini Pac-Men and Pac-Women. It’s beautiful. The yellow and black so opposite. So extreme. Abstract yet vividly telling our colourful story.
I check my watch. It’s four o’clock and we were due to meet at five. I grab my phone and dial Malan’s to push our reservation back. I set about getting ready. Not having a bath is strangely liberating. I’m not a big fan of the shower so it’s in and out. I don’t waste time. I used to linger in the bath for hours. Jumping under the hot jets I quickly wash my hair. Pulling open my wardrobe door I choose some cut-off denims (imagine approaching thirty-six next week and in cut-offs, just who do I think I am?) and an aquamarine-coloured tank top. Slipping into my outfit, I dig out my flip-flops and go do my make-up.
A rare hot, bright, sunny evening it is and people are seated outside every bar and restaurant as I walk down a lively Dawson Street. Summer whistles a happy tune at me and Christmas seems like a lifetime ago. I’ve gone a bit mad for the jewellery. Long silver necklaces hang around my neck. Jade borrows them all the time.
Colin hated me in shorts and he hated dangly jewellery (as he called it). I’ve noticed that all the things he didn’t like me doing, I do all the time.
My lengthening blonde hair is freshly washed and has dried naturally in the sun on my walk into town. I get a few glances as I pass people on the street, I know I do, but I have zero interest in dating. A full body glance from a sunburnt guy swaying to light a cigarette with a half-full pint of Guinness in his hand makes me think, Why? It’s not that I don’t see myself ever in a relationship again, it’s just I like this stage of my life. It’s taken a hell of a lot to get me here so I need to understand why I’m here. I like the freedom from being in a bonded relationship. Part of a couple. Right now that is; that might all change. Hey, Tom Hardy might come knocking yet.
I’m over the moon that Owen and Corina got together. I texted her last night to bring him today, that I’d love to see him for a chat, celebrate the exhibition last night, but she’d said no, this was our time.
Oh, sorry did I not tell you that they are dating?
She’s the girlfriend I mentioned earlier. They have no secrets. They have been dating since she organised his first exhibition in the Powerscourt Townhouse in February. He even refused the successful place he was offered on the course in France to be with her. He moved into South Circular Road with her after three weeks. He gets just how lucky he is.
He gets her. He’s a lucky man.
The door to Malan’s is propped open with a triangular wooden wedge to let fresh air in and I tell the waitress I have a reservation. She points me to the desk.
Owen still feels horrendous about what we nearly did, he tells Corina all the time. At first she was unsure about his morals until she saw his regret and his continued work with the Steffi Street gang outside of the City Arts Centre. Owen rents a room in his local community centre, at his own expense, on a Sunday morning and those that want to see him go. They paint and read and just talk. James Rafter was even an usher at the gallery expo last night. Wearing a little suit and red dickey bow he looked amazing. By all accounts he’s a clever little storyteller. There is talk of a childrens book of James’ tales, for which Owen is supplying the illustrations. It’s about a boy who once painted a picture of a ballerina. Owen told Corina, who of course told me, that being privy to these kids and their broken homes caused him to realise he had almost spilt up a family; it made him do a lot of soul searching to work out what he wanted in life.
So she forgave him. They set about working together on his exhibition. He had pursued her, wooed her, wined her and dined her, taken her to Paris, taken her to Rome. Romanced her. Flowers, chocolates, jewellery, he’d done it all. Corina fell head over heels in glorious, vivacious, buoyant love.
I like to think I brought them together! Ha!
Our reservation is under my maiden name, Ali O’Dwyer, I tell the impeccable-looking maître d’. He ticks off my name and I make my way with him to our usual booth, exchanging pleasantries and making small talk about the insufferable heat. I slide myself in. Lean back against the familiar soft, red leather-backed frame of the booth. I pick up the thin, hard cardboard menu and fan myself with it for a moment. For some reason, I am taken back to that Sunday afternoon before Christmas, sitting here, when I texted Colin and asked if I could stay for another glass of wine. I stare out the window, at the Mansion House. Back to the future.
Imagine he had said, ‘Yes.’ Imagine he had said, ‘Go on, love, enjoy yourself.’ Imagine he had said, ‘Of course, you deserve a break, say hi to Corina and I will see you in the morning.’
