And now it seemed that things had gone off course with Richard. Far more than I had thought. And, even more surprisingly, I actually cared.
Then I distinctly remembered—though I would have preferred not to—a moment from the early days. Richard and I were lying awake together in the bowed bed of our tiny attic flat in London and I thought to myself, No one is as in love as we are.
The text message read July twenty-fifth. Was that when the photo was taken? I rifled through my diary. July twenty-fifth was a Saturday. I had taken Mara on the train to a trad music festival in Waterford that weekend to give Richard time to write. The trip had been a disaster, as I should have known it would be. Mara had grown increasingly overstimulated and fretful and, in a crescendo of unhappiness, had vomited on the hotel bed. Richard said he'd holed himself up in his beloved home office for the whole weekend, ordered takeout and made progress with the script.
"Motherfucker."
I had said it out loud without realizing. The Chickadees turned their heads in unison like a pack of meerkats, their eyes wide in shock.
Soon, their chatter picked up again, but I knew they had filed away the incident for future reference. They had an intricate web of unwritten rules and I had just broken the most important one: never show what you're really feeling, unless what you're feeling is sunshine and rainbows. Certain minor infractions of the rules would be tolerated, but in general, behavior should be upbeat, and topics of conversation kept in check—your children's love of Gaelic football, the efficacy of Kegel weights on pelvic floor muscles, whether Center Parcs was worth the money, unverified spottings of rapists in the neighborhood, how to remove shellac nails yourself if you couldn't get to the salon and so on.
So I was pretty certain my unfortunate outburst had pushed me into Oh-my-God-here-she-comes-don't-make-eye-contact territory. But as the others began to exit the café, Mother Hen paused by my table.
"Mind if I have a word?"
She sat down without waiting for my response.
"Listen, it's none of my business and I don't want to overstep." Translation: I'm absolutely about to overstep. "And I know we don't really know each other, but is everything okay?" She tilted her head in a mock-sympathetic pose. "Earlier, you seemed a bit...stressed out."
I could feel the advice coming.
"Trouble at home, am I right?" she prompted. "I have a sense for these things."
Her eyes slid to my phone, then back to me. I wondered if she had spotted the photo.
"Yes," I said. "That's it. Trouble at home. With the plumbing. The pipes are all backed up. It's a nightmare. And the Dyno-Rod guy just canceled—"
She touched a cool hand to mine to stop me. "Trust me, I know what it's like," she said. "We've all been through bad patches."
Were we still talking about the plumbing?
"If you ever want to talk..." she said in a voice laden with false sympathy.
"That's so sweet of you, Gina. If I ever do have a problem, you'll be the first person I'll come to." Translation: you'll be the last person I'll come to. She was about as discreet as a Mattress Mick ad. "But I promise you, I'm all good."
But still, Gina lingered. She wasn't going to be shaken off that easily. In the end, I excused myself and scuttled off to the restroom where I could at least torment myself with this anonymous photo in peace. When I returned to my table, Gina was gone, but poking out from under my coffee cup was a business card. It read:
Ms. Ellen Early
Marriage Adviser
20b Lincoln Place, Dublin 2
I reluctantly tossed it into my bag, but throughout the day I found myself taking it out, looking at it and running my fingers over the gold lettering. I searched online for Ms. Early, and then Early Counseling, but found nothing. And that night, in a moment of weakness—by which I mean after three glasses of wine—I sent an email to the address on the card. Maybe this marriage adviser could help me to decide on the best course of action. Richard, I knew from experience, was hotheaded if he felt the slightest hint of criticism directed at him. It would only put him on the defensive.
I needed to get things straight in my own mind first if I was ever going to get to the bottom of this photo.
