The Better Woman (35 page)

‘I love my job,' she told him. ‘Being chief dealer means that I have to keep an eye on all the markets: foreign exchange, bonds, metals, equities – I love the diversity. I told the bank that I would only
accept the job if I could continue to trade. I never want to be in a job where I'm so swamped with paperwork and bureaucracy that I've lost the art of knowing a good deal . . . That would be my hell.'

Tim swirled the wine in his glass. He looked thoughtful. Sarah wondered if a small part of him regretted walking out on his career.

‘So where have you set your sights?' he asked after a longish silence. ‘How far up that corporate ladder do you want to go?'

She laughed. ‘To the very top, of course.'

He smiled but didn't laugh. ‘What spurs you on? Power or money?'

‘Power,' she responded with a shrug. ‘I like to be in charge of where I'm going. I can't drift, like some people do. I need to have goals, deadlines, pressure – otherwise I don't know what to do, or who I am – sad, isn't it?'

‘Not necessarily,' he replied.

Sarah took a sip of wine. ‘Some people think so. It doesn't matter how successful you are in business, all that counts to them is marriage and kids. If you haven't achieved in those particular areas, well, you're a loser, aren't you?'

Tim grimaced. ‘That makes us both losers, then.'

‘Easier for a man. No clock ticking away in the background.' She tilted her head from side to side. ‘Tick-tock. Tick-tock.'

‘You sound like a bomb waiting to go off.'

‘That's closer to the truth than you think,' she said darkly, her mood taking a turn for the worse.

She felt the weight of his gaze again. She was suddenly very aware that he knew there was something wrong and he was giving her the green light to confide in him.

I have to get out of here before I blurt everything out.

She got to her feet. Her knees felt unsteady.

‘Thanks for the dinner. It was great. But I'm wrecked. Got to go to bed.' As she passed, she leaned down to peck his cheek with the friendly kiss she thought appropriate for the circumstances. Suddenly she was up close to his rough stubble and fathomless eyes. Another bad idea!

‘Goodnight,' she croaked and fled the room.

The drapes in the bedroom were heavy and maintained a darkness that induced the deepest of sleeps. When Sarah finally opened her eyes she was astounded to see that it was midmorning. She could not remember the last time she'd slept so soundly. Her body was the perfect temperature, not too cold or too hot, and she had no urge whatsoever to push the covers back.

She stretched her toes. Dozily, she told herself that she really should get up. Tim would be wondering whether she'd died in her sleep.

A soft knock sounded on her door.

‘Sarah?'

‘Yes.' She sat up and ran a quick hand through her hair to smooth it down.

A fresh earthy smell came into the room with Tim. He was in his stockinged feet, his boots most probably left at the back door. His work jeans and T-shirt were soiled with dirt, oil and a variety of other farm stains. Last night's stubble shaved away, she could see the paleness of his skin underneath and the lines of his squarish jaw. His vitality jolted her senses and aroused all sorts of dormant feelings.

‘I was worried about you.' He had a sheepish look on his face. ‘I remember you as being an early riser, and when I didn't see you make an appearance, well I thought . . .'

‘That I'd done a runner?'

‘Well, yes.'

He sat on the side of the bed. He looked embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry about last night.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I think I may have overstepped the mark.'

Sarah could have pretended not to know what he meant. But this was Tim. Her old friend. With whom she'd been half in love for most of their friendship. If she was honest with herself.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and forced herself to be brave. To face up to whatever was between them.

‘You said that you were glad you'd made the decision to come home,' she said in a hushed voice. ‘And if
I
was any part of that decision, then that's okay with me.'

His eyes filled with disappointment. ‘Only okay?'

‘No.' She reached for his hand. The farm work hadn't yet taken its toll and his skin was still banker smooth. ‘It's more than okay. It makes me very happy. And that's not an easy thing to do these days.'

His face was close, his lips just a kiss away. She did it. Kissed him. His mouth moved gently against hers; he knew she was fragile. He pulled her close, and she felt safe with his arms around her, so safe that tears of relief started to flow down her face.

