Excerpt: The Old Bat Chonicles

Chapter Four

OK I’ve been a whinging cow.
I texted a few of the old faces, girls that were part of couples Paul and I socialized with, thinking I might as well bite the bullet and find out what way the land lay. Everyone responded, everyone professed themselves delighted to meet up, and suddenly I realized that I had shut them out, just in case they rejected me.

Getting dressed I was amazed how upbeat I felt. Ok, a little nervous about meeting the girls after nearly four months and facing the inevitable “Paul” conversation, but Carl would be there and hopefully his current squeeze Fergal as well, and they were like having your own personal social bodyguards. Fergal is a stylist for a TV station and has an endless store of insanely funny stories about Ireland’s home-grown celebrities. Noone could focus on my problems when there’s hot gossip about the StickInsect (our name for a continuity announcer whose bones protrude more each month) or the famous married couple whose “perfect marriage” was subject to bouts of screaming tantrums and crockery breaking arguments.

Town was bustling, so I could be forgiven for not noticing the man staring at me fixedly as I ploughed through the men’s section of Marks and Spencer’s, looking for a cardigan for my Dad.
“Laney?”
It was Lisa’s husband Peter, father to Cian the Terrible - though I immediately regretted that thought, the poor kid hadn’t been half bad at the Halloween party.
I looked around for Lisa but there was noone nearby – except a single lone female skulking by the polo necks and ties. She was tall, blonde and cheap looking. I sighed.
“Hi,”
“So…how are you?” he said heartily.
“Grand. Yourself?”
“Me, sire I’m grand. Can’t complain, hah hah. You know yourself.”
“How’s Lisa?” So I’m malicious, sue me.
“Lisa?” his voice definitely went an octave higher. “Oh fine! She’s fine. We’re all…fine.”
“Great.” I stared at him, wondering why on earth he’d come over at all. If he’d just walked away I would never have noticed him. Maybe he thought I’d spotted him and this was a double bluff.
“So thanks, thanks so much for taking Cian that time. Halloween. He really enjoyed himself. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”
“Actually no, no he wasn’t. He got on very well with my cousin’s lot. All boys together.”
Peter looked surprised. “Really? That’s great. Cian doesn’t seem to get on with other boys very well usually. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a wimp, to be honest.”
I nearly smacked him. OK yes, I can see Cian whining a crying if he got a knock, but whose fault was that? And no father should ever diss his own children. My dad has his faults and gods know the man never laboured under any illusion that his children were perfect or brilliant but in public he spoke of us in glowing terms.
“Well he got on grand,” I said flatly.
“Good, good.” He rubbed his hands. “Well then, great to see you. Say hello to your brothers for me,” Peter had once been a god mate of David’s but they’d drifted apart recently. (Ask David why, a little voice said.)
“I will”
He walked away nonchalantly in the opposite direction to the blonde woman but sure enough once I’d disappeared out of sight behind the jumpers and cardigans rack he doubled back. I watched discreetly as he took her arm; she pulled away a little and they seemed to argue, then Peter leant in and kissed her on the lips.

Peter had always been seen as a “Good man” a decent sort who had been snared by a walking wagon. I was beginning to think he was as bad as Lisa in his own way. Imagine going up to your wife’s friend – one of her oldest friends – while out with your mistress; ok so he knew I wasn’t a great fan of Lisa’s – well, more or less a friendly enemy – but that made it worse. It was hard not to feel that he might be relying on my dislike of Lisa – assuming a certain amount of Schadenfreude on my part would keep me quiet.
Well, the annoying little voice pointed out, you have been tacitly taking his side against his wife.
Ah shut up.

I abandoned the shopping schedule after that and headed straight for the trendy restaurant that Carl had earmarked for lunch. Of course it was hard to find, tiny, severely minimalist and the prices were astronomical. They did however serve killer cocktails and in an ideal world that would have been my comfort. But as I’d driven into town – like the rest of the citizenry of the capital I tried to avoid public transport on the grounds that it was crap, and highly unreliable. The timetable of the 46A had been nominated for the Booker prize for fiction. So I had my car with me, I was part of the 80-s generation which means I don’t drink and drive (I also don’t do coke, and have never been tempted by E – we prefer to drink and occasionally, smoke.)
This meant when Carl and the others arrived I was sitting miserably at the bar trying to look all “girl about townish” but actually trying not to slide off the impossibly small and high barstool while keeping all my bags from falling over or being nicked.
Carl shrieked when he copped the bags.
“Oh you did it!” Kiss, kiss, both cheeks, then he disappeared into the bags probably checking and double checking against the list in his head. ”Oh well done! I’m so glad you went for the afghan throw for your parents, I guarantee you they’ll love it. Oh that was as fabulous price on the Gautier perfume, excellent, and you got the Clinique – whose that for?”
Fergal pushed him to one side and enveloped me in a bear hug. “Welcome back” he said earnestly. “Thank Christ you’ve come back from the dark side”
I had to laugh. “Thanks Fergal, I’m fine. I promise not to cry into my salad.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Cry away, dear. That’s not what I meant. I was referring to your years of servitude to Darth Stingy.”
Paul really hadn’t been popular with Carl and Fergal.

