The Woman Who Stole My Life Read online

  And then we did. I bent my right leg and reached up to him and pulled him down and we kissed for a long time. My foot was still in his lap and it was pressed up against something very hard. I pushed my foot even harder against it and he took a sharp breath.

  ‘Is that …?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Show me,’ I said.

  He stood up. He opened the top button of his jeans and slowly unzipped himself until his erection burst out.

  Naked, he stood before me, not a bit shy. ‘Now you show me,’ he said.

  I began moving my dress up my thighs. ‘Are you sure we can’t turn the light off?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never been more sure of anything.’ His eyes were a-gleam. ‘I have waited so long for this.’

  As I wriggled out of my dress he watched me like a hawk. The look on his face was so brazen and appreciative, and his lopsided smile so hot, that by the time I took off my bra I’d lost all self-consciousness.

  He’d told me that he wanted to cover me with kisses and he did. Every part of me – my neck, my nipples, the backs of my knees, the insides of my wrists and where it mattered most. Every nerve in my body was lit up. A thought floated into my head – I was like the switchboard in Jerry Maguire – then floated away again.

  ‘It’s time for the condom,’ I whispered.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, his breath hot against my ear.

  Efficiently he snapped one on, and as soon as he entered me, I orgasmed. I clutched his buttocks and pressed his weight into me, almost unable for the intensity of the pleasure. I’d forgotten how fabulous sex could be.

  ‘Oh God,’ I choked. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘This is only the beginning,’ he said.

  He slowed things down to a delicious agony. He was supporting himself on his arms, carefully moving in and out of me, watching me with those grey eyes of his.

  I was in awe of his control. This was not a man who’d been deprived of sex for several months. But I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  Without taking his eyes from mine, he moved in and out of me until he’d brought me to another peak, even more powerful than the previous. Then again, and again.

  ‘I can’t take any more.’ I was drenched with sweat. ‘I think I’ll die.’

  He picked up speed, moving faster and faster, until finally, thrashing and moaning, he came.

  He lay on top of me, until his gasps had slowed down to regular breaths, then he rolled off and gathered me in his arms, my head on his chest. Immediately, he fell asleep. I lay still, stunned by wonder. Me and Mannix Taylor, in bed together. Who would have thought it?

  After about half an hour he woke, still adorably sleepy. ‘Stella.’ He sounded amazed. ‘Stella Sweeney?’ He yawned. ‘What time is it?’

  There was an alarm clock on the floor. ‘Just gone midnight,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like me to call you a taxi?’

  ‘What?’ I hopped out of bed.

  ‘I thought … you might like to go home.’

  I picked up my shoe and threw it at him.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said.

  Jerkily I retrieved my shoe, then the other one and, mortified, I stepped into my knickers and dress. I shoved my bra in my handbag.

  ‘I thought, with your kids and all,’ he said.

  ‘Grand.’ I opened the front door, carrying my shoes in my hand. I wasn’t going to wear those crippling fucking things.

  I was still waiting for him to stop me, but he didn’t, and as I made my way down the anonymous, sodium-lit corridor towards the lifts, I really did feel like a prostitute.

  I fumbled in my bag for my phone and, almost in tears, I rang Zoe. ‘Are you awake?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. The kids are with Brendan and his bitch and I’m sitting here with my box set and my bottle of wine.’

  Twenty minutes later I was with her.

  She took me in her arms. ‘Stella, your marriage has broken up, you’re bound to feel lost and –’

  I broke free of her embrace. ‘Zoe, can I ask you what the rules on dating are these days?’

  ‘Same as they ever were. They fuck you once, then they never ring you again.’

  Shit.

  ‘But it’s a bit early to be worrying about that, yourself and Ryan have only just decided. I mean, you might even get back together …’

  I was shaking my head. ‘No. No, Zoe. You know Mannix Taylor?’

  ‘The doctor?’

  ‘He came to see me in work on Monday.’

  ‘Monday just gone? Monday less than five days ago? And you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘Sorry, Zoe, it’s all been a bit weird –’

  She was quickly putting the pieces together in her head. ‘And you let him fuck you? Tonight? Oh my God.’

