Lying in Wait(48)

I chased up Dessie’s mechanic about his friend who restored vintage cars, but he told me that Dessie had told him not to worry about it. Dessie was making decisions for me again. Without consulting Dessie, I insisted on getting the number of the man, who was called Frankie and had a garage out in Santry. I rang him to ask if I could meet him to ask a few questions, saying that I was looking for a particular car to use on a photo shoot. He wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped. He was too busy flirting with me. He guessed there were about twenty cars fitting that description in Dublin. He had only ever serviced two of those vehicles, one for a car museum and one for an octogenarian who lived in County Offaly. He gave me some names and numbers of other mechanics who specialized in old cars.

I had no further luck with those. One of them led me a merry dance, and neither of them had any helpful information. I was hitting a brick wall. Dessie was getting suspicious about where I was going and what I was doing, and I resented having to lie to him.

Early on a Saturday morning in September he reached for me in bed, and I realized that I couldn’t stay with Dessie any longer. The previous evening he had quizzed me about numbers called on our itemized phone bill. I didn’t even know our bill was itemized, and it would never have occurred to me to check it. I had lied, badly, and he confronted me with the news that he had rung the numbers and found out they were all mechanics and car dealers. There was a row, and again he had told me I was stupid and obsessed and ridiculous. For the sake of keeping the peace, I had apologized and backed down and we had kissed and made up. But the next morning, I woke up feeling angry. Angry at myself, mostly, for not standing my ground. I turned away from his kisses.

‘It’s not working, Dessie. Us, I mean.’

‘Ah, Karen, don’t be like that. Sure, I’ve forgotten all about it.’

‘Yeah, until the next time. I’m sick of it. You’re checking up on me all the time. Turning up out of the blue to collect me from jobs.’

He sat up and leaned on one arm.

‘You’re embarrassed by the van, is that it?’

‘Christ, Dessie, that’s not it at all. You don’t even know how you’re controlling me all the time. Checking my phone calls? For God’s sake.’

‘I wouldn’t have to check if you were honest with me.’

I raised my voice now, my frustration levels growing. ‘I’m not able to be honest with you, ’cos you go off the deep end. You have practically ordered me to forget about my sister!’

‘Not this again. Jesus.’

He got out of bed and went into the bathroom, and I waited, listening to the long stream of piss, grateful for a moment to collect myself. By the time he came back, I had calmed myself for the storm I knew I had to face.

‘I don’t want to be married to you any more.’

It happened so fast that I didn’t see it coming. There was just a brief flash of his hand towards my face. I felt the air whip past my cheek. He dropped his arm at the very last second so that no contact was made. Dessie was handy with his fists. If he had meant to hurt me, he could have. Dessie didn’t want to hurt me. It was the opposite.

He cried and begged and apologized. He said he worshipped me and couldn’t live without me. He was terrified that I’d go down the wrong route like Annie. While I’d been at the dry-cleaner’s, he’d known where I was nine to five every day, he’d known who I was mixing with, but he was worried about me modelling, dressing up for strangers. He didn’t know what kind of people I was meeting.

There were stories in the Sun about models and drug addiction, but he didn’t understand that the Dublin scene was not London. I had heard about London supermodels using cocaine and champagne like it was going out of fashion, but Dublin might as well have been another planet, certainly an earlier decade. Most of the girls were middle-class types straight out of school, waiting for a husband, or earning their way through university. They were younger than me and hid the fact that they smoked from their parents. I had never been offered drugs. Or champagne for that matter. I had explained all this to Dessie, but it seemed he was as obsessed with Annie as I was, although in a different way. He was afraid that his wife was going to become a drug addict, prostitute and murder victim. He said divorce was illegal anyway, and I told him I didn’t need a certificate to leave him.

That evening, I packed a bag and moved back home to Da’s. My father was upset, but once I assured him that the break-up was my decision, I think he was secretly delighted to have me home.

‘I’m not going back, Da.’

‘And sure, why would you, with a perfectly good bedroom lying empty here?’

In the years since Annie had gone, my father had become a nicer person, albeit a nicer person with a potential drink problem.

Dessie phoned frequently and called to the house to try to have peace talks. but my overwhelming feeling, aside from guilt and fear for the future, was one of relief. I no longer had to account for my movements or my actions. I no longer had to make excuses as to why now wasn’t a good time to get pregnant. I no longer had to hand over my earnings for the ‘house fund’. Dessie could keep what I had already contributed. I didn’t want anything from him. I just wanted our relationship to be over. Ma was very upset when I told her on the phone.

‘You had a good lad there. Hasn’t our family name been dragged through enough muck?’ She thought I was having my head turned by the modelling, and no amount of talking could persuade her otherwise. ‘He’s been so good to you and you throw it back in his face. When I heard about this modelling lark, I knew there was going to be trouble.’