Me and My Sisters (39 page)

‘She’s been so easy since the reflux medicine kicked in. She’s so much more alert and her sweet nature is really coming through. She smiles all the time.’

‘You can see she’s a happy baby. Long may it last. Children are so easy at that age. It gets a lot more complicated as they get older. I never imagined I’d see Sophie homeless at thirty-eight.’

‘She seems to be coping well, though.’

‘She’s been incredible. Her first few days in work have gone well. She’s better off busy. When things are hard, having too much time on your hands isn’t good for you. You don’t need to think and analyse. You need to keep busy, keep your mind occupied. Otherwise you’ll get depressed.’

‘True, but then you can be too busy as well.’ I sighed. ‘Working and trying to be a mum is harder than I thought.’

‘Louise, I’ve been telling you for years to slow down. You’ll wear yourself out and, believe me, no one in that office will thank you for it. Your priority now is your baby.’

‘Yes, Mum, but I also need to provide for her.’

‘Well,’ she sniffed, ‘if the father was around, you’d have less pressure.’

‘Not necessarily. Look at Sophie. Jack’s completely dependent on her now.’

‘That’s true, but it’s only temporary. He’ll get a job soon, a bright lad like him.’

‘It might take a while. It’s tough out there.’

‘Don’t say that to me. I’m praying every day that he gets a job. And your brother needs one too. If he doesn’t find something soon, your father’s going to kill him.’

‘I helped Gavin with his CV and he’s sent it out to a lot of recruitment agencies. Something should come up. At least alternative energy and the climate-change crisis is a growth area. He’s in the right field.’

‘That’s good to hear, but he needs a proper job in an office. I want him to stay away from those unhygienic tree-huggers. I can tell you, Louise, you never stop worrying about your children, no matter how old they are. By the way, have you been talking to Julie? She seems down in the dumps. I called her the other day and she sounded very fed-up.’

The last thing I needed was the third degree from Mum about Julie. ‘I’m sure she was just tired. The boys are a handful.’

‘That’s true. They get more boisterous as they get older. The sooner they go off to primary school, the better. Poor Julie needs a break – it hasn’t been easy for her.’

‘No, it hasn’t. Well, I’d better go and put Clara down. Thanks for being enthusiastic about her tooth.’

‘Call me any time she does anything. I’m a very proud grandmother.’

I hung up and went to put on my pyjamas. I took Clara into bed with me. We snuggled up and she drank her bottle while I finished off some emails. When she had finished, I held her up on my shoulder to burp her. She fell asleep, her left arm curled around my neck, her face snuggled into my shoulder. I watched her little body rise and fall as her breath caressed my neck.

My heart skipped a beat and I finally stopped fighting it. I stopped suppressing it. I stopped denying it. I stopped resisting it. I jumped off the cliff, feet first, and allowed unconditional love for my baby girl to sweep over me.

It was exhilarating and terrifying.

36

Sophie

After a couple of weeks it was obvious that I could book the models directly, without further training, so Quentin let me start earning commission earlier than anticipated. Some of the PR people I had worked with when I was modelling were still at the same companies and they remembered me, which was nice. It reminded me that I had been a person in my own right before I married Jack.

I had spent so much time and energy being the perfect wife that I had forgotten who I was. For six years I had focused on being Mrs Jack Wells. Now I was Sophie Devlin again. I had decided to use my maiden name for work, the same one I’d had as a model, and it felt great. I was me again. It was also nice to be busy. From nine until five I didn’t have time to think about anything but work. All my worries about Jack, Jess and our situation were put aside for eight hours. I was busy, I was dedicated, and I worked my backside off.

The models seemed so young. They were gorgeous, and some were very sweet, but among them there were a few over-confident girls with an overblown sense of importance. Avril, who was one of the more successful models, was a nightmare. She was dating a soap star and clearly thought they were the Brangelina of Ireland. She turned up late for photo shoots, and the previous Thursday she had got drunk at the opening of a new nightclub she was there to promote. Instead of PR photos of her looking beautiful and having fun, there were tabloid shots of her staggering out of the door, with her dress undone and a nipple on view. The PR rep was not happy and refused to pay for her time. Quentin had freaked and wanted to get rid of Avril, but I told him to give her a break: I had seen girls like her when I was modelling. A little success went straight to their heads and they thought they were invincible. I felt she deserved a second chance. After all, we all make mistakes.

I booked her for a marketing campaign at a new DIY shop that was opening in Dublin. It was a very successful UK firm that wanted to expand into Ireland. Their PR guy, who was very pushy, said they wanted Avril because she had a profile – people knew who she was. For the campaign, they wanted her to dress up in a boiler suit with oil on her face and hands. They didn’t want anything overtly sexy because it was a mum-and-dad store.

‘I’m not dressing up in some baggy boiler suit,’ she snapped, when I told her. ‘I don’t starve myself for my body to be hidden under guys’ clothes with oil on my face.’

I took a deep breath. ‘It’s a big UK company that’s planning to open up lots of stores here, if this one is successful. They’re paying top rate for you. Don’t blow it.’