Lunch was great; I had missed the girls. None of them were very close friends in comparison to Amanda, but they were all decent people, lots of fun and genuine. Actually now I thought about it Amanda had sneered at them. She generally disliked women in couples anyway on general principles – she called them smug bitches. Though, and this caused me a pang – she was part of a couple now. Amanda had always claimed my “coupled” female friends excluded her. “They don’t want an unattached woman around, they’re all so afraid their precious boyfriends will stray. They’re absolute cats, all of them.”
Ye gods, I wished I’d been the same.
Anyway, either she was wrong or I wasn’t seen as much of a threat to their menfolk, because by the time we all parted ways, Mags Walsh and Jenny Brady had both invited me to dinner (not the “you must come sometime” type of invitation but actual real invitations with times and dates) and Cathy Maguire insisted on walking me up to Hughes and Hughes bookstore where her husband Vince was browsing. If she was terrified I was going to run away with him, or otherwise ply my womanly wiles she managed to hide it extremely well, fair play to her.

By half four I was laden with bags, tired, footsore but really quite happy. There was a definite shift in the inner landscape – something that had ruptured and festered since walking in on Paul and Amanda had lightened a little. No, not a miracle cure but for the first time in ages I felt as if I might eventually heal. Somewhere far, far down the line. But eventually. Hopefully.

I poured a large glass of wine and curled up on the sofa feeling relaxed and happy. So when the phone rang I answered in a cheery and upbeat manner.
“Laney!” A vaguely familiar voice hissed down the line. “Laney are you there?”
Lisa bloody Delaney.
“Um…Lisa? Is that you?”
“yes” there was a very muffled sound at the other end of the line, and heard what sounded like large objects falling but from a distance. Then a series of sotto voce curses –“of for fucks sake…fuckitfuckitfuckit” then “Laney? Are you there?”
“Yes of course I am,” I replied with some acerbity. “Lisa, what on earth’s going on over there?”
“I can’t talk loudly,” She whispered dramatically, “I don’t want Peter to know I’m on the phone. I’m under the stairs.”
O-kay. “What do you mean you’re under the stairs?”
“I’m under the stairs. The cupboard, under the stairs. The coats and shoes and things, I’m in there.”
I really dreaded asking.
“What are you doing under the stairs, Lisa?”
“Hiding,” her tone of voice implied “you moron” > I sat up a little straighter and frowned. “Lisa, what do you mean? Are you ok? How are you hiding from?” Visions of Peter stalking their three storey house with a poker in his hand danced across my mind..he wouldn’t be the first Irish man to think divorce was too expensive. “Lisa? Are you hurt?”
“What? Oh for gods sake stop wittering! Why would I be hurt? Really, I despair of you sometimes. I just want to talk to you, I don’t want Peter overhearing!”
Bloody hell. “Lisa, what the hell do you want?”
A pause. “Peter says he ran into you today in town.”
“Yes.” Gods I hated this. What would I say if she asked if he was alone? Maybe she wouldn’t even think of that though.
“Was he alone?”
Bugger.
“Sorry?”
“For christs sake Laney, it’s a simple enough question. Was he alone? Was anyone with him?”
I drew a breath. “When he came up to me, he was alone, yes.” Fingers crossed she wouldn’t ask any further.
“Oh,” she gave a shaky little laugh. “I wondered, you know. I mean, what was he doing in town and in Marks and Spencers of all places? What would he buy in there?”
Clothes like the rest of us plebs? Apparently not. There was another little pause and then she continued “Did you notice anyone around? Anyone lurking?”
Ah feck it. What could I say? Yes, Lisa there was a woman and they looked very chummy, would you like me to describe her?
“I didn’t really think to look,” When I was a kid you could cross your fingers and it made it not a lie. Does that still hold when you’re an adult?
“Oh,” she sounded disappointed and relieved in equal measure. “So you think he was alone?”
“When he came up to me, yeah, he was alone.” Oh god of lying cheating bastards, please smite thy servant Peter. “Lisa are you ok?”
“What? Oh yeah yeah, I’m fine. I just wondered….well, you would wonder wouldn’t you? A man goes shopping in town on a Saturday instead of playing golf. Not normal.”
“Well, he told you he met me, that’s good,” I said weakly –“I mean, he came up to me in town, I hadn’t seen him at all.”
“Really?” the relief seemed to be winning over the disbelief. “Well, that’s good. Yes. I think that’s good.”
“ok. Well, if you’re ok ….” How to say please get off the phone, so I can scream in mortification and feel shit for the rest of the night? “Won’t peter notice if you spend too long under the stairs?”
“What? Oh. Oh yes, you’re right I have to go. Thanks. Bye,bye,bye!”
One of the things I’ve always hated about Lisa is her habit of going “yes yes yes” and “bye bye bye” when talking to people, or hanging up. It’s so incredibly rude; it screams “yes everything you’re saying is so boring, and I know it all already.” And every single woman I know who does it are each neurotic, bossy people. It went a long way to relieving my guilt at lying to her – it genuinely helped that I didn’t like her and never could. Ah but, Peter really was a bastard.
I sighed. I really hoped that was the end of it as far as I’m concerned. Carl agreed with me when I related the phone call on Monday.
“Don’t get involved, don’t,” he warned. “They’re both horrible people. Pity the child.”
“I would,” I replied “but it’s like pitying Attila the Hun.”
I handed him a neatly wrapped –shop wrapped of course, I can’t gift wrap for toffee – parcel. Carl’s like a child half the time, his entire face lights up when he gets a present or surprise.
“What’s this? For me?” He fell on it, ripping the pretty paper ruthlessly. “Oh! Oh,oh, oh,” He literally did a little dance. In his hands nestled the tiniest little iaudio Mp3 player, the techie’s dream of Mp3 players in red and black. “Oh how did you know!”
“I dunno, mate, you may have mentioned how lovely they are once or ten times.”
“But it’s so expensive! And it’s weeks to Christmas. Sorry, Yule to you” Carl refused to take anyone’s religion seriously although he approved of the gift giving.
“It’s not your Christmas present. I would never spend that much on your Christmas present.”
He stared at me, then frowned “Does not compute, o great leader.”
“it’s a thank you present.” I sipped my coffee and tried to look nonchalant. “It’s a thank you for covering for me for two weeks while I tried to save my relationship. Thank you for hiding the fact that I cried in work for at least two weeks and missed meetings and forgot appointments. Thanks for listening to me whining and moaning and bitching. Thanks for giving me a kick up the arse when I needed it.”
Carl blushed. “I’m just – ah, that’s nothing. Don’t be daft” He looked at his little red gift again. “I love it. Oh, you!”

