Love Me Or Leave Me Page 5

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like … well, you know.’

  ‘No,’ said Dawn, genuinely puzzled. ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘Alright then, you never used to behave like the way you’re carrying on these days. Like such a bloody flake-head.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Come on, Dawn, surely you must see that guy has totally changed you! You used to be … normal. You know, fun to hang around with. But now all you want to do is sit around talking about what a fabulous soul Kirk is, or else telling me that my chakras are all out of alignment. And now you want to throw your whole life away before it’s barely even started, with someone you barely even know? For God’s sake, it’s almost a bit like Kirk and that shower of nutters he’s related to have sucked you into some kind of religious cult! You’ll be shaving your head, wearing orange robes and dancing up and down Grafton Street next, you mark my words.’

  Love and forgive, Dawn had to work very hard at remembering, biting back the instinct to defend the man she’d once adored so much. She and Eva had always been close, in spite of a five-year age gap, even more so since their Dad had passed away years ago, when they were just kids. Eva had always been the perfect older sister, always watching out for her, always being there for her, no matter what. A thumbs up from her meant the world to Dawn.

  And yet here it was, the single biggest thing ever to happen in Dawn’s life and now all Eva could do was shake her head, wag her finger and tell her she was off her head insane. Hard to sit there and take it and pretend that it didn’t bloody well sting. Even if looking back now, all her dire predictions had all proved one hundred per cent on the money.

  Still though, in spite of all the many, many objections from far, far too many people to list, the whole wedding really had been magical from start to finish. At least, so Dawn had thought at the time.

  After the initial blessing ceremony, everyone sat in a ‘circle of harmony’, as the High Shaman referred to it, and an Apache tribal poem was read out, to much sniggering from Sheila and Amy, Dawn’s pals from the health food store where she worked. The pair of them kept nudging each other and loudly asking when someone would start playing a bit of Beyoncé, same as at any normal wedding. And whether or not there was a minibar anywhere close by?

  ‘Try the elderberry wine,’ Dawn had smiled encouragingly over at them. ‘Exact same effect, far less of a hangover!’

  ‘And for God’s sake,’ she remembered her mother audibly hissing, ‘why do we all have to sit cross-legged and barefoot on the floor for this nonsense, anyway? My outfit is getting completely ruined!’

  ‘Mine and all,’ grumbled her Mum’s best friend Maisie, who they’d had to invite too. ‘And when I think of all the trouble the pair of us went to, just to find shoes to match our outfits! Then they make you leave them at the door? Ridiculous carry on.’

  ‘Just chill out and try to enjoy it all,’ Dawn had told them both soothingly. ‘Here, try some organic papaya tea, you’ll like it.’

  ‘I’d give anything for a normal cup of tea, but I’ll pass on that green stuff thanks,’ her mother sniffed. ‘I’m not a huge fan of dishwater, as it happens.’

  Dawn wisely chose to let it go. Yet another life lesson she’d been conquering, thanks to how masterful a guide Kirk was. And God knows, she’d certainly had plenty of practice of banishing all negativity to the ether where it belonged, in the run up to that wedding.

  But however bad things got for her – and they only went from bad to worse – Kirk had always been there for her.

  ‘Remember it’s only because your mother loves you so much,’ he’d gently remind Dawn. ‘You’re her youngest child and she’s like a mother tiger protecting and defending you. Besides, in time, she’ll see that we’re doing the right thing. After all, there’s nothing wrong with meeting your soulmate young, now is there?’

  Kirk’s family, at least had been a little more on board about the whole thing, but then the Lennox-Coyninghams could be accused of being many things, but erring on the conservative side when it came to marriage would hardly be one of them. Kirk’s Dad, Dessie, who went around in Jesus sandals and flowing kaftans even in the depths of winter, was already on his fifth ‘life partner’, and had fathered no fewer than eleven children.

  An eccentric family, the Lennox-Coyninghams, to put it mildly.

