Chapter 6
6
Although I tended towards optimism, I’d expected that my re-entry into Irish life would be bumpy. But nothing could have prepared me for just how bruising it had been.
The long and the short of it was that no one should move jobs, countries and continents because they saw a butterfly.
In the five months since my return, I’d remained unemployed. I’d come close once or twice to landing a position, but I seemed to puzzle potential employers: I was too experienced—but not experienced enough in Irish PR. I’d been too senior for too long: they feared I’d never adapt to a job requiring more grunt work. High-end PR was all about personal relationships—and I knew nobody. I insisted over and over again that I was a quick learner, that I could gear up in no time, but they were all doubtful. And although none of them dared to say it, the main issue was that I was in my late forties.
This is a warning against being a person who tends towards optimism—I hadn’t thought of myself as middle-aged, never mind old. You could blame my mindset on Manhattan where, once you hit forty, aging no longer happened. Or rather, an elaborate protocol was used to blur the evidence, including (but not limited to) Restylane, retinol, HIIT yoga, hair-Botox, edible collagen, low-carbing, no-carbing, intermittent fasting, B12 injections and wearing trainers and diamanté canes to black-tie galas. This seemed to work efficiently until maybe the age of ninety-two, when your hip broke unexpectedly while you were opening the fridge, then a conversation had to be had.
Because I’d done spin classes four times a week, had a high metabolism thanks to my stressful job and—also courtesy of my job—a face riddled with Botox, fillers and Profhilo, I told myself I could pass for a woman of thirty-seven. Admittedly, there were times when I made an involuntary grunting noise getting out of a low-slung chair but I still felt very much in the game .
All of a sudden, though, I was back living in Dublin, undeniably forty-eight. As insignificant as a speck of dust, with no partner, no children, no pets, no job, nothing to define me.
At other times in my past I’d felt I was staring into a yawning abyss but life had always started up again. This time, though, I’d peaked. From now on, it would be smaller, lesser versions of the glory I’d once had, decreasing and reducing, as I filled in the hours, trundling towards death.
“But what do you expect?” Mum said. “You’re not much good at anything. It was only my prayers that got you that job with the makeup. Which you threw back in the Lord’s face. He won’t oblige you a second time.”
Immediately I reverted to the age of sixteen when Mum and Dad had realized I was in my last year at school. Up till then I’d managed to stay beneath their radar, but suddenly they were all hand-wringing anxiety about “what would become of” me.
Almost from the day they’d been born, it had been decided that Claire and Margaret were their clever children. Rachel was a worry, Helen was the most powerful person in the family and I was the spacer.
The only subjects I liked were English and art. “They’re fecking useless!” Dad declared. “What kind of a job will they get you? Maths, Anna, try harder with the maths.”
But maths might as well have been Martian.
Surprising everyone, though, I displayed an aptitude for business studies and got an A plus in my Christmas exam. When my report card arrived, I found Mum and Dad in the kitchen, in a huddle.
“That can’t be right,” Dad was saying.
“Should we query it?” Mum asked.
“I’m good at it,” I said.
“You are not.” Mum was adamant. “You’re for the birds. But, Anna, what are you going to do with your life?”
“I’ll go to the Greek islands and work in a bar.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Dad was mortified. “You need a post with a pension!”
Alerted by the ruckus, Helen had turned up. “What about being a person who tastes dog food? It’s an actual job.”
“Stop.” I felt sick.
“Bus driver?” Again from Helen.
“You could be a human guinea pig?” Rachel had just come in.
“What’s that?” Mum asked. “Dressing up in a furry costume, giving out leaflets about a golf sale?”
“It’s a person who tests out drugs before they get approved.”
“Has it a pension?” Dad demanded.
“I just want to be content,” I said. “I don’t need lots of money.”
“Why not? You…” Mum searched for the right insult. “You hippie…communist!”
The truth was that all I really wanted was to be answerable to no one.
But I’d since discovered that that sort of job didn’t exist.
Anyway, I’d been regarded as “not the brightest” and I’d believed it. But out in the world, when I found things I was actually interested in, I discovered I wasn’t such a thicko, after all.
But that still wasn’t enough for anyone to employ me right now.
Over and over I asked myself: What have I done ? I was frightened I’d never get a job again. But it was me who had created this situation and I had to own it. There were positives, of course—hanging out with Mum and Dad, my sisters, nieces and nephews was definitely nice. Except they all had busy lives and, now I was in Ireland indefinitely, my novelty had worn off. Living here was nothing like as much fun as a whirlwind five-day visit.
When I spoke to Angelo—we’d given each other lots of space after our break-up but we were far friendlier now—he urged me to “look for the lesson” in this. I didn’t bother, it was a lot easier to nurse a passionate resentment against butterflies.
Not all was lost—I could return to New York. I’d rented out my apartment rather than sold it and Ariella had said if I returned within a year, I could have my job back. But now that I’d left that life, I couldn’t believe I’d managed it for so long.
At least I had a place to live in Dublin. Margaret, as promised, had opened her home to me. Once the Netflix situation had been normalized, it was so comfortable there with her lovely husband Garv and their two sweet teenage children.
But was this it? Forever? Apart from my sisters, I had no real friends in Ireland. I didn’t have a car, the Luas system was illogical and I couldn’t get a doctor’s appointment anywhere in Margaret’s catchment area.
Which became important when my fancy New York HRT gels began running low. A nice old duffer called Dr Waterbury had been the Walsh family doctor for decades so I asked Mum to get me an appointment. But he’d retired.
“There’s a couple of new lads there,” she’d said. “Young. Useless. And not taking on any new patients. But Shannon O’malley is still the receptionist there.” She’d been at school with Helen. “Because I like you, I’ll ring and beg.”
Somehow she bagged me a consultation with Dr Lowry Riordan. “Take Shannon O’malley a tin of Roses,” she’d said. “And don’t forget, you owe me a very big favor.”