‘What? I can’t give you my shoes. I don’t have anything –’
As I spoke, she ducked her head back into the tent and re-emerged a moment later with a cheap pair of trainers. They were clean at least. She turned them over in her hands and nodded towards my stilettos. ‘Size six? I’ll take your shoes for a can.’My head was pounding and I could smell the perspiration pooling in my armpits. I needed the can more than I needed the shoes.
‘Fine,’ I said, grabbing the can out of her hands. I could have bought five hundred cans for the price of the shoes, but needs must. She eyed me with … was that pity?
‘I can give you a number,’ she said.
‘For a dealer? I’m not a junkie,’ I snapped at her. My relapse had been alcohol. No coke or pills.
‘Yes, you are,’ she said, ‘your drug happens to be legal. I have a number for a treatment centre. You should call them.’
I resorted to sarcasm. ‘That treatment centre clearly worked wonders for you.’
‘You think I’m an addict? I’m homeless, love, but my son is an addict. They helped him there.’ Her voice softened. ‘He’s doing great now. Got a job in a coffee bar.’
I was taken aback. I had always assumed that all these tent dwellers were addicts, asylum seekers or both.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and then, grasping for conversation, ‘Are you safe down here?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘most of the time, but we’re not all clean. Depends on who’s around. You could be knifed for a can sometimes.’
I sat on the canal bank and drank the lukewarm lager, feeling the alcohol lacing itself around my synapses, restoring order to my stomach. I was pissed off about the shoes. How was I going to explain that to Jack? And the Guinness stains on my dress. As I drained the can and rose to my feet, I began to feel normal again. Traffic on the bridge was now heavy. It would soon be time for Jack to go to work. Maybe he’d have left before I got home. I hoped so.
66
I opened the front door with shaking hands and placed my keys on the hall table. Jack walked out of the kitchen. He was dressed for rehearsals, but his face showed the strain of a sleepless night.
‘Luckily, Lucy doesn’t have to witness this because she has already gone to work. Before you lie to me again, let me save you the trouble,’ he said. ‘You didn’t stay with Jane orSinéad, you didn’t go to the theatre, and you didn’t book into the Merrion Hotel. I was worried sick. Where were you between leaving this house at seven p.m. last night and –’ he checked his phone for the time – ‘eight fifteen a.m.?’
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I began to cry, but he did not move to comfort me.
‘I gave you the benefit of the doubt last time. There is mud on your dress, and you reek of alcohol. Take a shower before you go to bed. And, please, don’t sleep in our bed. You can stay in the spare room until you sort yourself out … with somewhere to live. I’m running late. I have to go.’
‘Jack! You can’t mean –’
‘Yes, I can. Our daughter has just come through the worst crisis of her life and you are refusing to do the one thing that you could to reassure her. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t give me that bullshit about being triggered. When you didn’t want a second child, I allowed that excuse, but Lucy is the only child we have, and she’s in trouble. Why can’t you help her?’
I reached out to touch him as he passed me in the hallway,but he shrank from me, almost flattening himself to the wall, and that’s when he noticed. ‘Where are your shoes?’
‘The heel broke off one of them. I had to borrow these from Linda.’ When you’ve been lying as long as I have, it comes naturally.
He paused for a nanosecond; he wanted to believe me, but common sense kicked in. ‘Didn’t Linda move to Galway last year?’
‘Yes, she did, but she was back staying at her mother’s –’
‘I don’t believe you, Ruby. Don’t make it worse. Call Nasrin.’
The door slammed behind him.
I had pushed him too far this time. Was my marriage over?
67
I rifled through the medicine cabinet looking for anti-nausea meds and the codeine tablets that Jack was prescribed for kidney stones. I must have taken them all the last time. There were loose bandages, a single ear plug, paracetamol (I took three), some cough medicine (I had a swig) and a pack of Xanax prescribed for Lucy, but my need was greater. One would only take the edge off the jitters I was feeling, so I took two. I ran a bath and stuffed the shoes I was wearing into the outside bin, the clothes into the washing machine. I lowered myself into the hot water and relaxed my head on to the bath cushion.
I woke. My head was submerged, and I gasped for air, inhaling water. I pushed myself up and out of the now-cold water, shivering and coughing, my teeth chattering. I put Jack’s robe on and struggled to dry myself off. Bed was what I needed. I had to sleep it off. I turned off my phone, went into the spare room and got into bed. It seemed like minutes later when I was woken by the slam of the front door. My phone said it was 1.45 p.m. I heard the footsteps and knew it was Lucy, home early. I called out, ‘Everything okay, love?’
She appeared at the bedroom door. ‘What are you doing in here? Where were you last night? I left loads of messages for you. Dad tried to pretend you were staying with a friend, but I know you weren’t. Dad’s a terrible liar.’
