Fandango in the Apse! Page 8

  ‘Fine by me… so who shall we be instead? I know; you can be a marauding Celt and I will be your concubine.’

  With a low growl, Michael picked me up and dumped me on the bed; he then set about proving exactly how the Celts got their ferocious reputations. It was a magical weekend filled with country walks, leisurely meals and long talks.

  I learned about Michael’s life before he was ordained, his childhood in Dublin and his strict schooling at the hands of the Christian Brothers. His first girlfriend, his first love, and the two years he spent at Trinity College studying medicine before he realised his calling. How his father, a doctor himself, had been disappointed when he left, and how his mother had been beside herself with pride to have a son joining the priesthood. It was a feather in the cap of any Irish family, apparently.

  Learning so much about Michael was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it was great to know the pre-priest Michael, on the other, it changed things for me. I think up to that point he was sort of my fantasy. Forbidden, not really of my world, if you see what I mean, but hearing about his past made him more real, more of this world. I hope this is making sense to you… because it’s bloody difficult to explain.

  On the Sunday, we spent the whole day in our room, except when Michael sneaked out for supplies for a picnic, which we ate right in the middle of the four-poster. We drank wine, we laughed, we had fantastic sex and slowly we let reality filter back.

  That last night we didn’t sleep much, both of us wanting to hang onto the dream for as long as possible. However, it had to end, and I was genuinely upset when I dropped Michael off at the station late the following morning. Why-oh-why could things never be the way you wanted? It was a bittersweet feeling – getting a glimpse of what might have been and knowing that it could never be. Things were never quite the same between us after that weekend. It was as if neither of us wanted to sully the memory of it.

  Then one morning Michael called and asked me to meet him in a car park in town. He sounded odd on the phone and looked even odder when I knocked on his car window. He was deep in thought and hadn’t notice my approach. He got out immediately.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Katie.’ He looked dreadful.

  ‘Michael what’s the matter? Why did you want to meet here?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust myself… this is public. Katie, I’m going away,’ he said in a rush.

  ‘Away? Where to? Why?’ My heart flipped in my chest.

  ‘I’m going on retreat.’

  He shuffled slightly, refusing to meet my gaze.

  ‘Why, has someone found out, is that what’s happened?’

  ‘I told Father Gus about us – I didn’t mention your name…’ he added quickly, ‘but I told him I had become… involved.’

  I gathered my slack jaw back to its rightful position with difficulty and stood staring at him. Was he mad? Finally, he looked at me properly.

  His voice was barely audible. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But why? What made you tell him?’ I was at a loss to understand such stupidity.

  ‘I don’t know; it just got to me. I couldn’t eat, sleep or concentrate and eventually he noticed. Oh God, Katie… I don’t know, it just came out.’

  He was so distressed I didn’t have the heart to be angry.

  ‘Will you be forced to leave the priesthood?’ I really hoped not, I couldn’t have lived with the guilt.

  ‘Father Gus asked me to go on retreat. I suppose to evaluate my faith and future in the church. He isn’t going to mention anything to the Bishop until I return.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Michael.’

  ‘No, don’t be.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and then removed it as if I’d burnt him. ‘It happened – we can’t change that – but please don’t be sorry, I’m not.’ His eyes were defiant as he pleaded with me; he really meant it.

  ‘When are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m on my way now, but I had to see you first.’

  ‘So… this is it?’ I asked.

  He cleared his throat and seemed to force himself to speak, ‘I’m afraid so.’

  We spoke for another few minutes before I returned to my car. The spot where Michael had parked was empty when I drove past it a moment later.

  I felt chastened on the drive home. Guilt nudged anxiously. It was clear what had happened between Michael and me, had and would affect his life far more than mine. This seems a callous thing to say, but although I felt sorry for my part in his fall from grace, I was also angry. Michael’s parting words had been that he had fallen in love with me, which is why what happened, happened. Did I believe him? Did I hell.

