Mad About You (2 page)

The doorbell rang. I looked through the peep-hole. Phew, it wasn’t the journalist, only Babs. I opened the door to see my younger sister dressed like some kind of over-the-top rock-star at ten in the morning. She was wearing dark sunglasses, skin-tight jeans, six-inch heels and a tank top, with Dolce & Gabbana emblazoned across the chest.

‘Subtle top, Babs. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s cloudy so you don’t need the shades.’

‘Out of the way.’ She pushed past me, wheeling a suitcase behind her. ‘What time is the photographer coming? You need a lot of work.’

‘Thanks! The journalist from the Irish
Sunday Independent
will be here to talk to James at half ten, and they’re going to do the photo at about eleven.’

‘Thank God for that. I’ll need a full hour. Now, for the love of God, make me a cup of coffee, will you? I’m really hung-over.’

‘Morning, Babs.’ James came in and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re looking very … last night,’ he said, with a grin.

Babs grinned back at him. ‘You’re right, James, these are last night’s clothes.’

I spun around. ‘Where did you stay?’ I asked, hoping Babs wasn’t sleeping around. She had to grow up. At twenty-seven, she needed to calm down, stop shagging random men and meet a nice guy.

‘Chill, Emma, I crashed in a friend’s house,’ she drawled, sticking her head into the fridge, then drinking orange juice
straight from the carton. ‘A very cute, randy friend,’ she added, giggling.

Before I could tell her off, James stood in front of me. ‘How do I look?’ he asked, fiddling with his tie.

He looked very handsome. He was wearing his one and only suit – dark navy with a blue shirt and red tie. I noticed he was thinner. The suit was a little too big for him now. His brown eyes searched my face for approval. Where had my confident, self-assured husband gone?

I went over to kiss him. ‘You’re gorgeous. Even cuter than when I first met you.’

He smiled, relaxing.

‘You look like an accountant,’ Babs said. ‘You should lose the tie. You’re a rugby coach, not a banker.’

‘Ignore her,’ I told him. ‘You look very distinguished.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ He squeezed my hands; his palm was sweaty. ‘Right. I’ll leave you two to it. I want to go over my notes.’

As James walked out, the children came running in. ‘Auntie Babs!’ they squealed, when they saw her, and charged over.

Yuri and Lara adored Babs, partly because she was good-looking – it amazed me that children were so attracted to beauty – but they also loved her because she talked to them as if they were adults. She never censored herself in front of them. She said exactly what was on her mind and the kids loved that. She also bought them completely unsuitable presents. For Christmas last year she had given Yuri a huge toy machine-gun and Lara a big case filled with makeup, glitter, stick-on nails, plastic earrings and bracelets – a true treasure trove of girly junk.

Of course, I was the one who got shot by the little balls from Yuri’s gun, and it was me who had to clean up the glitter that Lara stuck to all the furniture and cushions in the
house. But they all got on well, which I liked, and the children brought out a nicer side to Babs. She genuinely cared about them. In fact, they were probably the only things she gave a damn about, apart from herself and her career.

Babs held up her hands to stop them. ‘Hey, kids, what have I told you? Never call me “Auntie”. I’m far too young for that. Just because your mother is ancient doesn’t mean I am. Remember, I’m thirteen years younger than her.’

Lara put up her arms. Babs checked her little hands were clean, then lifted her up for a kiss. ‘My God, you get more beautiful every time I see you. Not as beautiful as me but, still, you’re going in the right direction. Thank God you didn’t get your mother’s red hair.’

Putting Lara down, she turned to Yuri. ‘So, Shorty, what’s up? Have you grown?’

Yuri nodded proudly. ‘Three centimetres since I saw you.’

‘Well, you won’t be playing basketball anytime soon, but I suppose it’s something. Now, I’ve got a treat for you.’

‘What is it?’ Their eyes were wide with anticipation.

Babs pulled a box of Smarties out of her bag. Great, I thought, just what we need: sweets to make them hyper when there’s a journalist on the way and we’d like him to see a nice, normal family.

They shrieked with delight. Babs handed the box to them. ‘Run for your life, before the witch here gets her hands on them and lets you have just one each.’