I was able to turn back to work with a better conscience than in many a week. Carl had been more than good to me, a better friend than many would have been; it felt good to have said a proper thank you. Now my overactive sense of guilt was free to worry about Lisa and lying to her. But as the representative of a famous, glamourous house of design turned up and asked me out to lunch I didn’t actually waste too much time feeling bad. After all it really wasn’t my business.

Chapter Five

Over the weeks and months since Amanda and Peter broke up with me dinner at my parents had become the highlight of me week, socially. It felt good to ring and cancel that Saturday; it felt very good to report that Mags and Liam Walsh had invited me to dinner. The Walsh’s were a favourite of my mothers, she knew Liam’s father from college and his mother often dropped in and out of her social circle, especially the golf club.
“That’s fabulous,” she enthused. “Oh who are you bringing?”
“Bringing? No, Mam, she’s just invited me. Then there’s a few friends of hers and Liam and Liam’s brother Declan.”
“Declan?” she inhaled sharply. “Declan Walsh will be there?”
Oh god, what has she got against Declan? I hadn’t seen him in years but from what I remembered he was a perfectly nice guy. I certainly hadn’t heard any scandal about him in the meantime.
“Elaine Veronica Walsh.” Full name, serious stuff. “Declan Walsh is one of the richest young men in Ireland. He owns that hotel, the swanky one, those rock stars thrashed it last year.”
The Sugarloaf – a five star hotel in Wicklow that was literally dripping with rock stars and Hollywood actors. Last year, a certain notorious rock group had stayed there, thrashed the place, tried to settle it by dropping a large cheque and were surprised
When the gardaí appeared and sternly carted them off for criminal damage. It was all over the papers for weeks, with the general consensus being that the hotel was absolutely right to prosecute them, although it was also widely bruited that it would be the death of the Sugarloaf seeing as no self respecting international star would want to stay there now. After all there were many other top hotels willing to turn a blind eye to anything the rich and famous chose to do. In the end however it seemed that being every bit as stuck up in their own way as their rich guests actually worked a treat; they went from hot to white hot overnight. (I get my information from the better type of glossy and the amiable chatty ones among our clientele)

“That’s not Declan, Mam, don’t be silly. That place is part of a chain of hotels. The Something group – Celtic group or something.”
“Hibernian. The Hibernian Celt Group. I know. That’s Declan Walsh’s company.” I rolled my eyes. Mam couldn’t be right; Declan to the best of my knowledge did something really boring in college. I knew when I was in Arts, doing English and History he was in the background, doing something very sensible and solid and we all used to take the piss out of him and his mates. In a nice way of course, he was a nice guy. But there was no point arguing with her, my mother rewrote reality regularly to suit herself.
“ok, anyway , that’s where I’ll be and I’ll pass on your regards.”
I could tell she wasn’t listening. There was the sound of pages turning.
“Mam? Are you reading while I’m talking to you?”
“Declan is single.” This last in a tone of utter triumph. “It says here “the single managing director and major shareholder of Hibernian Celt….” See? Single.”
Oh gods. “Yeah, ok Mam, I’ll talk to you later, I have to go…”
“Wait. Margaret, Margaret, do you remember that article on the Walsh boy…”
you had to get off the phone from her as fast as possible when she went down that road – in her head the managing director of Hibernian Celt Hotel group and poor auld Declan Walsh were one and the same. She’d be telling Margaret all about my “date” with a rich and famous hotel owner. I had to laugh.