She flicked back her long wavy bleached hair. ‘Tell them I’ll wear short, tight dungarees and a push-up bra and stand beside a hunky guy in a boiler suit – that way I look hot and they’ll still get the whole DIY message.’

‘Avril, they’ve been very specific about what they want. If you won’t do it, I’ll get someone else.’

‘Fine. Get me something decent. I like doing club openings – find me one of those.’

‘After your last performance, the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook,’ I reminded her.

‘They got loads of publicity.’

‘Bad publicity of you falling out of their club.’

She frowned. ‘You’re new here and you obviously haven’t a clue how this works. If you knew anything about this business, you’d understand that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

I leant across the desk. ‘Avril, I was Quentin’s number-one model for almost ten years. I know exactly how this works. Bad publicity will destroy your career.’

‘Maybe back in your day, but in the modern world, all publicity is good. Look at Kate Moss, for God’s sake. She got loads of amazing contracts after those pictures of her snorting cocaine came out.’

Sadly, she had a point. Bad publicity did seem to work for some people. Depending on how you handled it, it could enhance your career. What kind of a world was my daughter growing up in? There was no way in hell Jess was ever going to model. Now it was all about celebrity and notoriety and less about hard work, beauty and charisma.

Avril was only twenty-one. She thought she knew it all. She thought she was so street-smart and sassy, but she was clueless. I felt sorry for her because she wouldn’t last a year if she didn’t change her attitude. Ireland was a village. Everyone was cutting their budgets and people promoting their businesses wouldn’t consider an unprofessional model. ‘Listen to me, Avril. We live in a very small country and people are not going to book someone who turns up late, gets drunk or refuses to wear what they’re asked to. You’re a gorgeous-looking girl with a potentially great career ahead of you. Don’t blow it with a bad attitude. Take my advice. The more professional you are, the more in demand you’ll be and the more money you’ll make.’

She reapplied her lip-gloss. ‘Look, Sophie, I have a mother. I don’t need your advice. I know exactly what I’m doing. Maybe, like, forty years ago when you were a model everyone was a tee-totaller and a virgin, but nowadays women can vote and it’s not considered a sin to have fun. I didn’t get into modelling to have crappy photos of me wearing overalls. Call me when something decent comes in.’ She flounced out of the office in her micro-mini and wedge platforms.

I somehow resisted the urge to follow her out and slap her arrogant face. I called the PR guy and said Avril wasn’t available, and suggested Fiona, one of our other models who looked like Avril but was sweet and eager to please. I knew she’d wear anything they wanted and would be a pleasure to work with.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We want the saucy one who’s always in the papers. We can change the date to suit her.’

I then had to explain, as tactfully as I could, that Avril wasn’t keen on wearing a boiler suit and wanted to wear dungarees.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘She should get her tits out. OK, find me a male model with big muscles and we’ll run with Avril’s idea. I’ll sell it to my boss. Let’s face it, it’s mostly men who go to DIY shops and we blokes like a sexy bird.’

I hung up and sighed. For the first time in my life I felt old. I, who had prided myself on looking ten years younger and always considered myself to be young at heart and ‘cool’ for my age, was completely out of touch with the modern world.

Things at home weren’t good. Jack and I were still fighting a lot, although I have to confess he was great with Jess. At first he seemed at a loss as to what to do with her, but Jess told him which parks she liked, what programmes she watched and which food she ate, and he began to find a rhythm. I came home one day to find them cooking pancakes together – there was flour everywhere. I didn’t like Jess eating pancakes because they were full of butter, but she was blissfully happy so I bit my tongue and even ate one myself.

Jack took her to the zoo, played football with her and was trying to teach her how to cycle without stabilizers. He now knew the words to all of her favourite songs from
The Princess and the Frog
. He knew what stories she liked, that her favourite colours were pink, purple, red and yellow, and that she was afraid of spiders and snails. He found out that she could colour really well, hardly ever going outside the lines. He could tell that she was tired and needed to go home when she started twirling her hair. He knew she liked to go to sleep with her princess lamp on. He was even able to put her hair into a ponytail without causing her too much pain.

Sometimes when I came home from work in those first few weeks I felt jealous. I was envious of the time they were spending together, of them having fun together while I worked. I missed being with my daughter. I only saw her in the evenings when she was tired and at her worst.

But the biggest problem was Jack spending my money. He asked for money to meet up with old colleagues or potential employers or just to ‘network’. I resented giving him my hard-earned cash to go drinking or out to dinner while I stayed at home and ate porridge. Things came to a head when he told me he needed my credit card because he was going to dinner at Le Manoir with one of his UK contacts.

‘No way,’ I said. ‘It’s the most expensive restaurant in Dublin. We can’t afford it.’

‘Jesus, Sophie, it’s important. This guy is looking to set up a fund here and wants to discuss it with me.’

‘You said the same thing last week. Nothing came of it and you spent thirty quid on drinks. Le Manoir will cost a fortune.’

