Page 55 of Such a Good Couple
‘Hello, darling, you look gorgeous.’ Her mother blew Clara a kiss as the boys swarmed her, riffling through her pockets to make sure they’d extracted all the sweets she had on her person. She fended them off, laughing over at Clara. ‘Making the most of your breasts’ final years, I see … well done.’ She winked.
Clara laughed, and hurriedly gathered her jacket and clutch bag. The taxi app said the driver would be at the top of the lane in less than one minute and Clara was relieved that there was no time to catch up with Jean properly. If things in hermarriage were actually as bad as the day’s counselling session was suggesting, she had a long conversation with her mother in her future.
She kissed everyone goodbye, reassuring her mum that Ollie would be back soon, and hurried to the waiting taxi.
On the way out to Dalkey, the ridiculously gorgeous seaside town where Maggie and Fionn’s Dubin home overlooked the sea, Clara scrolled her Insta, trying to rid herself of the day’s emotional upheaval. She didn’t want to think about Ollie’s accusations from therapy. She thumbed her feed for distraction:
Look, Paul Mescal being interviewed by puppies!
Look, a woman doing a tutorial for homemade cereal!
Look, a girl journalling in a treehouse!
Look, take this quiz! Is my marriage over?
Oooof.Clara blinked. Nowhere was safe. The algorithm was probably listening in Dr Evans’ office.
‘We’re here. It’s one of these, I think?’ The taxi driver had slowed and was peering up at the terrace of five houses, currently backlit by the streaks of pink and orange from the sun setting behind.
‘Yes, this is it,’ Clara replied. ‘You can leave me here, you won’t be able to drive down.’
The guy obeyed and Clara hopped out at the sign that readVehicle access for residents only.
Even before Maggie and Fionn owned one, Clara had known these houses – everyone in Dublin did. Miavita Terrace. Lots of wealthy streets in Dublin had these kinds of names. The rich Victorians who had built them were full of notions after their European travels and had convinced themselves that Dublin Bay was basically the Bay of Naples. These houses had always helda fascination for Clara. What were the lives of the people inside like? Clara had imagined a lot of gliding: gliding down wide staircases, gliding out to the back terrace, gliding over the road to the sea for a swim, gliding back for a shite in the gold-plated toilet.
Four years ago, after they’d bought number four, Maggie texted the news to Slags For Life and Clara had immediately burst into stunned, envious tears.
She and Ollie only had two kids back then but already their house felt like it was shrinking around them. It was hard not to believe that life would be exponentially easier if they just had enough space. And a shit ton of money.
Now, Clara made her way to the house, which was lit up and giving off that vague hum that houses always did when a party was in full swing inside.
A man in a blazer and tie opened the door to her, then a woman with an iPad checked her name off a list. Another member of staff took her jacket and yet another person on the payroll handed her a glass of champagne.
The hall of number four was about as wide as Clara’s entire house and every room that led off it was high-ceilinged and quite simply massive – could-fit-a-swimming-pool-in-there levels of huge.
Polished original wood floorboards gleamed underfoot and fresh flowers cascaded out over the gargantuan vases which stood on the many delicate-footed walnut tables dotted around the rooms. The borders of the ceilings were edged in ornate cornicing, and what appeared to be intricate wallpapers on many of the walls were actually hand-painted murals by an artist Maggie had commissioned.
The crowd was densely packed. The full alphabet of Ireland’s celebrities – from Z-list reality stars to D-list panto stars to A-liststar-stars – were draped on sofas and leaning against the manyhigh-top tables that had been brought in for the occasion. As always with a Maggie and Fionn bash, the normies were easily picked out. The normie women’s blow-dries were becoming battered, their foundation could’ve been better blended and their eyeliner was in the process of migrating up to their brow line. The normie guys were obvious by the Marks & Spencer blue jeans and the shiny white shirts that screamed ‘I came in a pack of three’.
Clara checked her own reflection as she passed the giant gold-framed mirror on her right, to confirm that her own make-up was similarly wayward already. She swiped a finger under each eye to try to tidy it up a bit and then spotted Maggie’s mum and sister in the mirror behind her, looking dazzling. They each had the same raven hair as Maggie and blow-dried to perfection, no doubt by the parade of stylists and make-up artists. She waved and headed over.
‘Hi, gals!’
‘Clara!’ Emer, Maggie’s sister, embraced her. ‘So sorry to hear about the holiday and everything.’
Oh God, how much did they know? Judging by their faces … a lot. Maggie might not see her family much but they were very close, constantly WhatsApping. Clara decided to feign nonchalance as she did not feel like raking over things again.
‘Ah yeah, it was annoying having to leave early.’
‘Yeah, Maggie was deffo disappointed.’ Emer sipped her bubbles.
‘It’s good timing that she had this to come back for,’ Maggie’s mum added brightly.
‘I think she is more homesick than she lets on,’ said Emer. ‘She hasn’t actually said anything but she’s flat out on the group chat sending TikToks from Irish comedians about Ireland. “Top 10 ways Irish people say goodbye without saying goodbye” or “You know you’re from Ireland when …” That kind of stuff.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Clara laughed. ‘We get a fair bit of that in ours too!’
‘I didn’t think anything of it but then me and Donal did the numbers on the timestamps and realised she’s carpet-bombing us with this nostalgic bullshit at 2 a.m. LA time …’ She arched a withering eyebrow in that way only siblings can.