Life turns on a moment. In my heart I know if he’d said that and I arrived home happy and tipsy to a warm reception, we’d have made love. We might have stumbled back onto our path. We might have rolled that unravelled ball of string right back up. Good as new.
Or imagine I had come home, without a bottle of wine in hand and told him I understood he had been up early. I should never have asked. Thanked him for how hard he worked for us.
Imagine.
Out the window I see Corina strolling down Dawson Street. Smiling to herself. I continue to watch her as she moves nearer to me. She has her red hair pinned up as usual with the tumbling strands around the sides of her face. Corina hates the sun and is porcelain white against the tanned people sauntering up and down past her. What a friend she has been. She genuinely wouldn’t date Owen if I wasn’t in full, total agreement. If I hadn’t actively encouraged it. When she came to my work and told me there was an attraction she was actually horrified. She sees me through the glass now and waves madly.
‘Beautiful day! Yeah, yeah I know it is … but I am sweating like Miss Piggy in a fleece onesie!’ She is beside me and kisses me on both cheeks and then slides in opposite me.
‘Will ya stop, it’s gorgeous. Oh, by the way, my landlord, greedy Greg, has been forced by the residents to open that communal area up the top, so we can use it for barbecues. I was thinking maybe for your fortieth we could have a little steak and vino get together?’ I say as our waitress puts down a large jug of water and bobbing lemons in the centre of our booth.
Corina smiles at the waitress before leaning in and asking me intently, ‘How’s all, Ali, everything OK? You doing OK?’
I answer my usual.
‘I’m fine, Corina! You honestly don’t have to ask me every time you see me any more. I’m getting better … The new routine, we are all getting used to it. It’s getting easier. However, I have agreed to take the St Andrew’s regulars on our brand spanking new 161D bus to the Gleneagle Hotel in Killarney next month for the week. God help me, Kitty Tead will have me up singing “Paddlin’ Madeline” all night … They are hyper-excited. I—’
‘I’m expecting a baby, Ali.’ Her mouth is wide open as though she is about the scream at the top of her lungs. I can see her tonsils.
It takes me a second to sink in.
‘Wwwwhhhaaattt?’ I jump out and run around and hug her. ‘Oh, I’m thrilled for you … thrilled for you both … What amazing parents you will make!’ I hug her, not too tightly, before bombarding her with questions: ‘When are you due? How are you feeling? When did you find out? Oh my God, this is amazing news!’
‘Our baby is due in January.’ She is literally beaming. Shining. Luminous. Hands gently placed over her treasure.
I stand over her and look down at her. My heart is bursting with joy for her.
‘Owen is outside Cafe en Seine, will he come in? I don’t usually want him at our time but this is a special occasion, I think. We literally just came from our first hospital appointment.’ She beams up at me.
‘Yes! Of course! Get him in here now!’ I say.
‘OK, great, maybe just for a few minutes, he’s so excited … but I want us to have our own chats too,’ she says as she tap-tap-taps furiously on her Blackberry.
I pour us each a glass of cold water. It all makes sense now. It’s all all right. All as it should be. Things really do happen for a reason. Corina and Owen are going to have a baby.
I mentally check my facts. I might not have done it all perfectly. I might not have created the ideal television Cornflake ad family, with the perfect marriage, the perfect high-paying career or the perfect home.
But my children are doing OK.
I am doing OK.
I think it’s really important for me to be OK.
And then it hits me.
My Oprah ‘A-ha!’ moment. What’s the only thing that matters and the one thing I have always wanted? To be a great mother. That’s my complete goal. That’s my life. Me and my children. I will always be there for them. That is the one thing I am sure of.
And out of nowhere, an old poem springs to mind, one that Bernie O’Dwyer read to me over and over again. I recite it in my head:
One hundred years from now
It will not matter
What kind of car I drove
What kind of house I lived in
How much I had in my bank
Nor what my clothes looked like.
One hundred years from now
It will not matter
What kind of school I attended
What kind of typewriter I used
How large or small my church.
But the world may be …
A little better because …
I was important in the life of a child.
- Forest Witcraft
I, Ali O’Dwyer, am important.