The confession, p.17
The Confession, page 17
While my husband was studying all this, I was studying full-time for my English Masters. I’d quit teaching. It no longer held the same appeal for me – neither the work, nor the people. I didn’t take it up again until 2010, when we needed to look like we were just an ordinary couple.
Toby came to my leaving party. We’d avoided each other for months after the argument in my home. But he made the effort once he knew I was finishing up, and so did I. It was better to part on good terms.
‘I guess we’re all growing up,’ Grace said. ‘I can’t handle mid-week drinking any more. Otherwise I’d miss you way more, Julie.’
We both laughed. It was a long time since we’d all been out together, but Grace was being kind, talking as though nothing had changed.
‘You have a child,’ Toby said. ‘You’re not supposed to be drinking in the middle of the week anyway. Leave that to the single people and the alcos.’
Grace had become a single mother, confiding in me one night that she couldn’t even remember sleeping with the baby’s dad, or his name for that matter.
‘You don’t need anybody,’ I said. ‘I can help.’ And a little bit of me meant it, even if it never happened. It was too much, to be around somebody who’d got pregnant accidentally when I had all the jigsaw pieces and couldn’t put the bloody thing together.
‘I knew that husband of yours would make you quit altogether one day,’ Anna said, voicing what everybody else at my table thought but no longer cared to say, not those days.
‘Oh, Anna,’ I said, too tired and too close to never seeing her again to have a fight. ‘I’ll miss your inability to keep an opinion in your head. Come here and give me a hug.’
She did, and it was the last time I saw her. Grace told me a couple of years later that she’d moved to New Zealand.
There had been another reason for me packing in teaching.
I started finally considering IVF. Time was against me and my hope of conceiving naturally. I was in my thirties and starting to worry. IVF would take a toll on my body that I didn’t want to have to endure while trying to act normally in work at the same time.
I was optimistic it would work. The clinic doctor told us we were both healthy and it was just a fact that sometimes couples couldn’t conceive on their own. With a little help, we might get there. We were sent off to think about it for a couple of weeks, and I’d more or less decided to go for it. Harry didn’t need to think; he was raring to go.
Life, in general, was good.
But there was one cloud I couldn’t shake.
I rarely thought about the rape allegations, so convinced was I that Harry was telling the truth. But sometimes, late at night, when I was alone, I wondered. When it was very dark and the world was very quiet . . . that’s when the doubts crept in.
Harry had never forced me, but then he’d never had to. I never resisted. What would have happened if I had? At times, it felt like my husband needed sex like other people needed oxygen. Especially when he was stressed.
That’s when I would worry the most that he was cheating on me – when we’d make love for hours and he would still seem unsatisfied and the next day he’d have to go to a ‘work conference’, or something else that had sprung up unexpectedly.
These thoughts crept into my mind every so often, but they weren’t enough to upset the applecart.
I decided to tell Harry that I wanted to press ahead with IVF after the bank’s annual ‘board and partners’ away dinner. The event was held at the beginning of each year and brought together all the senior executives and the board members, along with their wives (a couple of husbands, but mainly wives) for an overnight jolly. The dinner was to thank long-suffering spouses and act as a team-building exercise all in one. When the evening drew to a close, I would surprise Harry with the news and we could continue the celebrations.
I thought I’d experienced money. When Harry booked our wedding in France. When he brought me to Capri. The gifts he would shower me with.
But those away dinners! They made Louis XIV’s extravagance look like a riverside picnic.
That year, the bank had booked a whole floor of a five-star hotel overlooking Lough Derg. The building was a converted former castle and, out of curiosity, I looked up the price of rooms and dinner before we went. Harry’s bank would pay an average of €1,000 for each room per night (our room – the suite – cost €3,000). The dinner – the castle ten-course tasting menu – cost €245 per person, before alcohol.
Twelve board members, twelve spouses, six senior executives, six spouses. It was coming in at just under €30,000 for one night, and that was before they started ordering the oldest and best bottles of wine and whiskey from the castle cellar.
The spending lunacy of the Celtic Tiger had well and truly peaked, and it never failed to catch my breath.
We flew down to the event in a private-hire helicopter. I felt the whole thing was completely over the top and told him so.
‘You’ve all lost the run of yourselves,’ I said, shaking my head, even as the pilot was fixing my earpiece. ‘You’re like the kids on the island in Pinocchio. It can only end badly, Harry.’
He laughed.
‘If you see me sprout a tail tonight, just give me a kick up the ass. Next year, we’ll climb Croagh Patrick barefoot. A pilgrimage to atone. I promise.’
I tutted, then grabbed his hand as the helicopter started to rise into the air.
I was really looking forward to the night. I’d been on a self-imposed drinking fast for a couple of weeks. I did that regularly those days, to convince myself I didn’t have an alcohol problem. It didn’t matter if I drank like a fish most of the time if I could just stop whenever I wanted. And now the latest period of abstinence was about to be broken with the finest champagne. I was going to party and enjoy myself like only a woman about to give up drink for nine months can.