  ‘And then, after … he asked if he should call me a taxi.’

  Her face was a picture of compassion. ‘I’m sorry, Stella, that’s how men are. You’ve been out of the game too long. You weren’t to know.’

  My phone rang and I looked at the screen. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ she said. ‘He’s just looking for another fuck.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘He’s the sort who’d be able to get it up four times a night. Mr High Achiever. Mr Alpha. Switch your phone off. Please, Stella.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Zoe did her best but she couldn’t provide much comfort so I went home to my empty house and faced the facts: my marriage was gone, my kids were traumatized and everyone hated me. This was exactly my worst-case scenario. I hadn’t even got three weeks out of it; I’d got one night.

  I’d known in my heart that Mannix Taylor would humiliate me. Everyone had known it, that’s why they’d all objected to him.

  Wearily I wondered about myself and Ryan. Could we patch things up and carry on? It hadn’t been a bad life; he wasn’t a bad man, just selfish and, well, self-obsessed. But there was the small fact that I didn’t remotely fancy him any more. Even if I’d been able to fool myself up till now, my night with Mannix had ruined sex with Ryan for ever.

  Then again there was more to a marriage than sex. And maybe, if I got Ryan to wear a latex mask to look like Mannix …

  It took me most of the night to fall asleep. It was probably gone six before I finally shifted into a strange, uneasy dreamland, and I was awake again by nine. Immediately I switched my phone on, because I couldn’t not. Anyway, I had a legitimate reason: the kids needed to be able to contact me.

  There were no calls from either of them, however there were eight missed calls from Mannix. Zoe would have deleted the messages without letting me listen to them, but Zoe wasn’t there.

  ‘Stella.’ In his first message, Mannix sounded touchingly contrite. ‘I called it wrong. You have kids and I was trying to let you know that I’m okay with it. Please get in touch.’

  His second message said, ‘I’m really sorry. Can we talk about it? Will you call me?’

  His third message said, ‘I messed up. I’m very sorry. Please call.’

  Then, ‘It’s me again. I’m starting to feel like your stalker.’

  And, ‘I’m sorry for getting things so wrong. You know where I am.’

  The final three were hang-ups with no message. The most recent had been seven hours ago and I knew in my heart he wouldn’t ring again. He wasn’t the sort to prostrate himself; he’d done his bit, he’d decided. Then my phone rang and my heart nearly jumped out of my mouth.

  It was Karen. ‘I was talking to Zoe,’ she said. ‘She told me what happened.’

  ‘Are you calling to gloat?’

  ‘Not gloat exactly. But, Stella, get a grip. He’s not for you. This is the man who was married to Georgie Dawson. Georgie Dawson. Do you hear me? Compared to her, you’re just … you know.’ Earnestly she said, ‘I’m not putting you down, Stella, but she’d know about art and that stuff. She can probably speak Italian. She can probably stuff quails. What can you do? Apart from waxing growlers?’

&nbs
p; ‘I read books,’ I said, hotly.

  ‘Only because Dad makes you. You’re not a natural. Georgie Dawson is a natural.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Here’s how it is, Stella: you’ve fecked things up royally. I was talking to Ryan and he won’t take you back –’

  The cheek of her!

  ‘But you’ve got Zoe, right? The pair of you can hang out together. Let yourselves go. Wear flat shoes. Give up on your stomachs. Think of all the cake you can eat …’ For a moment she sounded wistful. ‘And hear me on this, Stella.’ She was utterly sincere. ‘I know your kids hate you now but they will forgive you. Come on,’ she cajoled, ‘no one could take Ryan full-time. Okay?’

  She hung up and I called Betsy. The phone rang twice, then went abruptly to message – she’d rejected my call. Then I rang Jeffrey and the same thing happened. It cut like a knife.

  I forced myself to ring them both again and I left faltering, abject messages. ‘I’m sorry for all the upheaval I’ve caused. But I’m here for you, day or night, no matter what.’

