Read If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back Online
Authors: Claudia Carroll
Tags: #Fiction, #General
OK, I can’t stay silent any longer. And it’s not like anyone can hear me, either, so I can say what I like.
‘Hmmm, let me see now,’ I say, as I plonk down at the kitchen table, wedged right in between Rose and Kate. ‘It can’t be National Bitch Day, because all the banks are still open . . . so you’re clearly only needling Kate like this because, let me think now . . . oh yeah, because you’re an unutterable bloody cow, that’s why. Tell me this, Rose, was your mother by any chance a jackal?’
Wasting my fragrant sweetness on the desert air, as usual, but it sure as hell makes me feel better. Just then, the door opens, and in bursts Robbie with Connor, the youngest brother, and they, at least, are both marginally politer to Kate than the wives all were. Robbie even asks after Mum and sympathizes with Kate about me, which is far more than any of the others did. There’s chaos and mayhem and kids running around screaming, demanding to be taken either to the movies or else McDonald’s, or basically anything other than knuckle down to doing actual homework.
‘Eh, don’t suppose you know where Paul got to?’ Kate has to shout, to make herself heard over the racket.
‘Ehh . . . band practice,’ says Robbie, shoving a ham sanger into his gob. ‘Down in Sheehan’s pub. Julie and the others wanted to try out a few new numbers before the fortieth-birthday party tonight.’
Even the mention of Julie’s name brightens the collective mood of the sisters-in-law, all of whom, it seems, know Julie from schooldays, are best buddies with her, and think she’s well on her way to being the next Christina Aguilera. Only playing pub gigs in Galway temporarily until she gets her big break, either from going on
X Factor
, or from Louis Walsh discovering her, or from suddenly becoming a huge overnight YouTube sensation.
The way you do.
‘I must get her to sing “Beautiful” for me tonight,’ says Rose fondly. ‘Because that’s my song, isn’t it, girlies?’
Kate eventually says fine, that she’ll go down to Sheehan’s to find her husband, but no one either hears or answers her. In all the commotion, she slips out, and I don’t think any of them even bother to say goodbye. Then, I don’t know why, but some latent sixth sense makes me stay on after she’s left. The minute she’s left the room, they all start talking about her.
All
of them.
‘Always a joy!’ Rose says sarcastically to the closed kitchen door. ‘Seeing you leave, that is.’
‘Oh, I don’t eat wheat,’ the breastfeeding sister-in-law says, doing a lousy impression of Kate’s clipped tones.
‘I got my coat at a designer sale,’ chimes in the pregnant one.
‘And did you hear her telling me she’d try to get me the same coat . . . in my size. Cheek of her. I’ve lost three full pounds since I had the baby, you know.’
‘Oh, and you can totally tell!’ the other two chime obediently.
‘And did you see the way she was looking me up and down, like I’m some kind of beached whale that wouldn’t fit into one of her bloody designer coats? God, I hate the superior way skinny women go on sometimes. Would you say she even feeds Paul? With her, “Oh, I don’t eat bread.”’
‘Oh, look at me, afraid to put too much dip on a cracker just in case I might sprain my wrist,’ says Rose, doing by far the worst impression of the lot of them.
‘Definitely not,’ says the pregnant one. ‘At least not judging by the huge clatter of sausages and mash he ate the minute he got down here.’
‘How do you think I feel, girls?’ says Rose. ‘She’ll expect to stay the night here with Paul this evening and wait till you see: nothing will be good enough for her. Well, if madam thinks she’s getting the red-carpet treatment in this house, she’s another think coming.’
Much clicking of tongues and umming and dark nodding of heads at this. Particularly unfair, as I happen to know that Kate is a really good house guest. I mean, OK, she may be a little high-maintenance, but her heart’s in the right place. In fact, I remember one famous occasion when she and Paul were staying with Mum while the builders were in their house, and Kate donned a pair of Marigolds and started scrubbing down the bathtub, much to Mum’s disgust. (‘Where does she think she is, anyway, the house that hygiene forgot?’ I remember Mum snarling at me, like I’d anything to do with it.) Anyway, the point is that Kate means well, but try telling that to this shower.
‘Wouldn’t even sit for more than five minutes with us, the uppity aul cow,’ Rose goes on, shaking her head sadly. ‘Poor aul Paul. You’d really have to feel sorry for him.’
By the time I rejoin Kate, she’s back in the car, on her way to town, almost trembling at the coolness of her reception.