##
“Really?”
I choked into my white wine and tried not to laugh. Really, you can’t just start randomly bursting into hysterics when old friends tell you what they’re doing now.
Declan looked at me quizzically. “Yes. The hotel business. Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes. Hotels so. That’s great,” He didn’t seem convinced so I tried to sound more earnest. “But didn’t you do something very different in College?”
“Accounting.” He said, and I don’t think I was imagining the slight edge in his voice. “I was a Commerce student.”
Oh I remembered now. When I was in Arts, the commerce students were the butt of our jokes; although they were considered a lot more human than the Agricultural or Science ones. Still, I could vaguely remember taking the mick out of Declan and his mates in the bar for being drones.
“Well…” what could I say? “Well, at least you got out of it!” There, that was cheery and supportive.
This time he snorted.
“So hotels are an improvement, you think?”
“Oh yes. Definitely.” I couldn’t help, it I had to ask. “Here, Declan, you’re not something to do with that Hibernian Celt group are you? You know the Sugarloaf, and that hotel in Donnybrook?”
This time the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “Yes. I own it.”
Ah the poor shite, I thought. He thinks I’m going to try to blag a free weekend break or something. Little did he know I wouldn’t have anyone to use it with, even if he was giving them away with the after dinner mints. Or would he – maybe Mags had filled him in on everything, though I doubt he’d be madly interested. The Declan I remembered wasn’t a gossipy, bitchy type of man. No, he probably was sick of people hitting him up for freebies or asking after rock stars.
“It’s ok,” I grinned. “I’m not after a free room and I don’t care if Nicole Kidman stays there.” I was rewarded with a laugh. Encouraged, I continued. “No, it’s just my mother. She insisted it was you in some magazine she was reading, and I said no, it couldn’t be the same Declan Walsh.”
If Declan has a fault it’s a tendency to be too serious. He frowned and said “Why? Too glamourous for me?”
“Yeah,” I said without thinking then realized how it sounded. “Well you know what I mean. I was going to be a writer, not a fashionista. You were going to be a nice safe accountant in a bank or something, Instead you’re a hotelier – that’s the right word isn’t it? – and remember Den Listmore? Remember he used to give out to everyone and say he’d never conform, and we were all sell outs if we took 9 to five jobs?”
“That was the theme of his speech at graduation, yes,”
“Well he’s working as a school teacher.”
Declan stared at me then threw his head back and laughed. He really had improved a lot over the years, I thought idly. I could see he dressed well and while no Mr Darcy, he had good strong features. When he relaxed –like now – he was pretty attractive. Not in Peter’s league, I thought with a pang – Peter had dark hair, lovely skin, and huge blue eyes and was generally considered to be extremely cute.
“A school teacher? Secondary or Primary?”
“Oh, Secondary, he went back to college after a few years and did a H-dip. Then got a job in a school in Cork. He’s teaching Marie O’Dwyer’s son. They call him Lustmore.”
“No!” He grinned in glee. “Please, tell me it’s true.”
“Oh it’s true as true. It’s amazing where we’ve all ended up. I think it’s brilliant you’re Mr Hibernia Celt. And I love that a lot of the stuck up ones have ended up doing boring auld stuff, and lots of the nice people have done well for themselves. Sort of natural justice.”
“And you? How are you doing? Are you really a – what was it, fashionista?”
“Nah not really. I’m a buyer for fashion though, I’m quite good at it. But secretly I wish I’d written that book and been a famous author.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Can’t write for shite.” I said ruefully. “I keep getting bored as well, and then I kill off characters just for fun.”
Mags appeared just as Declan started to laugh. She shot me an approving glance as she passed; obviously Declan didn’t roar with laughter that often. He was good fun, I remembered. Like myself he was never the heart and soul of the group, but always someone you’d be glad to see. Dinner looked like being fun.
My phone beeped.
Is it the right Declan?
Damn mother.
Yes. Mr Hibernian Celt.
She’d crow now. I found myself sitting next to Declan at dinner. “Here,” I said, “My mother texted. She wanted to know if it was you. She says Hello.”
“I always liked your mam,” he said. Mags pricked up her ears. “Your parents are so cool, Laney. They always were. They were so nice about letting us all crash in the living room when we were students. I woke up there so many Saturday mornings…I owe your mother about 100 cooked breakfasts.”
“Don’t tell her that – seriously she’d hold you to it.”
“I remember your older brother David,” Declan said suddenly. “He gave out to us one night for being too loud. It was half ten.”
God bless him, David was always a born grump. Even as a teenager he went to bed by ten pm most nights.
“He’s still the same. I stayed with him in France last year and he got up at 7am every morning, including Sunday. The kids tell him to feck off though, and Marie-Claire ignores him.”
And dinner went on like that. It was actually fun to be there on my own, I’d forgotten how much I liked chatting and I’d forgotten something else – I can actually be funny. Not roll in the aisles, make a living at stand-up funny, but yeah, funny. I can make my friends laugh by describing someone we know or telling a story. I used to be like that, I thought, I used to be funny and chatty. But Peter found my wibbling excruciatingly embarrassing. He used to glare at me until I shut up, which in fairness to him I can’t really blame as I talk far too much but still, it was nice not to watch everything I said and just relax.
My phone buzzed again.
Margaret says he good catch, get number
I went bright red. The evil auld pair of wagons.
Furiously I texted back at the earliest opportunity.
Shameful. Nice man. Not looking. Leave me alone.
We wandered into the sitting room with coffee. I got talking to some of the other guests and forgot about Declan til Mags drew me aside. “Well done! You got Declan laughing and chatting – how on earth did you manage it?”
“Why?” I mean, I know he can be serious but surely he laughs occasionally.
“He never laughs,” Mags swore. “remember what a sweetie he used to be? Oh he’s changed so much over the last ten years. He got really, really bitter after his fiancé dumped him – did you know about that?”
“No…but I sympathise.” Mags eyes gre worried
“ah shite, Laney I’m sorry me and my big mouth.”
“Ah gwon,” I said. “Tell me about Declan.”
“Oh she was a cow. Charlie, short for Charlotte, a real Dublin four princess. Daddy’s money, country house, silly bitch type. She cheated on him with some dickhead from England, and then dumped poor Declan. Liam wanted to strangle the wagon. She absolutely gutted him.”
“He got hard.” I knew how he felt.
“Yep. And so serious and – well, dour. To be honest I was dreading him being here tonight, he usually rubs folk up the wrong way. And it’s such a pity because really he’s a lovely, lovely guy but –“ She didn’t have to finish. I could imagine anyone around me the last few months saying “she used to be lovely but now –“ I made a renewed mental note to stop being so heartbroken and whingy.
“Well, I found him great craic,” I said “Don’t worry, the old Declan is still in there.”
My phone buzzed again.
Don’t be cheeky. Do you want die alone?
I switched it off.
##

