Less Than Perfect Page 23

  Chapter 27

  Later that night, unable to read or sleep, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb on the cornice by the window and I think, without any real commitment, that I should brush it away when I’m cleaning on the weekend. There are a few small insects trapped inside the light fitting – another thing, I decide vaguely, that should be cleaned. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to clean your life the same way you can clean a room? To mop up the hurtful words that spilled from your mouth. To scrub away the messy arguments. To scour and clean until your stained past is restored to something fresh and more appealing.

  The phone rings. I hear Jeanie pick it up, her voice a distant murmur. A few moments later there’s a knock on my bedroom door and she sticks her head in. ‘Your mother’s on the phone for you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pick it up here.’ Woodenly, I reach my hand across to the handset on the bedside unit. ‘Hi, Mum. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s “up”,’ she replies brusquely. ‘Only that I haven’t heard from you all week! You weren’t there when I called at the weekend …’ She pauses, making it apparent that she’s waiting for some sort of explanation.

  I close my eyes and see myself in bed with Matthew, the tan of his skin against the white bed linen, the dark rash of stubble across his face, the quizzical look in his eyes when I chose not to answer the shrilling phone. Though I felt bad at the time, I’m glad now that I didn’t pick up. If I had, Mum would be enquiring about Matthew right now. And I would have to tell her that we had a big argument and that it’s probably all off.

  ‘I went away for the weekend,’ I lie.

  She must know that I’m not being truthful because she doesn’t ask her usual questions: where I went, who with. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all for a few long moments.

  ‘Are you going to stop taking my calls now as well as your father’s?’

  ‘Mum, don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous. I’m just asking. Because you have this black side to you, Caitlin, this unforgiving streak that seems to make it relatively easy for you to cut yourself off from people.’

  ‘Mum!’ I lever myself up in the bed and swing my legs over the side so I’m sitting hunched over. ‘What’s wrong with you? Where’s all this coming from?’

  ‘Did you watch the disc Maeve sent?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Do you have any intention of watching it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply, honest now.

  Her sigh is ragged and weary. ‘You know, it’s one thing not wanting to talk to him on the phone, it’s another altogether not to be able to bring yourself to watch him on the television. That’s bitterness in the extreme.’

  ‘I’m not bitter!’

  ‘Then what are you? It’s a disc, Caitlin, it’s only a disc. He can’t talk directly to you, he can’t touch you or even see you. It’s an image of him, a recording, that’s all, yet you can’t bring yourself to watch it. If that’s not bitterness, then what is it?’

  I don’t answer. I don’t know what it is, what the correct label might be, and I’d rather not be having this conversation at all.

  ‘You know, you’re too like him, that’s the problem. You’re both perfectionists, and that’s why it’s so hard for you both to deal with what happened. But at least he found an outlet, a way to come to terms with it. You haven’t dealt with it at all.’

  ‘I’m not like him, Mum!’

  ‘Yes, you are. That’s why you can’t forgive him. You’re self-righteous, just like him –’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired.’

  ‘I can forgive him, but you can’t. Why, Caitlin? It’s been eleven years. Don’t you think it’s high time to move on?’

  ‘Mum, I’m tired. I haven’t had a good day. I –’

  ‘ I’ve moved on,’ she persists. ‘Why can’t you? Why, Caitlin?’

  And this is when I crack. In a matter of moments I go from being relatively disengaged to being infused with a dark, dangerous rage. ‘I lost my brother.’ God, it hurts to say it. A sharp stabbing hurt that’s as fresh as though it happened yesterday. ‘I lost my boyfriend and my brother,’ I scream at her.

  ‘I lost my only son,’ she shoots back, tit for tat.

