UMA 

T. S. Elliot once said 'It will all end with a whimper, not a bang.' He was right, even if I doubt old T.S. was referring to my ill-fated marriage when he wrote those immortal lines - but he hit the nail on the head all the same. When it came down to it, my marriage just fizzled out like a damp squib.

The irony of it all is that Cullen has probably done many worse things to me than his latest one night stand with the foxy lawyer woman. But that's the way things go in the end. The last straw is always just that. In many ways, I only had myself to blame, refusing to accept what everyone else had seen so clearly for years. I had been in denial too long, turned too many blind eyes, given him too many ways back in. I had fallen time and time again for ludicrous excuses that were more full of holes than a colander.

And then suddenly, it was one excuse too many. This time I knew I would never take him back. This time I would never give him another chance. It was over. For good. At last I had reached breaking point and the epiphany I should have found long ago. It would have saved us both a lot of time.

I wish I could say that I was surprised at his behaviour - but I wasn't. The whole sordid episode unfolded itself as if I had already seen it well in advance. There had been a crushing familiarity about it all, a macabre déjà vu. Somewhere in my nightmares, I had been waiting for this very moment, the final cutting of the cord that bound us.  I had always known it would come to this. My marriage had, in truth, died long ago. This was nothing more than the interment of the ashes.

After Cullen and I had lost our baby - two years ago now - things had never really been the same again. The child had in itself been a final lifeline to a relationship already smashed on the rocks. Cullen had returned that time when I was already involved with another man, ready then to walk away from him and start all over again. Somehow he talked his way back into my life with the usual string of silver promises - and shortly afterwards I had fallen pregnant. Or maybe I already had been. Terry had been right that day when he had confronted me so brutally. I had no idea which man had fathered my baby. It could have been either of them. Have you any idea how shameful - and humiliating - it is not to know for sure?

Cullen, however, took to the notion of fatherhood with an unexpected enthusiasm that had carried me away, blinding me to the possible injustice I was doing to him. I had seen in his response the first glimmers that at long last Cullen might be ready to grow up and start facing his responsibilities. Even if the child had, in fact, belonged to someone else, he would never have known. On that foundation of lies, I was prepared to build the rest of our lives. In hindsight it had always been a recipe for disaster.

And then we lost the baby.

Terry Thorne hates me now; I don't blame him after what I did to him. I failed Cullen Murphy. I can't escape censure in all of this. If I had been stronger, I would not have hurt Terry. If I had been more of a woman, I would have held Cullen. I couldn't even save my baby.

I know I'm not easy to live with. Cullen wasn't the only one to blame for our failures. No marriage ever breaks down without mistakes on both sides. I constantly harangued him, mistrusted him, hounded him, asked him questions, and doubted his answers. I must have seemed a real harridan at times. Other women would have been a pleasant change for a man who was used to my tongue lashing him night and day. Cullen's a little boy in many ways; he loves to laugh and play about. Sometimes it felt like I was beating down a pet dog who didn't really understand what he had done wrong, rubbing his nose in his mess as if he would miraculously find a way to circumvent his nature and change his ways. His favourite expression, the one he uses to excuse every misdemeanour whether great and small, is 'I was only havin' a larf.' Some laugh I must have been for him.

After confronting him in his adulterous liaison, I drove away from the Lodge and locked myself in my room. I cried off and on, but the usual post-break up histrionics appeared oddly absent. I did not drink too much, or smash up the furniture; the photographs survived a bonfire - and nor did I throw my wedding ring out of the window this time.

It's easy to sound glib now but, despite my apparent calm, I was pretty messed up all the same. I might not have gone into nuclear meltdown but I was in another, just as serious, decline. I no longer even had anything to fight for. I didn't much care about anything anymore.

Could you blame me? Over the past few months I had lost my business, my home - and now my husband. I had no money or prospects. I was the wrong side of thirty and probably incapable of having children. Excuse me, but I claimed the right to be as unhappy as I pleased in view of all that.