  At the wedding, Dawn remembered the part she’d looked forward to most, when the High Shaman brought an end to all the bonding rituals and finally said Kirk ‘could now kiss his beautiful bride and life partner’. To this day, she could still vividly remember him leaning down to her, brushing her waist-length hair away from her face, then really going for it. Tongues, feeling her boobs, the whole works. Not even caring that a whole roomful of guests were staring right at them, most of them clapping and cheering happily. Most of them.

  Jesus, Dawn thought, pulling his beautiful body in tightly to her, would tonight ever come and would it ever be just the two of them finally alone? Just for one moment, she wished she could fast-forward through the rest of the whole day and cut straight to the wedding night. And from the sexy way Kirk’s tongue was teasing hers, he seemed to be on exactly the same wavelength as her too. Wasn’t he always? Back then, at least.

  Sex you see, was where Kirk really excelled; Mother of Divine, Dawn had never known anything like being in bed with him. With him it had been breathtakingly unbelievable … acrobatic, even Olympian at times. Okay, so maybe a tad exhausting, but still beyond fabulous. Sure, who wouldn’t envy her with a husband and lover like that, she remembered thinking.

  Oh, the blessed irony.

  Then, after their final blessing, they’d had the gifting ceremony, a truly magical experience, where Dawn and Kirk sat cross-legged in the centre of the Circle of Giving, as well-wishers queued up to give the newlyweds a little something. And the parade of gifts they were presented with really went no end towards cheering Dawn up a bit.

  It was so touching, she’d thought, tuning out all the negative vibes, just how generous people had been with gifts, not to mention so imaginative. They’d been given a backpack picnic basket from Willow and Dave, matching his ‘n’ her tie-dye linen shirts from Shiloh, a two-foot-high lemon tree from Poppy (‘so when life gives you lemons, you can both make lemonade!’), a ‘fruit of the month’ club subscription from Josh and Sammie and last but not least, a coffee maker from Kirk’s Dad, Dessie. Which he then proudly whipped open to reveal a three-kilo bag of weed inside.

  ‘So you kids can really enjoy tonight!’

  ‘He grows his own!’ Kirk had proudly announced to the room, exactly the same as if he was talking about his Dad’s prize-winning petunias. ‘And it’s the best!’

  ‘Sweet Mother of Divine!’ Dawn overheard her Mum muttering, fanning her flushed face with the order of service.

  ‘Ehh … and that’s his idea of a wedding gift?’ Eva hissed back at her. ‘Out of curiosity, have these people ever come across an IKEA catalogue?’

  Probably the only time all day her Mum had even cracked a smile.

  Dawn flashed the pair of them a lightning quick warning look, for all the good it did her. Why did her side all have to be like this, she’d thought disappointedly, as a shadow suddenly fell across her happy day. So relentlessly rude about everyone and everything? Constantly putting the whole celebration down and finding fault every single place they looked? Why couldn’t any of her family or friends just chill out, relax and celebrate her happiness, like at any other wedding? Why, she wondered for the thousandth time, couldn’t they just be a bit more like Kirk’s family?

  The Lennox-Coyninghams were all so cool, so laid back, so free and easy. Drinking the elderberry wine, munching on the yeast-free, gluten-free, non-dairy nibbles, laughing, celebrating, actually enjoying themselves. Like you were supposed to at a wedding. None of them were openly sniping and griping about the day in front of the newlyweds, now were they?

  Disappointedly, Dawn snuggled into the crook
of Kirk’s arm and he locked her tight in his arms.

  ‘Just let it all float away, sweetheart,’ he whispered down to her, correctly reading her thoughts. ‘Just remember, we’re life partners now and that’s all that matters.’

  Then at midnight, there had been a very moving tree dedication ceremony but the warm, happy glow on Dawn’s day dimmed even further when she realized her Mum wasn’t even there for it. Eventually, she found her in the eco-loos, sobbing her heart out.

