The Woman Who Stole My Life Read online

  ‘Today we’ll do some gentle work on your circulation,’ he said. ‘Is that okay?’

  No, it wasn’t okay.

  My sullenness must have leaked into the room because he looked a little surprised, then focused on me in a new way. His face changed. ‘Have we met?’

  I blinked my left eyelid many times, trying to convey, Go away. Go away and never come back.

  ‘Yes? No?’ His brow was furrowed. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ It was like an episode of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.

  Go away. Go away and never come back.

  ‘The car accident.’ His face cleared as he remembered. ‘The crash.’

  Go away. Go away and never come back.

  He watched me closely and he gave a little laugh. ‘You want me to go away.’

  Yes, I want you to go away and never come back.

  Narky Man – what did he say his name was? Mannix – shrugged. ‘I’ve got a job to do.’

  Go away and never come back.

  He laughed, quite meanly. ‘Christ! When you don’t like someone, you really don’t like them. So!’ He took the clipboard from the end of the bed and pulled a chair up to my bedside. ‘How are you today? I know you can’t answer. The nurses’ report says you had “a good night’s sleep”. Is that true?’

  He watched me carefully. I blinked my left eye. Let him figure out what that meant.

  ‘No? Blinking your left eye means “no”. So you didn’t have a good night’s sleep?’ He sighed. ‘They say everyone has a good night’s sleep. The only time they don’t is when a person has been running up and down the ward in the nip yelling that the CIA are spying on them. Then they call it “a restless night’s sleep”.’

  He quirked an eyebrow at me, looking for a reaction. ‘Not even a smile?’ He sounded sardonic.

  I can’t smile and even if I could, I wouldn’t. Not for you.

  ‘I know you can’t smile,’ he said. ‘It was my admittedly crass attempt at humour. Okay. Ten minutes, and I’ll be gone. Today I’m going to massage your fingers.’

  He took my hand in his and, after being deprived of any kind of proper touch for more than three weeks, it was a shock. He began massaging the pad of his thumb around my fingernails, tiny movements that triggered pleasure chemicals in my head. Suddenly I felt giddy, almost high. He took my knuckles and moved them in a circular motion, then he gently pulled my fingers and that triggered a cascade of bliss that sent little thrills of electricity through my whole body. Ryan and the kids kept their distance out of fear of damaging me, but clearly that sort of deprivation wasn’t good, if someone just rubbing my hands rocketed me into euphoria.

  ‘How’s that?’ Mannix Taylor asked.

  It felt so intimate that I had to shut my eyes.

  ‘Is it okay?’ he asked.

  I opened my eyes and blinked the right one.

  ‘Is that yes?’ he said. ‘Blinking the right eye means “yes”? I’ve never before worked with someone who couldn’t speak. How do you not go mad?’

  I’m trying to. I do my best every day to lose my mind.

  ‘Okay, let’s do your other hand.’

  I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sensations and went into a kind of ecstatic trance. I was thinking dreamily of those stories about babies in orphanages, who are never held, and how it impedes their development. Now I could totally understand why. Totally. Human touch was important, very important, as important as water and food and air and laughter and new shoes and …

  … What was going on? Why had he stopped? I opened my eyes; he was shoving his chair back and standing up. ‘All done.’ He gave one of his spiteful little laughs. ‘Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  Feck off.

  Sunday, 1 June

  05.15 – in the morning!

  Sunday. A day of rest. But not for a failure who’s trying to rebuild her life. My alarm is set for six. However, I’m already awake.

  Insomnia is an enemy that attacks in many forms. Sometimes it shows up the moment I get into bed and lingers for a couple of hours. Other nights, it stays away until about 5 a.m. and then butts in and hangs around until twenty minutes before the alarm is due to go off. It’s a full-time job, battling the fecker.

  Today I wake at five fifteen, worrying about many things. I fix on Zoe and text her.

  R u ok? xxx

  She replies immediately.

  Sory bout last nite. Wil knock d drinking on d head soon.

  I don’t know how to respond. She is drinking too much but she has a lot to cope with and at what point do you stop feeling sorry for someone and start lecturing them instead?