‘Bitches,’ I say to her, but of course, she just stares straight ahead. ‘That’s all they are, Kate, so there’s no point in letting them get to you. They’ve made up their mind that you’re an outsider, and that they’re not going to like you, and there’s no turning them. Best you can do is have as few dealings with them as possible. I mean, everyone has in-laws they don’t like, don’t they?’
She tries calling Paul on the mobile again, but still no answer. So, a few minutes later, she pulls up into the car park of Sheehan’s pub, which isn’t too far from Rose’s house, and heads inside. Paul’s car is there, too, thank God. I follow her in, but it’s packed with a coach party on their way to see the Spanish Steps, and there’s no one serving behind the bar. Eventually, she stops a lounge girl laden down with a trayload of soup and sandwiches, with hair extensions so long they’re almost swishing into the consommé, and asks her if she knows where the band for tonight are practising.
‘Function room upstairs,’ says hair-extension girl, without even looking at her. So up the back stairs Kate goes, with me hot on her heels, dying to see the look on Paul’s face when he sees her. That she’s driven all this way just to be with him. That she’s here to make up for the humdinger of a row they had early yesterday morning. That she loves him and knows just how lucky she is to have such an ideal husband, to rob from Oscar Wilde. That it’s not his fault that his brothers all married such harridans: Kate and Paul have each other, and that’s all that matters.
From down the corridor outside, you can hear a guitar playing ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles, and a deep, mezzo-soprano woman’s voice crooning along. The fabulous, about-to-be-discovered Julie, I assume, plus the rest of the band rehearsing for tonight.
Kate bursts in, all smiles, with a big, ‘Hi, love, it’s me!’
But it’s not the full band at all.
Just Paul and Julie on their own.
And they don’t even look all that pleased to see her.
Later on that evening, I’m still with Kate as she wanders aimlessly around the Brown Thomas branch off Eglinton Square, having spent the last few hours guilt-buying gifts for all the horrors-in-law. She’s shaken, I know she is, and I just couldn’t bring myself to leave her. There you go, that’s just the kind of 24/7 angel I am. By now, she’s laden down with all kinds of presents: scented candles for the pregnant sister-in-law, perfume for the breastfeeding one and a huge chocolate cake for Rose. Not including the bags and bags of colouredy pick and mix stuff from the Sweet Factory for the kids, to make up for arriving empty-handed earlier.
Paul was perfectly polite to her earlier, in Sheehan’s, but stood firm, telling her that he and Julie needed to rehearse before tonight, and that he’d see her back at the house for dinner later. Which left Kate with the choice of facing back into making small talk with his awful family till he arrived, or else skiving off for a few hours to fill the time with shopping. And really, would you blame her?
Come sixish though, and it’s not like she can absent herself for much longer without it seeming rude. And believe me, you wouldn’t want to give this shower any ammunition to use against you. She calls Paul, yet again gets his voicemail and tells him she’ll see him back at Rose’s house. My heart goes out to her as she faces back into the kitchen of horrors, where, apart from there being about a dozen or so kids sprawled out in front of the telly, no one seems to have budged all afternoon. But then, that’s just the way this family are, I have to remind myself; they just seem to really enjoy living in each other’s pockets all day long. I dunno, maybe because it’s all the easier to bitch about outsiders like Kate when they intrude on their poisonous little web of hating the entire world outside of their four walls.
Timidly for her, Kate distributes the gifts, then excuses herself to go upstairs and freshen up for dinner. Paul still isn’t back from rehearsing yet, so I figure she’d rather be alone in the spare bedroom than having to deal with this shower. I stay behind, though, and sure enough, no sooner is she out the door than the backbiting starts. Honest to God, Kate trying to be nice to them is such a big mistake. A huge mistake, in fact. With cellulite and love handles and thunder thighs. Put it this way: this is one family tableau that I doubt Norman Rockwell would want to paint.
‘She bought me a shaggin’ cake?’ is Rose’s opener. ‘When everyone knows I was a county finalist at this year’s bake-fest above in Oranmore? Bloody cheek of her.’
‘She left the price on the scented candle she got me,’ mutters the pregnant one. ‘Forty-two euro! Scandalous. Imagine forking out that amount of cash for a candle? She’ll have poor Paul ruined in no time.’
