For Once In My Life

More From Siân O’Gorman

We hope you enjoyed reading For Once in My Life. If you did, please leave a review.

Chapter One

Flora

It was a beautiful early June morning and Flora had decided that, at thirty-two years old and after five years of marriage to Justin, it was time to talk about having a baby. He’d always said he needed time to establish his accountancy business before they could even think about starting a family, but as he was always going on about new clients or repeat businesses, surely they had reached that point by now?

Meanwhile, Flora had put her own career in the deep freeze while they settled down into his old family home, once his parents had both passed on, close to Sandycove, just outside Dublin, where Flora had also grown up.

When they had met, she had been a textile designer and was on the cusp of heading off to London to take up a master’s at a major art college but she fell in love. Justin was so charismatic and fun to be around, so she stayed in Ireland and focused instead on making their life work. Her lovely weekend job as a sales assistant in the haberdashery in Sandycove became her full-time career.

But however much she loved Justin and wanted a child with him, she sometimes wondered if he was just an overgrown baby himself. There was a photograph of Justin as a toddler – the same overly ruffled hair, the same darting look in his eyes as though searching for hidden treats, his big cheeks puffed up, refusing to smile for the camera – which could have been taken last week. Even the clothes were similar – shorts and a polo top were his uniform then and now.

‘I’ll build the business, you keep us both alive,’ he had told her when they had planned their wedding five years earlier. ‘And then, when I’m up and running, I’ll do the same for you.’

Flora had agreed happily. And as Justin’s parents had both so recently deceased, it made sense to move into his old family home, while they established themselves.

‘It’s all falling into place,’ Justin had assured her, ‘and when the business is up and running, we’ll extend the mortgage and do up the house.’

Once a baby was here, playing in the garden, things would be better, Flora told herself. A wonderful future was just on the horizon. Whatever frustrations she had about her stalled career and questions about how committed Justin actually was to their marriage, and if she was actually happy, could be dealt with once the baby was here.

She was sitting in the garden reading the weekend paper when Justin stood in front of her, blocking the sun with his body, a shadow falling over the table. He held up his phone. ‘Five per cent chance of showers,’ he said, giving his hair a ruffle with his spare hand. ‘Five per cent in Irish weather terms means alfresco tiempo. Let’s invite the guys for a barbecue.’

‘The guys’ meant Justin’s old school friends and their partners.

Should she mention the baby now or should she wait until tomorrow, risking him being too hung-over to want to talk about starting a family?

He was smiling at her, happy of the promise of a late night, wine and fun. When he was happy, everyone was happy. ‘You go and buy the food,’ he said, already typing out a group text, ‘I’ll buy the wine after I’ve messaged…’

The guys, she mouthed.

‘…the guys. Okay with you?’

Flora nodded. The baby would have to wait. She’d talk to him tomorrow.

On her way to the supermarket, Flora called in to her mother, Patsy, in Sandycove, just down the hill. It was the anniversary of her father’s death – a day which meant little to Flora, being so young when he died, but meant everything to Patsy. There were still photographs of Jack, her one true love, on the wall.

Patsy opened the door, smiling when she saw it was Flora. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘How lovely to see you!’

Patsy’s face never failed to light up at the sight of Flora, it had always been just the two of them, and even now they were as close as they ever had been.

Flora put her arms around Patsy and hugged her tightly. ‘How are you?’

‘You remembered…’ said her mother.

‘Of course I did.’ Flora pulled back and smiled. ‘Did you go to the grave?’

Patsy nodded. ‘Just tidied it up, planted some wildflowers. There were sea pinks and salvia at the garden centre and I thought he’d like them.’ She smiled back at Flora and gave a little shrug. ‘Time for a cup of tea?’

Flora nodded, following Patsy into the house, and sat down on the bench, at the kitchen table. ‘And tell me… the other big news? Did you receive your result from the course?’

Patsy nodded, picking up an envelope from the dresser, and sat down across from Flora.

