A Gift to You (11 page)

Ella did as she was bid and sat down at the table to indulge in a long-awaited, deeply satisfying gossip with her old pal.

She saw him before he saw her and couldn’t help her sharp indrawn breath as she watched the lean, broad-shouldered man canter a chestnut gelding around the edge of a
field. Skinny and lanky he most emphatically was not. Daniel Finn had turned into a real hunk.

He saw her at the three-bar gate and slowed the horse to a trot. Paula swallowed and slid her Moschino sunglasses on to her nose.

‘Hello, stranger,’ came that familiar slow, lilting drawl.

‘Hi, Daniel.’ She stared up at him, noting the set of his jaw, the strong aquiline nose, the firm lips that were curved into a grin at the sight of her. She saw his strong muscular
arms and long fingers that held the reins so easily and firmly. Her eyes trailed up to the hint of chest hair curling at the open neck of his checked shirt. Old memories came roaring back and she
felt a lusty, longing desire for him that shocked her.

He jumped athletically from the saddle, a man at ease with himself and at one with his environment. Most of her boyfriends since Daniel had been sharp-suited business types, who wouldn’t
know one end of a horse from another. One had even begun dying his hair when the grey started appearing at his temples. Daniel’s short black hair had a sprinkling of grey that made him look
even sexier, she thought wistfully, as she remembered how he used to kiss her slowly and sensually and—

‘Nice set of wheels,’ Daniel said admiringly, and she felt more than a tad piqued to realize that he was staring, not at her, but at the car, with a glint of appreciation in his blue
eyes.

‘Work hard, play hard, I’m worth it,’ she asserted, perching her glasses on her head so he could see her expertly made-up eyes.

‘I’m sure you are.’ He grinned at her, his eyes sliding over her in a long, admiring gaze. ‘Are you here for the fundraiser? Didn’t think it would be your
scene,’ he said, easily leaning against the gate that separated them.

‘Thought I should come back and see the old home town,’ she said lightly.

‘And has it lived up to expectations?’ His eyes twinkled as he studied her intently.

‘We’ll see.’ She slanted a sultry gaze at him and turned to walk to the car.

‘See you at the party, then,’ he called, as he mounted the horse, and before she had even turned back to look at him, he was gone, racing across the meadow without a backward
glance.

Paula’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. By the time she was finished with him, he’d be panting for her, she promised herself. And then she’d drop him all over again.

‘Oh, my God! Look at her – she thinks she’s on the red carpet!’ Maggie muttered, as Paula made her entrance into the crowded marquee. ‘She looks
fabulous. Is there no justice?’

‘Great chassis, for sure,’ Daniel remarked admiringly, watching the other woman sashay over to some of the lifeboat crew at the bar and start talking to them.

Ella smiled sweetly at him. ‘You think so?’

‘I do.’

‘Really?’

‘But not as great as
yours
.’ He grinned, swatting her ass.

‘Good answer, buster. Now go and get us gals a drink.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied her husband, who was looking particularly handsome in a pair of cream chinos and a maroon Lacoste short-sleeved shirt.

‘OK, look, there’s Paul!’ Ella announced, as she saw Maggie’s husband standing at the entrance, peering around.

Her friend’s face creased into a grin. ‘Brilliant. Divorce averted for another week,’ she declared, as she made her way through the throng towards him.

Two hours later, the marquee heaved to couples dancing to the strains of Elvis singing ‘Love Me Tender’.

‘You should go and ask her for a dance and put her out of her misery,’ Ella murmured against her husband’s shoulder. ‘She keeps looking over at us.’

‘I want to dance with you,’ he retorted, nibbling her ear.

‘Stop. My mother’s looking.’ Ella elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed.

‘Just for that, I’ll dance with Paula; she might appreciate me more than you do,’ Daniel announced, before making his way over to his ex, who smiled seductively up at him and
slipped into his arms, draping her own around the back of his neck.

As they danced, Daniel winked at her over Paula’s shoulder, and Ella smiled back. She was his dear woman and nothing and no one, especially not Paula Nolan, would change that.

Her plan wasn’t working. He’d only danced with her once and he’d seemed quite unmoved by her sensual, undulating body as they’d moved around the dance
floor.

