MARCUS
After I drop the girls to school, I drive to the golf club to meet Callum and James. On the way, I call my mother about Saturday night, though I also have an ulterior motive.
Mam answers on the first ring, as if she was waiting for my call. ‘Hello?’
At the sound of her voice, a hundred memories hit me, but more importantly, one distinct emotion. Relief. I hadn’t realised how tense I’ve been since we got home from Vilamoura. My parents have always offered me unwavering support and acceptance, even in times where I’ve struggled to accept myself.
I’m adopted. My mother was forty-four when she took me on. After years of trying, she and Dad had literally given up on the prospect of ever having a child, then a friend recommended an adoption agency and somehow they ended up with me.
I’ll be eternally grateful. The thought of being raised in the foster system sends shivers over my spine. I’ve spent my entire life trying to give them something back and make them proud. They changed my life. They spoiled me. Not with material things, they didn’t have the means. But love, they had in an abundance. I’ve never once felt any need to trace my biological mother, because I already have the best mother in the world.
‘Hi, Ma. How are you? How’s Dad?’ I barely need to ask. She’d have phoned if he’d moved too far from his armchair. The two of them have very much settled into their retirement. A retirement which I’ve taken pleasure in making comfortable for them. It’s the absolute least I could do.
‘You know your father, Marcus. He’s here reading the morning paper from cover to cover. I’ll put him on so you can say hello.’ I hear the scuffling of her slippers against the carpet as she presumably shuffles across the room with the cordless phone.
‘Marcus. How was the holiday?’ Guilt rips through me as I realise this is the first time I’ve phoned since we got back. So preoccupied with Shelly, Ben and that stupid dance show, I’ve let my real priorities slip.
‘It was wonderful, thank you. Perhaps you and Mam would like to join us in October for a week for the school midterm?’
‘Sure, you’ll hardly be able to go for midterm now, will you?’ His usually even voice is heavy with scepticism.
‘Why wouldn’t we? We go every year.’ I take the slip road off the motorway and manoeuvre into the lane that leads to Dublin’s most exclusive golf club.
He clears his throat before saying, ‘With the show and everything. Shelly will hardly be able to get time off. It only runs for a few weeks. Still, I suppose she might be voted off by then. Not that I’m saying that’s what I want, or that’s what I think, son. It’s simply a possibility.’
His words wind me like a punch to the gut. He’s right. I hadn’t even considered Shelly’s RTE contractual obligations would limit our family time. For fuck’s sake. My pause allows my father to continue.
‘I suppose you know she’s the bookies’ favourite to win? With her likability, dancing background and the fact she’s been paired up with Ben Battle, the media seem to think she’s one of the few underdogs that will actually triumph. There’s an entire three-page article on her and Ben in today’s paper. You should read it.’ Dad coughs, almost uncomfortably. ‘Actually, maybe don’t.’
‘Dad, you know that show is total and utter crap. People watch it because it’s so bad, it’s good. Pairing up two novices and expecting them to dance is a joke. They’re setting them up for a fall. That’s all. And the more rumours that surround it, the better the ratings. Don’t believe everything you read.’
‘You do know that Ben’s mother was a world famous ballroom dancing champion in the seventies?’ Dad says.
‘No, but what does that have to do with anything?’ Irritation simmers inside.
‘Well, what was your mother a champion at?’ Dad says slowly, as if it needs spelling out.
‘Mam coached ladies rugby and ran the committee for the under twenty-ones rugby team for almost twenty years, before retiring.’ I still have no idea where he’s going with this.
‘That’s right. Your mother was the one who encouraged your interest in rugby. It was forced on you by default, most weekends since you were just a tot, if I remember rightly.’ Dad chuckles at the memory. He’s never been a sports fanatic, preferring a quiet corner to read, or play his beloved flute. Him and Mam are opposites, yet opposites attracted. Even after fifty years together, no one could dispute the love between them.
‘And?’ I’m still not getting the point.
‘What do you think Ben’s mother forced on him? Sure, she was involved in the club committee but that was a charitable contribution, not a passion. What do you think had him so eager to rebel that he joined one of the most aggressive, masculine sports going?’
Realisation dawns. That sneaky fucker Ben Battle probably received private dance tuition for years at home. Shelly could be in it for the duration. And if she wins the damn thing, she’ll be doing publicity gigs with Ben for months until the next damn season starts.
As much as I’d love to see my wife succeed, the thought of having to endure her spending time with Ben for months on end causes the blood to physically drain from my face. In my mind, it was just a matter of surviving the next few weeks, which is literally what we’re doing. We’ve never been so distant. She’s never had any other commitments outside our family. And I’m only beginning to appreciate that now.
‘Put Mam on again, Dad, will ya?’ I thought I needed to talk to her before, but now it’s essential.
‘Sure. Chat soon, son.’
Mam must have been hovering beside him because within a millisecond she’s back on the line.
‘Don’t be reading that daft nonsense they print in the papers, son. It’s all mindless stories to sell more copies.’ Now I’m really worried.
‘It’s fine. Shelly and I talk about everything. Everything’s ok between us, whatever the paper says.’ I can only imagine.