  I worry about this for a good ten to fifteen minutes, then I check on Ryan’s project, but mercifully nothing has happened since the last time I looked. With a lighter heart, I watch videos of singing goats and waste time as best I can, until suddenly the itch comes on me, as it does about ninety times a day, to Google Gilda. But I shouldn’t, so instead I say the mantra: May you be well, may you be happy, may you be free from suffering.

  I can’t stop myself from remembering back almost two years, to the fateful morning in New York, when I’d bumped into her in Dean & DeLuca. I’d been in the chocolate section, looking for presents to bring home to Mum and Karen, when I reached for a box at the same time as someone else did.

  ‘Sorry.’ I backed off.

  ‘No, you have them,’ a woman said.

  To my great surprise I realized I knew the voice – it belonged to the lovely woman Gilda, whom I’d met at a dinner party just the previous night. I took a look – it was her! Her golden-coloured hair was piled messily on her head and she was wearing slouchy workout-style clothes, instead of the chic dress she’d been wearing the previous night, but it was definitely her.

  Then she recognized me. ‘Heyyy!’ She looked as pleased as punch and made a move, as if to hug me, then pulled back like she was afraid of being thought ‘inappropriate’. (From what I’d gathered, this was the thing they feared most of all in New York City. More than monsters and career failure and being fat.)

  ‘What a coincidence!’ I was full of warm feeling. ‘Do you live near here?’

  ‘I was working-out with a client who lives nearby. I took them running in the park.’

  We smiled at each other and, a little shyly, she asked, ‘… Do you have ten minutes? We could get a tea or something?’

  I was genuinely regretful. ‘I’d better go. I’m flying back to Dublin this afternoon.’

  ‘How about in a couple of weeks’ time when you’ve properly relocated here?’ She pinkened. ‘I’d like to thank you for the book you wrote.’ Her blush deepened, making her look as beautiful as a rose. ‘I hope it’s okay, but Bryce gave me a printout. I don’t want to embarrass you, but I found it very inspiring. I know I’ll read it over and over.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said awkwardly. ‘But it’s only, you know, a small little thing –’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t do yourself down. There’re plenty of people who’ll do that for you.’

  I thought of the horrible man who’d been at last night’s dinner party, and from the look in her eyes, so did she. ‘Hey.’ She giggled. ‘What about that dinner last night?’

  ‘Jesus!’ I buried my face in my hands and groaned. ‘It was awful.’

  ‘That Arnold guy with his issues and his angry wife.’

  ‘She told me only tourists come here to Dean & DeLuca.’

  ‘I’m not a tourist and I adore it – these chocolates make the best gifts. She’s just a mean girl.’

  How lovely this Gilda was!

  ‘When I’m back,’ I said, ‘we’ll definitely meet for a coffee.’ Then something occurred to me. She was a personal trainer and nutritionist. ‘Do you drink coffee?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mostly raspberry tea.’

  ‘Are you … very healthy?’

  ‘It’s a struggle.’

  This was music to my ears.

  ‘Some days,’ she said, ‘it’s just too much and
I give in and drink caffeine and eat chocolate.’

  Wheels had started to turn in my head. I’d been told that I needed to lose ten pounds. ‘I think I need a personal trainer. I don’t suppose you …? Sorry. Sorry,’ I repeated. ‘You’re probably up to your eyeballs.’

  ‘I’m pretty busy right now, which is great.’

  ‘Of course …’

  She looked thoughtful. ‘What are you interested in? Cardio? Strength? A diet do-over?’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know. Being thin. That’s all.’

  ‘I could probably help. I could take a look at your food and we could run together.’

  ‘The only thing is, I’m not sporty. Not one bit.’ I was afraid now. What had I let myself in for?

  ‘We could try it for … say … a week? See if we’re a good fit.’

  ‘A week?’ God, they didn’t give things much time to bed-in around here.

  She smiled at me. ‘Here’s my card. Don’t look so scared. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s going to be great.’

  09.48

  Karen rings. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Working.’ I sigh. ‘Listen, Karen, I need new clothes. Nothing fits me. I’ve put on weight.’

  ‘What do you expect, eating all those fairy cakes?’

  Stammering, I say, ‘But … but … they were disgusting.’ I realize that I’ve always thought that if I didn’t enjoy a food, then it didn’t contain any calories.