  ‘Dad sent Liam into town that day feeling useless and worthless …’

  ‘Maybe he did,’ she doesn’t miss a beat, ‘but that was only one day out of twenty-two years. There were many other days, days when your father cheered him on at his matches, when he taught him how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to drive, when he gave him money to go out …’

  ‘I don’t care.’ I can’t seem to control the volume of my voice, even though I know Jeanie must be able to hear in the room next door. ‘All I care about is that day. How Liam felt. It’s bad enough that he died, but to die feeling that he had no value, no worth, because he was unemployed! Dad made him feel that way and that’s what I can’t get over. And, while we’re at it, I can’t brush aside the fact he wasn’t there for us afterwards, or that he thought it was a good time to screw his secretary!’

  ‘I know, Caitlin. I know all that happened.’ Mum’s tone has softened. ‘Instead of pulling together, our family pulled apart. It can happen either way with grief –’

  ‘You’re always, always, always making excuses for him!’ I scream over her, tears streaming down my face, fury and hurt swirling inside me.

  ‘Love, I know how –’

  ‘Are you happy now? Are you happy that you started this?’

  ‘Of course I’m not happy.’

  ‘Our family is broken. Nothing can put it back together, least of all me forgiving Dad. Liam is dead, you and Dad are divorced, Maeve has been in her own little world –’

  ‘It is not broken. I’m the first to admit it’s not perfect –’

  ‘Jesus, Mum, it’s so far from perfect it’s laughable.’

  ‘Caitlin, you can’t just –’

  ‘I’m going to bed, Mum. I’m tired – I told you at the start that I was tired.’

  Pressing the ‘end’ button on the phone, I cut her off. I sit on the bed, shaking, taking deep breaths to try to expel the anger, the bitterness from my system. It’s a long time before I roll beneath the bedcovers, my body feeling weak and tender, the tear-dried skin on my face taut against the softness of the pillow. I leave the light on, needing the warmth and comfort it bestows upon the room.

  The morning sun blazes through the kitchen window, intensifying the colours of the gerberas, a reminder of Matthew that I don’t want or need. Though I slept surprisingly well, I feel chronically tired as I sit in the over-bright kitchen. My cup of coffee is not reviving in any way; it tastes bitter in my mouth and leaves me feeling thirsty and slightly sick. I pour myself a glass of iced water from the jug in the fridge and I’m sitting down again when Jeanie comes in.

  ‘Is it just boiled?’ She nods at the kettle.

  ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  She flicks the switch and the humming of the kettle fills the kitchen. Barefoot and with tousled hair, she gets herself two slices of bread and pops them in the toaster. Then, while she waits for the kettle to boil and the bread to toast, she leans back against the counter, her arms folded as she looks down on me in my seat. ‘That was quite a spectacular argument you had with your mother last night.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I make a face. ‘I didn’t mean to be so loud.’

  ‘Loud and quite cruel, I’d say.’

  ‘I wasn’t being cruel.’ I shrug defensively. ‘I was making a point, that’s all.’

  ‘Mission accomplished. Pity, though, that what you were saying didn’t make any sense!’

  ‘Hey, whose side are you on?’ I feel a flare of annoyance.

  ‘Yours, of course, which is why I tell you when you’re being stupid and unreasonable. Last night you were both, by the way.’

  I glare at her. ‘Don’t you start on me too! I’m really not in the mood.’


  Jeanie’s toast pops and I jump at the sound. God, I’m feeling fraught this morning.

  For a while nothing is said. Jeanie butters her toast and makes herself a cup of tea while I finish my glass of water and return to my cup of coffee, which is now cold and even more bitter.

  Jeanie can’t contain herself for long, though. ‘You think every family is perfect but your own,’ she declares as she chews on a mouthful of toast.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Not in so many words. But it’s apparent in your lack of regard for your own upbringing and in how you glorify everything about mine.’

  ‘What? Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  Jeanie swallows and her voice becomes clearer, harsh even. ‘You have no real concept of what it’s like to grow up in a big family, Caitlin. It was chaos in our house. Every Saturday morning I went to netball and when I got back my mother would look at me puzzled and ask, “Where have you been all this time?” Every week we had the same exchange – and she still didn’t remember that I had netball on Saturday mornings! She didn’t know where we were half the time.’