Harry had something else on his mind, though. What I didn’t realize, and he didn’t tell me until it was too late, was that he had decided at that stage to step down as CEO of HM Capital. He was going to stay at the bank, but he knew trouble was brewing and didn’t want to be in the driving seat when it did. He planned to take a traditionally more hands-off role – that of chair of the board – but mould it to fit the role he actually wanted to play, which was to more or less still in charge, just not in the firing line. He needed to appoint somebody as CEO who would look like a good fit but be malleable and not smell the manure he was being dropped in.
The annual dinner that year had a new purpose, and I was ignorant to it, caught up in my own plans.
I stayed in the suite that afternoon while Harry went off for a pre-dinner round of golf. The beauty salon had been booked out for the ladies, but I skipped the pampering and ordered a bottle of Krug to the room. I never could bear making small talk with those women – most of them vacuous gossips who had carefully fostered superior snobbishness on the back of their husbands’ earnings. Harry was king in their world and yet I was still my own person, determined to further my education and improve myself.
It was spring, and a light white frost covered the castle grounds, giving them a magical quality. I was in a fabulous hotel room, about to slip into a to-die-for dress (Harry had bought me a midnight-blue Valentino lace number for the occasion), and a bottle of the most expensive champagne he could find was open on my dressing table. The bracelet Harry had given me as a wedding present sat alongside a recently gifted pair of diamond-and-sapphire earrings.
I sprayed my wrists with Chanel No. 5, took a sip of the Krug and smiled at myself in the mirror.
I had everything. No, my husband wasn’t perfect. But was there ever such a thing, as my mam once pointed out? Helen’s husband, Barry, was the most boring man alive. My friends used to go on about stuffy bankers, but they hadn’t a clue. I always thought Harry was exciting. I could never say I was bored with him.
When Harry came in to get showered before dinner, I was waiting for him on the bed, naked bar the jewellery.
‘I like it,’ he said, eyebrows arched. ‘I’d pay more for that than a designer gown any day. Wait until the rest of the board see you.’
‘Shut up and come over here,’ I purred.
By the time we went downstairs, I was the cat who’d got the cream.
Harry, though, had only been able to relax for the short time we’d made love. Among his colleagues, he became a ball of tension again.
The evening began to sour.
I felt so close to him when we took the grand staircase down to the banquet room but, by the time we sat for dinner, he was already flirting with the woman sitting beside him, caressing her arm and whispering in her ear.
It’s just flirting.
For some reason, that night, telling myself that had no effect. I wanted him to be with me. To focus on me.
Maybe it was because we’d just had sex. My skin still smelled of him and his of me.
Maybe it was because it was so public.
Our relationship was on display, and all those bitchy wives were judging me, laughing at me.
But, most likely, it was because I was excited about telling him my decision about the IVF.
I had been positioned further down the table. The dinner was always organized so couples didn’t sit together. We had to mingle. I made polite small talk with my neighbours. I sipped water. Every time I raised my wine glass to my lips, my throat felt like it was going to close up. The evening was ruined for me. All the while, I was watching Harry. I was waiting to get him on his own so I could tear strips off him. I watched the husband of the woman Harry was chatting up. He was pretending not to see what was happening under his nose. Everybody talked and laughed and acted like civilized adults, like nothing was happening at the top of the table, while Harry kept her entertained and she laughed like a fucking hyena.
The waiting staff cleared away plates of venison haunch and brought out trays of dark chocolate with amarena cherries. Harry excused himself. He didn’t make eye contact with me once.
She left the room minutes later.
I had to get out of there. I left the table, a lump in my throat, just about holding the tears in. I headed for the castle gardens. I needed to breathe.
I walked among the low walls and neatly trimmed hedgerows, the cold, crisp air in my lungs. The sloping terrace led down to the lake and I drifted in that direction, sitting on a felled log by the water’s edge, not caring what the bark did to my expensive gown.
I watched the waves lapping the shore, my chin cupped in my hands, and sighed.
An idea nudged itself into my head.
Was it worth it? Feeling this paranoid all the time? Suspecting Harry? He could have just gone out for a smoke and yet I immediately assumed the worst. Why? Why did I do that every time?
Because, in my gut, I knew.
I always knew. Somehow, deep down.
What kind of woman was I, to let him do that and stay with him?
I couldn’t confront him, but neither could I keep pretending. That only left me one option.
Marriage in Ireland had long since stopped meaning marriage for life.
I would still be well off. I would finish my Masters. Then I could move back to Leitrim, be closer to my parents. I could get a house near Helen and see more of her children. I’d start teaching again.
I didn’t have to do this any more. Maybe I could even get pregnant more easily with somebody else.
I would tell him it was over. Tonight. I’d pack a bag and go back to the house before him. Get my things and go home to my parents for a while until I sorted out an apartment in Dublin. Let him deny everything. I wouldn’t listen. I was done. It would break my heart, but I had my pride to think of. Or what was left of it.
Would Harry even try to stop me?
I was so involved in these thoughts I didn’t hear him approach.
‘It’s dull as fuck in there, isn’t it?’ Richard Hendricks sat down beside me, the log creaking under his massive weight.