Once the initial shock had worn off, however, I found an unforeseen emotion began to replace the sadness. I think it was relief. Sometimes, the thing you fear most becomes such a burden that when the worst finally happens, it's almost welcome. I was free now. Cullen Murphy could no longer own my heart. He had no rights to hurt me anymore. I would never again have to sit up until the small hours, listening for his car, almost wishing he had been in an accident rather than in another woman's arms. I would never again find myself sniffing at his shirts to see if I could detect perfume or find a lipstick smear, searching his pockets for suspicious receipts, messages or souvenirs of his infidelity. From now on, I could have fun with a guy - or walk on. I was not the helpless victim anymore.  The world of men had better watch out in future. I intended to cut a swathe through them and indulge myself in a little sex without commitment, attachment, emotion, or responsibility.

Paul stayed with me off and on that day, doing his best. I love Paul. Why are good men not right for me? They're either gay or too perfect to be true.  I seem mostly to get off on bastards riddled with flaws.

Ann called in that first afternoon.  The jungle drums had soon enough got to work; by mid-morning, I imagine everyone knew what had taken place. Her hesitant knock betrayed her. I pretended not to have heard. She knocked again and this time tried the handle. It wasn't locked.

"Uma? It's only me. I'm coming in."

She entered, knelt down by my chair and held me. Ann always knows just what to do. Sure, she tells me off and gives me earache when I deserve it, but when she really knows I'm past all that, she just holds me and shows me that she'll always be there for me whatever. I'm not sure I entirely deserve her friendship.

"You okay?" I heard her but I said nothing in reply.

"Hey. I'm here. Uma? C'mon, girl, talk to me ..."

I shook my head. She squeezed me tight.

"It's for the best.  This time you have to let him go. This time it's too late...you know that, don't you?"

I nodded my head. She handed me a tissue, stroking back my hair gently.

"Come and stay with us. Ralph will be so good for you. He won't let Cullen try and force his way in again...because you know he will, don't you? Cullen will always come back like the proverbial bad penny..."

"...Why? Why does he do that, do you think?"

"Why?" Ann shrugged. "He hates to lose. That kind of guy can't bear rejection. If you show no interest, he pursues until he's gotten you back under his thumb. Then he gets bored and goes looking for another prey...He's a predator, Uma! It's not about love - or even sex with him. It's about making him feel in control...That's how he makes himself feel like a man..."

"...He loves me. That's why he does it. You don't really know anything about Cullen and me. Nobody does. He loves me. But there's something wrong with him. The more he feels love, the more scared he gets. So he does something to try and ruin everything. He's crazy. But he always loved me. That's why I took him back. Over and over again...because, when it was good....it was incomparable..."

Ann did not argue with me. I knew she didn't agree. There was so much more she wanted to say, but she wouldn't. Not now. Ann is the last person in the world to rub it in even if she had been warning me of this since the day I'd met Cullen. Instead, she made a cup of tea. Setting it down, she crouched back to where I was wrapped up in a blanket on the settee, still chilled through and through from my overnight vigil outdoors. "Promise me one thing! Promise me you'll never let him back into your life again. Come and stay with us for a while...Ralphie..."

"...I won't let him back in. Thanks for the offer, Ann, but I don't want to come to your place. I'm alone now, and I better get used to it. You only live a hundred yards away anyway... It isn't like I can't drop in whenever I like. And let Ralphie fuss over me..." I attempted a grin. Ann wasn't going to give up on that one. Ralph and I? What sister in her right mind would want to pair up a decent bloke like Ralph with a harpy like me? I wouldn't dream of inflicting myself on him.

Not long afterwards, Ann excused herself and stole off. I suspected she was planning one of her mystery trips. She hasn't even told me what she gets up to when she disappears for a day or two but I doubt it's anything good for her. Or she would tell me. But I don't blame her. Grab what you can when you can, sweetie. You don't know what you've got till it's gone. Ain't that the truth?

 

The moment when my heart had broken, it did so in a silence wholly uncharacteristic of me, the woman who rants and raves against life. But by then the fight was all out of me. My marriage had been one continual uphill struggle, a cycle of highs and lows, a gradual undermining of my faith in the man I loved.  Each time, I swore Cullen would not lead me on again, but soon enough he had found a way to worm his way back into my affections, only to let me down the next time in an even worse way than before.

