‘I need to let the dog out,’ I say, pulling myself up to sitting.
Both Conal and I are still fully dressed. We did at least take our shoes off though. I think by the time we had climbed the stairs, I was just too exhausted to do anything more than the very, very bare minimum. God only knows how rank my morning breath is, or how awful my face looks. It will be a mess of yesterday’s make-up, destroyed by a night’s sleep and a few hours’ crying before that. My mouth is like a furry boot even though no alcohol whatsoever was consumed and I can feel my pores screaming for hydration.
I don’t turn to look at Conal as I get out of bed and head straight for the door to bring Daniel downstairs. I can nip into the bathroom when I come back up, have a quick freshen up and walk back into the room looking less bog witch and more ‘this is a woman I want to have a relationship with’.
‘Bloody dogs,’ I hear Conal tease. ‘Always getting in the way of true love.’
My heart starts at the mention of the L word, which is frankly ridiculous. I know this is just an expression and there is no way there is any love to speak of yet. Well… not that kind of love anyway. I suppose Isort oflove him and always have because he’s the brother of one of my best friends and we used to hang out together back in the day. But that’s not the same aslovelove. You know, the big ‘inlove’. It’s much too early for any declarations as substantial as that and certainly not in relation to a dog and their need for a morning pee and poo.
My head knows all this to be true but my heart is clearly still on emotional high alert and is not behaving. Maybe because while my heart feels it is too early forlovelove, it knows that it’s not too early for icebergs. And isn’t that exactly what Conal had done by showing up last night? He’d been my very own iceberg.
The bitter cold of last night has turned to a persistent and dirty fall of rain – the kind that will keep the sky extra dark and makes everything look as if it is being viewed through a murky filter. Heavy splats of rain pepper the patio as Daniel sniffs around for a place to wee in much the same fashion a sommelier sniffs a fine vintage.
Why we have to go through this rigmarole is beyond me. Both Daniel and I know he will eventually take his spot by the fence, arse pointed towards next door’s garden and their yappy wee shite of a dog.
There’s no message from Adam on my phone. I hope he is still sleeping. I hope both he and Jodie had a restful night. I hope Niamh and Paul had a chance to talk through all of their worries. I hope everyone feels just as content with their lot as I do this morning.
‘He’s a good sort, isn’t he?’ I say to Daniel, who is staring at me, unblinkingly, as he squats.
‘I’d like to think so,’ I hear Conal say from directly behind me. Of course, I immediately startle before remembering my current bog witch appearance. He was not supposed to come down the stairs. He was supposed to wait there in the bed while I threw some water on my face and did a world-record-breaking, dentist-defying tooth-brushing session. He was not supposed to see me big-upping him to the dog. I am mortified.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I squeak, immediately covering my face with my hands.
‘What are you on about?’ he asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
‘Seriously!’ I say. ‘It won’t end well. I’m like Medusa at the minute. One glance at me in my current state and you will turn to stone, or turn to run or something…’
I push past him, leaving Daniel to finish his morning ablutions without me, and straight back upstairs and into the bathroom where I lock the door and assess the damage.
I look… and there is no other way to say this… old. Old and tired. My skin is blotchy, and my eyes bloodshot. My hair has taken on a life of its own. I immediately start picking myself apart with no compassion for the woman who has gone through a traumatic experience. It’s so easy to let that little voice in, I realise. I’ve known her my whole life, after all. She’s familiar. A constant. She even sounds like me, so who am I to tell this negative Nelly in my own head to go and – to use a phrase Niamh once delighted us with – ‘ride her hand’. It’s a colourful one, and not for polite company, but sometimes it is the only way to say it.
I take a deep breath.
‘Becs, I’m going to nip out. Get some coffee and croissants from that bakery on Ivy Lane for breakfast,’ I hear Conal call. ‘I’m taking Daniel with me for the walk. Be back in half an hour.’
Immediately I go to tell him that he doesn’t need to take my dog out for a walk, and he absolutely does not need to go and get fancy coffee or lovely, flaky croissants that make my mouth water. I go to tell him he doesn’t need to bother doing that for me.
But I stop.
I stop and look again in the mirror at the old, tired face. I take a deep breath, and call, ‘Thank you.’ And I smile as I hear the front door close behind him. He doesn’t need to do all those things for me. But he wants to. Because he’s a good man.
I start the shower running, turning the water up as hot as I can tolerate, and before the bathroom mirror steams up I look at myself again.
Instead of picking apart my face, and my body as I undress, I speak the same words of kindness that had been spoken to us at the body positivity session. Our faces, and our bodies, are not only valuable in our youth. Our beauty does not lie only in youth, and positive times and smiling when you feel like crying. Each line, each wrinkle, each tiny red pinprick of my bloodshot eyes is testament to my life, my experience, the people I love and how hard I love them. They are testament to a person who has value whether twenty-four, forty-four or a hundred and four. Who are we to say that beauty is only a smooth face, adorned with make-up, or a perfect, stretch-mark-free body, free of scars?
My body, and my face, is my journey.
And to my surprise, as I step into the shower and let the water pummel me awake, I do not even want to throw up in my mouth at using the phrase ‘my journey’.
I use my good shower gel and my favourite scented shampoo. I go all out and put both serum and moisturiser on my face as I dry off. I’d like to say I was a serum and moisturiser every day kind of a woman, but I’d be lying.
I spray myself with perfume – all over and not just on my pulse points – and I dress in one of my favourite long jersey dresses and some coloured tights. I brush my hair through but leave it to dry naturally, and by the time all that is done and I’m walking down the stairs, Conal returns with two cups of coffee and a bag of the freshest-smelling pastries in the world.
‘Definitely less Medusa-like,’ he says with a smile when he sees me. ‘Although if I was less of a gentleman, I’d make some joke about you being even more likely to turn me… or parts of me… to stone now…’
Something flips inside me. I’m not initially sure what it is. It’s an odd sensation, but not a bad one. In fact, if anything, it’s quite pleasurable. I look at him, and it happens again. A clenching. A turning over. A turning on.
I realise, as my face grows hotter still, my libido is like an old engine. It may have seized up through lack of use but it seems that turning the ignition a few times, and having patience, means it’s only a matter of time before it will be purring again.