‘He’s the best shot I’ve had at getting a job.’

‘So let him pay for the meal.’

‘He probably will, but I can’t get caught out. I have to be able to offer to pay. I don’t want to look like I’m desperate. I’m trying to give an impression of confidence and self-assurance. I can’t do that if I’m sweating about the bill all night.’

‘Why can’t you go for a drink instead?’

‘Because he asked me to book a table there. He heard the food was fantastic.’

‘But if you end up paying for dinner, it’ll cost a week’s wages. We have bills to pay.’

‘I’m aware of that. I paid all of our bills for years, remember?’

‘Well, you haven’t contributed anything for months and if this guy wants to hire you, if he’s really interested in you, he can meet you for coffee. Wining and dining in fine restaurants is not on and I’m not funding it.’

Jack’s face reddened. ‘I never begrudged you anything,’ he snapped. ‘While I was working fourteen-hour days, killing myself so you could have everything you wanted – the big house, the clothes, the jewels and the shoes – I never complained. You spent the money as fast as I made it. And when you wanted a forty-thousand-euro kitchen, I said, “OK, honey,” and worked harder. I gave you everything and now that I need a little help you’re saying no.’

‘We don’t have the money,’ I reminded him. ‘You lost it all, remember? And I gave up work to be the perfect wife for you because Jack Wells wanted his wife on call. He wanted his wife to look good, smell good, dress well, be skinny, beautiful, manicured, pedicured, waxed, buffed, groomed, shiny, bright, happy, available for sex and to accompany him on work trips whenever he needed her.’

‘Oh, boo-hoo. Poor Sophie had to look pretty for her husband. What a chore that must have been, shopping and getting your nails done regularly. And can you
please
stop blaming me for my company going bust? I feel shit enough as it is. I don’t need you constantly making me feel worse. Give me a break. Be a supportive wife for a change.’

‘You selfish bastard!’ I screamed, all of my pent-up anger bubbling to the surface. ‘Because of you needing me to be perfect after Jess was born, and getting impatient and grumpy when I wasn’t back to myself a week after giving birth, I had to take Prozac for a year. Yes, Jack, because of you and your expectations of perfection I ended up on anti-depressants. And now we’re homeless and you want me to tell you how great you are?’

Jack stared at me, open-mouthed. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Anti-depressants? I don’t –’

‘Don’t understand? Of course you don’t. You were far too busy conquering the world to notice that I was having a meltdown after Jess was born. You didn’t like me crying and looking wrecked with leaky boobs. You made that very clear.’

‘I never said a word to you.’

‘You didn’t have to. Your disapproval was written all over your face. You liked your life the way it had been and you didn’t want our baby to change anything. Well, guess what, Jack, babies change everything. I was so low I could barely get out of bed, but you arranged for us to go to a black-tie ball a few weeks after Jess was born and I was expected to fit into my dress and look amazing. I never wanted to end up on Prozac, but I had no choice. I wasn’t allowed to work through my blues. You didn’t support me or help me. You just presumed I’d get on with it and get back to normal. So I did.’

Jack was shocked. ‘Jesus, Sophie, why didn’t you say something?’

‘Why didn’t you ever ask me how I felt?’

‘Because you seemed fine.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not a mind-reader. You should have told me.’

‘I was too depressed!’ I shouted. ‘And you should have noticed, but you didn’t want to know.’

‘You’re not so great at being supportive yourself. Do you ever ask me how I feel? Have you once asked me if I’m OK? Shattered? Devastated? Is my confidence trashed? Do I feel like I’ve let down everyone I love? Am
I
depressed? Do I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning?’

‘Gee, I’m sorry, Jack, but there isn’t much time in my day to fit that in – I’m working full-time to make money to keep a roof over our heads and in my “spare” time I’m trying to make sure our daughter is OK now that everything in her life’s been turned upside-down.’

‘Jess is fine. She’s a very happy girl. She has her mum and her dad and that’s all kids need to feel secure. The rest is just material stuff. I think when we get sorted and I’m working again we should really focus on having another child. Jess told me she’d love a baby sister.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Maybe we should see someone to check that nothing’s wrong. It’s been three years and you haven’t got pregnant.’

I threw my head back and laughed. ‘And why do you think that is, you idiot? Why do you think we haven’t had a child?’

He looked at me, confused.

‘Because I never came off the pill, Jack. Do you honestly think I’d dream of having another child with a man who refuses to understand that babies change your life – that they don’t fit into your schedule? Or who doesn’t understand that a woman should be allowed to breast-feed for as long as she wants without her husband staring in disgust at her boobs? Or who doesn’t see that some days his wife might be too tired to get dressed and shouldn’t have to face reproving looks from him when he comes home from work? A husband who doesn’t understand that his wife might not want to leave her kid every time he wants her to accompany him on a work trip or go to black-tie balls just after she’s had a baby, or have sex for months after giving birth because it hurts? There’s no way I’m going to have another baby because I know I’d end up getting depressed, that the pressure from you would be too much and I’d end up back on Prozac.’