As they ripped open the box, I turned to my sister. ‘Thanks so much. They’ll be bouncing off the walls now.’

‘I know, and their teeth will fall out and I won’t be the one bringing them to the dentist and paying for fillings, blah blah blah. Come on, Emma, live a little. It’s a box of Smarties, not crack cocaine.’

I decided to change the subject. ‘Did you ask your work
people about Putney? Do any of them know this area? Any advice or tips for me?’ We’d been in Putney three days now, but I still had no real feel for the place.

Babs reapplied her lip-gloss while the children gorged themselves on Smarties. ‘It’s where all the boring people with kids live so you’ll fit right in.’

‘Gee, thanks. I’m so glad to hear that,’ I said, giving her a fake smile.

‘Seriously,’ she said, looking around, ‘this place is depressing. All the houses on the road look exactly the same. I don’t know why you didn’t listen to me and get a cool loft in Soho.’

I shook my head. ‘Because lofts are for people like you – young, selfish and single – not for someone like me who has two small kids. I need a garden so the children can run around in circles and tire themselves out instead of trashing the house.’

‘Fine, whatever.’ Babs polished off her coffee and ordered me upstairs for my make-over.

The suitcase, it turned out, contained a whole bunch of outfits Babs had borrowed from the wardrobe department at the TV show she presents,
How To Look Good With Your Clothes On
. An hour later, having managed to squeeze myself into one of the fifteen dresses she’d brought, I was ready.

‘Give us a twirl,’ Babs said, and I obeyed. ‘If I say so myself, I did a damn good job. Green is definitely your colour. It tones down the red hair – and, with the super-suction Spanx, the dress actually looks like it fits you properly.’

I heard the bell ring, and James opening the front door. He was greeting a man – it must be the journalist.

I studied myself critically in the mirror. My makeup was good, at least I was able to do that myself, and the dress was very flattering. Babs had insisted that I wear six-inch heels, to make my legs look thinner, and I had to admit that, although
the shoes were torturously uncomfortable, they made a big difference. I smiled at myself. I was pleased with the overall result. I really wanted to look good for this photo. I knew it was important to James. He was determined to make sure his new job went smoothly and a good first impression was vital. He was still haunted by what had happened with the Irish team, and I knew he was determined not to put a foot wrong this time.

We went back downstairs. I still hadn’t dressed the children, who were running around like lunatics in the garden in their pyjamas, high on sugar. I was waiting until the very last second to put on their freshly pressed clothes. James’s interview was in progress. Babs and I watched them through the glass door that separated the kitchen from the living room.

The journalist was dressed very casually in a crumpled shirt and chinos. He was younger than James. His Dictaphone lay on the coffee-table between them, but he was taking notes as well. James was sitting bolt upright on the couch, his hands clasped together in his lap. He seemed very tense.

‘Are you worried you’ll end up like your predecessor, out on your ear after nine months?’ the journalist asked him.

Nine months! James hadn’t told me that. He’d said the previous rugby manager hadn’t worked out, but he hadn’t mentioned the very brief timeline. Would we have to move again in nine months? Would anyone hire him if this job didn’t work out, just like the last one? My stomach twisted.

James smiled stiffly. ‘I’m planning to bring all the experience and success I had coaching Leinster to London Irish. I’m confident I can turn this team around and have a long and fruitful career with them.’

‘But your last position, as assistant coach for the Irish team, ended after only six months. What makes you think this will be different?’

‘Ouch,’ Babs muttered. ‘Look at James’s face.’

Damn! Why the hell had the journalist brought that up? It was so unfair. It hadn’t been James’s fault.

James crossed his arms and frowned deeply. ‘The Irish position didn’t work out because of a clash of personalities between the head coach, Frank Gallagher, and the Irish Rugby Federation. Unfortunately, I was a casualty of that disagreement. The only reason I was let go was because the new coach they hired, Jackson Hadley, wanted to bring his own assistant coach with him.’

‘Good answer,’ I whispered.

‘Yes, but his body language is really defensive,’ Babs whispered back.

James was sitting with his arms folded tightly across his chest. The Irish job fiasco had really knocked his confidence. I hated Frank Gallagher with a passion. If he had just been a bit less pig-headed and got on with managing the team, none of this would have happened and we’d be back home in Dublin, living our lovely life, and James would be his old self-assured and contented self.