The real end had come two years before. Cullen had betrayed me then with another woman and lied about his career. I had met another man who loved me and who, in truth, I had loved, too, a man who would have given me the moon and stars had I asked.

I often wonder why I went back to Cullen that time. I'm still not entirely sure. Somehow, I still loved my husband enough to hand over my chance for happiness with Terry Thorne to give Cullen another chance. Yet, I believe there were other factors in play, more to do with my refusal to accept defeat set alongside my knowledge of Cullen's secret heart. However wounded Terry Thorne might have been, Cullen is a million times more vulnerable. He needed me more than I can explain. It was why he misbehaved. The nearer he came to love, the more he drove it away, as if deep inside him he doubted he deserved it at all. Even now, I wonder if losing me will destroy him. Are we both damned either way?

 

 

TERRY

 

My life has a certain bizarre synchronicity about it. I meet a beautiful woman; she invites me to her hotel room. I like her style; she's sexually alluring, takes her pleasures freely, a sophisticated and intelligent lady.

It suited me. Sophie LeSaint was not the sort of woman who was going to cling or require my shoulder at any point in the future. She was the kind of woman who would have seen such behaviour as despicable, a show of weakness.  I myself had no interest anymore in even trying to forge a relationship based on the traditional values. By nature, I was a man who liked to be a man, taking the lead, making the moves, offering a strong and steady hand. Sophie was a woman who made the choices, invited you into her bed if she wanted you; a woman on top in more than just the literal sense, exactly what I'm looking for these days.

Our time together was idyllic. We were suited on a number of levels - and the sex had been great. What began as lunch stretched to dinner and then a whole night together during which we did to each other most of what men and women who are extremely attracted to each other do. We ate, made love, slept, made love some more, took a long bath together, dressed, ordered dinner, talked about everything under the sun - then made love again, finally falling to sleep late on, exhausted, fulfilled, and promising to meet again on some future but unspecified occasion.

It was very early when I woke, a little confused, unaware for a moment where exactly I was. No, that wasn't quite the truth. I knew where I was. I had just forgotten for a split second who I was there with, plummeted back in time by the vagaries of cruel memory and the trigger of my surroundings to those halcyon days when Uma and I had stolen private downtime at the Lodge, our illicit love affair a closely guarded secret.

Guilt assailed me when I brushed back the long thick dark hair from her face and remembered my beautiful Sophie. She was a woman who deserved instant recognition, not to be confused with lovers past. My subsequent emotion was anger, following close on the bitter recollection of love. The realisation that there were still lingering good memories from my time with Uma disturbed my sense of justice. I only wished to feel hate. Because of her, I was now a selfish, self-serving bastard. My only excuse for my recent shameful behaviour had been that she was the cause of ruining a good man. Fond memories of what we had once shared blew a hole through her reputation for destruction. I might just have to accept that she did right by me when we were together - but that, ultimately, I simply hadn't been able to compete for her heart with her husband.  There are those who might say she had done the right thing, the noble thing, to return to her husband and try to salvage a marriage. I had been the interloper, after all.

It was then I realised that something outside had woken me up, voices coming from the parking lot, unusually raised for the pre-dawn hours. I couldn't hear what was being said, but the tone suggested tension, an argument brewing. I'm not a nosey neighbour, but curiosity got me out of bed. I recognised one of the speakers. Murphy's brogue is distinctive.

Slipping from the warm haven of the sheets, I crossed the room, stepping over the tray containing the remnants of our lunch, the scattered clothing and the overturned flower vase, to pull back a chink in the curtain and observe the scene below. It took only a second to judge what was happening. The tableau set out before me needed no explanation.

Uma was standing, pale and shocked, clutching the edges of her coat to her as if to shield herself from the cold hard truth set out before her.  Murphy was dancing about in front, evidently mouthing some contrite load of bullshit. Another woman was standing to the rear, watching in silence. I knew who she was, Nola Monteleone, a lawyer. Jack Corbett was part of her office. It was immediately obvious what was taking place. Uma had stumbled upon a tryst between her husband and the enigmatic counsel. I recalled my words of warning to her long ago. This moment had always been inevitable knowing Murphy's predilections. That I was a witness to it seemed incredible, like God - for once- playing fair.