He stopped the kiss, but his lips stayed close to hers. ‘Why are you so sad, Sarah?'

His eyes beckoned her to take the leap, to admit the truth.

‘I think I have depression,' she whispered. ‘It runs in my family – my mother had it too. I can't seem to pull out of it this time, Tim. I need help.'

Sarah was in the psychologist's office for over an hour. He was a man of about her age, with a nondescript face and voice. He spent most of the time asking questions which Sarah answered
honestly. She told him everything, her life history. But not about the abortion: that was locked too deep within.

‘From what you've said, it seems that the depression you suffered in the past was because of major life events – your boyfriend going away to study, your grandmother dying. This time the cause of your depression appears to be stress.'

‘But I love my job,' Sarah protested. ‘It's always been something that has made me feel good, not bad.'

The psychologist nodded, as if in agreement. ‘Normal work stress can invoke excitement and challenge. It can charge you up. But if you overstep the mark and have prolonged periods of high stress, then you will feel flat afterwards.'

Sarah listened to what he was saying. She was prepared to do whatever it took to get better. ‘How can I manage the stress?'

‘Balance,' he replied plainly. ‘Balance across work, leisure, family and other interests. And I'd like to discuss medication options with you, that you can follow up with your GP.' The psychologist paused to look her in the eye. ‘You're overworking because you're still trying to prove yourself. Stop trying to prove yourself, Sarah. You are a smart and successful young woman: a proven entity.'

Sarah was about to challenge him, to say that she did have friends and other interests, but then she got it. He was saying that her friends and other interests weren't a big enough part of her life. He was right. But Tim was waiting outside. Tim who had made the appointment, who had driven her to the city, who had told her he loved her. Tim would even up the balance.

Six weeks later

Sarah stood up to address the crowd gathered in the banquet room of the hotel. She smoothed down her figure-hugging dress with its flattering V neckline. Accustomed as she was to public speaking, she didn't need to consult notes.

‘Good afternoon, everybody.' They clapped benevolently at her greeting. ‘There are many people I need to thank for making today possible. First on the list is my bridesmaid, Nuala, who looks so gorgeous today that I think she may be trying to upstage me.'

The guests laughed and Nuala, eight months pregnant, threw her eyes to heaven as if the bride was telling an outrageous lie. She simply couldn't be persuaded that the gold-coloured dress complimented her baby bump and her glowing skin.

‘Thank you, Nuala, for all your help with the organising. I wouldn't have known where to start . . .'

Sarah and Tim had both liked the idea of a summer wedding.
Friends and family had warned that they were mad to think they could pull the whole thing off with less than six weeks' notice. Nuala, though, had risen to the challenge and dragged Sarah around to venues, florists, printers and dressmakers until everything was organised.

‘And a big thank you to Eric and Patsy MacDonald, who have been like a father and mother to me . . .'

Eric and Patsy sat at the top table, Eric perfectly content with a glass of good red wine, and Patsy with an enormous hat that was as over-the-top as her personality.

‘Finally . . .' Sarah turned to face Tim. His dark suit and gold-embroidered waistcoat looked so good on him that he could have been a model groom out of a wedding magazine. For the rest of her life she'd wake up next to this man. Every day she'd see his dark hair, pale skin and the strong bones of his face. ‘I'd like to tell my husband that I feel incredibly proud to be his wife. Most of you will know that Tim and I go back a long way. I'm not sure what excuses or reasons we had not to get together before now, but I feel very lucky that we finally saw what was right before our eyes . . . Tim, I love you more than anything in the world . . . and this is the happiest day of my life.'

Sarah sat down to an enthusiastic round of applause, with a few wolf whistles thrown in for good measure. Feeling quite emotional, she leaned forward to take a steadying drink of water. When she put the glass back down, Tim's hand reached for hers. He smiled. A private smile, just for her. He looked emotional too and Sarah could tell that her words had touched him deeply.