  ‘Oh Mum, please don’t,’ Dawn had said, instinctively going to hug her. ‘This is a happy day!’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ her mother sobbed, not even bothering to dab away the tears now that had completely destroyed all her carefully applied make-up. ‘I can’t sit back and watch you make the biggest mistake of your life. I can’t and I won’t.’

  ‘But it’s not a mistake, Mum. I love Kirk, you know that. And this is forever.’

  ‘Forever! What does a twenty-two-year-old understand about the word forever? You haven’t the first clue what you’re even talking about!’

  ‘Don’t do this, Mum. I’m so, so happy and I want you to be too.’

  But Dawn was wasting her time and she knew it. Still and all though, she thought, as the night began to wind down, she’d somehow still managed to have a magical day, in spite of her side’s best efforts to sabotage it all.

  And then, finally, finally, finally, come about 2 a.m., she and Kirk were at last left alone in the Mongolian yurt they’d been given especially for the night.

  Dawn was perched at the edge of the bed, shaking loose her plum-tinted, scraggly hair and unhooking the back of her plain white dress, when suddenly Kirk was over beside her, arms locked tight around her waist, jet black mop of his long, silky hair buried deep into her neck.

  ‘Thank you, my love,’ he murmured.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For doing this. For committing to me today. For loving me the way I love you.’

  ‘Always,’ she’d whispered back, slipping out of her dress, kicking it aside and abandoning it on the floor. What the feck. It only cost fifteen euro in Penny’s anyway.

  ‘Just remember,’ she told him lovingly, ‘this is for always.’

  ‘For always.’

  What a lovely, lovely word, Dawn thought, as Kirk’s hands slowly and expertly slid down her naked back.

  Always.

  *

  ‘This the address you want then, love?’ the taxi driver said, interrupting her reverie.

  Dawn snapped to and realized that they’d already arrived at Eva’s apartment building, right beside Grand Canal Square.

  She found cash to pay him, even found the manners to thank him and managed to make it all the way up to Eva’s apartment before collapsing into tears so violent, she even frightened herself.

  Chapter Five

  Jo.

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Re: The last of your things.

  April 17th, 8.05 a.m.

  Dave,

  Strongly feel for both our sakes that it’s best if we don’t communicate face-to-face right now, but restrict it to emails instead. Besides, I’m just too angry to even look at you right now and would find it a strain not to start flinging ornaments around the place were we to, ‘attempt to solve this,’ as you so naïvely suggest. Sort what exactly, Dave? There is absolutely nothing left for us to talk about.

  I assume you’re staying at your mother’s, as I know how fond you are of all your home comforts such as Sky Sports and getting your laundry done, not to mention having home cooked dinners served up to you every night.

  However, if you haven’t cleared out the last of your stuff from my flat by the time I get back from London, then please understand; I’m hiring a skip and you can fish your entire vinyl collection, your collection of David Mamet plays (none of which you ever actually appeared in), your raggy, knackery underpants and those vile leather jackets that make you look like a pimp, from the bottom of said skip.

  Please Dave, this is the probably the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.

  Jo.

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Re: The last of your things.

  April 17th, 8.44 a.m.

  Dearest wife of mine,

  A delight, as always, to be on the receiving end of one of your early morning emails. My, my, what a wondrous mood we’re in today!

  What is it with you anyway; do you wake up in bad form, then wonder who you can possibly take it out on? And seeing as how you can’t exactly heap verbal abuse on all your minions in Digitech, because they’d rightly haul your arse through the courts for bullying in the workplace, you think, ah ha! My worthless husband can get a tongue lashing from me and that’ll set me up for the whole morning!

  Because it’s always just all about you, isn’t it? Let’s never forget, we’re all just extras in the Jo Hargreaves show, designed purely to snap to your beat.

  Your ever-loving hubbie,

  Dave.

  PS. Lucky guess. Yes, I am staying at Mama’s. Purely because, fond as I am of Bash, his idea of a nutritious meal is a) one that can be shoved into a microwave for three minutes or under and b) comes in a container that is reusable as an ashtray.

