‘We should get the girls together for a playdate. We’ve only just moved into the area. It would be great to make some friends. Zoe was quite taken with Erin, by all accounts,’ Madison says.
‘Great idea.’ My mouth is writing cheques I’m not sure I can cash. I glance at the hands that clutch the steering wheel. No wedding ring. Would Shelly approve of me and Madison sipping coffee while our daughters played together in one of our houses? Even if there’s no attraction between us and it’s purely platonic.
‘Great. Maybe next week?’ She bites her lip and continues to stare. Is it platonic for her? I’d have to be certain.
Before I can respond, the school gates open and the noise of a hundred squealing girls invades the surrounding area. Saved by the bell. If I mention it to Shelly, perhaps she can arrange to be around when Madison wants to meet up with the girls.
Hopping out of the Audi, I stride towards the gate to greet them. Erin throws her arms round my thighs in a bear hug, but Emily hangs back.
‘Is it always going to be you from now on, Dad?’ She jerks her school bag off her back and gives it to me. I’m good for something at least.
‘For a few weeks, anyway. Is that ok?’ I take each of them by the hand and lead them back to the car.
‘Did you bring snacks today?’ Erin’s eyes roam the inside of the car as she hops in.
‘I did.’ It’s an effort to keep the smugness from my tone.
‘Did you bring my football kit?’ Emily’s still not convinced.
‘Fuck. No, I forgot. Sorry, petal. We’ll swing by the house on the way.’
‘Oh, Dad! We’ll be late,’ Emily complains.
‘We won’t. I’ll put my foot down.’ I wink at her but she’s still not happy.
‘And fuck is a bad word, you know. Mam doesn’t swear like that.’ Emily shakes her head with a tut as I strap her seat belt tightly. Ha! She fucking does! She’s just better at hiding it from the girls than I am.
A giggle from a close proximity behind me startles me. I turn to see Madison resting back on the Nissan, surveying the entire exchange. I shrug and roll my eyes.
‘Next week, then?’ she checks again. I can’t bring myself to answer her, so I raise my hand in a polite goodbye and ignore the questioning tone in her voice.
By the time we get home from football, we’re all famished, tired and my patience is beginning to wear thin playing referee to my two bickering daughters. Not only do I not care which is the better doll, Barbie or Tiny Tears, but I’m ready to chuck all the dolls in the bin so I never have to endure this argument ever again.
The Porsche isn’t in the drive today. In the hope that Shelly might have parked in the garage, I pop my head in. It’s empty.
Opening the front door, the place feels huge and soulless. The smell of yesterday’s lasagne lingers in the kitchen. There’s enough leftovers in the fridge for the girls for today’s dinner, so I heat it up in the microwave while they change out of their uniforms. If I’m going to be here alone, I’ll need to start learning how to cook some simple dishes for the girls. Shelly’s always been here to do it in the past.
There’s been no word from her again today. She must be busy. Never mind reality TV, I’m beginning to get a swift reality check of my own. No wonder she wanted a few weeks away from the duties of motherhood. I’m only a few days into being the primary carer and I’m finding it challenging enough.
Switching on the TV in the kitchen, I wonder if there’s any update on the show, a niggle of apprehension wriggling in my gut. Flicking through the channels until I land on RTE, I wince, winded from the invisible punch that lands squarely on my chest.
A banner flashes across the bottom of the screen THIS YEAR’S PARTNERS ANNOUNCED FOR SEXY COME DANCING.
It rotates on a never-ending loop as a high-definition, technicolour picture of my wife appears across the giant flatscreen in our kitchen.
Shelly’s barely recognisable through the sheer magnitude of illuminating make-up she’s wearing. Stunning doesn’t cut it. She’s a total knockout. Her long blonde hair’s styled into huge bouncing curls as though she’s going to a wedding. Her dress stops four inches above her knees, displaying long shapely legs. Legs which turquoise stilettos only enhance.
The most disturbing accessory she wears is a smug, self-righteous looking Ben Battle, who crosses the stage to join her, draping his arm all too familiarly around her waist.
