Whose Life is it Anyway? (3 page)

‘In my opinion it’s overrated.’

‘Fantastic. Now I don’t have to feel guilty every time I see it staring accusingly at me from under the bed.’

‘Confession.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t invite you back here to discuss literature.’

‘And there I was thinking it was my intellect that had attracted you.’

Pierre moved in closer and kissed me. Usually I would play hard to get on a first night, but this was a whole new universe. I was consumed with lust. It took me precisely ten seconds to rip off my clothes, ten seconds to rip off his and then, thankfully, it took a little longer to have the most passionate sex of my life.

I woke up early the next morning, my eyes stuck together with mascara. Thankfully, Pierre was still asleep, so I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom to do some damage control. What I saw in the mirror was not pretty. I had smudged, panda eyes and bed hair. But not the tousled look of a woman who has just been ravished by her lover – I had the bird’s nest of someone who has over-bleached it. I rubbed my eyes and tried to find a brush but all I could see was a nailbrush, so I used that. Bad idea. Now I looked like I’d had an electric shock. I scrubbed my teeth so he’d think I woke up with fragrant breath and I patched up my makeup, so I looked less scary and ‘natural’.

I walked out to find Pierre in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Gorgeous, clever
and
a cook. Was this really happening? He grinned at me. ‘Morning.’

‘Smells good.’

‘Scrambled eggs and bacon OK for you?’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Grab a seat.’

‘Do all your conquests get this treatment?’

‘Only the good ones.’

I smiled.

‘Did you enjoy last night?’

‘Average.’

‘You’re a good actress.’

‘Meaning?’

‘When you shouted, “This is the best sex I’ve ever had,” I believed you.’

I blushed. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

‘I like your big mouth very much,’ he said, kissing me. ‘Now, eat up before it goes cold.’

‘Great eggs.’

‘Thanks. So, what plans for today? I’m free until eleven. Do you fancy grabbing the papers and chilling out here?’

‘Oh, God, I’d love to but I have a twelve o’clock deadline for my column.’

‘Have you started it?’

‘I’ve sketched out a few ideas.’

‘Can I hear them?’

‘Not yet. I need to work on it first.’

‘Why don’t you do it from here? Use my computer.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. I promise not to bother you until you’ve finished and then I may have to take you back to bed.’

‘For an old guy, you’ve a lot of energy.’

‘It’s the younger woman I’m seeing. She’s making me very frisky.’

‘Is she good in bed?’

‘Best sex I’ve ever had.’

‘Copy-cat! Come up with your own line.’

‘OK, the most passionate sex I’ve ever had.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Now get on with your work. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can pick up where we left off last night.’

I wrote my column in record time.

4

A month later we were having a drink in the local pub and Pierre asked me to move in with him.

‘As in live in your apartment?’ I asked.

‘Well, yes. I don’t think we’d both fit into yours.’

‘I’ve never lived with a man before. I might not be very good at it.’

‘You’ll be a natural.’

‘I have some bad habits.’

‘Everyone does.’

‘What if I drive you mad?’

‘You won’t.’

‘I can be very annoying and I’m not very chatty in the mornings.’

‘I can live with that.’

‘I like watching really cheesy TV.’

‘How bad?’

‘
Melrose Place
.’

‘Sounds great. What time is it on?’

‘I’m not very tidy.’

‘Nor am I.’

‘I work irregular hours.’

‘Ditto.’

‘Sometimes I wake up at three in the morning and make myself toasted sandwiches.’

‘What type?’

‘Cheese and onion.’

‘My favourite.’

‘It’s one of the only things I can cook. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.’

‘Not a problem, I like cooking.’

‘My favourite film isn’t
The Mission
, it’s
Steel Magnolias
.’

‘I knew you were lying.’

‘I find classical music boring. I prefer Kylie, it’s more uplifting.’

‘Kylie’s fine with me.’

‘I only ever read the magazines in the
Sunday Times
.’

‘Perfect. I never read them, so we won’t fight over the paper.’

‘Sometimes I eat chocolate for breakfast.’

‘Niamh, do you want to move in or not?’

‘I’d absolutely love to.’

