Happy Ever After Page 12

  Juliet bit her lip as she acknowledged this undeniable fact. Mostly, in their marriage, it had been subtle: ‘Oh what would your mother know about that?’ to the children, or ‘My wife’s biggest problem nowadays is whether to go to the beauty parlour or the hair salon . . .’ This at a dinner party when the subject had been the problems of working mothers trying to get to crèches in time to pick up their children. This had caused a ripple of laughter, and she’d sat there with a fixed smile on her face, wondering what he would have done if she’d stood up, poured a jug of water over his head and said, ‘Don’t be such a Neanderthal, you idiot.’

  Tonight, though, he hadn’t been subtle, he’d been vicious, because she’d had it out with him. She knew why he’d been so obnoxious. She hadn’t lived with him for forty years without getting to know him very well. Ken was feeling guilty, and he didn’t like it, and attack was the best form of defence. Juliet rubbed her eyes wearily. Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter. She was tired and fed up and she’d just lived through a life-defining moment. It was hard admitting that she felt a complete and utter failure. She’d always known that Ken was a selfish, self-centred egotist, and she’d accepted it for the big house, the clothes, the jewellery, the affluent lifestyle and the kudos of being Mrs Ken Davenport, wife of the eminent consultant heart specialist.

  She had never felt so disappointed in herself as she did at that moment. She walked over to the big queen-sized bed they shared. She was looking forward to sleeping in it on her own. Juliet stepped over Ken’s scarlet braces. Typical of him to choose scarlet. He was such an attention-seeker. Well, they could stay there until he picked them up; Juliet was done picking up after him. The worm had taken a long time to turn, but it had turned well and truly. From now on, he was on his own. Life, what was left of it, was going to be all about her. She got into bed and stretched her four limbs to the corners. It felt good. Very good. Maybe her husband’s non-appearance at her little art exhibition was the best thing that ever happened to her. The straw that broke the camel’s back might be the key to her liberation after all these years.

  Mind racing, heart palpitating, Juliet Davenport lay wide-eyed in her big marital bed and began to make plans.

  Ken Davenport lay in the unfamiliar double bed in their elegantly appointed guest room, seething.

  How dare his wife rear up on him in the manner she just had. How dare she belittle his undeniable gift as a surgeon by trying to make him feel he was God’s lackey? He had worked bloody hard to get where he was, and his skills had been honed over many years of time and effort. What had got into the woman? She knew better than anyone the politics that went with his position in the medical world. Other surgeons and doctors referred patients to him; it was all about keeping up professional façades, no matter how you felt privately about an individual. It was imperative to show professional courtesy, and that was what going to Larry Wright’s retirement dinner had been all about and Juliet damn well knew that.

  She was right, of course, that the other surgeon was a self-important, unctuous little toad but, notwithstanding, he had a list of patients who needed a new cardiac surgeon, and Ken wanted a slice of that list. Some of Wright’s patients were well-known talking heads, authors, playwrights and TV personalities whom he wouldn’t mind having on his client list. Ken had several such patients himself, but a few more wouldn’t do him any harm. He’d have to think about retiring in the next few years; the more dosh he made now the better. And his wife should know that. How did she expect him to keep up their expensive lifestyle? The two big cars? The villa in Spain, which cost a bloody mint. He’d paid out a fortune in Spanish taxes the previous week. And what about Gina? She didn’t come cheap either. Did his wife not know how lucky she was? Did she not stop to think that he might like to retire? And then he wouldn’t have to lick the arses of the likes of Larry Wright and the rest of them.

  Sometimes he envied the deservedly well thought of and renowned retired heart surgeon Maurice Neligan, whose column he never missed in the Irish Times. How liberating it must be to write what he truly felt about the medical world and the health services, without constraint, now that he was no longer practising. Ken certainly agreed with him about the current health minister and the disaster that was the HSE. Far too many chiefs and not enough Indians. It was a disgrace.