Yet any sense of schadenfreude that I might have allowed myself was noticeably absent. My heart went out to her at that moment more than it had ever done. Her only crime had been in loving a man who had never deserved her affections. She was more like me than I had ever admitted.

 

 

CULLEN

 

The dust has settled. I've been overseas since it happened, stuck in a godforsaken corner of Africa, putting my skills for blarney to good use for once. It's funny really how good I am at my job. People respect me and look up to me for the way I handle crisis, support the victims, cradle the desperate, and weave through the complex intricacies of the process of negotiation. I keep my temper and good humour, charm those who can be won over, use my initiative with those who can be persuaded to assist, and scare shitless those who can't. I'm a tough, uncompromising professional - and much sought after. If I wasn't an outfit like TOL would have kicked me into touch years ago. They only work with the best.

One would wonder where all those skills go when I face the bleeding sores of my private life. I don't know why I do it. But I always do. That's one thing you can count on. If you're a woman- and daft enough to trust Cullen Murphy - he is going to break your heart.  Count on it, darling.

I don't suppose anyone would believe me if I said I loved her. I do love her. I will always love her. She's the only one I ever considered marrying. Uma was the special one. I met her and knew instantly that there would never be another girl like her in my sorry life. I had to grab her and make an impression before some other bastard got to her.

So we got hitched and I spent four years dodging and diving around my responsibilities, refusing to change my ways, living like a single man, keeping her in the dark about my career and my income. And I do not have a clue why I behaved like this, other than that she let me. I'm not blaming her exactly, but she did conspire unwittingly in her own downfall, allowing me to be the shittiest bastard of a husband in creation.

There's something seriously wrong in my head. The immortal words: 'I'm not stupid, I just don't think sometimes', will be carved on my gravestone. I'm there, sitting at a bar, minding my own business, and then wham! Something takes place and I just let it happen. It might be me getting blind drunk, into a fight, throwing away a month's pay on some damn fool bet, or my favourite cock up - ending up in some passing woman's bed. At the time it never seems to be a big deal. What's the harm in it? I'm just having a laugh. It means nothing.

Except it means everything. Nothing you do is without consequence. That's the sort of shite the Christian Brothers used to cram down my throat at school back in Dublin. Only problem is, it's true. And I'm still bucking against its message, and suffering from those self same awful consequences.

I know she won't take me back this time. There was something different about her that morning. On one hand she looked fragile enough to break, yet beneath it all, there was a chill resolution leaking from her. She had been waiting for something like this. Uma seemed tired of it all, ready to walk away, where before she had always looked for a way back in. I was tired of it all as well. Suddenly, I had run out of excuses. I didn't want to tell her any more lies - nor did I really want to keep on lying to myself.  The truth was out. I was a complete and utter bastard who had knowingly ruined a good marriage by my own incapacity for fidelity or sobriety - or any of the other seven deadly virtues.

Drink plays a big part in the mix. It's the curse of the bloody Irish. We can't help ourselves. Most of the time on leave I'm half cut; how the fuck am I supposed to make good decisions with a skin full of the hard stuff probably accompanied by a nice little cocktail of chemical substances, to boot? I'm surprised I'm not a physical wreck with the amount of abuse my body's taken over the years. The fact I still can pull the birds and run a decent half marathon appears to be something to do with my good genes, rather than any life style decisions I have made. Doctors warn me, however, that it will catch up with me one day. I'm not planning to be around when that day comes.

I rang her up on Christmas morning just to wish her the compliments of the season. I couldn't ignore her on that day of the year, could I? There was somebody with her. You could tell she was trying to make it sound like she was alone, but there was a guy there. I knew it. Since then I've been playing things over in my mind. Had she been seeing someone before, maybe? Was that why she was so ready to kick me out this time? I wonder which one of them? She's thick as thieves with a whole barrow load of men at that place. It could be anyone. I'll kill the bastard if I find out who it is. Unless it's Maximus. I'm not that crazy. But it won't be him. He's not the sort, too pure to take another man's wife. But the rest of them? Apart from Biebe, Mitchell or Braddock, I wouldn't put it past a single one of them.