‘Well, then, stop gabbing and get packing.’

So there I was, Niamh O’Flaherty, twenty-eight-year-old columnist, moving in with my forty-two-year-old professor boyfriend. And it felt so right. I was in seventh heaven. I was finally in a proper, grown-up relationship with a man who had a real job and who made me feel ten feet tall. I had never been so happy.

I unpacked my things and got a real buzz from seeing my clothes hanging beside Pierre’s in the wardrobe. One night while he was making dinner in the kitchen, I rearranged the pictures on the mantelpiece, so that a photo of Pierre and me sat in front of the one of Brigitte and his mother. No offence to his mother, but I didn’t want to have his supermodel ex beaming down at me every day.

The weird thing was that it didn’t feel strange. Living together was the most natural thing in the world. We slotted into each other’s lives like old pros. I loved living with him and he seemed to like it too.

We did everything together. We lived in each other’s pockets, it never felt claustrophobic and we never ran out of things to say. It was perfect and I was terrified. I’d never felt like this about anyone before and I was petrified that Pierre would come home one day and say, ‘It’s over.’ I was completely in love with him and totally open to having my heart broken.

I knew he liked me a lot. He had, after all, asked me to move in with him. But I wasn’t sure if he was in love with me. I began to obsess about it and then one night, after a few glasses of wine, I started to probe.

‘So, you know the way you were with Brigitte for nine years,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you must have really loved her.’

‘I suppose I did in the beginning. But it faded.’

‘Yes, I know, but why exactly did it fizzle out? What did she do to make you want to break up with her?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The spark went out of it. We didn’t seem to have anything to say to each other and we were getting on each other’s nerves.’

‘What bugged you about her?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Try.’

‘She was very jealous.’

Was he pulling my leg? Who could she possibly have been jealous of? She was one of the best-looking girls I’d ever seen.

‘Of who?’

‘Anyone I paid attention to.’

‘Were you flirting?’

‘No! That’s the whole point. I’d be having a normal conversation with another woman, it could be about the weather, and Brigitte would go mad.’

‘What would she do?’

‘Oh, you know, sulk and go off in a strop. She threw a drink over me once.’

‘Wow.’

‘We broke up soon after.’

‘Were you ever jealous of her?’

‘No. Jealousy’s a waste of time. If you’re that insecure the relationship isn’t working.’

‘So you’re not a fan of drink-throwing.’

‘Definitely not. I hate couples who argue when they’re out. It makes everyone else uncomfortable. Brigitte thrived on drama. Come to think of it, we really weren’t very suited at all.’

‘How did you last so long?’

‘We lived in different countries for a lot of it. I suppose that helped.’

‘So you fell out of love.’

‘Why are asking me about a relationship that’s dead and gone?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Are you satisfied?’

‘Have you ever been in love with anyone else?’

He looked at me and nodded. My heart skipped a beat. ‘Sandra White. She lived across the road and was two years older than me. We snogged on my thirteenth birthday, but then she told me she’d only done it as a dare to see if black boys kissed the same as white boys.’

I laughed. ‘Poor you.’

‘It took me a long time to get over it.’

‘Anyone else, apart from Sandra?’

‘A couple of girls in university, a girl I met in Greece, an American colleague –’

I put my hands up. ‘OK, I get it. You’ve been in love a lot.’ I sighed.

Pierre leant over and took my hand. ‘I’m winding you up. The minute I met you I realized I’d never really been in love before. This is the relationship I’ve been looking for. This is what it’s supposed to be like. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so can you please stop dredging up the past and getting yourself worked up about nothing?’

‘Do you really?’

‘What?’

‘Love me?’

‘Yes, darling, I do.’

‘Me toooooo,’ I sobbed, as he pulled me into his chest.

‘Come here, you fool.’

‘I promise I won’t go all boil-the-bunnies if you talk to other women.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘As long as they’re under thirteen or over sixty,’ I mumbled.

