A Gift to You (16 page)

She squealed again as Sophie applied the vinegar and removed the sting but, once the balm of antiseptic cream had done its trick, she was soon playing again, the incident forgotten.

The grandfather was effusive in his thanks.

‘My daughter is pregnant and Maria’s nanny had to return to Madrid as her mother is very ill. So I’ve been looking after her in the afternoons,’ he explained. ‘I am
Juan Santander.’ He held out his hand.

‘Sophie Irvine,’ Sophie reciprocated. They chatted easily for a while. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

‘Your friend has not come back?’ Juan remarked. ‘She was here with you just one day.’

How observant
, Sophie thought.

‘She went on a cruise to Ibiza.’

‘Did you not want to go?’ Juan enquired.

‘I wasn’t asked.’ Sophie laughed.

‘I see.’ His eyes were kind. ‘You will be here tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘We will see you then.’ Juan gathered up his granddaughter’s bits and pieces. ‘Tomorrow.’

The following afternoon, Sophie smiled as she saw the pair make their descent down the steps. Maria raced over to proudly show off her bandage.

Juan winked. ‘For such an injury, a bandage was necessary. May we join you?’

‘Please do,’ Sophie invited.

‘I wonder, would you consider something?’ Juan asked. ‘I told my daughter what had happened and that you were a nurse and that your friend had left you alone. We wondered if
perhaps you would like to come and stay with us for a few days in our villa up in the hills? We have a pool and lovely grounds and it is most comfortable. My daughter is looking for someone to mind
Maria and the new baby for at least six months. Maybe you might be interested in the position. If you spent a few days with us, you would know if it is something you would like.’

Sophie’s eyes widened. It sounded like a fantastic proposition. Leave dreary, humid, stuffy old London and spend six months in this paradise. It sounded like a dream.

To her amazement, she heard herself say, ‘I’d love to.’

‘Excellent. Can you come today?’

‘I’ll just go up to the apartment and get my things.’

‘We’ll collect you. Just give me the address,’ Juan instructed. ‘We will pick you up in an hour, won’t we, Maria?’ He spoke in Spanish to his little
granddaughter.

‘Si, si.’ She hopped up and down with excitement.

‘See you in an hour, then.’ Sophie couldn’t believe how impulsive she was being. But this was a chance of a lifetime.

She had just packed her books when the door of the apartment burst open. Melissa appeared, red eyed and on crutches.

‘Thank God I’m here. That bastard was so callous. I broke my leg in Ibiza and he couldn’t get rid of me quick enough. I even had to get a taxi at the marina. They let me off
and then they sailed away. Can you believe it?’ Melissa burst into tears. ‘My luggage is in reception – can you collect it for me?’ She sniffled.

‘Sure.’ Sophie’s heart sank as she headed off to reception. Trust Melissa to do something dramatic and break her leg. She saw a big silver Mercedes drive up to the entrance. It
was Juan and Maria. She couldn’t really go with them now and leave Melissa.

She’d leave you
, a little voice said. Sophie stood stock-still. What kind of a fool was she? Melissa wouldn’t think twice about putting herself first. It was time Sophie did
the same. For once in her life, she was going to do something spontaneous. She lugged Melissa’s case back to the apartment.

‘Why is your bag packed? Where are you going?’ Melissa demanded, as Sophie wheeled the case into the bedroom.

‘To stay with friends?’ she said jauntily.

‘What friends? You don’t have friends here.’ Melissa snorted.

‘Yes, I do. Look out of the window. See that silver car over at reception?’

Melissa’s jaw dropped. ‘Who are they?’

‘Sorry, I can’t stay and explain, Mel. Have to go.’

‘But you can’t go!’ Melissa was incredulous. ‘You
can’t
leave me! My leg is broken. I’m on crutches. How will I manage?’

‘You’ll be fine. We’re on the ground floor. You can eat by the pool. You can sunbathe. The rep will bring you to the airport. No worries.’ Sophie was enjoying
herself.

‘But you’re a
nurse.
You have a
duty
to sick people!’ Melissa raged. This wasn’t the Sophie she knew. ‘You can’t leave me here on my
own!’ she fumed.

‘Watch me,’ Sophie drawled as she lifted her bag from the bed.

‘Goodbye, Melissa. Enjoy the rest of your holiday. I know I’m going to enjoy the rest of mine. To tell you the truth, it’s the
best
holiday I’ve ever
had.’

