Whose Life is it Anyway? (14 page)

‘And now I’ll ask you to raise your glasses and toast our chief bridesmaid, my younger daughter, Niamh, who has worn that big blue frock without moaning once.’ He winked at me.

Although I was relieved that he had remembered me, he hadn’t exactly raved about my many qualities but I supposed I should be grateful for a mention. I did feel put out that he had said such nice things about Finn and Siobhan, though. He clearly couldn’t think of anything nice to say about me so he’d focused on the dress. I had to plaster a smile on my face for the rest of the day, I was so upset about the speech.

Later that night, when the guests had gone and I was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on my door. It was my father and he was holding a box. ‘Have you got a minute?’ he asked.

I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood for a chat. I was hurt and angry.

‘Niamh, pet,’ he said, ‘I have something for you here.’

He handed me the box and I opened it. Inside was a brand new pair of tap shoes.

‘But – but I thought…’ I stuttered, too overcome to speak.

He smiled. ‘Your mother told me about the tap dancing, and although I was angry at first because you lied to us, she made me realize that you can’t pin a bird’s wings down or it will just stretch them further.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant about the bird and the wings – it must be some old Irish saying, I thought – but I was thrilled with the shoes.

‘I know it’s been difficult growing up with a father who tries so hard to make you Irish. I’m sorry if I’ve smothered you with it, but I just want you to appreciate the wonderful things about your homeland.’

‘I do, Dad. I just don’t want to be different all the time.’

‘OK. Well, we’ll just have to find a happy medium. I worry about you more than the others because you’re headstrong, like your old dad,’ he said, patting me affectionately on the head and walking towards the door.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sarah’s asked me to go on holidays with her to Cornwall this summer instead of going to Nora’s.’

‘Niamh?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t push your luck.’

Irish Daily News

‘What men want to say to women but are
afraid to’

Niamh O’Flaherty

In an attempt to better understand the male psyche, I’ve done a survey round the office of the things my male colleagues wished that women understood.

We wish you’d stop moaning about the bloody toilet seat being up. You’d be much more annoyed if it was covered with badly aimed urine.

Don’t ask us if you look fat: if the mirror is telling you you look fat then, chances are, you do.

When a stunning waitress in a low-cut blouse serves us, please don’t ask us if we think she’s attractive. We’re not good liars.

Men are useless at remembering dates. Let’s just focus on one – your birthday or our wedding anniversary. Other anniversaries, like the day we first met, kissed, shagged, got engaged, are beyond our mental aptitude.

We don’t like shopping. We want to spend Saturday flaked out in front of the TV watching sport. It’s our ‘downtime’. We’re delighted for you to go on marathon shopping sprees on a Saturday.

We hate – please note the word ‘hate’ – when you talk during important games, particularly when penalties are being taken. Please do not bring up any ‘issue’ you may have while the Premiership is on. Wait until it’s over – or, better still, don’t bring it up at all.

Most of what we said while trying to get you into bed that first time is not the truth. We don’t like chick-flicks and we don’t think E.R. is the best programme on TV (the women in it are mingers). We don’t admire Celine Dion’s vocal range and we definitely don’t like going for walks on a Saturday afternoon.

When you ask us what we’re thinking it’s either about sex, sport or cars, so don’t be disappointed when the answer isn’t ‘You.’

17

Dublin, 1 March 1999

I was dreading meeting Pierre’s parents. I now knew how poor Liam must have felt all those years ago when he had to face mine. On the day of the lunch, I woke up with a pit in my stomach. What if Mr and Mrs Alcee hated me? I was a white Irish-English mongrel who wrote columns for a tabloid.

Pierre’s parents sounded so sophisticated. Even in photos they oozed confidence and style. His father, Jean, had recently retired as a professor of French at Oxford and his mother, Fleur, only did interiors for special clients, so she was pretty much retired too.

They spent half the year at their house in Oxford and the other half at their apartment in Paris. Pierre had told them about me and said he was very serious about me. (He hadn’t admitted we were engaged: he said his mother would be furious that he’d proposed to me before she’d even met me.)