Pierre loved me! I had never felt so wonderful. I no longer walked, I glided. I had a permanent grin on my face, to the point at which people in the office kept asking me if I was all right. For the first time in my life I felt beautiful. I didn’t look in the mirror and groan. I made more of an effort with my appearance. I wore matching underwear and expensive scented body lotions. I painted my toenails and shaved my legs regularly, instead of seasonally. I felt like a woman and no longer a girl. And it was fantastic.

We continued to live in our blissful domestic cocoon. Everything was perfect… until my mother rang and said she was coming to Dublin to see me.

‘When?’ I asked, beginning to panic.

I had pushed the fact that Pierre was black to the back of my mind. It didn’t matter to me, it didn’t matter to him, so who cared? My mother would. My mother would care very much. In fact, I knew fine well that she’d blow a fuse when she found out.

‘Next weekend. It’s your granddad’s birthday and I haven’t seen you in two months so I’ve booked my flights and I’ll be arriving at ten past five on Friday.’

‘OK.’

‘Well, you don’t sound very pleased,’ she said.

‘Sorry, Mum, I’m just really busy in work.’

‘I hope you can find the time for your poor mother.’

‘Of course I can. It’ll be great to see you.’

‘That’s a bit more like it. Shall I bring anything over for you?’

‘No, thanks. I have everything I need.’

‘Well, I bought a few bits for your flat, so I’ll bring them with me.’

‘What did you buy?’

‘A nice lampshade, a shower mat, and your auntie Pauline’s taken up crochet so I’ve six crochet place mats and a tea cosy for you as well.’

‘Oh, God!’

‘You have to support your relations in their endeavours,’ Mum huffed. ‘She hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet and they’re a bit lopsided, but it’s the effort that counts.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, young lady. Besides, you need to brighten up that flat of yours. It’s so small and poky. I’m going to give it a good shake-up when I come over.’

‘No!’ I said. Damn. How was I going to explain my new living arrangements?

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t want you wasting your time cleaning my apartment. You’re coming over for a break – and I’m twenty-eight. I can do my own cleaning.’

‘Well, miracles do happen.’

‘Yes, Mum, they do,’ I said, thinking of Pierre.

‘How’s work?’

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Are you still writing those racy columns?’

‘Yes, and they’re not racy, they’re a humorous look at real-life situations.’

‘Why don’t you write book reviews or nice articles about gardening?’

‘Because I like what I do and I’m good at it. Can we just leave it at that?’

‘There’s no pleasing you today, very contrary altogether. Well, I’ll go. Your father and brother are due home any minute and I’ve to put the tea on.’

‘How are they?’

‘They’re both in good form. Sure I’ll fill you in next week when I see you – I don’t want to run up a big phone bill.’

‘OK, ’bye, Mum.’

I hung up and sighed. How was I going to explain Pierre to Mum? She’d flip. We’d only been together for three months and I really didn’t want to rock the boat or put the relationship under any pressure. This was the best thing that had ever happened to me and I was determined to protect it at all costs. I decided that it was best for Mum not to find out about Pierre yet. I’d tell her about him in a few months’ time.

My other problem was explaining to Pierre why I didn’t want him to meet my mother. I knew he’d think it was strange, so I did exactly what I shouldn’t have done and stuck my head in the sand.

That Friday, as Pierre was leaving for work, he said, ‘Let’s go to the movies tonight. I want to see that new Scorsese film.’

‘I’m not around.’

‘You never said.’

‘Yeah, I forgot.’

‘What’s on?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing really. My mum’s over and I’m meeting her in my grandparents’ house for dinner.’

‘Hold on a minute. Do you mean to say your grandparents live here and you never mentioned it before? And now your mother’s coming over and you forgot to tell me that too?’

‘It’s no big deal,’ I mumbled.

‘Yes, it is. What’s going on?’

‘It’s all very last minute. Mum only rang me last night to say she was coming,’ I lied.

‘If my grandparents lived here you’d have met them weeks ago, and if my mother was coming to see me, you’d be the first person I’d want her to meet. So why am I only finding out now?’

‘You don’t understand, my family’s not very…’ How was I going to explain tactfully that my family were going to go absolutely ballistic when they found out that my boyfriend was black?

‘You mean they won’t be too thrilled when they find out your new squeeze is black.’