Considering my track record, I am aware that it is somewhat unfair of me to resent her having 'a laugh' of her own, but I'm not apologising for my hypocrisy. I'm a man. She's a woman. It's different. And even if it's not, I don't give a toss. I can't bear to think of anyone else touching her.

Except I'll have to from now on. Jesus, what have I done?

 

 

MAX SKINNER 

 

I loved Fanny Chenal. I loved everything about her. I could sit and stare at her for hours, listen to the cadence of her voice - whether it was speaking her language or my own- watch her moving about my life with her grace and charm. She was my world. I worshipped her. Pardon my lips. They find joy in the most unusual places... Max Skinner totally smitten and brought to his knees by a little slip of a French waitress? Who would ever have believed it?

My love for her was irrevocably caught up in the time and place. My memories of Fanny will always be drenched in the fragrance of lavender, bathed in the incomparable glow of Provence, fed by the tastes of the rich food of the region, watered in the intoxicating wines and the warm flush of Cognac. She even managed to recall my halcyon days of childhood summers, my beloved Uncle Henry, and the total immersion in life that one finds in boyhood. She was all that my adult professional life lacked. Through her I found what I truly needed in life.

And then it disappeared.

For once I can't even blame myself. It wasn't my failure as a man or lover that caused her to leave. She cried when she told me it was over. It was simply that I was not her true love, even if she was mine. The lover who had abandoned her before she met me, returned; she discovered he was still the one. Fanny was right to go. No one should live a life of pretence. Everyone must seek the destiny that is theirs. Any person who lives without fulfilment will rue the wasted years one day. She taught me that.

"This place does not suit my life." 

"No Max, it's your life that does not suit this place..."

In the end she chose another place, another man, another life. And I could not stay in my paradise a single moment without her. She had been the centre. Without her, the dream shattered; the idyll was over.

There was always London, grey skies, a return to the business of making money. I could have gone back and immersed myself in that round-the-clock madness again.  But it wouldn't have worked either. Fanny and Provence had changed me forever. It wasn't exactly that I was a reformed character. God knows, I am still a bastard when I chose to be, but that I now knew what lay beneath my slick and shallow façade. There was a man of substance beneath who wanted more from life than simply to walk over it in hobnailed boots, taking without leaving anything behind.

In the end, I went for compromise.  Christie was ready to run a vineyard. I was ready to break new ground. So we did a house swap. She got the chateau and I got her tiny little apartment down in Napa Valley. It didn't work. I couldn't live like that but I rather liked the area. It was unconventional enough to suit the new bohemian side of me, the temperature was ideal for a man who no longer wished for dreary northern European climes, the wine wasn't half bad, the girls were all legs and hair - and making money wasn't considered a crime in California. In fact they rather approve of the practice here.

I drove around and stumbled upon a curious little place. A few enquiries and I learnt that a certain restaurant was about to go under. Foreclosure was imminent. I jumped in, made an offer, saved the bacon of a rather intimidating young woman - and the rest is history.

I bought The Phoenix. My resurrection from the dead was complete. I thought the name rather prophetic in the circumstances and decided to keep it, although I got rid of the rest of the kitschy hippy bollocks. My main mistake, however, was in retaining the erstwhile madam of the property as a waitress in the new fine dining restaurant and wine bar. My only defence is that I have always had a weak spot for a serving wench. And she had nowhere else to go. I felt an unfathomable solidarity.

And here I go...walking the boards again, dreaming of a beautiful slender waitress with thick chestnut hair, a fiery tongue, legs that go on forever and a bum that deserves casting in gold. She hates me. She is in love with someone else. He doesn't deserve her. There's a very familiar ring to all this. I'm about to make the same mistake, again...

 

The featured song: Same Mistake by James Blunt from 'All The Lost Souls' can be heard here.

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