  After I finished speaking I decided to put a wash on, but when I went to the laundry basket I found it almost empty – only my clothes were in it. The kids and Ryan had taken their dirty clothes with them. With a pulse of shock, I realized that now there was nothing for me to do. I never had nothing to do. But there was no washing and ironing to be done and no chauffeuring Betsy and Jeffrey around to their various weekend commitments. Under normal circumstances, it was a constant battle to keep on top of the massive mountain of jobs that had to be done in a day. Without Ryan and the kids, my life seemed to have no scaffolding.

  I went back downstairs and lay on the couch and contemplated: as Karen said, I really had fecked things up royally.

  But maybe, in the bigger scheme of things, everything that had happened was meant to have happened. Maybe Mannix Taylor was just a catalyst, a cosmic device to show me that I didn’t love Ryan any more. Sometimes things fall apart so that better things can fall together – Marilyn Monroe had said that. Mind you, look at how she’d ended up …

  And maybe I was wasting my time trying to make sense of things: sometimes things don’t happen for a reason, sometimes things just happen.

  It felt like forever since I’d had this much time alone. It reminded me of when I’d been in hospital and my thoughts had had to race around and around in my head, with no way out, like rats in a run.

  At some stage I rang Zoe, who answered after one ring. ‘You haven’t rung him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen to me – no drive-bys, no texting, no sexting, no calling and no tweeting. You cannot get drunk. That’s when you’ll be at your weakest.’

  But there was no chance any of those things would happen. I had pride, a lot of it.

  The day was over and it was already dark when the doorbell rang. For a long time I thought about just staying on the couch and ignoring it, then it rang again. Reluctantly I hauled myself to my feet, and when I found Mum and Dad on my doorstep I refused to acknowledge the wash of disappointment.

  ‘“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,”’ Dad said. ‘“It tolls for thee.”’

  ‘We brought bagels,’ Mum said.

  ‘Bagels?’

  ‘Isn’t that what they do in films to show they care?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I surprised myself by bursting into tears.

  ‘Ah, come on, now.’ Dad put his arms around me. ‘You’re gameball, you’re gameball, you’re gameball.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen.’ Mum switched lights on and led the way down the hall. ‘We’ll have tea and bagels.’

  ‘How do you eat them?’ Dad asked.

  ‘You toast them,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t you, Stella?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ I tore off two sheets of kitchen paper and convulsed into them.

  ‘But they’d be nicer?’ Mum said. ‘They would, they’d be nicer. Warm is always nicer. We’re here to say we’re sorry, Stella. I’m sorry, your father’s sorry, we’re both sorry.’

  Dad was at the toaster. ‘They’re too fat. They won’t fit.’

  ‘You’ve to slice them first,’ Mum said. ‘To halve them, like.’

  ‘Is there a knife?’

  ‘In the drawer,’ I said, thickly.

  ‘I’m on your side,’ Mum said. ‘So is Dad. We just got a fright. All of us.’

  ‘It was a shock,’ Dad said, jamming bagels into the toaster. ‘And we let you down. Your mother let you down.’

  ‘And your father let you down.’

  ‘And we’re both sorry.’

  ‘Everything will be grand,’ Mum said. ‘The kids will get over it. Ryan will get over it.’

  ‘In the fullness of time, everything will be gameball.’

  ‘Is Mannix Taylor your boyfriend?’ Mum asked.

  ‘No.’ A thin stream of evil-looking black smoke began to issue from the toaster.

  ‘Will you get back with Ryan?’

  ‘No.’ The black smoke was starting to billow.

  ‘Well, no matter what happens, we love you.’

  A high-pitched, ear-piercing noise started up: the fire alarm was going off.

  ‘We’re your parents,’ Mum said.

  ‘And I think we’ve broken your toaster, but we love you.’

  Despite invitations from Zoe, Karen and Mum and Dad, I spent Sunday entirely alone. I decided the house needed to be cleaned – properly cleaned, in the way it hadn’t been in over a decade – and I seized on the job with relief. Zealously, I scrubbed the kitchen cupboards and tore at the oven and went at the grouting in the bathroom with such vigour that the knuckles on my hands reddened, then cracked. Despite the pain, I kept scouring, and the more my raw hands burned, the better I felt.