  ‘Tell that to the fairy cakes. And all the other carbs you’ve been scoffing in the last few months.’

  ‘Okay.’ I really do feel quite miserable. ‘So what should I wear?’ Even though Karen is two years younger than me, I’ve always sought her advice.

  ‘I can take you shopping later.’

  ‘Nowhere expensive.’

  As if. Karen Mulreid is queen of the bargains. At any time Karen can tell you exactly how much cash she has in her wallet, right down to the copper coins. It’s a game we sometimes play. She’s like Derren Brown.

  ‘Speaking of money,’ she says, ‘how’s the writing going?’

  ‘Slow,’ I say. ‘Slow and … non-existent.’ In a burst of fear, I ask, ‘Karen, what if I can’t write another book?’

  ‘Of course you’ll write another book! You’re a writer!’

  But I’m not. I’m simply a beautician who got a rare disease and who got better.

  ‘Chinos?’ I say, my voice high with alarm. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I do.’ Karen ushers me to the changing room.

  Chinos are for men, those dreadful forty-something rugby fans with boomy voices and no style. I cannot possibly wear chinos!

  ‘Chinos are different now.’ Karen is adamant. ‘These are lady chinos. And you’ve no choice; they’re the only things that’ll work until you lose the belly.’

  ‘Please, Karen.’ I grasp her arm and fix her with a beseeching look. ‘Don’t say that word. I promise I’ll get rid of it, but please don’t say it.’

  After making me try on many, many items, she makes me buy two pairs of navy chinos, some tops and a long, floaty scarf. ‘I look awful,’ I say.

  ‘This is the best you can hope for right now,’ she says. ‘Wear the scarf always. It’ll camouflage your … bump.’

  At the till she haggles me a discount, due to some invisible stain. ‘Remember,’ she says, ‘this is an emergency interim measure. Not a long-term solution. I’ll take you home. But first I want to drop in on the salon.’

  Despite having two children, Karen’s business is her best-loved baby and not a day passes that she doesn’t check in on it.

  ‘What for?’ I ask.

  ‘I like to keep Mella on her toes.’

  Mella is her manager.

  ‘I thought you trusted Mella.’

  ‘You can trust no one, Stella. As you well know.’

  As we push through the crowds of Sunday afternoon shoppers, making our way back to the car park, I see someone I recognize, a dad from Jeffrey’s old school. Kill me now. I can’t be making small talk, not with this belly. I put my head down and hurry past and I actually think I’ve got away with it, when I hear him say, ‘Stella?’

  ‘Oh?’ I turn around and do a big fake-surprise face. ‘Roddy! Roddy …!’ I can’t remember his surname so I trail off. ‘Ahahaha! Hello, there!’

  ‘Very nice to see you, Stella.’

  ‘You too.’

  I introduce Karen. ‘Roddy had a son in Jeffrey’s class.’

  ‘How is Jeffrey?’ Roddy asks.

  ‘Fine. Great. A nightmare. How is …?’ What the hell was the son’s name?

  ‘Brian. Just finished his leaving cert. Didn’t do a tap of work for it. And now him and his mates have colonized the front room. Huge big lummoxy yokes.’

  ‘Sounds like Jeffrey,’ I say, weakly. Apart from the mates.

  ‘They’re up half the night playing video games, then they’re asleep all day.’

  Emboldened by perhaps having met a kindred spirit, I ask, ‘Does he ever … cook? Your Brian?’

  ‘Cook? You mean food?’ Roddy has a good laugh. ‘Are you joking me? The junk they eat. I come down in the morning and I can’t see the floor for pizza boxes. Whole forests have been cut down to make those containers.’

  I swallow hard. Jeffrey doesn’t order pizzas. What am I doing wrong?

  ‘And he never addresses a civil word to me.’

  I latch on to this with overwhelming relief. Jeffrey never addresses a civil word to me either. I must be doing something right.

  ‘So you’re out shopping?’ Roddy asks, somewhat superfluously.

  ‘Yes.’ I try out the sentence: ‘I’ve been buying chinos. Lady chinos.’

  ‘Lady chinos?’ He sounds surprised. ‘New one on me. Well, er, enjoy them. Take care.’

  ‘He’d never heard of lady chinos,’ I mutter to Karen, as we walk away.

