‘Did you?’ He gave her such a tender smile she buried her face in his neck and started to cry.
‘Aw don’t cry, Hilary, she’s not worth it. Truly she isn’t.’ Niall tightened his arms around her.
‘I’m not crying because of her. Jealousy has blighted her life like a malignancy that’s eating her up. She’s such a sad, bitter, twisted woman. I almost feel sorry for her, so don’t worry I’m not going to waste any more energy on Colette O’Mahony. I’m crying because I love you so much, and you love me, and that makes me very happy,’ she sniffed.
‘You women are such complicated critters, crying because you’re happy,’ he teased. ‘I’ll never understand you.’
‘You understand me very, very well,’ Hilary said, raising her lips to her husband’s and kissing him for all she was worth.
Colette lay on her bed in a darkened room having pleaded a migraine. She buried her head under the pillows so the sound of her sobs wouldn’t be heard. How dare Niall Hammond turn her down and speak so disrespectfully about her. How dare he imply that she was a plastic Barbie, even if she had been somewhat refreshed? How dare he order her out of his house and tell her to never darken his door again, as if she was some sort of criminal.
He needn’t worry: it would be a cold day in hell when she would ever have anything to do with either him or Hilary again. They had humiliated her. They could both get lost.
Niall was an arrogant big-head, for all his ‘I love my wife’ crap. He was no better than her father or Des or bloody Rod Killeen who had dumped her all those years ago. She had given her heart to Rod and he had trampled all over it and she’d never got over it. Niall might have turned her down, but she was damn sure he wasn’t squeaky clean. None of them were. She was finished with men, finished with the fuckers, she vowed. All they’d ever brought her was misery.
It had been so deeply satisfying to tell Hilary what she thought of her and her precious family, and to finally spew that vile secret out of the depths of her. Her father had been knocked sideways. Francis O’Mahony, lauded and esteemed senior counsel, who loved to preen and pontificate, hadn’t enjoyed hearing about his white-arsed rumpy-pumpy with lardy-legs Boyle.
No wonder she was bulimic, Colette raged. Her father had used food as a treat and reward for keeping quiet about ‘their’ secret. She had been taken to every plush hotel in the city for afternoon tea in the months that had followed her discovery. She would never forget that day, coming back early from playing with the girl next door because they had argued, and letting herself in through the back door. She could still remember as clear as if it was yesterday the sun shining through the window on the landing. Rays of diffused light streaming onto the red-gold-patterned carpet that covered the stairs. And the sounds. The groaning and grunting. The terror she experienced, feeling that something was wrong. That her mummy or daddy was ill.
And then, the shock of discovery. The sickening tableau that was revealed when the bedroom door was pushed open. The knowledge that a secret would have to be kept. A burden was added to the hurt and sadness already borne.
Colette wept at the memory, swamped by childhood grief that had never been acknowledged properly until today.
Hilary had never had to deal with the likes of what she’d had to contend with, Colette thought sorrowfully when the weeping had subsided. Little Miss Perfect would be back sometime, knocking on her door, wanting to let bygones be bygones because ‘life’s too short to fight’. Hilary never held on to a fight in all the years they’d known each other. She’d always caved in. But she could knock as hard as she liked, because Colette wanted nothing to do with her ever again. Why would she want to stay friends with a woman who had everything she craved? Hilary’s happiness only emphasized her own failure. She didn’t need to have her nose rubbed in it for a minute longer.
And as for her father! Frank would pay dearly for her years of misery. If Des could no longer fund a lifestyle she had grown accustomed to, Frank would. Now he was the keeper of the secret, and she was the one in charge. A week in a villa in St Barts was just what Colette needed to get over this unspeakable period in her life. And she’d be travelling first-class!
Recovery
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-F
OUR
‘You’re a better woman than I am, Hilary, because I wouldn’t be going to that man’s funeral,’ Jonathan exclaimed.
‘If it wasn’t for Mam I’m not sure if I’d go. I couldn’t give a hoot about Frank O’Mahony to be honest. But Mam and Jacqueline were, and I use the term lightly, “friends” a long time ago, and Jacqueline did come to Dad’s funeral. I’d say it was that meltdown that Colette had last year that brought on the stroke that finished Frank off eventually,’ Hilary reflected.
‘And are you going to talk to Jezebel O’Mahony?’ he asked bitchily.
‘Jonathan!’ Hilary giggled.
‘Well are you?’
‘I suppose I’ll have to offer my condolences. We’re only going to the Mass, not the graveyard. We’ll be on our way to Leanne’s wedding when old Frank is being lowered into his loamy grave. A funeral and a wedding in one day! From one extreme to the other.’
‘Is Sophie