A new strategy was called for, Paula decided, as she lay in her soft, saggy bed, listening to the sound of a cock crowing and the racket of early-morning bird-song under the eaves. ‘Noisy
buggers,’ she swore, burrowing her head under the pillow.

The car! That was it. She’d offer to take him for a spin in the car. He’d never be able to resist that.

‘Sorry, I’ve a mare in foal and I’m waiting for the vet. I bet Andrew would love a spin, though. Just a quick one. Would you mind?’ Daniel asked later that morning when
she’d driven over to the yard.

‘I’ve no car seat,’ she pointed out, utterly relieved that she could legitimately get out of that request.

‘Ah, don’t worry about that, just drive up to the house and back, it’s on private land so you’re fine.’ He pointed up to the impressive ivy-clad stone house beyond
the paddock. Paula tried to hide her dismay. She didn’t want a little brat, who never shut up, in her car. What on earth would she say to a seven-year-old?

She needn’t have worried, she thought wryly: he did enough talking for the both of them. Yap, yap, yap . . . Why hadn’t Daniel come with her? She’d worn a sexy mini and a
low-cut halterneck top. What did it take to get a response from her ex? Paula fretted, driving up the long tree-lined drive that led to the house where Daniel now lived.

‘Are your lips not real?’

‘What?’ she demanded, coming out of her reverie.

‘It’s rude to say
what
,’ Andrew explained kindly.

‘Sorry . . .
pardon
!’ Paula growled.

‘Are your lips not real? Do they come off?’

Paula eyed the little monster in the back seat with venom. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘My dad said your lips aren’t real. They’re bigger than they used to be.’

‘Your dad said
that
?’ She couldn’t hide her shock. She’d thought the silicone job was quite discretely done. The boy was unaware of her consternation and
prattled on.

‘Yep, he said it to my mam. And he said your boobies aren’t real, either. He called them
Barbie
boobies!’ Andrew guffawed. ‘My Dad’s really funny
sometimes.’

‘And what did your mam say?’ Paula probed, horrified.

‘She laughed and she told him to stop saying that and then my Dad said, “Let me kiss
real
lips,” and they did
yucky
kissing stuff. Uugggh! Are they
real?’ he persisted.

Tears smarted Paula’s eyes. How
dare
they. How dare that stay-at-home little hick and that bog-trotting clodhopper laugh at
her.

‘Spin’s over,’ Paula responded sharply, as she spun the steering wheel and did a turn that would have put Lewis Hamilton to shame.

A few minutes later, she pulled up outside the stables, listening to Andrew plead for another chance to put the roof up. Daniel was leaning against a wooden fence, one long, blue-jeaned leg
resting on the middle bar, listening intently to something Ella was saying to him. They both looked up as she jumped out and opened the passenger door to evict her young tormentor.

‘Have to go,’ she said curtly, as Andrew raced over to them and climbed onto the gate.

‘Thanks for giving him the spin.’ Daniel lifted his son over the top bar.

‘A pleasure,’ she said, drily, getting back into the car. She raised her chin, waved casually, and gunned the engine. She glanced back in the rear-view mirror and saw, with a lurch,
that they weren’t even looking at her. Both were looking down at their son, laughing as he gesticulated, and she wasn’t even in their consciousness.

Fake lips, fake boobs, fake life, she thought bitterly. There was nothing for her in Clearwater Bay. There was no point in staying.

Later that evening, as Daniel and Paul cooked thick juicy steaks on the barbecue, Maggie and Ella sipped chilled chardonnay and watched the sun set over the gold-glazed
sea.

‘It was a great weekend, wasn’t it?’ Maggie raised her glass and inhaled the salty tang of the sea and the aromatic smell of barbecue that wafted along on the breeze.

‘Terrific,’ agreed her best friend. ‘We’re so lucky. What more could we ask for?’

‘Wouldn’t mind a night with Hugh Jackman.’ Maggie grinned. ‘You?’ she asked a little tipsily.

‘A night with my darling hubby will do me just fine.’ Ella smiled as her husband looked over at her and winked.

‘Thank you, Saint Anthony,’ she murmurs with heartfelt gratitude, manoeuvring into a tight spot between two cars in front of the terraced red-bricked houses on Leo
Street. Mostly, thanks to her entreaties to her favourite saint, and driving into town early, she is lucky on Saturday and Sundays to find a space where there is free parking. On St Joseph Street,
across the road, parking has to be paid for 24/7. She has often seen people caught out, and ticketed, and felt sorry for them, They are usually unfortunates in cars with country registrations, who
don’t know the ins and outs of parking in Dublin.

