Read Online The Other Side of the Story by Marian Keyes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marian Keyes
Tags: Fiction
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secretly yearning for another life? Until now I'd never thought of him as a person , just as a husband, father and golf-lover. But there was much, much more to him and the extent of the unknown territory confused and shamed me.
I dragged myself from the bed and dressed for work.
By 10 a.m. the site in Kildare looked like a film set — lorries and people everywhere.
I was wearing a microphone headset so I looked like Madonna on the Blonde Ambition tour, except my bra wasn't as pointy.
The marquee had arrived from England and seventeen of the twenty staff contracted for had shown up to erect it. I had signed for four portaloos, a team of carpenters were hard at work laying a temporary walkway, and over the phone I had convinced a custom's officer to let the refrigerated lorry full of tulips into the country.
When the ovens for the catering tent were delivered — two days early, but at least they'd come — I sat in my car, turned the heater on and rang Dad at work to ask him, once again, to come home.
Gently but firmly he said no, then I had to voice a concern which had grown over the weekend. 'Dad, how will Mam manage for money?'
'Didn't you get the letter?'
'What letter?'
'There's a letter, it'll explain everything.'
Straight away I rang Mam and she answered by gasping, 'Noel?'
My heart hit bottom. 'No, Mam, it's me. Did we get a letter from Dad? Could you go and look?'
She went off and came back. 'Yes, there's an official-looking thing addressed to me.'
'Where was it?'
'On the window sill, with all the other letters.'
'But… why didn't you open it?'
'Oh, I always leave those official things for your father to deal with.'
'But this is from Dad. From Dad to you. Could you open it?'
'No. I'll wait till you come home. Oh, and Dr Bailey came, he gave me a prescription for sleeping tablets. How will I get them?'
'Pop down to the chemist,' I cajoled.
'No,' her voice shook. 'I couldn't leave the house. Will you go? The chemist stays open until ten, surely you'll be home by then.'
'I'll do what I can.' I hung up and mashed my face into my hands. (Hitting the redial button and hearing my mother gasp, 'Noel?' again, with Groundhog Day repetition.)
Leaving the wedding site at 8.30 p.m. was almost like taking a half day. I drove as fast as I could without getting stopped by the peelers, got to Mam's, grabbed the prescription and gunned to the chemist. The nice man wasn't there, thank God. I handed the piece of paper over to a bored-looking girl, but then the nice man popped out from behind the drugs bit and gave me a jaunty, 'Hello there.' Did he actually live in the chemist shop, I found myself wondering. Surviving on barley sugar sticks and cough sweets and resting his head at night on a bundle of springy corn plasters?
He took the prescription and murmured sympathetically, 'Not sleeping?' He surveyed my face and what he saw there had him shaking his head regretfully. 'Yes, the anti-depressants can often have that effect in the beginning.'
His sympathy — though entirely misplaced - was comforting. With a small smile of gratitude, I went home to Mam, where we sat down and opened the scary letter from Dad.
It was from his solicitor. Jesus, how serious was this? Although tiredness was making the letters dance before my eyes, I gleaned the gist.
Dad was proposing what he called 'an interim financial settlement'. This had an ominous ring because it promised a more permanent financial settlement to come. The letter said he would give Mam a certain sum a month, out of which she'd have to pay all housekeeping bills including the mortgage. 'OK, we have to take stock. How much is the mortgage?' Mam stared as if I'd asked her to explain the theory of relativity.
'Well, how about utilities? Roughly how much is the electricity bill?'
'I… I don't know. Your dad writes all the cheques. I'm sorry,' she said, so humbly I felt I couldn't go on. With anything.
Hard to believe that Mam had once had a job — she'd
I dragged myself from the bed and dressed for work.
By 10 a.m. the site in Kildare looked like a film set — lorries and people everywhere.
I was wearing a microphone headset so I looked like Madonna on the Blonde Ambition tour, except my bra wasn't as pointy.
The marquee had arrived from England and seventeen of the twenty staff contracted for had shown up to erect it. I had signed for four portaloos, a team of carpenters were hard at work laying a temporary walkway, and over the phone I had convinced a custom's officer to let the refrigerated lorry full of tulips into the country.
When the ovens for the catering tent were delivered — two days early, but at least they'd come — I sat in my car, turned the heater on and rang Dad at work to ask him, once again, to come home.
Gently but firmly he said no, then I had to voice a concern which had grown over the weekend. 'Dad, how will Mam manage for money?'
'Didn't you get the letter?'
'What letter?'
'There's a letter, it'll explain everything.'
Straight away I rang Mam and she answered by gasping, 'Noel?'
My heart hit bottom. 'No, Mam, it's me. Did we get a letter from Dad? Could you go and look?'
She went off and came back. 'Yes, there's an official-looking thing addressed to me.'
'Where was it?'
'On the window sill, with all the other letters.'
'But… why didn't you open it?'
'Oh, I always leave those official things for your father to deal with.'
'But this is from Dad. From Dad to you. Could you open it?'
'No. I'll wait till you come home. Oh, and Dr Bailey came, he gave me a prescription for sleeping tablets. How will I get them?'
'Pop down to the chemist,' I cajoled.
'No,' her voice shook. 'I couldn't leave the house. Will you go? The chemist stays open until ten, surely you'll be home by then.'
'I'll do what I can.' I hung up and mashed my face into my hands. (Hitting the redial button and hearing my mother gasp, 'Noel?' again, with Groundhog Day repetition.)
Leaving the wedding site at 8.30 p.m. was almost like taking a half day. I drove as fast as I could without getting stopped by the peelers, got to Mam's, grabbed the prescription and gunned to the chemist. The nice man wasn't there, thank God. I handed the piece of paper over to a bored-looking girl, but then the nice man popped out from behind the drugs bit and gave me a jaunty, 'Hello there.' Did he actually live in the chemist shop, I found myself wondering. Surviving on barley sugar sticks and cough sweets and resting his head at night on a bundle of springy corn plasters?
He took the prescription and murmured sympathetically, 'Not sleeping?' He surveyed my face and what he saw there had him shaking his head regretfully. 'Yes, the anti-depressants can often have that effect in the beginning.'
His sympathy — though entirely misplaced - was comforting. With a small smile of gratitude, I went home to Mam, where we sat down and opened the scary letter from Dad.
It was from his solicitor. Jesus, how serious was this? Although tiredness was making the letters dance before my eyes, I gleaned the gist.
Dad was proposing what he called 'an interim financial settlement'. This had an ominous ring because it promised a more permanent financial settlement to come. The letter said he would give Mam a certain sum a month, out of which she'd have to pay all housekeeping bills including the mortgage. 'OK, we have to take stock. How much is the mortgage?' Mam stared as if I'd asked her to explain the theory of relativity.
'Well, how about utilities? Roughly how much is the electricity bill?'
'I… I don't know. Your dad writes all the cheques. I'm sorry,' she said, so humbly I felt I couldn't go on. With anything.
Hard to believe that Mam had once had a job — she'd
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