Lying in Wait (22 page)

He roared at me then: ‘Stop lying to me! Oh God, I can’t look at you.’

‘She deserved it! She was a thief and a liar. She betrayed us!’

He flew out of the room.

Daddy hadn’t been able to look at me after Mummy left, and after Diana died. I looked in the mirror above the kitchen table. I was still beautiful, I knew it, and yet nobody wanted to look at me. I heard Laurence throwing things around upstairs and then he ran downstairs with a suitcase in his hand and I met him in the hall.

‘Don’t go,’ I pleaded with him, ‘I’ll die.’

He stopped for a moment and I thought I had him, but his eyes filled with tears. He turned away and slammed the front door. I heard the car engine screeching into reverse. He drove away from me as if his life depended on it.

Being
with Laurence was different to being with Dessie. Laurence made me feel like I was a person of my own, rather than Annie’s sister or someone’s property or baby maker. He didn’t expect me to be available when it suited him. He borrowed art books he thought that I might be interested in from the library. He drove me to the airport and wished me well when I went off on jobs, and greeted me with flowers on my return. I realized quickly that he was not as well off as I had supposed, but it had never been his wealth or class that I was interested in. He introduced me to his workmates, most of whom I’d met on those Friday pub nights when he was with Bridget. Some were OK with me and others were distinctly rude. ‘Some friend you turned out to be,’ said Evelyn on one of my first nights out with them as Laurence’s girlfriend, but I swore to her that I hadn’t ever wanted to hurt Bridget and that we hadn’t cheated on her.

Laurence defended me. ‘It’s nothing to do with Karen,’ he insisted. ‘I split up with Bridget for lots of reasons.’

The older guy, Dominic, said, ‘Jayzis, Lar, you’re punching above your weight there, you know what I mean? Weight, get it?’ and proceeded to tell me that Laurence used to be obese. I remembered Bridget saying the same thing. It didn’t matter to me. I had changed too. I used to be eaten up by thoughts of justice and revenge, but love had fixed me. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

Laurence stayed over in my apartment some nights and was about to move into a cottage he inherited, but he told me
about his mother’s fragile mental health and how attached to him she was. I insisted he should take his time moving out, and make sure that she was OK first. He was trying to ensure that his mother’s boyfriend Malcolm would be there for her when he left. And there was some legal wrangling over the cottage to do with his uncle, but Laurence insisted he was keeping it. We went to see it a few times. It was a beautiful whitewashed fairy-tale house, although the roof was slated rather than thatched. I looked forward to visiting him there, walking on the beach, cosying up by the fire and watching the sunset over the bay.

As I might have guessed, somebody in Laurence’s office told Bridget about us. I should have had the courage to tell her myself, but in the last conversation we had, she was sure that he was trying to get back with her, and I just took the coward’s way out and didn’t contact her. When she discovered the truth about us, she rang me and screamed and cried down the phone.

‘You were supposed to be my friend! I told you everything. I can’t believe you would do this to me!’

‘Bridget, I’m really sorry, we never planned it –’

‘Was this going on behind my back? You’re some bitch, after everything I did for you. You even came to my parents’ house, and all the time you were seeing him behind my –’

‘But I wasn’t, I swear. We didn’t get together until much later. I never wanted to hurt you, I know it seems wrong, but –’

She slammed the phone down. The trust between us was broken and could never be repaired. I felt guilty because, whatever way you look at it, I had betrayed a friend. But she took her revenge out on Laurence in a really cruel way, and I didn’t feel sorry for her after that. Laurence didn’t tell me about it at first. His friend Jane told me in the pub. Bridget
had posted photographs of Laurence to his friends in the office. Photos that had been taken when he was at his heaviest, photos taken while he was naked and asleep. He played it down in the pub, but I could see he was mortified. He told me about it later when we were alone.

‘She took photos all the time, but I never knew she was taking photos of me when I was asleep. Some of the junior ones in the office were laughing at me behind my back and passing comments. I didn’t know what it was all about until Sally told me.’

Evelyn had gathered up all the photos and binned them. She had also rung Bridget in Mullingar and torn strips off her.

Laurence tried to make a joke out of it all, and I could tell that his co-workers liked him. He was a good boss and very fair. Privately, he was upset about it, but we got on with things and moved on as a team. He wrote Bridget a cross letter, letting her know that all of her friends had been disgusted by what she’d done. We didn’t hear from her again after that.