  Men are always saying women are spectacularly good at not being able separate sex from emotion. I’m sorry, but that’s bollocks! Michael needed to put a label on it, find a reason for going against his faith and the vows he had taken. Lust filled sex with a woman he’d only known a few months, didn’t cut it. As far as I was concerned love didn’t cut it either. He fancied me; he wanted sex – that was it. And quite honestly – so what? Celibacy is an unnatural state in human beings. Who decided celibacy would make a man a better priest? It couldn’t have been Jesus – he had Mary Magdalene hanging around.’

  That’s it – I’m definitely going to hell now.

  Chapter Eight

  As I’ve said, introspection isn’t my thing, so I didn’t let my nefarious “doings” get me down for long. I missed Michael, but deep down I had always known what we had was temporary. If he had given up being a priest so we could be together, would it have worked? I didn’t think so. Not least, as I’ve already said, his being a priest was part of his allure. So, it was best all round if I put him out of my mind and got on with the business of living my real life, and I fervently hoped Michael was doing the same. I hope you are appreciating my honesty here.

  We had moved into our house the previous winter, but were only on a nodding acquaintance with the neighbours so far. As the summer got into full swing, their rounds of barbecues accelerated and we found ourselves included in the small clique made up of our closest neighbours. Sunday afternoons found us in either our own, or one of the neighbour’s gardens.

  Eddie was in his element, he was a “joiner”, he liked to be included. For the most part, I could take it or leave it. OK, it was good for the children to have playmates, but sitting around listening to the “Stepford Wives” discussing how well little Jimmy was doing at school, or which washer did the best job, was my idea of hell.

  My salvation came in the form of Stacey Bond. I was gearing up for another afternoon of mind-numbing boredom around the “women’s” table, (the men sat at their own, discussing football, politics and the like), when Stacey took me to one side.

  ‘You look as fed up as I feel,’ she whispered.

  Sensing a kindred spirit, I almost shouted hurrah!

  ‘Can you believe these women?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, m’dear,’ she said, in a comically plummy accent, ‘the pursuit of perfection in these fine ladies is legendary in these here parts.’

  I almost managed to stifle a giggle, but failed, causing a few turned heads from the women in question.

  ‘Oops!’ said Stacey, as she turned to the artfully laden table and grabbed a bottle of Merlot, which she poured in large measure into two obviously expensive crystal glasses.

  ‘I mean this says it all, don’t you think?’ she whispered, while holding up the glasses for inspection. ‘Who the hell uses crystal for a barbecue?’

  ‘Shush! They’ll hear you.’ I laughed.

  Then, as if on cue, Marion, our host for the afternoon, called out.

  ‘Are you two all right over there? Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘Just the hell out of here,’ Stacey mumbled, as we bowed to the inevitable and made our way over the weed-less lawn to the quartet already seated at the table.

  I liked Stacey and over the summer, we often spent time together. Although she had the look of a hard-edged city type,
Stacey was anything but. She was – as most of the women in our small cul-de-sac were – a stay-at-home wife. She had one son Oliver, away at school and a cleaner three times a week.

  ‘Darling, I married Dillon to avoid the necessity of working,’ she admitted shamelessly one morning over coffee. ‘Why spend hours of one’s life toiling away, when one can get a man to do it for you?’

  ‘Well, you have a point,’ I ventured.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong – I do my bit. Dillon gets my undivided attention six weeks of the year when we’re on holiday and a shag once a week – he’s happy. The rest of the time I amuse myself.’

  ‘You mean you…?’

  ‘God, yes, darling, I’m a veritable slut.’ I nearly choked on my coffee. Stacey left her seat at the table and started rummaging in a cupboard of her ultra-modern kitchen, eventually producing a packet of Bendick’s chocolate-covered biscuits and a plate to put them on.

  ‘So, how’s your sex life with Eddie-boy?’ she asked, while nibbling on a biscuit.

  Stacey’s candid way of speaking was contagious and I found myself willing to be as open as she.