Everything she'd said had been straight from the heart. She'd wanted the sixty-odd guests, who were undoubtedly perplexed at the speed of their nuptials, to understand why they couldn't wait another minute to be married, to understand how happy
they were. Sarah knew that her happiness came from deep within and wasn't due to the box of antidepressants she had in her medicine cabinet.

The best man, Tim's older brother, who had flown from his home in Germany to do the honours, began to make his speech. As he recounted funny incidents from Tim's childhood, Sarah glanced at the faces around the room. Most of the guests were from Tim's side: aunts, uncles and cousins. She didn't have names for all the faces yet but they were such a friendly lot that she knew it wouldn't be long before she was in the thick of the family dynamics.

The guests on Sarah's side were split between friends and colleagues. Emma, with a big rock on her finger, sat with Jason's arm around her waist as she listened intently to Tim's brother. Her wedding was planned for eighteen months' time and she in particular was astounded at how quickly Sarah and Tim had got to this point.

Colin sat at the same table. His face had become smugger and his outlook on life gloomier with each passing year. But he was a good husband and father. His children verified that.

‘Daddy plays lots of games with us.'

‘Daddy kisses Mummy and us before going out to catch the baddies.'

‘Mummy says that Daddy is the bravest and most handsomest garda in all of Ireland!'

Nuala and Colin weren't the romance of the century, but they were solid, rock solid. They'd created three children and a loving home, and their marriage was far from the mistake Sarah had feared it would be.

Laura and Mark sat one table over. Laura wore a pretty pink wrap-over dress that matched the colour of her flushed face.
After two pregnancies relatively quick in succession, the wine was possibly going to her head. Or maybe her heightened colour was brought about by the sheer excitement at having a day out without the kids. Tim's brother announced that it was time to cut the cake. Sarah saw Laura exchange a smile with Mark. It was obvious that they were remembering their own wedding day.

Sarah walked to the cake stand, hand in hand with Tim. Cameras flashed in their faces.

‘I feel like a rock star,' he whispered in her ear.

She laughed.

Another flash went off.

That photograph, when she saw the wedding album a few weeks later, was instantly her favourite. Unlike all the other photographs, it wasn't posed. Tim's head was close to hers, his bow tie a little askew. A few curls had come loose from Sarah's French knot. They looked completely relaxed with each other, and very, very happy.

Singapore, 1998

A firm hand cupped Jodi's chin and adjusted its position. ‘Now, tilt your head deez way – yes, good – now, a smile, pleeze.'

The photographer ran back behind his camera and a flash went off as he took the shot.

‘A smaller smile, pleeze,' was his next request. ‘Perhaps you could look a little thoughtful?'

Jodi obliged, although a grin was itching to escape. The shots were being taken for the bank's annual report. All of the new directors were to have a photograph and brief biography included. Hers was to read:

Jodi Tyler was promoted to director in March 1998 and is responsible for client service for a number of key institutional accounts in the Asia-Pacific region. Jodi joined CorpBank's London office in 1994 and moved to Singapore in 1996. She has extensive sales experience in bonds, equities and currencies. Prior to CorpBank
,
Jodi worked for Invesco, where she designed and sold pension funds.

The photographer darted out from behind his camera to adjust the light reflector screen. He stared hard at Jodi, moved the screen another millimetre, and looked satisfied with the result. After a half-dozen rapid-fire shots, he was finished.

‘Thank you, Mizz Tyler. You are very photogenic!'

Jodi smiled and stood up, straightening her clothes. A quick check of her watch confirmed that there was plenty of time to get to the airport for her overnight flight to Sydney. She just had to collect her bag from the office and ask her assistant to confirm that one of the corporate cars would be ready.

Half an hour later Jodi was in the back of the car and heading for the airport at a steady pace. Speed limits were strictly enforced and adhered to in Singapore. On one particular occasion, when she hadn't lived in the city for long, Jodi had missed a flight because the driver refused to go a smidgeon over the limit. That particular experience had been a lesson well learned and she'd never again cut tight the travel time to the airport.