For more than a quarter of a century, Patsy had been the village’s librarian and had also run a small curtain-making business from home, but last September, just as she had retired from the library, she’d embarked on an interior design course at the local further education college. After being permanently terrified for the first few weeks, she had ended up loving every single second of it. Each student was tasked with redesigning an interior of a room or a shop as part of their practical exam and so Patsy had tentatively approached Alison, the owner of a local café in Sandycove, and asked if she would like Patsy to renovate the space. Alison was delighted and even though the budget was minuscule, somehow Patsy had turned it from something unremarkable into a place full of warmth and character. She’d taken old rolls of wallpaper Flora had designed years ago, a light wash of blues and greys which gave the impression of being under the sea, and had papered the back wall. New crockery was handmade by a potter in Bray, new benches came from a Wexford woodturner, and the lights were a mix of fairy lights, paper lampshades and lanterns. She added in a neon pink for the long cushions on the benches and included two little nooks people, according to Alison, fought to sit in. ‘Two women almost came to blows the other day because one was keeping a seat in the nook for her friend.’

‘Go on,’ Flora urged. ‘Open it.’

Flora had more faith in Patsy than she had for herself. But that was the way things worked, it was so much easier to cheer on those you loved than apply the same encouragement to yourself.

Patsy pulled open the letter, her eyes squinting while she read. ‘We’re delighted to inform you…’ She looked at Flora. ‘Distinction,’ she said.

‘Distinction?’ Flora grabbed Patsy and squeezed her. ‘Distinction! My mother, the interior designer!’

‘Not really… I mean, it was just a course…’

‘What do you mean? The café looks amazing… you’re now a designer!’

Patsy shook her head. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘But you are. You’re the designer.’

Flora pulled a face. ‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘My mojo was lost years ago and anyway… I’ve got too much of everything else to do.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Including the barbecue.’

And she was already reaching for her bag and rushing out the door before Patsy could even begin to ask her what was going on.

While she was in the supermarket, Flora’s phone rang. It was Kate, calling from France. Flora wished she had time for a proper chat, a catch-up to see how life was at the vineyard and to work out a date when Flora could finally go and visit. ‘Kate? I’m in the supermarket… we’re having a barbecue… I’ll call you back later, okay? I just have to pay for something. Everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.’

‘Love you too,’ said Flora, feeling that pang of regret she always did when she heard Kate’s voice. If they lived in the same place, they wouldn’t have to rely on snatched conversations or catch-ups on the phone. They could do all the casual, inconsequential things that friends did – walks, coffees, sharing each other’s everyday lives. Kate was too far away, somewhere in rural south-west France, surrounded by vines and sunflower fields. It felt a long way from rainy, green Ireland.

As the ribs marinated, the wine chilled and the potato salad was liberally mayonnaised, Flora reflected on how proud she was of her mother and how it was now Patsy’s moment to shine. Flora had only a vague recollection of her old self, the young woman who designed fabulous and exuberant wallpaper and fabric, the person who cycled to her local printers to order samples of her designs, the one who took on commissions from lovely restaurants in Dublin’s city centre and papered whole sections in her beautiful and eye-catching prints, flowers and insects and sea creatures, neon and dark swirls of colour. She had felt invincible, thinking life would always look like this. But somehow, she had lost confidence, lost her way and was now wondering what had happed to that young woman so full of ideas, excitement and promise.

Later, beer cans were discarded, empty wine bottles were strewn on the edges of the patio, plates lay abandoned, cigarettes ground into the edges as though a bacchanalian feast had occurred, rather than a suburban barbecue. It looked more like a student party than a gathering of adults.

‘So,’ Joanna was saying to Anne-Marie as Flora topped up their wine, ‘I told Ciaran I was in dire need of some me-time, and I was in danger of taking out my latent anger on him. All I’m demanding is time for nails, brows and a little hypodermic top-up. He cancelled his golf to let me go.’

Across the garden, beside the barbecue, the men stood holding beer cans and talking about the one topic which engaged them – rugby.

Flora moved along to Sandra and Pamela, married, respectively, to Robert and Fergus. Sandra was thin and tall, with shaggy, highlighted hair which hung around her shoulders and made her look not unlike an Afghan hound, especially with her long face. She always wore white jeans and gold jewellery, the bracelets jangling on her arms like she was a one-man band, and was always heavily fake-tanned.