  I knew what I was doing: I might as well have taken the scouring pad and bleach to myself.

  It was just gone seven when Betsy called. I pounced on the phone. ‘Sweetie?’

  ‘Mom, there are no clean clothes for school in the morning.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘… I don’t really know.’

  Casting around for solutions, I asked, ‘Is it because nobody washed any?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So just wash some.’

  ‘We don’t know how to work the machine.’

  ‘Ask your dad.’

  ‘He doesn’t know either. He said to ask you.’

  ‘Oh? Put him on.’

  ‘He says he’s never speaking to you again. Can you come here and do a wash?’

  ‘… Okay.’ I mean, I might as well, what else was I doing?

  Fifteen minutes later, Betsy opened the door to me. Nervously, I stepped into the hall, braced for the wrath of Jeffrey and Ryan.

  ‘They’ve gone out,’ Betsy said. ‘I have to call them when you’ve left.’

  I swallowed back the hurt. ‘Okay. Come into the utility room and I’ll explain everything.’

  In under thirty seconds Betsy had grasped the workings of the washing machine and dryer, which were identical to the ones at home.

  ‘It’s really that easy?’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Huh. Well, who knew?’

  Something was troubling me. ‘If none of you know how to do this, how did you manage all the time I was in hospital?’

  Betsy thought about it. ‘I guess it was Auntie Karen and Grandma and Auntie Zoe who did the laundry.’

  But Ryan had got the credit. And now the gaps in his skill set were being exposed … And there was a shameful little part of me that was glad. Maybe Jeffrey and Betsy would see that I had some uses.

  ‘So, Mom, you’d better go.’

  ‘Right.’ Then I flung myself at her and began to cry and said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ over and over again. ‘Call me if you need anything. Yes? Promise?’

  I got into my car and headed for home, and in the light cast by a street lamp I saw Ryan and Jeffrey standing on a corner, their faces baleful. I knew I was being fanciful, I knew there was no way they were actually holding
burning pitchforks and shaking their fists as they watched me leave, but that was the impression I got.

  On Monday morning, I awoke to a silent house. I ached for the noise and fuss of a regular morning, getting Betsy and Jeffrey ready for school, getting myself ready for work. But there was nothing I could do, except wait things out.

  I picked up my phone and stared at it. Nothing. No missed calls, no texts, nothing. I couldn’t help thinking that Mannix Taylor might have tried a bit harder.

  It was a relief to go to work, and for once I was in before Karen.

  ‘Jesus!’ She drew up short at the sight of me. ‘You’re keen!’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘That delivery from SkinTastic had better come this morning,’ she said, and before she’d even finished speaking, the buzzer rang. ‘There it is. I’ll go!’ She raced away down the stairs. Karen would never pay for gym membership but she kept skinny by moving constantly. She considered it a sign of personal weakness to remain seated for more than seven minutes.

  She reappeared, huffing and puffing up the stairs, carrying a large cardboard box. ‘Feck’s sake!’ She was struggling under the weight. ‘Lazy fecker courier fecked off. Just left this at the door, and it weighs an effing ton.’

  She dumped it on the desk and attacked the Sellotape with a Stanley knife. I waited for the litany of complaints that usually accompanied a delivery – according to Karen, the suppliers always sent the wrong quantities of the wrong products: they were cretins, gobshites, morons and fools.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ she demanded.

  Obviously they’d got it really wrong this time. I feared for the rep who would feel the sharp side of her tongue.

  ‘Look, Stella!’ She was holding up a book, a small hardback. It looked like a prayer book or maybe a little collection of poetry. The cover was decked out in rose-gold and bronze swirls and it gave the impression of being expensive and beautiful.

  ‘There’s a load more in here, all of them the same.’ She did a quick count. ‘Looks like fifty of them. They must have been sent by mistake. But the box is addressed to you.’

  I took one of the little books and opened it at random. The paper was heavy and sheeny and sitting in the middle of a page, in graceful curlicues, were the words: