‘I wonder, is he still living in that flat in Ranelagh? Will we drive over tomorrow and check it out?’ Colette had suggested, eyes glittering with anticipation.
‘Why? What’s the point? You don’t want him to think you’re running after him. Forget him, Colette,’ Hilary retorted.
‘Please, Hilary! Please! Let’s drive over and see if he still lives there?’ Colette begged. Knowing she would get no peace until she agreed, they had set out on a wild, late Saturday afternoon in December, in Hilary’s ramshackle Toyota, driving through the wet suburbs on the Northside to the tree-lined, narrow street of red-brick houses on the Southside of the city. They’d parked a few doors across the street from where Rod lived, in a ground-floor flat, with two other medical students.
As rain lashed against the car windows, they had sat with hats pulled low over their faces and scarves up to their noses. ‘Just in case Rod sees us,’ Colette fretted. The downstairs of No. 27 was in darkness. Upstairs in the window of a first-floor flat the lights of a bushy little Christmas tree twinkled gaily, casting sparkles of light into the gloom. Pools of orange light radiated from the street lamps, reflected in the puddles of water around their bases. People came and went into their warm, lamplit homes, doors opening, light spilling out into gardens, then closing on the dark, damp night where Colette and Hilary kept their lonely vigil fortified by a flask of coffee and Twix bars.
‘I think we should go,’ Hilary said gently an hour and a half later, as she wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, pins and needles shooting up her leg from her cramped position.
‘Just five more minutes,’ pleaded Colette miserably and so they sat for another half-hour until their patience was rewarded and Rod’s motorbike roared up the street, with a black-helmeted pillion passenger, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
‘Fat cow!’ Colette burst into tears as Lynda climbed off the back of the bike and Rod chained it against the railings.
‘She’s not that fat,’ protested Hilary, who was feeling particularly plump having demolished two Twixes, and whose jeans were digging into her waist due to a combination of PMT fluid retention and a week of Christmas parties that had ruined her pre-Christmas diet.
‘Yes she is,’ sniffed Colette. ‘Look at the wobbly arse on her. If I had an arse like that I’d shoot myself.’
‘Oh stop it,’ snapped Hilary. ‘I have a fat arse too. Think how that makes me feel hearing you go on like that.’
‘Oh! Well at least you don’t have a bust like the Dublin Mountains.’
‘Wow, that makes me feel a million dollars,’ Hilary snorted.
‘Oooh look! Bastard! Bitch!’ Colette burst into tears as her Rod switched on the Christmas tree lights and enfolded his girlfriend in a loving embrace. Their silhouettes etched against the twinkling glow of the multicoloured light, the pair snug and warm from the deepening rain that was now hammering down on the top of the car. The little tableau of domestic bliss was almost cinematic, Hilary thought, wishing she was at home in front of the fire with her book and a glass of wine. But her heart softened as Colette’s whimpers turned into full-blown sobs, and she started the car engine and said kindly, ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here. There’s no point in prolonging the agony.’ Colette had cried the whole way home.
And to think that now, years later, knowing that Rod Killeen was working in a hospital a few blocks away from her could send Colette into a tizzy. It surprised Hilary. Her friend was a strange girl where men were concerned. Every man was subject to the famous O’Mahony charm. Even Niall, Hilary thought wryly, having witnessed Colette’s flirty behaviour with her husband on numerous occasions. Colette had to be the Belle of the Ball. Rod had ditched her, and that had been a first; Colette usually did the dumping. Clearly she had never got over it. What did she want to return to the past for when she had made a very good life for herself with Des? Why open up old wounds? If that was the greatest of her troubles she was doing very well, Hilary sighed, swinging right onto Vernon Avenue.
She parked on double yellows outside Thunder’s and raced in to buy a selection of gooey cream cakes. She deserved a treat after the hectic week she’d had, she thought, damping down the guilt when she bought a creamy coffee cake as well. She’d need a sugar lift to keep her going – it would be ages before she had her meal.
A motorist shook his fist at her as he manoeuvred past her car and she muttered, ‘Ah shag off!’ She hadn’t blocked him or anyone. She’d half parked on the pavement – it was the car on the far side of the road that was causing the problem. You’re the very one who’d be giving out if it was the other way round. She acknowledged her double standard, twisting the key in the ignition, relieved that the lights were red and she was able to scoot out in the gap in the traffic.
Her daughters were standing under an umbrella, scowling, when she finally drew up as near to the school gates as she could. She tooted at them and they hurried to the car, grumbling as they threw their bags in and climbed in. ‘We were waiting ages, Mam!’ Sophie reproved, flicking raindrops off her blonde ponytail.
‘My shoes are leaking,’ moaned Millie, plonking herself into the front seat beside Hilary.
‘I’ll give you the money to get a new pair,’ Hilary sighed. ‘We’re going to Gran H’s to have a quick cuppa and a cream cake. I didn’t have time to go for coffee with her this morning after her