“Give it to me NOW!”
I sat with my head in my hands and watched Cian Delaney Ferguson systematically remove every cd from my cd rack and throw it at his mother. You had to admire the stubborn, methodical, implacable way in which he went about it.
Lisa stood over him, her face flushed and quite obviously the worse for drink and roared at him again. “Give it to me!” Cian threw another one at her head.
Gods only knew what the neighbours thought.

“Lisa,” I said “Lisa, please sit down and talk to me. Leave him be, you’re only winding him up.”
She turned on me with a look that a viper would have fled from. “Don’t you tell me how to deal with my bloody child.”
This was getting out of hand.
“Lisa,” I pitched my voice low and let some energy loose in it. “Sit down, now. Sit down and be quiet.”
Reluctantly but unable to resist she walked over slowly – and unsteadily – towards the couch, and flopped into it. I caught Cian staring at me and sighed. Buggeration, I’d forgotten what Margaret had told me. He really did seem to be able to see past the surface. Well I’d deal with that after. Right now I had a hysterical woman on my hands.
And it had been such a lovely evening.

I’d left Mags and the others around half one, pleasantly full with good food and wine and happily considering the end of my self imposed purdah when I remembered my phone was off. “16 missed calls” shouted the legend on the screen. Immediately I thought of my parents – heart attack, sudden illness – and then of Jonathon – motorbike crash – but the number came up as “D ferg” Delaney Ferguson. Lisa. I sighed. Well no point ringing back now and I could listen to my 16 voice mails in the morning. Nothing was going to spoil the nice little buzz I was enjoying.

Nothing that is except the sight of a drunken Delaney on the doorstep complete with over tired, and extremely cranky offspring. My neighbours weren’t best pleased either. Apparently Lisa’s attempt to gain entry to my apartment block had consisted of her ringing every apartment buzzer repeatedly expecting someone to buzz her up. When I got there, a guy from two floors up was down in his pyjamas roaring abuse at her. I calmed him down, gathered up my unwelcome guests and shepherded them upstairs. Where both promptly threw spectacular temper tantrums.

“What will I do?” Lisa wailed burying her tear streaked face in my cushions. She made a truly pathetic figure, only slightly marred by the intermittent hiccups.
“Please, Lisa,” I brought over the loo roll (I never had nice boxes of tissues handy at moments like this, not even plain old Kleenex mens size – it’s always the toilet roll) “Please, sit up and wipe you face. Try to calm down a bit – Cian if you throw that I will lock you out on the balcony - here, have a sip of water..”

By turns coaxing and bullying I got her to sit up and breathe deeply. Cian grew quieter too; I couldn’t find it in me to blame the poor kid for throwing a wobbly, I’d have thrown one too if my mother was drunk and howling. Lisa sobbed and gulped and gasped for air but eventually managed to spit out what had happened ; well enough to follow anyway.
“He asked who I rang –sob – I said no one but he said was it you, I said why, and then –then he got this look, his face went all funny and he started talking really fast, and it was all bullshit, all total bullshit and I asked him. Oh god, why did I ask him? I asked him straight out and he said – wail – he said it was a mistake and she meant nothing and he was sorry. But I couldn’t stay there I want to KILL him,”

That might not be her exact words but you get the gist. Peter had confessed, ill-advisedly as it turns out, and now it was actually real, out in the open, poor Lisa couldn’t ignore it anymore so she left. Taking the child with her. So far so exemplary – though I have to say I’ve always favoured throwing the cheating rat out rather than storming off – but then Lisa strayed a little from the Wronged Wife and Mother script by taking said child, booking into hotel and proceeding to get roaring drunk in the hotel bar while Cian amused himself in the lobby. Whether it was outrage at a mother getting rat arsed and abandoning her child to its own devices in public, or the fact that Cian set fire to the curtains, I’m not too sure; but either way the hotel asked them to leave, and never if possible darken their marble doorstep again.