  ‘Interesting anecdote, but what’s that got to do with anything?’ I ask, replying to her harshness with sarcasm of my own.

  ‘I bet your mother and father knew where you were all the time.’ Under the soft bed-tousled hair, Jeanie’s expression is uncharacteristically hard. ‘I bet they came to watch your netball matches –’

  ‘Netball? I don’t think so!’

  ‘You know what I mean – the netball equivalent in Ireland, whatever sport teenage girls play over there. I bet your parents were there, cheering you on. I bet they came to watch and clap every time you got an award at your school assembly. I bet they bought you a brand-new bike every other year, a nice shiny scratch-free model, and well before you had outgrown the last one too. You might think that your mum and dad were too strict, too controlling, but at least you weren’t invisible to them as I was to mine.’

  I get up and throw the rest of my coffee down the sink. ‘You know, I think I’m ready to go to work now.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic – or to run off to work. I’m just telling you some truths. I’m fed up with this hard-done-by attitude you have –’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Jeanie,’ I burst out as I turn around from the sink.

  ‘My own grown-up sister stole my phone. How’s that for a fucked-up family?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a perfect family, a perfect mother or father or sister,’ she rants, as though she hasn’t heard me. ‘You’re childish to even think there is …’

  ‘I said leave me alone, Jeanie. I’ve had enough!’ My shrill voice reverberates in my ears.

  I stomp from the kitchen to the bathroom where I brush my teeth so vigorously my gums begin to bleed. A few minutes later, shoes jammed on my feet and handbag strap pulled tight on my shoulder, I leave without saying goodbye, the slam of the apartment door the only contribution I have to make. Despite my bravado, my hands are shaking and my stomach feels really queasy now. What a horrible beginning to the day! I rarely have arguments with Jeanie, I can’t even remember the last time we exchanged a cross word. What’s wrong with her, picking a fight like this? Just like Matthew and Mum last night. What’s wrong with all of them?

  Chapter 28

  ‘Harry! Hello, Caitlin here. Just letting you know that everything is on track. The technicians have the networking solution fully worked out … Yes, they say that the system will be a direct image of your own … Yes, amazing technology, isn’t it?’

  Twirling my pen in my fingers, I gaze out the window as I listen to Harry speak. I’m calm and businesslike on the phone, but the argument with Jeanie keeps replaying in my mind, muddling together with the fights I had with Mum and Matthew to form one screaming voice, and the queasiness in my stomach has not settled down.

  ‘The training manuals are at the printers, Harry – I’ll send you some when they come in. They look good. Lots of pictures, nice-sized text, easy on the eye. I should have them to you by Friday.’

  I run through more details, practical matters like the synchronisation of the three rooms, contingency plans for sickness and no shows, and how we’ll translate feedback into improvements. After this call with Harry, I must make two other lengthy and detailed phone calls, also related to Net Banc. Then I have a facilities meeting to attend, lunch with a prospective client, and another internal meeting in the afternoon. It promises to be a busy day. Right now I need to be busy, to be distracted with work and things to do. Thank God it isn’t like some days of late where I’ve had too much time to think.

  ‘Yes, the rooms will be ready the day before, Harry, and you can come for a walk through. Put your mind at ease. No problem … Anything else, just give me a call.’

  I put down the phone and take a moment to draw breath. During that tiny fragment of time, my eyes veer to my mobile phone where it lies impassive on my desk. I pick it up, press a button and the screen accommodatingly lights up. No missed messages or calls. Not yet, anyway.

  Without stopping to acknowledge the empty lifeless feeling that seems to have transferred from my phone to my insides, I make my next call, to Mike, who releases an exaggerated groan at the mere sound of my voice. Despite his feigned despair, Mike clearly thrives on the size, complexity and technological challenges of the Net Banc job. As he talks, I find myself carried along by his enthusiasm and, once again, offer a quick prayer of thanks that it’s a busy day.