  ‘His is prolific by all accounts, mine’s virtually non-existent.’

  ‘Ah… yes, he struck me as having a roving eye. You don’t look as if it bothers you though?’ Stacey licked melted chocolate from her fingers, flicked back her well-cut, blonde hair, and fixed me with a look that showed interest without sympathy. With a thought for my hips, I ignored the proffered biscuits and answered her.

  ‘I think I’m past caring, to be honest,’ I admitted. ‘I have my home and the children and Eddie is generous, so…’

  ‘Hmm… you’re wise. So many people think infidelity is black and white, but to me it’s not.’

  Noticing my frown, she continued.

  ‘OK, look at it this way,’ she said, warming to the subject. ‘Your Eddie likes to play the field… and no matter what, if he’s that way inclined you won’t stop him, so why punish yourself for his misdeeds?’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘No, you’re not, but so many women do. Think about it… they force the issue, demand a divorce and for what? A smaller house, less money and another search for Mr Right.’ I had to admit she was probably right.

  ‘No – far better to stay put, spend their money and amuse yourself,’ she said, with a flourish of conviction.

  ‘Been there, done that,’ I admitted.

  ‘No!’ Stacey’s expertly kept eyebrows shot out of sight under her fringe, ‘I wouldn’t have thought that.’ Could I see a smidgen of misplaced respect in her eyes? Oh dear.

  ‘Although it was more out of revenge than the wish to amuse myself,’ I admitted quickly. Liar!

  ‘Revenge is wasted energy, darling… no, far better to adopt an attitude of “what’s good for the goose…” don’t you think?’

  And that’s exactly what I did. Now, I’m not going to tell you Stacey was a bad influence, you should know me well enough by now to know I need very little encouragement to go off the rails, but I will admit she provided the perfect foil for me to indulge in what the “gander” had been up to for years. I had some catching up to do, I’d lost count of the women Eddie had amused himself with and I set about balancing the scales with relish.

  It proved quite an easy pastime. Men are such saps when they think they are in with a chance of a bit of leg over. Not that I slept with all of them, no, but I found it quite amusing at times to see how many meals they would stump up before demanding payment. The looks on their faces when they finally realised they’d been had, was comical. OK, I know it wasn’t nice, but most of these men were married – I was doing my bit in providing their comeuppance.

  Having got to know the neighbours over the summer it was far easier to find babysitters in the form of various daughters, desperate to rid themselves of their mother’s clutches for an hour or two. If Eddie wondered at my sudden desire for a social life, he said nothing. Stacey’s husband was a barrister and I suspected he tempered his tight lipped, well-concealed annoyance at my frequent abandonment, with his desire to be “well in” with the Bond family. Having a barrister amongst his friends could only increase his standing. Sad, isn’t it?

  The odd night out was one thing, but when Stacey suggested a weekend away, that was another matter altogether.

  ‘What about Toby and Sam?’ Eddie had asked, when I first mentioned it.

  ‘You’ll be here, won’t you?’

  ‘Not on Friday night or Saturday morning, I have a meeting in Bristol, I was thinking of staying over.’

  He was such a liar, meeting my arse.

  ‘Eddie, in all the years we’ve been together, I’ve only gone away once on my own. I’m sorry, you’ll have to cancel or make arrangements for your mother to have them.’

  ‘Cancelling is not an option; this is an important client…’

  I just bet she is, crossed my mind.

  ‘And I’m not sure my mother will have them, she was saying the other day that you never bother going there unless you want her to babysit.’

  ‘I haven’t asked her to babysit for months!’

  ‘Well if you want her to have them, then you’ll have to square it with her yourself.’ Eddie’s tone made it very clear that was his last word on the subject.

  On the Friday, having picked Toby up from nursery school, I braved my mother-in-law. After a somewhat stilted phone call, she had agreed to have the boys. Both children leapt from the car and scooted into the house. Their overnight bags in hand, I followed at a slower pace. The smell of freshly baked muffins wafted from the kitchen.