‘And buying bag-loads of sweets full of E-numbers for the kids,’ snipes the third witch in the coven, who’s at the sink draining spuds. ‘They’ll all be so full of sugar they haven’t a chance of sleeping tonight, and wait till you see, they’ll give the babysitter hell. My one night out, too. Thoughtless cow.’
Jesus Christ, I think, going straight back to where Kate is changing upstairs. She can’t bloody win with these people. Damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t.
Nor do things improve when Paul eventually does get back. By my reckoning, he’s in and out the door in about thirty minutes flat, only stopping for a lightning-quick shower, to change clothes and wolf down the roast chicken and spuds dinner that’s plonked in front of him. He’s like a whirlwind, in and gone before you’d even know it.
Leaving Kate alone. Yet again.
I stay with her as she politely offers to drive anyone who wants a lift to Sheehan’s for the fortieth party, but the horrors-in-law all elect to travel in Rose’s big people-carrier mammy wagon. Together. Without Kate. Connor, the youngest brother, must feel a bit sorry for her, though, as he hops in beside her, just so she’s not totally alone. It’s the nicest thing any of the family has done for her all day.
The party is beyond awful. Kate doesn’t even get two seconds alone with Paul, as he’s playing non-stop for the night, and on the rare occasion when the band do take a breather, they just chat among themselves about the playlist for the next set. And apart from Paul’s family, she knows no one, nor do any of the in-laws bother introducing her around. When the beers kick in, things start getting a bit raucous, and in no time, everyone’s up on their feet dancing to some Chuck Berry number, arms in the air, having great crack.
Everyone except Kate, that is. She’s sitting all alone at the family table, while the in-laws are dancing around their handbags, knocking back the Bacardi Breezers, laughing their half-pissed heads off. Honestly, poor Kate might as well have a sign over her head saying, ‘Do not engage the social leper in conversation, she doesn’t fit in. In case anyone hadn’t noticed.’ Another break in the music and this time the famous Julie is over to Paul, all wiggling hips and deep-voiced and doe-eyed. She’s young, about twenty-three, with the head so bleached off her that if you look at her sideways, she kind of has a look of Eva Braun.
So yet again, Kate sits at the edge of the family table, the picture of isolation and loneliness, while her husband blatantly ignores her. Doesn’t even come near her once all evening. Doesn’t even look over in her direction to see whether she’s OK. Doesn’t offer her a drink, nothing. After a few hours of this appalling treatment, Kate looks utterly miserable, so unhappy that she’s only about a heartbeat away from recording a Country and Western album. In her defence, she sticks it out till about midnight, then makes her excuses and leaves, pleading exhaustion after a long day. No one says goodbye to her. No one looks sorry to see her go.
In fact, I don’t think anyone even notices.
I don’t stick around for the bitch-fest which usually erupts the minute Kate leaves her sisters-in-law, I go straight back to Briar Rose’s house where Kate relieves the babysitter, pays her (not that she’ll get any thanks for it), then slopes forlornly off to bed. Hours and hours later, there’s a commotion in the driveway as the rest of the family land back, and from the sound of it, head straight for the kitchen where Rose sticks on a late-night fry-up. Kate’s lying awake, staring at the ceiling with the smell of rashers and toast wafting upstairs to her, and I have a horrible feeling that I know exactly what’s coming next.
‘Don’t do it, Kate,’ I say out loud. ‘Don’t pick a fight with Paul. Not in this house, where Briar Rose probably has a CCTV camera here so she can watch the whole thing live, then play back the edited highlights to the other pair of witches tomorrow. Trust me, don’t do it. At least wait till you’re home, in your own space, where you have some privacy.’
No such luck, though. Not long after, Paul falls in beside her, pissed as a fart, and off Kate goes. As marital rows go, it’s a particularly ugly one, with Kate coolly dissecting how completely ignored she felt for the whole day and night, and by the husband she’d made such an effort to come and see. A fair point, but Paul’s way too slaughtered drunk to even come back at her; he just grunts at her to leave him alone so he can sleep off his bellyful of beer.
‘Paul, I’m talking to you,’ she says, wobbly voiced, all the upset, anger and frustration of the whole crappy day and night coming back to her.
Kate, please don’t do this, not here and not now. I wouldn’t put it past Rose to be outside the door with an empty jam-jar pressed against it so she can hear every word you’re saying. Sorry, shouting.
‘Ah leave off your nagging and go to sleep, woman,’ growls Paul from somewhere under the duvet.