  Ken frowned in the dark, turning and twisting. That particular minister should have resigned long ago. She kept insisting that she wanted to sort out the health services, but it was clear she wasn’t capable of it, and it wasn’t about what she wanted but about what the department needed. But if you put your head up too high above the parapet you suffered for it. He had to play the game, incompetent minister or no.

  Women – they were the bane of his life. Wanting . . . needing . . . making demands. Juliet’s silly little art exhibition was not high on his list of priorities, but he knew well why she was mad with him. He hadn’t supported her when she’d asked him. In fairness, she was always at his side when he needed her, attending numerous functions and dinner parties and always immaculately groomed and elegant. She could carry herself anywhere.

  He wasn’t used to feeling guilty, and he didn’t like it one little bit. What a damn shame she had had to give up playing tennis. That had kept her more than occupied and tired her out after her matches, so he hadn’t had to give her too much attention, which had suited him down to the ground. He could snooze in his chair in peace with a brandy by his side after a hard day at work, while she was off whacking a ball around the tennis court and yip-yapping with the other privileged wives who played with her. Juliet had a very comfortable lifestyle, thanks to his hard work. But, in her behaviour tonight, there wasn’t any recognition of this fact, or any gratitude, he thought, working himself up into a fine state of self-pity.

  He wasn’t used to the shrew who had verbally attacked him, and he hoped mightily that she’d get over her strop sooner rather than later so that things could go back to normal and he could sleep in his own bloody bed.

  Aimee sat at her laptop writing her letter of resignation to Ian, her boss. But she didn’t want to hand it in until after she’d had the termination. She really needed to make the arrangements, and she was dreading it. But it had to be done before she took up her new position. Roger and Myles would hardly want to employ a pregnant woman. Most employers dreaded the words ‘pregnancy’ and ‘maternity leave’, and she could perfectly understand their position. She’d hired a PA once who hadn’t told her she was pregnant, and Aimee had wanted to slap her when she’d finally spilt the beans and applied for her paid maternity leave. Aimee had then had to endure a temp, who was hopeless, until the other girl came back and, after that, things went rapidly downhill, as she took off at the drop of a hat when the crèche rang or when the child had a temperature or whatever. It had been totally unsatisfactory, and Aimee had been more than relieved when the girl had left.

  If she kept this child, she’d have the same sort of problems that her ex-PA had had to contend with, and she just couldn’t face it. Aimee closed her laptop and switched off the two big lamps in the dining room where she’d been working. She felt sick to her stomach, and she didn’t know if this was a symptom of her pregnancy, or stress and tension. She caught a glance of her reflection in the big bevelled mirror as she walked past it on her way to her bedroom. She looked haunted, she decided gloomily, seeing the reflection of two shadowed eyes, deepened by the dark circles under them, staring back at her. And she felt haunted. Haunted by the speck of a child inside her who lay secure in her womb unaware of what was about to befall it.

  She supposed it was a guilt she would carry all her life, knowing that she’d terminated her own child’s life, but she could live with it, she’d have to. Whatever route she went, there would be consequences she didn’t want. This was no win-win situation; this was a complete and utter catastrophe in her life. Decisions had to be made, unpalatable as they were. If guilt was to be a new companion, so be it, she decided grimly, switching off t
he hall light and walking down to her bedroom.

  Barry was asleep, snoring his head off, arm flung across her pillow. Haven’t you the life, Aimee thought bitterly, went into the bathroom and was quietly sick.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Come on. Forget about that old bat, do a line,’ Bryan urged, rolling a fifty-euro note and sniffing the snow-white powder on the kitchen counter in front of him.

  ‘No, I don’t want to, I want to go home,’ Debbie hissed.

  ‘Babe, it’s the weekend, there’s a good crowd here, the night’s only starting. Chill, will you?’ Bryan bent to snort the second line up his other nostril.

  ‘Look, you know what’s going to happen. Kev’s going to ring “his man” with his order, and you’ll be expected to buy some stuff, and we’ve spent enough tonight already. We don’t have the money, Bryan, we’ve got to pay our bills,’ she protested.

