Past Secrets

‘I’d hate to be away from you too,’ Amber answered, stroking his skin with exploring fingers.

This was love. Pure contentment flowed through her veins. Karl was so crazy about her that he wanted her to travel with his band to America to record their album.

He needed her, he said. He’d been writing songs like a man possessed since they’d met. ‘You’re my muse,’ he’d said.

And Amber, who’d been told all her life how talented and special she was, believed him. She and Karl: they were the twosome now.

As the ambulance carted Una Maguire and her frantic husband Dennis off to hospital, Amber gazed at her lover with shining, besotted eyes and imagined all the wonderful times they’d have. Her mother would flip when she discovered Amber wasn’t going to art college after all, but Amber was an adult now, wasn’t she? She could do what she liked. That, surely, was the point of all those years of ‘you have the power to do what you want’ conversations. Amber would do what she wanted and although she hated hurting her mum, Faye would have to live with it.

Faye left work early so she could dash into the mini-market near home and pick up a few last-minute bits. They were out of basmati rice and she’d defrosted a home-cooked vegetarian korma the night before.

Ordinary rice wouldn’t work, it had to be basmati.

Near the checkout, she dallied briefly by the ranks of magazines and papers. She loved the interior decoration magazines but they were all so expensive, so she didn’t splash out very often. But she felt weary this evening, and the house felt lonely when Amber was upstairs at her desk bent over old exam papers. Faye could do with a treat. Finally choosing a magazine with a supplement on bedrooms, she looked down and her eye was caught by the lead story in the local free newspaper.

Developer’s Deal With Council: 25 Apartments in Summer St Park

She picked it up and moved to the checkout.

‘They must have got it wrong. They can’t be talking about the park here, opposite my house?’ she said to the cashier.

‘That’s the one,’ the woman said, scanning the groceries. ‘Shame to rip up that lovely little park. I don’t know how they get away with that type of thing. There won’t be a bit of green left around here if the developers get their way.’

‘But it’s tiny,’ Faye protested. ‘And surely nobody’s allowed to buy an actual park?’

A queue appeared behind her and Faye was in too much of a rush to stop to read the story, so she stuffed the paper into the top of her grocery bag and left. In her car, she read it all quickly with mounting horror.

The pavilion in the park was falling down and the council had decided to sell it, and the half-acre of land that accompanied it, to a developer in return for the developer building another park and a community centre on a sliver of waste ground a mile away.

‘We’re not tearing up the park,’ insisted a council spokesperson. ‘The park is staying. The pavilion was never part of the park. People just thought it was. We’ve every right to sell it because we can’t afford to renovate it and it’s dangerous, besides. Summer Street will still have its park.’

Except that it will be half the size and have a dirty big apartment block cutting out the sun, Faye thought furiously.

She drove home angrily. Amber would be just as annoyed to hear about this, she loved that little park. Honestly, why did things have to change all the time?

The evening walkers were out in force when Maggie left the beach at Salthill and got the bus back into the city. The bus was only half full and she sat a few seats behind a group of schoolgirls still in uniform.

Half listening to their chatter, she stared listlessly out the window. She’d come to no conclusions because she couldn’t think about Grey. Her mind refused to cooperate, racing off on ideas of its own. She had to work late the next evening instead of Shona. Were they out of coffee? Should she and Grey go to see the new Pixar film? Anything was better than thinking about what had just happened.

From the depths of her handbag, her mobile phone rang. On auto-pilot, Maggie retrieved it, saw that her father was calling and clicked answer.

‘Dad,’ she said, managing to sound bright. Her entire world hadn’t just crashed and burned, no. All was well. Faking happiness – wasn’t that what communicating with your parents was all about?

‘What’s up, Dad?’

‘Hello, love, it’s your mum.’

Maggie’s hand flew to her chest.

‘She’s in hospital, she’s broken her leg.’

A breath Maggie didn’t know she’d been holding was released. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something terrible,’ she whispered, cupping her forehead in one hand with relief.

‘It is terrible,’ he went on. ‘Your mother insisted they did a bone density scan in the middle of it all, and it seems she’s got osteoporosis. The doctor says he doesn’t know why she hasn’t broken bones before.’ Her father had to stop talking for a moment and gulped. ‘I don’t know what to do, Maggie. You know how your mum copes with everything and all, but she’s taking this badly. She keeps saying she’s fine but she’s been crying. Your mother crying.’

He sounded shocked. Una Maguire could see the silver lining in every cloud and had taught her daughter that a smile was easier to achieve than a frown. Mum never cried, except at films where a child was hurt or the dog died.

‘Maggie, I know it’s not fair but could you come home for a couple of days…?’

Maggie could imagine her father standing obediently outside the hospital entrance, not using his mobile phone inside as per the instructions on the hospital walls, even though nobody else obeyed them.

Dad, with his wide-open eyes, his few strands of hair and his endearing inability to deal with daily life to the extent that Maggie felt he ought to wear permanent L-plates. Dad, who’d never seen her mum cry over anything.

‘I’ll be home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’

It was, after all, the solution to everything.

You’re running away, said a voice in her head: a voice that sounded remarkably like Shona when she was in Dr Phil mode. Shona loved Dr Phil and felt that America’s favourite television doctor’s principles could be applied to every life situation.

Are you doing the right thing? Ask yourself that. Would you advise a friend in a similar situation to do what you’re doing? Will running away solve your problem? Dr Phil asked all the right questions and so did Shona.

No, no and no. Maggie knew the answers. But Dr Phil hadn’t the benefit of Maggie Maguire’s Guide to Life.

Don’t stuff your bra to make your A-cups look like B-cups. Boys won’t get close enough to notice but nasty girls from school will. Nobody wants to be No-Tit Maguire for a whole month, as Maggie knew from experience.

Guys who say things like ‘I’ve never met anyone like you’ are not lying, exactly, but probably don’t mean it the way you think they do.

Maggie had a new piece of advice to add to the Guide:

When in doubt, put your running shoes on. Nothing will improve but at least you don’t have to stare your defeat in the face on a daily basis. And if you can’t see it, surely it can’t be there?

In a trendy little internet café close to the apartment, she ordered a latte and a session on the web. Flicking through flights to Dublin, she found one that left the following afternoon, giving her time to pack as well as to negotiate with the library for emergency leave. When she’d booked it, she knew there was only one more big task left: to go home and say goodbye to Grey.

Goodbye Grey, I’m going and we’re selling up so you’ll have to take your jail bait somewhere else from now on.

No, too bitter.

Bye, Grey, I’m going home to Dublin for a while to think. You cheating son of a bitch.

Again, too bitter.

Maybe she ought to stick at Goodbye, Grey.

When she got back to the apartment, Grey and the remains of a Thai meal were both in the living-room area. Maggie didn’t feel even mildly hungry.

The words ‘You lying, cheating bastard’ ran round in her head like a washing machine on final spin.

‘Hello,’ she said. See, not bitter.