  ‘Look, Mummy, Grandma made us buns,’ Toby said, through a mouth full of muffin.

  ‘That was nice of her,’ I said, making an effort to smile at the old witch. It fell on stony ground.

  ‘Why do you never make us buns?’ he asked, a crumpled little frown appearing on his brow.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Mummy’s far too busy, Toby. Come now, sit up at the table with Sam, there’s still a couple of hours before tea, so you can have one more.’

  After a strained ten minutes, I left Jean clucking over the children. I was a little miffed that neither boy seemed overly concerned at my imminent departure. Both were quite happily looking forward to staying overnight at Grandma’s. I should be grateful, I reminded myself, I might have had to deal with the guilt of leaving two sobbing children. Still… a little emotion would have been nice, just enough to make me feel missed. Any mothers reading this will know what I mean.

  You could be forgiven for thinking I’m about to embark on a dissolute tale of a sex and booze weekend away with Stacey – well, not with Stacey. I mean in her company, with men. But you’d be wrong, at least about the sex and the men; the booze is another matter. No, we had decided on a serious shopping trip, and as all women know, men and shopping don’t mix. With an eye to spending as much of Eddie’s money as I could get away with, Stacey felt it was time to introduce me to her idea of shopping heaven – London. According to Stacey, it was a “positively orgasmic” experience.

  However, I soon learned my not-inconsequential budget was nowhere near in the same league as Stacey’s, as in shop after shop she spent without batting an eyelash. I managed a stunning outfit, some rather nice perfume and a wonderfully indulgent little handbag that cost the earth, but would hold little more than a lipstick, and was happy, while she positively glowed with hedonistic pleasure each time she handed over Dillon’s card. To be honest with you, I found it all a little sickening. Avarice is not a pleasant thing to see. I mean, for God’s sake – how much jewellery does one woman need?

  My life with Eddie followed a similar pattern for the next few years. He provided, I spent, and very occasionally we got it together. We had to be drunk or relatively comatose for it to happen though. Harsh, I know, but physically I found him unattractive and I don’t think I was first on his list of bed partners either. He still had his suave ways, and a new assurance born from repeated promotions to the up
per echelons of his company and the filthy lucre that generated.

  However, too much corporate hospitality had adversely affected the fine body of his rugby days, which, along with most of his hair, was now a distant memory, although, I’d swear that was still the image he saw in the mirror each morning.

  Amazingly, he retained his ability to attract women; but I’d soon developed a theory on that. After a sneaky look at his credit card statement, I’d triumphantly proved my suspicion that it was his generosity in the form of gifts, that kept them interested. It hadn’t bothered me, I had what I wanted – the boys were growing up in a stable environment completely unaware of their parents’ increasing apathy towards each other, and whatever else he was, Eddie was a good father.

  Well now – isn’t that nice? I was happily living the high-life, no major worries, decent standard of living – you may ask; what more could a person want? Ah! You’re obviously forgetting one thing – nothing in my life ever runs smoothly. It was just about the time I decided life was fine, that it reared up to prove me wrong.

  How? Well to put it bluntly – my mother died, I lost my mind for a while, and Eddie morphed into a stranger. Oh, and Jester choked to death on a chicken carcass raided from next door’s bin.

  Chapter Nine

  I opened the door one morning to a sombre-looking gentleman in a shiny suit. He was holding onto a battered briefcase as if his life depended on it. His watery eyes peered over the glasses perched right on the end of his nose. He looked seventy if he was a day. He harrumphed nervously before he spoke.

  ‘Mrs Roberts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Katie Roberts, daughter of Mrs Margaret Hessey?’

  ‘Yes.’ My surprise at hearing my mother’s name was evident to the man and looking extremely uncomfortable, he pressed on.

  ‘Mrs Roberts, I wonder if I may come in to have a word with you?’

  Once seated in the lounge he rummaged in his briefcase, which looked more like an old-fashioned satchel and at least as old as its owner.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr…?’