  ‘Aw, for crissakes, stop being such a wet blanket. It’s our first night out since we got home. Just because we’re married, it doesn’t mean we have to live in seclusion on bread and water. Come on, babe, this is good stuff.’ Her husband’s eyes were bright and glazed, and she knew she was wasting her time.

  They’d met Kev Devlin and some of his crowd in Eden, and, instead of their having a meal together as she’d hoped, when she could tell Bryan the big step she’d taken in confronting Judith, Bryan had been delighted to accept Kev’s invitation to join them, and the meal had turned into a raucous drink fest, including several bottles of champers, which had cost an arm and a leg. The bill had been divided among them and had cost them far more than Debbie had budgeted for this evening. Kev had invited them all back to his loft apartment on the quays, and the party was getting into full swing, with most of the crowd being fairly pissed, and high on the Es, coke and hash that were on offer.

  ‘And how’s married life suiting you, Debbie?’ Jake Walls gave her a kiss on the cheek and slipped an arm around her. He was a friend of Bryan’s, and his eyes gleamed as the coke hit.

  ‘Great,’ she said flatly. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘You’ll have to throw a party – you’ve never done a house-warmer. I know a great caterer, must give you the name.’ He sniffed and rubbed his nose. ‘Think I’ll go get a beer. Ya want one?’

  ‘No thanks, Jake.’

  ‘A beer did you say?’ Bryan slung his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Sounds good to me. Nice and chilled, straight from the cooler.’

  ‘Was just saying to your wife,’ Jake grinned. ‘You must throw a house-warmer.’

  ‘Fantastic idea, Jake, old son, fantastic idea. What do you think, Debbie?’ Bryan ran his fingers through his hair and smirked at her.

  ‘Yeah, fantastic idea. I’ll arrange it, no problem,’ Debbie said dryly.

  ‘Terrif!’ Her husband planted a smacker on her lips. ‘Just gonna get a beer with Jake. Back in a mo.’

  And I’m going home, Debbie decided as, edging through the throng of guests, she caught sight of a couple having sex in a bedroom off the hall. They didn’t even care that the door was ajar.

  She let herself out and took the lift to the foyer. Bryan was as high as a kite, and she hated it when he was like that. It was a relief to get outside and feel the breeze blowing up the Liffey. There was a time when she was in her early twenties when she would have enjoyed a night like tonight, but getting wasted held no allure for her these days. She didn’t need the hassle of a horrible hangover to add to her financial woes. What was it going to take for Bryan to sit down and discuss their financial situation? It wasn’t dire yet, but it was heading that way.

  She walked along towards the Matt Talbot Bridge, saw a taxi with its light on and flagged it down. She gave her address and slumped into the seat, hoping the taxi driver wasn’t a chatty one. She wasn’t in the humour. Fortunately, she was in luck and he was as disinclined to talk as she was, so she settled back for the journey, tired and disheartened. What a day it had been. It had started out so well, until her name had been picked to visit Judith. Then it had all gone downhill.

  Bryan had been well on the way to being pissed by the time she got to Farringtons and hadn’t wanted to hear about her trials with her boss, or to discuss their lack of finance. Even though she’d had a few drinks, it hadn’t taken the edge off her, as it usually did. It was one of those nights when alcohol had no effect, so there was no point in sticking with it. She didn’t want to do drugs. She didn’t like the effect they had on her. Bryan would be annoyed with her for leaving the party early, but let him. She was just as annoyed with him for the amount of money he’d spent tonight.

  It was after one thirty and she was knackered. She’d worry about everything tomorrow, she decided as the taxi pulled up outside her door a short while later. She was meeting her mother in Meadows & Byrne – that would be something to look forward to. She paid the taxi driver, let herself in and left a light on in the hall for Bryan, if he came home. Knowing him, he’d kip on Kev’s sofa.

  Debbie didn’t even switch on the bedroom light, just undressed and let her clothes fall to the floor. Her bed welcomed her, and she snuggled under the soft, Egyptian-cotton sheets, one of their wedding presents, and stretched luxuriously, yawning her head off. She was asleep in minutes.