So much the worst for wear, clutching a bag and pulling an increasingly angry Cian behind her, she’d made straight for me because – actually, why? “Lisa, what made you come to me?” I tried to keep the unspoken “you mad bint, why me?” out of my voice.
She looked at me and I really won’t even try to describe the look of despair and depression that crossed her face. “Because you – you’re my only friend.”

##

Mags rang me at nine o’clock. It was a Sunday morning – no normal people ring at nine o’clock in the morning on a Sunday. Admittedly she’d shown no signs of being a maniac or mentally unstable up to this moment but it just goes to show you never can tell about people. I said as much mumbling into the mobile while trying to work out why I was sleeping on my own couch. There is nothing as odd as walking up on a divan or couch in your own home – you feel like you should get up and go home but you can’t, obviously.

“WHasa?” sometimes I amaze myself with my own wit.
“Laney? Are you there? Are you ok?”
“No. Neither. Mags?”
“Yes,” she laughed, the cow. A healthy up-at-dawn, go for a jog before breakfast type of laugh. “Are you up?”
“Wha? No of course not. Mags? Why are you ringing me. It’s only nine. It’s Sunday.”
Another cheery laugh. Bitch. “I know, silly. I just wanted to talk about last night!”
Some part of my tired and befuddled brain managed to send a message to my mouth in time to stop me replying in a rather brusque and unfriendly manner. “Don’t “it said. “This woman cooked for you and invited you into your home. She gave you the first night out you’ve had in four months and the first evening you’ve spent not crying over Paul and Amanda. Do not- repeat, do not – insult, annoy or otherwise alienate her,”

Bugger.

“Sorry, sorry. I was asleep,” I struggled to disentangle myself from the quilt throw that had ridden up during the night to strangle me. “God, yes. Last night, that was excellent. I really enjoyed myself, thank you.”
Mags gave another laugh, this time one of pure evil. “You really want to tell me to eff off for ringing so early don’t you? Never mind, you’ll get over it. You can go back to bed after. So – you enjoyed last night?”
“I did. I really did. Seriously. “
“Great. And Declan?”
“Declan? Um, lovely guy, bit serious, but had a good laugh, nice to meet him again…”
She tsked impatiently. “Yes, but did you like him? No, stop, don’t say “lovely guy” again. I mean, did you really like him, “like” like him?”
Oh. “Like” like him. That was old schoolgirl code for “did you fancy him.” Like “did you go out, out” meant did you go somewhere after the pub, or “did you dance, dance with him,” meant did you dance the slow dance, “like, like him” meant did you think he was a fine half that you’d like to jump.

“Mags, I haven’t seen him in years, last night was my first night out in sane and adult company in months. I’m still in mourning. I wouldn’t fancy Harrison Ford if he turned up in full Indiana Jones costume. I thought he was lovely. I always thought he was a nice guy.” A though occurred to me. “Why? Did he say he fancied me?” despite myself my heart beat a little faster. It was a long time since anyone fancied me.
“Um, no.” She sounded sheepish as well she should.
“So why the feck are you ringing me at this ungodly hour to ask me if I fancy him?”
“Um cause – well he didn’t say anything but I think he did. He kept looking at you and talking to you and you made him smile. Hell, you made him laugh. Seriously Laney, he hardly ever laughs. He was telling stories for feck’s sake. He never tells stories anymore.”
“OK. OK, we both had a good time. Ah Mags. That means nothing.”
“I know, I know. Still would I be correct in saying that you don’t hate the idea?”
I stared at the phone. Did I hate the idea? Did I like the idea? It was too early – literally and figuratively. I couldn’t answer really. “I don’t know, honestly. I don’t hate the idea I suppose, but I doubt he’s interested.”
“Good!”
“Mags, I said I don’t hate the idea, not that I want you to start matchmaking.”
“I know. Look, I won’t do anything, I won’t interfere, I swear. It’s just- well we really like you and we love Declan, even if he has become awfully dour these days. It would be so cool if you got together. But I won’t do anything, I swear. Except cross my fingers.”

So I was flattered. Actually not as much by the idea that Declan might fancy me – of which incidentally there was no evidence – as by Mags saying she and Liam liked me enough to be happy to see me with Declan. If I got any confidence boost that was the one I needed. In fact it would have put me in excellent form had I not suddenly worked out why I was on my couch and who was snoring from my bedroom.

I let them sleep as long as possible not only from charity but to put off having to face a hungover and mortified Lisa. I knew in my waters she’d be raging with herself for letting me see her like that. Probably she’d stomp around, come up with some lame excuse and slope off back to Peter at the earliest opportunity. I wandered down to the shops and bought breakfast foods – eggs, sausages, rashers, pudding, bread, and anything essentially that I could fry or toast – and a huge Sunday paper, with supplements on everything from interior decoration to farming. By the time I got back to the apartment, the shower was running and Cian was sitting glued to the TV. He turned it off as I came through the door and looked at me with suspicion.