‘I’m surprised,’ Sandra said to Flora, ‘you still haven’t put your stamp on the house. You know, changed the kitchen… it’s like a 1980s museum in there. My grandmother had units like that. Nightmare on pine street.’ She laughed too loudly as Pamela smiled slightly awkwardly. ‘You’re so lucky,’ went on Sandra, ‘getting a free house when the rest of us have mortgages…’

‘It wasn’t free,’ said Flora, ‘we are paying amortgage…’

Naturally, being an accountant, Justin took care of their money, finances and investments, but Flora’s salary from her job at the haberdashery went towards the mortgage and all their other outgoings. Justin paid a portion into her own account for anything she needed. Every month, she was surprised how little it was. But Justin knew better, didn’t he?

‘You could at least change the hideous kitchen,’ said Sandra. ‘And the fake mahogany fireplace in the living room.’

‘We’re just waiting for the right time to renovate,’ said Flora, smiling at her. ‘We need to get the business established first. Now, I’m just going to bring out the dessert. Back in a moment.’

In the pine kitchen – which was hideous, even though it pained her to agree with Sandra – Flora piled fruit and cream onto meringue and then placed it on a tray, along with plates and cake forks, and carried it to the garden.

She stood for a moment, bracing herself to re-enter the fray. Tomorrow she would talk to Justin. She felt thrilled at the thought. Kate would be godmother, obviously, and she would have to come home for the naming ceremony. Maybe she’d even stay for a while?

There was a shout from the garden. Justin? And then Robert’s voice. To Flora’s ears, it sounded as though they were arguing.

‘Bastard!’ That was Robert.

And then Justin: ‘Don’t touch me!’

The voices were becoming louder and Robert, normally mild-mannered to the point of near-invisibility, was now incomprehensibly ranting. Still holding the pavlova, Flora began speed-walking towards them. The cream was not quite stiff enough and the raspberries, like a landslide, were slowly slipping off the meringue edges as she powered along the path beside the lawn and towards the end of the garden.

And there, under the pergola, beside the smouldering barbecue, Robert was brandishing the barbecue tongs at Justin, shouting, while Justin held up a fork in defence. The guests, so recently animated with drink, now stood dumbfounded, their mouths and eyes wide with horror.

Like two prize fighters, Justin and Robert edged around each other, shouting and jabbing. What on earth had possessed laid-back Robert to start attacking one of his oldest friends?

Flora looked over at Sandra to offer her a smile of solidarity, of friendship, but instead of looking distraught, Sandra seemed entirely the opposite. There was something almost regal about her, like a triumphant queen surveying her army. Flora stared at her for a moment, confused, trying to work out what was going on. And then suddenly, as though drenched by an upturned bucket of iced water, Flora understood everything.

Robert and Justin were fighting over Sandra.

The ground underneath Flora’s feet felt uncertain, as though she was unmoored. There was a feeling in her stomach which felt like poison spreading outwards. For a moment, she thought she was going to throw up. In an instant, life as she knew it was gone. The others in the group had also twigged and were darting glances at Flora and Sandra.

Robert now had his hands on the collar of Justin’s polo shirt and the two danced for a moment until Robert loosened his grip to try to take a swing at Justin. In retaliation, Justin swung his arm towards Robert, narrowly missing Flora, who jumped backwards, stumbling into the rattan chairs, losing her grip on the pavlova, which leapt onto Sandra, instantly covering her white top and jeans, making one of the women laugh and then immediately stifle it into a shocked gasp.

Flora hovered for a moment, feeling as though she’d been sucked into a vacuum; time suddenly still, her thoughts clear. It was over. Everything. Justin. Her marriage. The house. Her life. The baby. And then, just as suddenly, she was back in that garden, heart pounding, chest thumping, legs weak.

Sandra was shrieking. ‘My silk top! It’s ruined. I only bought it this morning!’

Pamela was dabbing at Sandra with a napkin, and everyone was talking, pulling the two men apart, while Flora walked into the house and straight upstairs to their bedroom, the sounds of the chaos from the garden following her.

In the surrounds of the old-fashioned 1980s wallpaper with the rose and trellis pattern, the white and gilt beaded built-in wardrobes, the pink and cream swirly carpet, she wondered what to do. She could barely breathe as she tried to make sense of everything.

Outside, the guests were making swift departures. But hearing voices from the kitchen, she realised that Sandra and Robert were still here and she would have to go and face them. Hopefully, she had misunderstood and perhaps her marriage and her life were all salvageable?