  PPS. As for clearing out the last of my things, I’ll do it when it bloody well suits me. Which as it happens, is this weekend, when you’re back home.

  PPPS. Because we have to talk, Jo. Be reasonable. You must, somewhere deep down beneath that thorny bracken that surrounds your heart these days, be aware of this.

  PPPPS. See you when you’re back.

  Safe trip. Thinking of you. And in spite of what you may think, sending you love.

  Jo was power walking through the airport when that particular email pinged through and after she read it, had to take several deep breaths to try and get her blood pressure back to normal. In for two, out for three, she told herself, in for two and out for three.

  But it wasn’t working. Christ, how did Dave always manage to have this effect on her? And did he think insulting her was going to make this any easier?

  Don’t answer it, she told herself. Rise above it. Be the bigger person here. But it was no use, two seconds later, her fingers were busily tap tapping away on her iPhone.

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Re: The last of your things.

  April 17th, 8.56 a.m.

  Oh feck off with yourself, Dave. What gives you the right to start having a go at me?

  Please understand that I really do mean it. If I come home to my flat (which I own, which is in my name and mine only, may I remind you), with your shite still littering the place, then I’m changing the locks and flinging the last of your junk out the window. The way I feel right now, I can’t tell you the pleasure it’ll give me. Plus it’ll certainly give the neighbours a right good laugh to get a look at your last anniversary present to me. Because FYI, a print of a red Ferrari is my idea of cheap, tasteless tat.

  (Look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Dave Evans: arsehole’.)

  About to board my flight.

  Don’t bother contacting me again till you’ve done exactly as I ask. And can you please stop leaving voice messages on my phone the length of a radio play? I get the message. But you know what?

  Sometimes being sorry for everything just won’t cut it.

  Jo.

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Re: The last of your things.

  April 17th, 9.15 a.m.

  Christ Jo, you really should take a moment to read back on some of your more stinging emails. Just take note though, this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you. Even though I’m the only one brave/foolhardy enough to say it to your face.

  Ever stumbled across the p
hrase, ‘misdirected anger’?

  Suggest you look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Jo Hargreaves: nut job.’

  See you this weekend.

  In spite of what you think, I’m still prepared to work things out.

  Yours,

  Dave.

  (Your husband, just in case that minor little factoid had slipped your mind, my pet.)

  PS. Will now spend the rest of the day wondering what in the name of all ye Gods happened to that gorgeous, loving girl I married.

  Just so you know.

  Jo had just boarded her flight when that particular gem pinged through and was about to switch off her phone and let it go, when a sudden hot flush of anger swept right over her.

  ‘Misdirected anger’? Did Dave really say that? And had she been seeing things or had he actually used the phrase, ‘still prepared to work this out’ after everything that had happened?

  She checked the phone again, but there it was, in black and white. Then just as an air hostess made an announcement asking that all portable electronic devices be switched off, she went back to typing furiously, phone hidden under her coat, so no one would see.

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Re: The last of your things.

  April 17th, 9.22 a.m.

  Dave,

  Out of idle curiosity, you’re prepared to work out what exactly? How you can inveigle your way back into living with me? It’s clearly not because you actually want to be with me, so dare I suggest, because it’s nice and handy for your dole office? So you can continue to sponge off me and live the life of an eternal student, while calling yourself an out-of-work actor?

  As for all this utter crap about my ‘misdirecting anger’, frankly, you can take a running jump with yourself. My anger is pretty direct and well aimed, as it happens.

  You know what you sound like? A child who thinks every problem in their little life is everyone else’s fault bar theirs. You may have played the part of a head shrink in a show once, but that certainly doesn’t make you one. If you really want to psychoanalyse someone, suggest you start a little closer to home. Oooh, off the top of my head, say for instance, a thirty-eight-year-old man in long-term unemployment, who’s back living with his mother?