  ‘Course he hadn’t; he’s a suburban dad. But a man of taste and sophistication would know. I bet –’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t say it! Don’t even say his name.’

  17.31

  Karen pulls up outside Honey Day Spa, parking half on the pavement, half on the yellow lines. ‘You coming in?’

  I feel a bit strange returning to this place which I’d once co-owned with Karen and had worked in for many years.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about traffic wardens?’ I ask.

  ‘They know me, they know the car. Anyway, I’ll only be a minute. Come on.’

  Karen and I had trained together to be beauticians – I’d stayed at school until I was eighteen but Karen left at sixteen. Coming from our background, we didn’t think we had many career options: we could be hairdressers or beauticians or we could work in a shop. Everything around us encouraged us to aim low.

  In fairness, Dad had wanted more for me. ‘You’re a bright spark, Stella. Get an education. If I had my time again …’

  But neither he nor I had enough self-belief to take my education any further. So Mum and Dad borrowed money from the credit union to send Karen and me to beauty school. Within weeks, Karen was doing leg-waxes in her bedroom, generating money from the word go, and when we qualified, we both got jobs in a spa in Sandyford.

  Karen often said to me, ‘This isn’t for ever. I’m not spending my life, like Mum and Dad, working for other people. We’re going to own our own business.’

  But I was used to being poor.

  And with Ryan Sweeney as my boyfriend and eventually my husband, I stayed used to it for a long time.

  Karen tried to carry me along with her ambition. She registered us as a limited company and said, ‘Save your pennies, Stella, save your pennies. We’ll need them for when the right premises comes along.’

  But I didn’t have any pennies to save – I had Ryan, then Betsy, to support – and I never took Karen seriously. Until the day she rang and said, ‘I’ve found the perfect place! In the main street of Fer
rytown. Prime location. I’ve got the keys. Let’s go down for a gander.’

  It was four dingy rooms above a chemist. I looked around in disbelief. ‘Karen, the place is a kip. You couldn’t bring people in here. Are they …?’ I ran to a cluster of things growing in a corner. ‘Are they mushrooms? They are mushrooms!’

  ‘Coat of paint, it’ll all be fine. Look, our customers, they won’t care about fountains and candles. They’ll want bald legs and cheap tans. They’ll be young, they won’t notice the fungus.’

  I took one final look around and said, ‘No, Karen. Sorry to rain on your parade, but this isn’t the place.’

  ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘I’ve bought the lease. Both of our names are on it. And I’ve handed in your notice at work.’

  I gazed at her, waiting for the punchline. When there wasn’t one, I said, faintly, ‘I’ve a three-month-old baby.’

  ‘She’s doing grand with Auntie Jeanette minding her. This changes nothing.’

  ‘Where’s the loo? I need to puke.’

  ‘Right behind you.’

  I ran.

  ‘You’re a big chicken,’ she called through the bathroom door.

  I dry-heaved, then said, ‘I’ll be too ashamed to bring people into this dump.’

  She laughed. ‘You can’t afford to be ashamed. Wait till you see how much we have to pay a month.’

  I heaved again and Karen said, ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Because I couldn’t be. We’d taken precautions. It would be the worst thing in the world to be pregnant right now.

  But I was.

  As soon as we were working for ourselves, Karen moved to warp speed. She’d always been a fast waxer, but now it was as if she was rocket-propelled. She powered through every wax, even the delicate stuff, talking non-stop. ‘This next bit is going to hurt.’ She’d have grabbed your leg by the ankle and shoved it high in the air and be whipping the strip off your labia before you’d even noticed it had happened. ‘Bite down,’ she’d say, with a grim laugh. ‘The other side is coming. Ouch! Now! Hair all gone, bald as a coot down there, wasn’t it worth it?’

  No recovery time was allowed. There were no gentle exhortations to ‘take your time getting dressed, I’ll just tiptoe outside’. She’d smile down at the poor girl who was splayed on the plinth, shocked and queasy. ‘Up you get, we need that bed. Next time, take two Solpadine half an hour before your appointment, you’ll be grand. If you need to puke, the bathroom’s that way. Feel free, there’s no judgement here. Stella there, she got sick after her first Hollywood too. Didn’t you, Stella?’