  ‘Kev, trust me – it’s the way to go, mate. Rent a loft space, have it all brilliant white and sharp angles – and orchids, definitely orchids.’ Bryan stabbed his finger in the air for emphasis. ‘High-class lighting, I could sort that. It would be the perfect space to hang cutting-edge art . . . our own gallery, mate, just think of it. We could do photographic exhibitions in one section. We saw some terrific exhibitions in NY. I got great ideas while I was there. I just need a backer, y’know. I could remortgage the house for collateral, but I’d need someone else on board. Someone who appreciated art, just like you do.’

  ‘Yaw, sounds cool. Let’s keep it in mind, dude.’ Kev passed the spliff they were sharing back to him. Bryan took it, inhaled deeply and held. This was the life: friends who appreciated what he was about. Friends who were enthusiastic about his plans. He’d never felt so laidback in his life. All his dreams were about to take shape. Kevin Devlin was loaded. He was a whizzkid in financial services, working in the same building as Bryan and earning huge bonuses. He drove a Jag and always had a beautiful blonde on his arm. His family was in the drinks business. They owned pubs and wine bars all over the city, including one in Temple Bar. Bryan envied him his wealth and affluent lifestyle. He actually owned this penthouse outright. There was no mortgage on it. That would be him and Debbs some time in the future, Bryan thought woozily. Living in a riverfront penthouse with no mortgage, throwing hip and happening parties. He hadn’t even noticed that Debbie had left the party hours ago. His eyes drooped, and his head flopped down to his chest.

  ‘You go for a little sleep there, dude, but give me back my spliff.’ Kev grabbed the joint from him.

  ‘It’s mine, actually – I paid for it, and the last lot of coke,’ Bryan muttered, before passing out on his friend’s soft Italian-leather sofa.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On way 2 Meadows & Byrne 2 meet D around ten. C

  Barry read Connie’s text as he sat in his dressing gown on the wraparound balcony drinking a mug of tea. The wind had died down from the previous day, and the early morning sun shone over a pearly, flat, calm sea. Faint wisps of fog hugged the hill of Howth, and only the cawing of the seagulls disturbed the peace around him.

  Barry inhaled deeply, drawing the tangy salt-flavoured air into his lungs. This was his favourite time at the weekend. Winding down, enjoying the vista from the balcony, having two whole days away from the office, with time to read the paper from cover to cover or get in a game of golf or a walk on the pier with Melissa. Then dinner and drinks with friends in a good restaurant, or as guests at the various dinner parties they were invited to.

  Years ago, Aimee would join him in his recreational activities but, nowadays, after a lie-in, she spent much of her time
catching up on emails or working out in the gym, and they’d only get together if they were going out socializing. Certainly, in the past year, as she had become immersed in work, their time together had waned. It would be nice having coffee with Connie and Debbie. Enjoyable and companionable . . . like a real family at last.

  He finished his tea and went inside and put his mug in the dishwasher. The cleaner had been the previous day, and the kitchen gleamed. The sunlight glinted on the stainless-steel taps and drainer. It could have been a kitchen in the pages of an interior-design magazine. They’d spent a fortune getting a new state-of-the-art kitchen installed, but the irony was that Aimee was rarely in it, even though she was the one who’d pushed to get it. Barry had been perfectly happy with the kitchen they’d had previously. It was a showhouse kitchen and more than adequate for their needs. But Aimee had been to a dinner party too many and seen too many upgraded kitchens and had to have one herself, despite the fact that, these days, she rarely did more than pour herself a glass of wine or make herself a cup of coffee in it. Whatever cooking was done, he did it. Otherwise, they lived out of the Butler’s Pantry and Donnybrook Fair. Just as well they were both earning hefty salaries; it was an expensive way to eat, he thought wryly, as he ambled down the hall to wake Melissa.

  His younger daughter was already propped up against her pillows, busy texting. He shook his head when he saw her, tousled head bent, fingers flying across the keys. Kids these days were superglued to their phones. He’d heard a psychologist on the radio talking about how youngsters were texting late at night and, as well as suffering sleep deprivation, were often being bullied by phone. He should take that damn phone away from her at night. But that wouldn’t go down too well.