“What’s all that,”
“Breakfast.” I laid the spoils out on the counter top and started searching for a frying pan.
“Sausages?” this in tones usually reserved for remarks like “the holy grail!”
“Yeah. You do eat sausages? Rashers? Eggs?”
His eyes never left the pile of food. “I love them. They won’t let me have any.”
Oh bloody hell. Don’t tell me he was allergic to sausages?
“Why not?”
“Because eating fry-ups makes you fat. Lisa doesn’t like having that sort of food in the house in case she eats it. And I’m not allowed get fat. Apparently if you get fat as a child you stay fat.“

For once I took a moment to think before replying.
“Well being healthy is important. Eating well is important. But the odd fry isn’t going to make you fat.” I handed him the eggs and a whisk. “Here. Burn some energy off whipping them.” What happened next was probably the worlds strangest cookery class, with someone who can’t cook teaching someone else how to cook. However, while I won’t say it was the best breakfast ever made it did turn out reasonably well and Cian certainly demolished it. We were sitting among the debris sipping tea (even I know not to feed a kid coffee) when Lisa emerged from the bedroom pale and wan, but at least looking a bit more respectable.
She eyed the breakfast remains with disgust and shook her head. Luckily she was far too wrecked to make an issue out of it.
“Laney. I am sorry about last night. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Ah don’t worry about it. Sit down and have some tea.” I could afford to be charitable now the end was in sight. “Cian helped my make breakfast. Can I tempt you to some eggs and toast?” She turned a pleasing shade of green and shook her head. “No. Well, maybe tea.”
I nodded at Cian. “Be a pet and clear that stuff off the table.” In fairness there is nothing worse than staring at the rag end of someone else’s breakfast when you’ve a sick hangover. For a moment he looked mutinous then he stood up. Lisa looked surprised but worryingly made no remark. I say worryingly because it was disconcerting to see her so deflated and fragile.
“So, how do you feel this morning?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Crap. Like my stomach has been pulled out through my arse. Like my husband just admitted to an affair.”
Casting my mind back four months I nodded. “Like your world has ended and you’ve been smacked over the head repeatedly until your brain broke?”
A sad little nod. “Yup”
“ok. The good news is it won’t last. It does get better. The bad news is it takes a really long time and you’ll ruin your eyes crying. And people will gossip about you.” I realized this didn’t sound too good as a pep talk. “But at the end of it you’ll be better off, and you won’t be stuck with a lying cheating bastard.”

Lisa rolled her eyes in Cian’s direction in what seemed to be a belated maternal instinct to protect him from the horrible truth about his father. Obviously she had forgotten sitting on the back of the couch last night swinging arms and legs in time to a chant of “Peter is a cheating bastard,” while Cian looked on.
“Lisa, I’m sorry to break this to you but he knows.” She looked stricken, and I felt bad but she needed to know. “You pretty much made it clear last night. I think it’s probably a bit late to pretend you rowed over the housekeeping.” Her head dropped into her hands and she groaned.
“Oh stop it, Lisa. It’s not your fault. You’re only human. You had an awful slap in the face; you reacted. It’s his fault for cheating not yours.” I considered for a moment “though you might want to avoid the Hibernian Premier on the Green in future.”
I’ll admit it, watching her horrified recall of the night before was very funny. Did I mention how much she used to bully me in school? OK, no excuse, I know but still. She went several shades of puce, crimson, white and finally back to grey.
“O. My. God. I’ll never be able to go there again. Ever. What will I do? Everyone knows me. Everyone knows Peter. For Christ’s sake they even know Cian.”
“Well if they know Cian they won’t have been that surprised by him setting the curtains on fire. Come on, cheer up. I know the owner, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Comforting was not my forte. Lisa started rocking back and forth and making a little keening noise.
“Your neighbour! Your poor neighbour!”
“I never liked him anyway.” I said truthfully. “He’s an awful pompous prick.”
“But last night – your cds…”
“That was mainly Cian, to be fair.” I’d forgotten that, the little brat flinging my CD collection around the room. “And he’s going to tidy it up the moment he’s finished doing the dishes, aren’t you Cian? He was only saying earlier how sorry he was.” The child stared at me and opened his mouth several times to protest. Nothing came out. The rules about using magic on kids is really a guideline, like I said before it’s actually more like etiquette. And on a child that himself was a natural magician it really didn’t matter. Probably. Anyway, feck it. “Weren’t you, pet?” I added smugly. He snapped his mouth shut and started to wash the dishes, but shot me darkling looks from time to time. He was looking increasingly less like a child of a broken family and more and more like a potential blackmailer with very passing moment.
Back to Lisa. “Look, last night happened. You went a bit mad, you made a bit of a scene. You’re allowed, in the circumstances. Now you have to work out what you’re going to do, and how.”
“Do?”
“You know…do. Go home, sort it out, throw him out – you’ve a lot to think about. Have you spoken to him since last night?”
She shook her head. “No. I just left. I had to get out. Oh my god! Does that mean he can take the house? I left the house. Everyone says you shouldn’t leave!”
“Everyone has a law degree, do they? Calm yourself, woman. It’s your home, you went away for one night. Not even the best divorce lawyer can make that into abandonment. Anyway, there’s family law – no one can just seize hold of a house or throw you out. You’re the mammy, you’ve the kid to mind. If anyone leaves it should be him.”
“Okay.” A series of snuffling sobs then she waved a hand at me “I’m fine, thanks. I’m fine. God you’re so sensible. Shit, how did you cope when – well, when it happened to you? Did you throw him out?”
“Paul? Yeah, I threw him out. To be honest, though, he didn’t exactly beg to stay. He was only too happy to run to Amanda’s and stay there. He bought his own place though – they’re not living together, officially.”
“But how did you sort this place out? How did you decide who stayed, who bought who out..”
Actually I’d been hexing him for three weeks by the time we discussed who bought who out and Paul was so distracted he gave in without much of a fight. “I don’t know really. It suited him to make a fresh start and I was lucky enough to be able to buy his share out. Though it’s left me crippled with mortgage payments. Your case is different though, you are married and you have a child. And it depends on Peter, on ho much he’s willing to fight or whatever. But Lisa –“ I couldn’t believe what I was about to suggest having gone through the cheating game myself but where kids are involved, things tend to be different. “Lisa, have you considered, maybe going to counselling and trying to sort all this out?”
“Sort it out? He cheated on me. He admitted it. Some little slut faced whore –“ Lisa of the previous night was back, with a vengeance. I looked around. Cian was out of earshot in the living room area happily making piles of CDs. Finally the storm subsided. “Ok. So that’s a no then, for the moment. Grand. Well have you considered lying to him? If you get back home and he says he won’t move out, try saying you want to work on the marriage and see a counsellor etc but only if he moves out for a while and gives you some space. Just bear it in mind as a ploy.”
I was rewarded with a smile. “God, you’re much more devious than I ever thought.”
“I learned the hard way. OK, so what to do today….you need to go home, you know. I can go with you if you like. Though maybe ring your parents and get your mother or dad to go? I know Peter likes them, he may be ashamed in front of them and won’t make too much of a scene….” Lisa nodded, and I ploughed on, “Once you get him to move out for a couple of weeks, you can start looking after yourself and see how you feel. But don’t be alone, get someone to stay with you, for gods sakes.” Memories of near suicidal evenings after the break up came flooding back. “So, what do you think? Feel up to ringing your mam?”