She only brings the car at the weekend because she can’t afford the weekly all-day fees in the Mater Hospital car park. The costs are prohibitive and money is tight now. Have the
authorities
any
idea of the added hardship that is inflicted on people who have to visit a seriously ill patient day after day, month after month? she wonders. Not that they care. No one
cares for the likes of her.

She sighs, leaning across the passenger seat to haul her tote bag off the floor. Beaumont Hospital is the worst, she decides. A walk to a ward that takes fifteen minutes from the car park, and
fifteen minutes back, leaves precious little time for a visit. The queues at the pay stations tip you over the hour, and it all costs a fortune, she thinks crossly, remembering how she would go
from three to six euros in the blink of an eye.

Life is harsh, cruel now, post-Celtic Tiger, and ordinary people are ground down, paying for the immoral gambling of bankers, developers and greedy, corrupt politicians. White-collar criminals
that lied through their teeth and broke many laws. It enrages her that so many of the perpetrators of heinous crime against the citizens of this benighted isle of so-called Saints and Scholars,
continue to live in their big houses, and enjoy their foreign holidays and play golf in their posh golf clubs, scorning the notion that a ‘personal guarantee’ really applied to
them
. The judges, far removed from the hardship of the hoi polloi, have put none of these gurriers behind bars. And why would they? They’re all in the same clique, playing golf and
enjoying fine dining and giving each other the nod about stocks and shares and when to buy and when to flip. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

She is grumpy this morning, she acknowledges, heartily sick of the daily trek, and the effort to be positive and supportive. How
she
would love to be the one being nurtured and
cherished and supported, she thinks sorrowfully, easing her arthritic body out of the car.

‘Stop it!’ she chides herself aloud. She cannot afford to give into weakness. She has to be strong. At least she will have the luxury of coming out to her car, and not having to wait
for a bus to get her home this evening, she comforts herself, double-checking that the door of the Yaris is locked.

Leo Street is quiet, resting in the early-morning pale wishy-washy October sunlight. A black cat is sitting outside a crimson door, vigorously licking herself clean – the only sign of
life. Curtains and blinds are still drawn, shutting out the day as people take their Saturday morning lie-in. A puff of wind tosses crispy golden leaves in the air and they frolic down to her feet,
reminding her that autumn has arrived and she needs to get her gas geyser serviced. More money. She is considering installing a wood-burning stove. Gas-heating is so expensive now and their savings
are dwindling.

She stifles a yawn. She would
love
a lie-in, she thinks wistfully, rounding the corner to the NCR and making her way to the automatic doors of the new Whitty Building, opposite
Mountjoy’s women’s prison.

The Mater Misericordiae Hospital.
Misericordiae
, meaning ‘mercy’ or ‘pity’ in Latin.
Misery
in her vocabulary, she thinks wryly, holding her hands under
the sanitizer and rubbing the gel onto her palms and between her fingers. She would like a cup of coffee and a cookie but the prices charged by the small café are unbelievably exorbitant and
she has her flask of tea and a sandwich in her bag. She steps onto the escalator and ascends slowly to the first floor.

The hospital is eerily quiet, unlike weekdays when patients, visitors and medical personnel throng the corridors. All the services are pared back at the weekend. People are only allowed to be
sick and have needs fulfilled from Monday to Friday. Her husband will get no badly needed physio or doctor visits, no X-rays, tests,
nothing!
It is a five-day hospital, thanks to cutbacks.
Her eighty-five-year-old brother was thrown out of a private hospital, with undiagnosed pneumonia, on a Friday morning, due to ward closures for the weekend because of pressures from
health-insurance companies. He ended up at death’s door and in hospital for another six weeks because of a crazy, dangerous and short-sighted strategy that cost the private-health-insurance
company thousands more than his original hospital stay should have done.

It’s all about ‘beds’ now, not patients. If only the nuns were in charge of the HSE, it would be a different kettle of fish, she ruminates. The hospitals went to pot once the
nuns withdrew from running them and ‘managers’ took over. She gives a delicate snort. Bad scran to the ‘managers’. They needed to spend a few days lying on a trolley in
A&E and it might change their tune.