In the kitchen, Justin was sitting at the pine table. But Sandra was beside him and her hand was placed on top of his. Flora looked at it for a moment and then realised that she hadn’t misunderstood. Not only were Justin and Sandra having an affair, they weren’t going to hide it. Facing them, glowering and scowling, was a defeated Robert and in the centre of the table was a bottle of Red Bush, Justin’s most expensive whiskey, along with his crystal tumblers – a family heirloom only ever reserved for special occasions. Was this a special occasion?

‘I’m so sorry, Flora,’ Sandra said, her smile pitying and patronising. ‘It shouldn’t have happened this way. We wanted…’ She glanced at Justin. ‘We wanted you and Robert to find out in a less…’ – she searched for the word – ‘…public way. Didn’t we, babe?’

‘Sandra didn’t want to upset anyone… did you?’ said Justin. ‘It’s not ideal to fall in love with someone else, but it happens. I thought we could all be mature about it.’

Robert had momentarily lifted his head out of his hands. ‘Mature? You? That’s a laugh. You’re the one who painted his genitals blue for Jim’s party and you couldn’t wash it off. And what about the time you were so drunk you fell asleep in departures and missed my stag weekend?’

‘We were younger then,’ said Justin. ‘I think we have all matured, which is why?—’

‘And what about when you did a wheelie on the moped in Portugal last summer and ended up in hospital?’

Flora hadn’t been on that particular trip to Portugal, which had been sold as a ‘guys’ golfing week’, but she had wondered about why Justin had returned with a broken arm. He’d told her it was a golfing injury. ‘I have deeply knitted muscular triceps,’ he’d explained, ‘my swing is crazily strong. Tiger Woods has the same thing.’

At the time, Flora had found the story incredible but hadn’t really investigated, because why would he lie? Perhaps Sandra had been on the trip and the wheelie was done to impress her?

‘Come and sit down,’ said Sandra, as Flora, feeling even more sick but numb with shock, took the chair next to Robert.

Justin poured her a glass of whiskey. ‘Sandra and I have… well… we’ve fallen in love.’

Sandra nodded, a sad smile on her face, as though she really cared about Flora. ‘Hopefully we can survive this and still all be friends…’

‘How long?’ Flora took a sip of whiskey just to keep her voice steady. It trickled down her throat, like a stream of boiling oil, settling in her stomach and setting fire to her insides. Her nausea immediately lifted. She could understand why people turned to drink at difficult times.

‘About a year,’ said Sandra, glancing at Justin.

‘Last summer,’ said Justin. ‘In Quinta.’

They’d all gone to Portugal for another trip, to stay in Sandra and Robert’s villa.

‘We just felt something develop.’ Sandra lowered her eyes, looking at Flora through her false lashes.

Beside Flora, Robert was hunched over, his head back in his hands.

‘It had always been there,’ said Justin. ‘A connection. A platonic connection.’

‘A meeting of minds,’ added Sandra.

‘And… well, we’ve drifted apart…’ said Justin.

‘We have?’ Flora countered.

Justin nodded. ‘Everyone knows homo sapiens are not meant to be with the same person for decades…’

‘It hasn’t even been one decade,’ said Flora. ‘It’s only been half a decade…’

‘My point exactly.’

‘So, what are we going to do?’ Flora asked, feeling stupid immediately, as though she was giving them all the power. She had to get angry, she knew that. But how?

‘Well…’ Justin looked at her. ‘You can’t stay here… it is my home, after all.’

‘I thought it was our home,’ said Flora. ‘I thought…’

He shook his head, quickly.

‘But I live here,’ said Flora, incredulous. ‘We’re married…’

Justin gave a shrug, his face apologetic, but Flora realised trying to talk to drunk people was never a good idea.

‘You could stay for tonight,’ said Sandra, as though she was being kind and as though she lived there. ‘I mean, it is late…’

Flora looked from Justin to Sandra and back to Justin. ‘I think I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘And I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff later.’

It was after midnight when Flora cycled down the hill towards Sandycove, to her mother’s house, the tears drying on her face in the breeze of the dark, moonlit night. She remembered a night, years ago, she and Kate coming home in the early hours after a school disco, a night just like this one. Except… it was a world away, just as Kate now was. Wherever you are, Kate, I wish you were here.