A year later

‘Did you hear about Sophie Irvine? She’s engaged to some wealthy Spanish doctor she met when she was working in Majorca. They’re getting married next
month, Denise was telling me. Flying the whole family out to Majorca for the wedding!’ Angie O’Neill told Melissa as they tidied up the salon after a very busy day.

Melissa’s fingers curled and her lips tightened with envy. What a bitch that Sophie Irvine had turned out to be. Leaving her alone in that grotty little apartment with a broken leg. She
hadn’t seen her from that day to this. And now to hear that she was engaged to a rich Spanish doctor. Was there no justice in the world?

‘Don’t mention that girl’s name to me. I thought she was a friend. Little did I know until she stabbed me in the back.’

‘She
stabbed
you in the back!’ Angie was astonished.

‘Not literally, you idiot!’ Melissa snapped. ‘I invited her to go on holiday and then she met these people and left me in the lurch, on my own, with a broken leg. Can you
believe that?’

‘
Really?
I’d never have thought it of Sophie. She sounds like a bit of a fairweather friend. Just as well you have me to go on holiday with this year,’ Angie soothed.
‘I wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘I know, sweetie.’ Melissa smiled. ‘You’ll love where we’re going to. It has a marina full of yachts and rich people. It will be the best holiday ever.’

‘I can’t wait!’ exclaimed Angie excitedly. ‘Thanks for inviting me to come.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ said Melissa graciously. ‘Could you be a pet and finish off here? I’ve a thumping headache.’

‘Oh! OK,’ Angie murmured. Funny how Melissa always got a thumping headache on Friday evenings when the salon had to be cleaned.

‘See you at the airport tomorrow.’

Melissa swanned out of the salon, leaving her new best friend to tidy up. Angie would be an
excellent
holiday companion, she thought with satisfaction. Not like the-soon-to-be-married
Judas Irvine.

I’d better tell you straight away, before we go any further – I think I murdered my husband. This is the first time I’ve actually admitted it and said the
words aloud.

‘
I think I murdered my husband!
’ It’s quite a relief really to verbalize it. It’s been a strain keeping it to myself this last year or so.

I won’t tell you my real name, just in case. You never know, I might live in your area. We might be on nodding terms as we walk our dogs in the park, or buy our lotto tickets every
Friday.

I’ll call myself Melanie. I liked Melanie Hamilton in
Gone With the Wind
. I know she was a bit wishy-washy compared to the magnificent Scarlett O’ Hara but she was a softie
with a kind heart and I was like that once. And that’s what got me into trouble.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, it might make more sense to you then and you won’t judge me so harshly.

I lived in a small seaside town with my elderly parents. I have two sisters and a brother. Let’s call them Carla, Tina and Larry. I’m sixty-three, on the plump side, and I’ve
stopped dying my hair. It’s now an ashy-blonde colour that I rather like. My husband used to nag me when he was alive about eating properly. Our diet was very wholesome. He was a disciplined
person. Image was ultra important. Dyeing my hair came with the territory of being a consultant anaesthetist’s wife.

I was the eldest. It’s tough being the eldest. My parents were strict with me. I was expected to be the responsible one and had to look after the younger ones. I wasn’t allowed go to
discos or into town to shop with my friends on Saturdays. I had to be in by nine-thirty at night even when I was in sixth year in secondary school. Not for me, sneaky fags and slugs of vodka and
furtive gropings down by the boat shed with the rest of the gang. My mother would have gone berserk if she caught the whiff of fags or drink off me and my father would have leathered me with his
belt.

He was a bully. My mother was afraid of him and I suppose it was partly for her sake that I didn’t rebel. He would have made her life more of a misery than it was. He was a tight, mean,
selfish bastard and I hated him. His word was law in our house.

He didn’t like me. I always knew that. It was only years later that my mother told me that she’d got pregnant with me and he’d had to marry her. He always felt she’d
tricked him into marriage and he never forgave her, or me.

I suppose I was lucky that the girls I hung around with tolerated me as I lurked enviously on the fringes of their seemingly carefree, unfettered lives. They spoke with smug insouciance about
getting pissed, and French kissing or even, in some cases having it off with their fellas. Us more timid, constrained souls could only listen in awe and envy. These conversations left me feeling
even more like a pariah than usual. Would
my
chance ever come or would I die a virgin, never knowing carnal pleasure? To die ‘wondering’ was one of my great preoccupations
during my teenage years.