The next hour was spent amusing Cian while his mother locked herself in the bedroom and rang family. I gave her strict instructions to only ring parents or siblings and not under any circumstances ring friends, no matter how tempted. She might not think it now but there was every chance she’d end up forgiving Peter, particularly if he grovelled and she feared losing her lifestyle as much as I suspected she might. Then she’d hate the very idea of half Dublin knowing, and trust me, ring one friend in this city with that kind of news on a Sunday morning and the whole country knows by tea time. I was different obviously – I knew hardly any of her country-tweed mates and only by a thin stretch of the imagination could we be called friends anyway. And I was a veteran.

Cian proved a lot more fun than I’d ever thought. Having already done magic twice in front of him – three times if you include Margaret’s Halloween performance – it seemed churlish not to have a bit of fun with him now. As I may have mentioned real magic doesn’t consist of moving things around a room or fighting demons or worshipping Beelzebub or any other entity. But a good fun way to amuse a child with magical tendencies is to take out a deck of cards and teach them how to read the future. It’s not so much that they can read the future as t concentrates the mind; at any rate it kept Cian quiet for a long time.

“Laney?” Lisa motioned me over to the bedroom, mugging frantically at the back of Cian’s head. She pulled me into the room and shut the door quietly. “Mammy is coming over to the house with me. She’s furious. She says she’ll help me get him out.” Having known Lisa’s mother since childhood, I could almost find it in me to pity Peter. “Anyway I was wondering – Look I’m sorry about this but, we might need Dad as well, and I don’t want Cian around for all this so, could you please keep him?”

Ah feck.

It turns out it’s nearly impossible to say no in these circumstances which is why I found myself facing a woebegone face over the kitchen table.
“But when will she be back?”
“I’m not sure, Cian. But more than likely she’ll give us a ring in a couple of hours and I’ll drop you home. She just had to do some stuff with your granny this morning.”
He looked perilously close to tears. “Is she going to kill my daddy?”
“No, no, Honestly.” She may thump him, though. “I know she was pretty angry last night but she really won’t kill him, not literally.” Your granny however, is a different case. “They just need to have a chat. Hey, you’re stuck with me for the day. What do you fancy doing.”
He shrugged.
“We could go to the cinema…there’s loads of movies I haven’t seen.”
Another shrug.
“Walk? Roller blading? Shopping?”
Shrug.
“Well is there anything you’d like to do.”
“Margaret.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Margaret. Your aunt. Or great aunt. Whatever. Can we go see her?”
This was too bizarre. “My great aunt Margaret. Auld wan. Bent and small and looks like a mad yoke…seriously?” Vigourous nodding. “But – she’s an old bat. Really she is. She’s awful.”
“No she isn’t. I think she’s great.”
What the hell. He was clearly mad, but if it killed a couple of hours it would be worth it. The parents would be out, Sunday Brunch at the local pub was a religious event in their week. Margaret rarely went with them, so she’d almost certainly be there. “Ok, if that’s what you want. You’re mad in the head, but who am I to argue? Fine, grab your coat and we’ll go.”
“Don’t you want to ring her and let her know we’re coming?” Cian asked
“What? And warn her? No lets just surprise the old bat.”
“Stop. Don’t call her that.”
“She’s my aunt. I can call her anything I like.” But as an afterthought “Don’t tell her though.”