Da was really surprised that I was going out with Laurence. He didn’t know that Lar had split up with Bridget. ‘It makes sense now,’ he said. ‘He was always asking about you in a roundabout way.’ Da had always liked him, and he’d started his new hospital porter job in the Mater, so he wasn’t signing on at Laurence’s office any more. ‘No conflict of interest,’ he said, chuckling. I didn’t dare tell my parents that Laurence had written the Annie letters. I don’t think they would have understood that he did it for me. He had done more work to find her killer than anyone. He knew he was hitting a blank wall, and he just wanted the heartache to stop for us. It was the most considerate, generous thing anyone has ever done for me. Da was prepared to let it go now that he’d been let off the hook in the second letter.

‘Didn’t she say she’ll get in touch one day? I hope it’s soon,’ he said, and I knew that the forgiveness and hope were enough to keep him going, even though Annie was never going to walk in the door.

Ma had already accepted everything when she got the first letter. She had agreed with Dessie that we shouldn’t look for Annie. She agreed with Dessie about everything. She was very upset that I was seeing Laurence. ‘It’s cheating,’ she said. ‘In the eyes of God, you are still married and always will be. That man was nothing but good to you. Look at me and your father, back together again. Why don’t you give him another chance, love? This Laurence fella, you’ll end up hurt, I know you will, there’s something about him I don’t trust. Why would the likes of him, from a big mansion so you tell me, be interested in the likes of you? He’s only after a bit of fun. It’s only because you’re a model now. He wouldn’t have bothered with you if you were still in the dry-cleaner’s.’

‘Hush now, Pauline, leave her be. He’s a nice fella, that Laurence. Very good to me so he was, before he even met Karen.’

My mother’s words were hurtful and I did wonder if they might be partly true, but Laurence was proud to have me on his arm and introduced me everywhere as his girlfriend. He never treated me like I was his bit of fluff.

Except for when it came to his mother. I knew Bridget had never met her, and I knew that Laurence and me were in the early days of our relationship, but even though it was unspoken, I felt there was a commitment between us. I was still married to Dessie, and the divorce referendum had just been beaten earlier that year, so marriage wasn’t even an option, but the way he talked about the cottage, it was as if he meant it to be our home, and he mentioned us travelling in the future. He found out about fine-art courses I could
enrol in. This was definitely not going to be a fly-by-night romance, and yet he never suggested I meet his mother. He had talked about her various phobias and her difficulty with strangers, but I figured that if she was well enough to go to the supermarket, she might be able for me. I wanted to ask him if he had told her about me, but I was afraid I’d be disappointed by the answer. If Bridget got the impression that her family wasn’t good enough for Laurence’s mother, then I was in the same boat. Socially, Bridget and me were on the same rung of the ladder. If anything, I was lower because I had left my husband, and that made me a loose woman.

Work was going well. I travelled a bit, and without Dessie watching my every move and checking up on me, Yvonne was freer to accept the jobs he would not have approved of. I still didn’t want to do sexy lingerie shoots, but there was a swimwear shoot at Cap d’Antibes for British
Vogue
. I was so nervous about that one because the other girls were English, Sri Lankan and Ethiopian. My skin was pale blue compared with their peachy, coffee and ebony tones, but the director of the shoot insisted that was what he wanted. It was all done very tastefully, and an army of stylists made me look good and with the help of some careful padding increased the size of my bust. Laurence thought that was funny. Dessie would have been apoplectic.

Every time I went home to Ma and Da’s, there’d be a letter from Dessie waiting for me. In the beginning, they were full of apologies and begging me to give the marriage another go. Then, after a while, they were more about practical matters, like how the bill had come in for getting the boiler fixed, and as I’d lived there at the time he felt it only fair that I contribute. Even though he still had total control of the house fund that I’d paid into every week, I sent him a postal
order to keep the peace, and to keep him off my back. Then the letters became abusive. I had made a fool out of him. He was going to get his revenge. Everyone at the dry-cleaner’s was laughing at me when they saw me in magazines, and thought I had notions about myself. He was my husband and I had no right to walk away from him. And then they got nastier. I was a stupid slut like my sister, and I’d end up a prostitute just like her. He wouldn’t be surprised if I got murdered one day for flashing myself in public. He threatened to sell a story on me to the tabloids about my junkie whore sister, and I began to get genuinely scared of what he could do to my career. I knew he’d been talking to my ma, so I showed her the letters and I warned her again not to give him any details about me or where I was living. She was shocked then and felt guilty about taking his side. Then later, she met Laurence and was charmed by his good looks and fine manners. She put on her telephone voice when she was speaking to him until Da and I ribbed her about it.