I remembered being at the funeral of an elderly spinster neighbour and hearing an old fella from down the road saying, ‘God love her, she died wondering with never a rub of the
relic,’ and the other old men laughing. I thought they were horrible and disrespectful and the jocular derisive comment made me feel vaguely sad for my elderly neighbour who had been a quiet
inoffensive soul. I was twelve at the time, on the cusp of puberty and in love with Paul Newman. I didn’t want to die wondering.

I fretted about how was I ever going to escape from the straitjacket of parental control. I longed to be free of my father’s strict, oppressive stranglehold.

I was bright enough at school and I loved art. When I was painting I was free, able to express through my use of colours the rage and despair that seethed within me. I knew I was in a catch-22
situation. If I worked really hard and got the points to go to university, I’d be stuck under my father’s thumb for another four years. If I went out to work straight after school, I
might not earn enough that I could afford to rent a flat in Dublin and get away for good.

I would love to have gone to college and studied art but my father thought this was nonsense. ‘You won’t get anywhere in life studying arty farty crap and I won’t be paying for
it,’ he told me bluntly, once, when I’d ventured to suggest it.

I wouldn’t want to be beholden to him anyway, I fumed in the privacy of the bathroom, mocking myself for even thinking it was an option and cursing myself for opening my big mouth to him
about it.

‘If I were you I wouldn’t waste my time even talking about college to
him
,’ my mother said flatly. ‘Go and get a job and get a life for yourself out of this
place.’ When she said that to me, I felt uncharacteristically close to her. We didn’t have a warm relationship. She was too worn down by my father’s bullying to be able to enjoy a
normal relationship with us. My mother had a sad dullness in her eyes that never left her until the week before she died.

It wasn’t all gloom and doom though. I loved where we lived in a snug cottage overlooking the beach. I shared a bedroom with my two younger sisters but my bed was beside the window, under
the eaves and I could turn away from their giddy chatter and look out to sea and drift off into my fantasy world. The beach was my saviour. The sea and all its glorious moods was my companion.
Thundering angry waves against the shore when you couldn’t see where its pewter grey ended as it merged with an equally leaden sky, it mirrored my mood. Or on a good day, caressing my toes in
feathery little white-wave kisses under balmy blue skies when the sun scattered, glittering diamond prisms across the azure blue, as far as the eye could see.

Our dog, Waggy, and I would tramp along the beach in hail, rain sun or snow, enveloped by salty invigorating sea breezes that couldn’t but induce a sense of wellbeing. I was mostly happy
on the beach, except on moonlit nights, when I’d watch the blood-orange moon rise slow and majestic on the horizon and wish with all my heart that I had a boyfriend to hold hands with and
kiss and cuddle and talk to. There’s nowhere lonelier than a moonlit beach when you’re alone.

Anyway, to move on. I did a good Leaving Certificate. Six honours, enough to do accountancy, my father’s choice of career for me. I couldn’t think of anything I’d hate more
and, when I told him I wasn’t doing it, his face darkened in anger and he told me I was a silly little fool to miss out on an opportunity to make something of myself.

For once, my mother took my side. She had a sister – I’ll call her Vera – living in Dublin, and she asked her would she put me up for a couple of months until I got a job and
got sorted. Vera agreed and, to my father’s fury, I left home the week after our bitter row and I tasted the first fruits of freedom.

Vera was the greatest fun, ten years younger than my mother; she worked in PR and had the most glamorous lifestyle. Parties, launches, lunches, brunches. She’d whizz into her small two-up,
two-down in Ranelagh, change an outfit, and whizz out again. She taught me how to apply make-up and how to dress up an outfit with a scarf or a bag or piece of jewellery, and she introduced me to
champagne. It was exhilarating. I got a job as an admissions officer in a private hospital, I won’t say where, and I couldn’t have been happier.

I even dated boys! I will never forget my first kiss, even though, to be very honest with you, I didn’t really enjoy it. So much slurping; he had wet lips. Even so, as I was being kissed
and as Mr Wet Lip’s hands roamed under my jumper, I thought to myself, I don’t know what the fuss is all about but at least I’ve been kissed and fondled – groped might
actually have been more appropriate to describe it – I am on the right road to not dying ‘wondering’. I’m just like those girls I envied, at last.