I hadn’t even met his father but he terrified me. I had picked up a fax he’d sent over once and it was about existentialism. I’d had to look the word up in the dictionary. I’d no idea what it meant. He was going to think I was a total airhead. I had been poring over the newspapers for the last few weeks in the hope of being able to hold some kind of sensible, informed conversation.

We were due to meet for lunch at one. By twelve thirty I had changed at least ten times. Sweating and panicking, I came into the lounge.

‘I don’t know what to wear!’ I wailed. ‘I want to look appropriate.’

‘Just be yourself. Wear whatever you feel like wearing.’

‘Have you spoken to them?’

‘Yes. They’re in a taxi on the way to the restaurant.’

‘And they know I’m white?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Irish?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Catholic?’

‘When I told them you were Irish, they presumed as much.’

‘Do they mind?’

‘No, darling. I told you, they’re very relaxed about these things.’

‘Did they really like your ex? Did you have long conversations about philosophy and existentialism?’

‘No. Most of the time my mother and Brigitte talked about fashion.’

That was not what I wanted to hear. My knowledge of fashion stretched to buying
Hello!
on a weekly basis, seeing what Liz Hurley was wearing and knowing it wouldn’t even fit over my big toe. I stomped back into the bedroom and dug out the corset knickers I’d bought a few months ago and never bothered to wear. I’d put back all the weight I’d lost with the anorexic jockey. I squeezed into the pants and, by not breathing, managed to do up the zip. I was now sweating profusely, but at least I looked as if I had a waist. With Pierre shouting at me to hurry up, I opted for a simple black dress, which I had to safety-pin to my bra because it gaped open in the middle. You could see the pin sticking out, but it was the best I could do.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ Pierre said, hustling me out the door. ‘My parents hate tardiness.’

‘You didn’t tell me I looked nice!’ I said, panicking.

‘You look fine, although you do seem a bit hot. Are you feeling all right?’

‘Fine? Hot? Is that the best you can do? I’m having a nervous breakdown here.’

‘Well, that explains the flush,’ he said, smiling. ‘Calm down. You look lovely and my parents will love you as much as I do. Now, can we please get a move on?’

I got into the car and winced as the corset dug into my ribs. I prayed silently that I wouldn’t pass out during the meal from lack of oxygen.

Mr and Mrs Alcee were sitting at a round table in the window of the restaurant. They were even more intimidating in the flesh, both tall, good-looking and dressed from head to toe in perfectly tailored clothes. Mrs Alcee was a vision in cream Chanel, including the bag. Her tights had probably cost more than my entire outfit. I felt like a cheaply dressed heifer and shoved my Marks & Spencer
faux
-leather bag under the table. If I’d been able to take a deep breath to calm my nerves, I would have, but the corset was so tight I could only take small shallow ones so I took a lot of those.

‘
Maman, Papa, je vous préesente Niamh
,’ said Pierre.

‘
Monsieur et Madame Alcee, je suis ravie de faire votre connaissance
,’ I stuttered.

Mrs Alcee laughed. ‘Oh, my dear, you don’t need to try to speak French to us. Didn’t Pierre tell you? We’ve lived in England for over thirty years now.’

I blushed. ‘Yes, of course.’ Her English was better than mine.

‘Call us Jean and Fleur,’ said Mr Alcee. ‘It’s very nice to meet you at last. Pierre has told us a lot about you.’

‘Well, I hope it was all good,’ I said, trying to be jovial.

‘He told us you were very amusing,’ said Jean. ‘A good sense of humour is important in life.’

Of course I couldn’t think of anything amusing to say, so I smiled and nodded like an imbecile.

‘Darling, you look tired,’ Fleur said, reaching to touch Pierre’s face. ‘You’re working too hard.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, then, you can’t be eating properly,’ she said. ‘Do you cook for him every evening?’ she asked.