My relationship with Laurence was easy from the start. There was no need to make a big effort with him, to dress to please him or to talk a certain way to impress him. He told me I was beautiful many times, but he also told me that I was clever and interesting and funny, and I felt the same way about him. Our dates were pretty ordinary, I guess. The cinema, music gigs in pubs, dinner out occasionally, but we never ran out of things to say to each other, and I knew I would never get tired of his handsome face.

Everything was going pretty well for us, and then Laurence rang me one night out of the blue to say he had moved into the cottage that night. He seemed upset but didn’t want to discuss it. I was surprised because it was barely furnished at the time. He said he’d see me during the week, but when I
called his office to leave a message they said he was sick, so I took the train out to Killiney and walked up the hill to the cottage that weekend. Laurence had been full of plans about how he was going to do it up. It was a pretty place. The windows were diamond-paned, ivy grew up the walls, and rose bushes stood on either side of the front door. I rapped the brass knocker. There was no reply. I knocked again and eventually heard a shuffling behind the door and it opened a crack.

‘Laurence, it’s me.’

He pulled the door open reluctantly.

‘They said you were sick. Are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’ He opened the door wider to let me in. He was clearly unwell, still in his dressing gown and unshaven. I followed him into the bare sitting room. The curtains were closed, blocking the amazing views of the bay, and the air was sour.

‘You look terrible. Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I’m fine.’

He was clearly not fine. There was a single mattress and a duvet on the floor in front of a muted television, and it was surrounded by crisp packets, cereal bowls, cake boxes and empty brandy bottles.

‘Laurence, what’s going on?’

He pulled me towards him, rested his head on my shoulder and began to cry. I was alarmed.

‘What is it?’ I embraced him and tried to squeeze his pain away.

‘I can’t … my mother …’ he sobbed. I could smell alcohol and stale sweat.

‘You should take a shower, clean yourself up. I’ll put the kettle on.’

He nodded and headed towards the bathroom. I rummaged
through a suitcase on the floor and found a clean towel, which I hung on the towel rail amidst the rising steam. I went into the kitchen, which was laden with dirty dishes and empty food containers. I began to wash up and clean the place as best I could. He had clearly moved in a hurry, because there were no cloths or scourers and only a handful of old chipped plates and crockery, left over from his granny’s time.

I always knew that Laurence was sensitive and could be emotional, but I wondered what could have happened to cause this sudden collapse.

He emerged clean-shaven, and I gave him a fresh set of clothes. He turned away from me as he dressed, as if ashamed.

‘Lar, whatever has happened, you know I love you, right? That still means something.’

‘I’m so, so tired,’ he said. ‘I just want to sleep.’

‘You mentioned your mother …?’

‘I can’t talk about it. I don’t want to see her. Ever.’

‘But she loves you. You always said she loved you too much.’

‘Please don’t ask me about her, please? I just can’t.’

‘Will you come and stay with me for a few days? For as long as you like.’

He bowed his head. ‘I don’t deserve you, I really don’t deserve you.’

Laurence let me drive – he wasn’t sober enough – and when we got back to my apartment, he went straight to bed and slept for twelve hours.

He never told me what the row with his mother was about, but it certainly affected him deeply. I couldn’t imagine what had caused the upset, but some part of me felt relief, I must admit. He had been attached to her in a way that even his work colleagues found odd. They joked about it, and he had
always been mildly embarrassed about living at home. He stayed with me for a week and then went back to work. He had a friend, Helen, who retrieved some stuff he needed from his mother’s house while I flew off to Milan for a lipstick shoot. When I returned, he had moved into the cottage permanently. He had been to Avalon and used a rental van to take beds, ancient sofas, odd chairs, tables, rugs, curtains and a dinner service, all things he said were never used and wouldn’t be missed. He said the attic of his house had been covered in dust sheets for years. I helped him unpack boxes of books and records and hang pictures and curtains. I met his friend Helen when she delivered other bits and pieces one day. Laurence had gone to the hardware shop for paint.