into a smaller apartment in the village, which meant that there was nothing for us but to move from our old, happy life in Dublin and settle here, into Dan’s family home. It wasn’t just the right thing to do; it was the only thing to do.
Thing about Dan, you see, is that he’s officially The Nicest Man On The Planet. Everyone says so. It takes time, trial and error to creep into his affections, but once there, you’re there for life. Anyway, after his father died, naturally he was anxious to be as close as possible to his mother and sister, both of whom he continues to support financially. A bit like a one-man welfare state.
But that’s Dan for you; helping others is his Kryptonite.
We’ll make this work, I had said to him supportively at the time, even though it effectively meant putting my own acting career on hold, as we packed up our independence in the city and got ready to move. Sure as long as we’re together, we can make anything work, I said reassuringly. And if a job comes up for me, I’ll just do the long commute back and forth to Dublin.
Because our marriage comes first. Doesn’t it?
But, like I said, that was well over three years ago and since then, the goalposts have shifted. Considerably. For starters, I’m finding it far, far tougher than I’d ever have thought, hauling myself up and down from Dublin every time there’s a sniff of a job. So to keep myself busy, I’ve done just about every gig in The Sticks that comes my way. Given the odd drama workshop to kids in the local school, worked part-time at the local florist’s, you name it, I’ve given it a whirl.
But the hard, cold fact is that I’ve been treading water rather than really loving what I’m doing, knowing in my heart that if it’s acting work I really want, then I need to be in the city, where all the big job opportunities are. Not to mention where all my old friends are. We stay in touch, of course – we text and phone and email and Skype is my new best friend…but it’s just not the same as seeing people all the time, is it?
I’m constantly begging/pleading/nagging my old pals to come and visit, even just for a weekend, and in fairness, most of them have done at one time or another. But the thing about The Sticks though, is that it doesn’t exactly offer all that much in the way of nightlife. Apart from a couple of pubs where the average age profile is about eighty and the main topic of conversation among the sages of the snug is still the Civil War, there’s not a whole lot else on offer.
Bear in mind that you’re talking about a tiny village where the main tourist attractions are a Spar newsagents and a large clock in the middle of Main Street, so, unsurprisingly, repeat visits from my Dublin buddies tend to be few and far between.
But it does my heart good though, to keep in touch with our old circle. I love hearing all my girlfriends’ tales from the city, of how well they’re all doing in their careers and most of all, hearing their stories direct from life at the great dating coalface. And even if their romances don’t go exactly according to plan, at least they’re all out there, having fun/ breaking hearts/ having their hearts broken in turn/picking themselves up and getting back in the race…just like you’re supposed to be doing at our age.
Sometimes I’ll see them all looking at me, like I’m some prematurely middle-aged housewife in a Cath Kidston apron with matching tablecloths and they’ll say, ‘But you’re married! Why aren’t you at home, getting fat?’
And I’ll want to tell them the truth; that the whole reason I got married was to grow old with someone and not because of them. But instead, I’ll smile and laugh and make a joke and say that Victorian virgin brides in arranged marriages saw more of life than I did before I walked down the aisle. Then they’ll all jolly me along by reminding me that I got lucky, because I didn’t just marry a great guy, I married the holy grail of men, didn’t I?
And the heartbreaking thing is that it’s all true – I did.
It’s just that the grass is always greener on the other side of the M50 motorway, that’s all.
I often think that life here is far, far easier for Dan, who’s surrounded by his family, along with friends he’s known since he was in nappies and has grown up with. Some people live a life that’s already been planned out perfectly for them, as inescapable as a circle. And that’s Dan and he’s perfectly content with that. But the truth is that after three long years here, the claustrophobia is slowly starting to get to me. It’s like every time I glance in the mirror I see a woman who looks like it’s raining inside of her. Crushed under the weight of my own future.
Because I have deep grievances with my life here that over time, feel like they’ve barnacled permanently onto my skull. In spite of all my super-human efforts to fit in and to be a good wife and half-decent daughter- and sister-in-law…I swear to God, there are days when I physically feel like I’m being smothered. That I can’t breathe. That I’m slowly being asphyxiated as surely as if someone had tied a plastic Tesco’s bag over my head.
Worse still, that I’m going to go to my grave with an unlived life still in my veins.
Even the clinking sound of Dan’s coffee mug as he rests it on a saucer is almost enough to make me want to scream. There’s so much I need to talk to him about and yet we’re sitting here in total silence. Like an old married couple that ran out of things to say to each other years ago.
Another, tacked-on worry pops into my mind unbidden; is this what we’re going to be like twenty years from now? Because as far as I can see, that’s the road we’re headed down. Rare enough that we even get to eat a meal together given the eighteen-hour days he’s been working for as long as I can remember. Rare enough that we get time alone together at all, given that his family still consider this to be their home and just breeze in and out whenever it suits them. Not to mention his work colleagues, who treat our house as a combination of a twenty-four-hour free canteen-cum-low-grade hotel. But to think that we’re wasting this precious opportunity to talk, really talk, with him rattling away at the shagging paper and me restlessly glowering off into space…
Dan looks up and catches my eye again. A tiny sliver of hope; he used to know my mind nearly better than I did myself.; time was when he could read my subconscious as easily as an autocue. Maybe, just maybe, he’s noticed that his wife is slowly drowning right before his eyes and will throw me some kind of lifeline. Maybe, after all my fretting and stressing, he and I are something that can be fixed after all…
‘Annie?’
‘Yes?’
Come on, Dan, come on…meet me halfway here…
‘You won’t forget to pick up that fungicidal cream from the chemist for the cat’s ringworm today, will you?’
I do not befeckinglieve it.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
When I don’t answer, he tosses the paper aside and for a split second looks at me again; really looks at me this time, his soft, black eyes now full of concern.
‘Everything OK?’
And like the moral coward that I am, I back down.
To be polite, I freeze frame a watery smile onto my face and even allow the grin to reach all the way up to my eyes.
‘Everything’s fine.’
But I’m lying.
Everything is so not fine.
Chapter One
OK, two things you need to know about me: firstly, I’m really not the sort of person to mortgage my entire future on a whim. Secondly, if life in The Sticks has taught me anything, it’s this: the lower you keep your expectations, the less likely you are to get let down. And above all, do not, repeat, do not, expect miracles to happen in this neck of the woods. Long and unbelievably boring conversations with Audrey, my mother-in-law, about the correct way to make a poinsettia entirely out of icing for the Christmas cake, yes, but miracles…no, sorry, love. ’Fraid