‘He’s going to have to be tougher,’ Babs said. ‘He should tell that journalist to stick his stupid questions up his arse.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ I warned her. The last thing James needed was the journalist to hear insults being slung at him from the next room.

‘Seriously, Emma, James needs to grow bigger balls. He can’t go around being defensive and poor-me about his old job. It didn’t work out. He should put some kind of a spin on it and make it sound like he walked out on them, or he was keen to move back to his hometown London, or something.’

She had a point. He’d need to be smoother and more polished for future interviews.

The journalist tapped his notepad with his pen. ‘Is it not
also true that you were let go because the captain of the Irish team, Barry O’Brian, didn’t respect you?’

James dropped his arms to his side and sat forward. ‘No, that’s not true at all. I’ve no idea where you got that information, but it’s false.’

‘Really? I heard it from Barry O’Brian when I called him about you. He said, although you were highly valued at Leinster, the Munster players on the Irish team didn’t rate you. He felt a lot of your success was based on luck and the fact that Donal Brady was a brilliant captain and player. Brady also happens to be a good friend of yours, am I right?’

James’s face went an alarming shade of red. Gripping his knees with his hands, he snapped, ‘Barry O’Brian never said any of this to me. When I coached him, we got along just fine. As for Barry and the Munster players thinking I wasn’t a good coach, frankly, that’s bullshit. In fact, Munster tried to poach me when I was training Leinster. They offered me more money to move down to Limerick and train Munster, but I refused because I was loyal to Leinster and to the team. As for the comment about Donal Brady, yes, he is a close friend of mine and I think he’s a tremendous leader and player, but he’s not a coach.
I
coached that team to victory and I will not have anyone saying or implying otherwise.’

‘Way to go, James.’ Babs was impressed and I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Are you surprised by O’Brian’s comments, then?’ the journalist asked.

James sat back. ‘Yes, I am. I thought he was more professional than that, but I’m certainly not going to get into a slagging match about it. O’Brian is a fine player and a good captain for Ireland. I wish him and his teammates well.’

The journalist smiled. ‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’

James grinned, his face finally losing its tension. ‘My wife’s
Irish and my children are half Irish. I had a wonderful time living and coaching in Dublin. But I’m in London now and I want to look forward, not back. I intend to be the most successful coach London Irish has ever had.’

‘Fighting words.’ The journalist jotted down the quote.

James nodded. ‘I
am
a fighter and I have the utmost confidence in my abilities.’ Standing up to stretch his legs, he asked if the interview was over. It was obvious he’d rather have been eating the guy’s toenail clippings than answering his questions.

‘More or less, but I wonder if I could ask your wife a few questions? I’d like to get a sense of how she feels about the move,’ the journalist said.

What? I froze. That wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t want to answer any questions. I was prepared to smile at the camera, but I certainly hadn’t agreed to an interview.

‘Emma!’ Babs nudged me roughly. ‘Get your arse in there.’

‘But – I don’t know what to say!’

‘Just smile and say very little. Keep your answers short and don’t ramble.’

‘I never ramble.’

Babs rolled her eyes. ‘Hello! You spend your whole life rambling and ranting and going off on tangents, just like Mum.’

‘I do not. I am not like Mum in any way. I never rant and, besides, you’re a fine one to talk about –’

Babs held up a hand in front of my face. ‘Zip it, Emma. Now, get in there and help your husband out. He needs it.’

James looked at the door, smiled when he saw us hovering there and walked over to usher me in.

‘You were amazing. I’m so proud of you,’ I whispered in his ear. He squeezed my hand.

Introducing me to the journalist, he said, ‘Emma, this is
Joe Kendal. He’d like to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?’

I proffered my hand and plastered a smile on my face, but something caught my eye: it was Babs, waving at me from the doorway. ‘Psycho smile,’ she mouthed. ‘Tone it down.’ I tried to relax my facial muscles into a less alarming grimace.

Joe Kendal smiled at me and I couldn’t help feeling like a mouse in a snakepit. ‘So, Emma, how do you feel about the move to London? You’ve got two small kids so it can’t have been easy.’