  ‘That was a very nice lunch.’ Brent Newson wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin and regards me convivially from across the table. ‘And this is a very nice restaurant. Overall a pleasant change from the ham sandwich I usually have at my desk!’

  Brent is in his late fifties, his hair grey and concentrated on the lower half of his head, his face round and amiable. He wears large glasses, presumably for reading the fine print and small details that underpin his job. I called him and arranged this lunch after reading a quote he made to a journalist about burdensome new regulations in the insurance industry and the ongoing challenge of keeping staff up to date and properly trained.

  ‘You’re welcome, Brent. Actually, this place is one of my favourites, so it’s a treat for me too.’

  The restaurant, on the banks of the Yarra River, has a panoramic view of the historical shipping wharves and the city beyond, and the food, Japanese with an Australian twist, is always exquisite, though I haven’t eaten much of it today. I can’t seem to overcome the nausea that’s churning in my stomach.

  Brent folds his napkin and puts it on the table. ‘You make a really strong case for outsourcing, Caitlin,’ his eyes blink behind his glasses, ‘but I know from experience that our management team, and board, believe that such a move would involve more cost and less control.’

  I look across at him, hold his gaze. ‘I have an excellent financial model that can work out the real cost of internal training. You’ll find that it’s not only easier to outsource, it’s invariably cheaper too. And there’s a very valid argument that you would regain control rather than lose it.’

  His lips move into a smile. ‘Well, you’re welcome to come onsite next week and show me how your model works. If the results turn out as you say they will, maybe we’ll be in a position to put forward a convincing argument to the board.’

  Pleased with the progress we’ve made, I decide this is a good note on which to end the lunch. ‘Sounds like a plan, Brent. Would you like a coffee?’

  He glances to the dessert menu that the waitress put on the table while we were deep in discussion. ‘For some reason, I’m in the mood for a liqueur. Or maybe a port.’

  I beckon the waitress. ‘Do you have any ports or liqueurs you’d recommend?’

  ‘We have a very nice twelve-year-old tawny port,’ she replies in a perfunctory tone.

  I glance at Brent who nods. ‘We’ll have one port, please.’

  He looks crestfallen. ‘You’re no
t joining me?’

  I hesitate. Liqueurs and ports are generally off limits: too much sugar. ‘I really shouldn’t, but make that two!’ I say to the waitress.

  Her smile seems to hold a hint of disapproval, as though she’s aware I’m breaking the rules, taking a risk. She collects the laminated menus and returns a short while later with two glasses of port and the bill.

  Raising my glass, I clink it with Brent’s. The port is heavy and sweet in my mouth, laden with sugar and guilt, but still it’s nice to connect with a client at this level and to round off a successful lunch with something a little decadent for us both. Strictly speaking, Brent isn’t a client, he’s a prospect. But I feel good about him, about Insurassist. I haven’t started to work out all the different components yet, but the basics are there: a profitable cashed-up company, a strong need for change, a decision maker who’s easy to deal with, and an agreed follow-up meeting next week. After a barren few weeks, it’s nice to have something substantial to work with again, something I can pour myself into and get lost in.

  Already a few minutes late for my afternoon meeting, I hurry through the office and pass by my desk to pick up a notepad and pen. Zoe, talking on the phone, waves me down before I can rush off again.

  ‘Jarrod has been looking for you,’ she says, her hand covering the mouthpiece.

  ‘He’ll have to wait – I’m running late for my meeting.’

  ‘He’s come around twice.’

  ‘Did he say it was urgent?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ she admits. ‘But he had that cat-onhot-bricks look about him.’

  I laugh. ‘He always looks like that! I’ll be back in an hour.’

  I set off for the meeting, the notepad clutched to my chest, the pen jutting between my fingers like a cigarette. Light-headed from the port, it takes some effort to refocus my thoughts from the early-day buzz of Insurassist to the more mature, expectation-ridden relationship that Net Banc now is.

  ‘You’re late,’ Nicola announces as I slip into the meeting room on the fourth floor.