As I was about to lie and tell them I created
cordon-bleu
meals on a nightly basis, Pierre laughed and said, ‘Niamh doesn’t cook. Her speciality is scrambled eggs on toast. I do the cooking.’

Fleur and Jean both looked appalled.

‘Doesn’t cook?’ Fleur said. ‘But how can that be?’

‘Pierre’s exaggerating,’ I said, desperately trying for damage control. ‘I can cook. I just need time to learn his favourite dishes.’

‘I will send you copies of all his favourite recipes. He is particularly fond of
bavette au porto
. It is ridiculously easy. Anyone could manage it,’ she said, waving a bejewelled hand in the air.

Bloody hell. Now I’d have to spend months learning to cook big heavy meals with half a cow simmering in a bottle of wine with goose fat.

‘What is it you do exactly?’ Jean asked. ‘Pierre said you are a journalist. Do you write for the
Irish Times
?’

‘I write a column for the
Irish Daily News
.’

Jean frowned. ‘I have not heard of this newspaper. Is it a new publication?’

‘It’s been around for about three years now. It’s not a broadsheet. It’s more of a popular newspaper.’

‘I think she means a tabloid,’ said Fleur, who was doing a really good job of making me feel three inches tall.

‘Well, some might call it that,’ I admitted.

‘What is your column about?’ Jean asked.

‘It’s a kind of social commentary.’

‘So, you deal with morality and ethics?’ Jean probed.

Oh, God, this was torture. I felt like I was at a job interview and it was going really, really badly.

‘In a way, yes. It tends to be quite light and humorous, but I do try to tackle the issues of the moment.’

‘What was your last column about?’ asked Fleur.

Jesus, she was like a dog with a bone – give me a break!

‘Uhm, let’s see,’ I said, trying to think of something clever and relevant to lie about.

‘That one you did a few weeks ago was hilarious,’ said Pierre, stepping in. ‘It was a rant about why women always have to sleep in the wet spot after sex.’

Jean and Fleur glanced at each other in horror.

Kill me now, I prayed. Please, someone, kill me now. Maybe if I breathed deeply the corset would puncture my lungs and I’d die.

I decided to take the moment of stunned silence to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet seat, corset open, and hyperventilated. This was a total and utter disaster. How could I possibly salvage it? After dumping the corset in the bin and splashing water on my face, I went back upstairs and decided just to tell them how much I loved Pierre. If we could focus the conversation on him, I might have some chance of winning them over.

When I sat down I asked Jean what had brought him to Oxford.

‘They made me an offer I couldn’t really refuse.’

‘They begged him to come. Jean is considered the leading expert on the French language in the world,’ said Fleur.

‘My wife is very kind,’ he said, not denying it.

‘It’s a wonderful language. I’m going to have lessons to improve,’ I gushed.

‘You know, French is among the most widely used modern languages in the world, with more than 120 million speakers. It is an official language in such diverse places as Louisiana, Martinique – of course – and Belgium, as well as France itself, and the many different kinds of French that exist ensure that the language remains central to a thriving variety of cultures. The literature, art and cinema of France are among the richest and most influential in the world. Have you been to France?’ Jean asked.

‘I’ve been to Lourdes with my family, but the rest of our holidays were spent coming over here to Ireland to see our relatives.’

‘Lourdes!’ Jean and Fleur laughed loudly.

‘My auntie Teresa was sick, so we hired a coach and drove over to pray for her. She went into the baths and got better.’

‘Un miracle
,’ said Jean, thumping the table with glee. Even Pierre was laughing.

I didn’t particularly like the fact that my family trip was causing them such amusement. Poor Teresa had had cancer and everyone was devastated, but after Lourdes she had got better. Granted, the chemotherapy probably helped, but even the doctor had said her recovery was remarkable.

Sensing my annoyance, Pierre changed the subject. ‘I have some exciting news. I’ve been offered a post as head of linguistics at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver,’ he said.

‘That’s wonderful,’ his father said. ‘It’s an excellent university.
Félicitations
.’

‘When do you have to move there?’ his mother asked.