He handed me a glass of champagne. I took it out of habit, but I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to cloud these thoughts that had arrived with absolute clarity.
‘Your tipple of choice, my lady,’ he said, smiling broadly.
When Harry had appointed Richard to the board of HM Capital a few years previously, I hadn’t been able to understand why. Richard seemed to know everything about airlines and nothing about banks – but later I realized that my husband didn’t want bankers on his board. He wanted soldiers, loyal to the cause of Harry McNamara. Richard became one of his chief lieutenants. A tiny part of me wondered if he had something on my husband. Why give him such an elevated position? Then, as I learned more about Harry, I knew I was right. Richard had seen everything. Estonia, Nina Carter, the dodgy business side. That’s why Harry kept him close.
Richard had always been perfectly nice to me – maybe a little too nice. But I never let on that I was uncomfortable around him. I even felt sorry for him. His wife seemed obnoxious, and poor Richard was still as fat and ugly as the first day I’d met him, maybe more so. He was just an aging, probably unhappy, middle-aged man who admired an attractive young woman. Who could hold it against him?
‘I noticed you’d left,’ he said, as I continued to stare out at the lake, hoping my silence would speak loudly and he’d leave me be. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself tonight as much as usual.’
‘Hmm.’ I placed the champagne glass on the frozen ground. ‘Has Harry come back yet?’ My voice was bitter.
‘You know Harry,’ Richard said, his lip curled in a way that made my stomach turn. It was part of the job criteria, wasn’t it? Help me keep the missus in the dark. Don’t let her know what I’m getting up to. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. He’s just off talking business. He never stops. Don’t take it to heart.’
‘Bastard,’ I said. It just slipped out. I never, ever spoke about Harry to his friends. I barely spoke about our problems to my friends.
Richard placed a sweaty palm on my bare shoulder.
‘He doesn’t deserve you.’
I shifted on the log, feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t want to have this conversation. If I started to talk about how I felt I wouldn’t be able to stop, and a confidante of my husband’s couldn’t be my confessor too.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said, and placed an arm around my shoulder. ‘What were you thinking, coming out here without a coat, you silly thing?’
It was such a strange feeling, having another man’s arm on me. I was so unused to it that I didn’t immediately react. I didn’t see it for what it was. And clearly he took that, and my utterance about my husband, to mean acceptance on my part.
At first, I thought he was just trying to kiss me. That he was about to declare his undying love or something, and offer to rescue me from Harry. Toby, mark 2.
But before I could fully process what was happening, Richard had pushed me back against the dead wood and was on top of me, his hand rammed up the inside of my dress, thumb prodding through the cotton triangle of my knickers. His breath smelled of garlic and whiskey; his fingers when they poked inside me were cold and unfamiliar.
He was so heavy, and I was so appalled and shocked, I couldn’t react. I knew I had to; I could feel his erection pressing into my thigh and knew if I didn’t scream or fight, he was going to rape me beside that lake and say my silence was consent.
‘You’re a filthy little bitch, aren’t you?’ he muttered into my ear, then licked my neck. I lay there, paralysed, violated, bile in my throat. ‘You must be, married to that dirty dog.’
I gave a cry of terror and disgust, which manifested itself in one word.
‘No!’
He grunted and tore my knickers down, even as my body began to resist, sending itself into survival mode while it waited for my brain to kick in.
It all happened so fast. He had my underwear around my thighs and was pulling at his belt.
I’d die if this man put himself inside me. I’d just die.
And then, weightlessness. Oxygen. Cold air. Harry.
He’d pulled Richard off and punched him, swinging hard as Richard, who had at least seven stone on Harry, fell to the ground and covered his head defensively.
I stood quickly and yanked my pants up, sheer panic throwing me into action while my heart beat like a racehorse’s. I reacted to almost being raped like somebody who’s tripped on the street and jumps up with a broken ankle, their only thought, Did anybody see? Should I be embarrassed?
What had Harry seen? Did he think I’d wanted Richard, that I’d met him for sex? I couldn’t bear the idea that he would think I’d do that to him, with that fat old bastard of all people.
That was what was running through my head when my husband stood up and turned away from Richard, who lay bleeding and groaning on the ground. Harry had stopped himself from going any further, just a few punches, leaving Richard down but not out.
Harry spat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand
I should have asked myself how he had found it so easy to stop, how it was that he didn’t have to be pulled off Richard.
But I didn’t think anything like that then because when Harry wrapped his arms around me and said ‘Are you okay?’ I felt like collapsing with relief.
‘I’m okay,’ I sobbed. ‘The things he said, Harry. He said—’
‘Shush. You’re okay. It’s okay.’
He stood back and looked me straight in the eye. His white shirt was splattered with blood and dirt, his face furious and determined.
‘Do you want to ring the Guards?’
I blinked. Then I looked at Richard on the ground. That’s what we should do, I thought. Ring the Guards. But what would I say? What bruises would I show them, when I’d just lain there and not fought and struggled, like you’d imagine any woman would? I’d said ‘No’ . . . At least I thought I had. I must have. Harry must have heard something to tell him I was resisting Richard’s attack, even if it didn’t look like I was.
