All that glitters

It was over coffee. In her light-filled kitchen, with its distressed oak seating, bright white walls and the expensive, nutty waft of roasted caramel pervading the room.

I’d rehearsed what I was going to say. Over and over for the past three weeks. In the mirror. On the train. Still, my fingers twisted the sugar packets into tight knots. I couldn’t drink my cooling cappuccino.

Sarah, as always, oblivious to another’s emotional turmoil, prattled on, occasionally flicking her freshly coiffed hair.

Finally, I blurted it out.

“I know about the abuse, Sarah.”

Sarah stared at me, her perfectly defined eyebrows a quizzical inflection, a half-smile tugging at her mouth.

I soldiered on.

“There’s places you can go, people who can help.”

Sarah sniggered, her finger twirling against her temple in the universal sign for crazy.

“You’ve really lost the plot this time, Dee.”

I glared back at her, that snide smirk on her face and the wave of pure rage I’ve kept corralled, tamped down, burned inside me until I could hardly breathe.

People are always surprised I know Sarah, aka Mrs Daniel Bellamy-Doyle, elegant wife of Dublin’s most successful restauranteur and hugely popular instragram influencer @ MrsDBD.

We’d been good friends once. At university, years before. Two outsiders, without our peers’ scaffolding of money and connections, we recognised our mutual kinship. For a time, we were inseparable. 

I quickly found my calling behind the scenes, out of the limelight. I revelled in the editing, the proof-reading, distilling a script down to its word-perfect essence. A communications role in one of the big-name companies with a decent financial package was what I aspired to. And later my own writing career.

Sarah shone in the drama society. Even then, as a skinny 17-year old in her purple Doc Martens and baggy jumpers, sleeves pulled over her bitten-down nails, she had a presence, a relentless energy that drew you in until you couldn’t look away. We all assumed she’d be a famous actress. A household name.

And she is. Everyone knows Sarah. They see her, porcelain- capped teeth fixed in that beguiling smile beaming from the paper, her greyhound frame elegant in understated Armani, draped on the muscular arm of her husband. She, and her photogenic family, exude a one of us likeability, a wholesome charm.

Everyone’s read about her fairy-tale romance and their extravagant wedding that did the rounds of glossy magazines (and paid for the kitchen extension).

Dan or Dublin’s most eligible bachelor as the media dubbed him was so taken with Sarah that he insisted on going to her “dressing room” (a cupboard with a sheet thrown across). Her face still pan-caked, she wouldn’t go out to him. He called back the night after with a dozen red roses and the night after that again until finally she relented and agreed to a drink. 

Like many good stories, the real version is far more prosaic. I introduced them. Dan was at catering college across the road. I’d met him in the pub and we’d gone out a few times. I was smitten. I thought he liked me too. Then, he met Sarah.

Sarah and I hadn’t met for years. Then she turned up, with Dan and their two picture-perfect children in a formidable Victorian red-brick close to my rented apartment. They invited me around.

“You’re a writer!” Dan exclaimed, his blue eyes crinkling as he beamed at me.

“That’s fantastic, Dee. What do you write?”

“Thanks Dan” I said smiling back.

“This and that. Freelance mostly.”

It was heartening-his perception of me as a proper writer! I basked briefly in his blue-eyed admiration. I omitted the dingy realities of gutter press and tabloid journalism gigs that barely pay the bills.

“Come on” said Sarah, grabbing my arm “The grand tour!”

We descended the curving, marble staircase, from the high-ceilinged hall down into the open plan living area. The whole house had refurbished, no expense spared. The end result was a sleek combination of artful minimalism and frictionless luxury; deep pile carpets, tasteful art and silver framed family photos abounded. The bathroom, alone, was the size of my apartment.  

“A step up from those awful digs we had in university” Sarah said.

There was the tiniest of pauses. Dan’s eyes flicked to me and back to Sarah. We’d never spoken about what happened, what my psychiatrist later referred to as the breakdown. It was the night of the discovery, Sarah and Dan in her single bed in our shared bedroom. The betrayal was so unexpected, so odd, so heartrendingly terrible that I always thought of it as my breaking apart. I spent the night locked in the girls’ bathroom, curled on the floor, shivering and sobbing.

Both Dan and Sarah had tried to talk to me, to explain. Dan looked stricken, Sarah didn’t quite conceal her impatience. I overheard her later telling a mutual friend that I really needed to move on. Still dizzy and dismantled with grief and shock, I pulled myself together enough to sit my finals. Instead of the expected honours and plaudits I scraped a lower second. Instead of the graduate programmes and sign-on bonuses I was saddled with thousands in debt and scrabbling for work. 

Sarah turned the conversation to another magazine feature due out, all about them and their beautiful home. Dan gave a massive eye-roll.

“I keep telling him,” Sarah said, frowning “Exposure like this is golden in media circles”.

We met a few more times. They were both thrilled to be back and Sarah, in particular, was dying for a night out. I offered to babysit if they were stuck. In typical Sarah fashion she asked could I stay over altogether, then they wouldn’t have to be rushing home.

It took me hours to calm the kids to sleep and only because I agreed they could sleep with me. I’d never considered myself maternal but there was something calming about the two of them snuggled beside me, snoring softly. Sardined into the narrow double bed I lay there, flat on my back, counting the night-light stars stippling the high ceiling. 

I was drifting off when I heard the scrape of the key in the lock and Sarah and Dan stumbling into the hall shushing and giggling. I’d left the other monitor downstairs and I could heard them moving around, muffled snippets of conversation. 

I was woken by a thundering clatter from the living room, like something heavy thwacking off the wall, a smash of breaking glass, a sharp exhale so loud it felt like it was in the room.

Dan’s voice came through the monitor, he sounded livid. 

“Sarah, for fucks sake!”

“I told you, just stop” he said, louder this time.

Unfurling myself from the sleeping children I pulled back the cover and got out of bed.

 “Why do you always do this?” he yelled.

There was more banging and smashing, then I heard Sarah.

Her voice was shrill. She was baiting him.

“You can’t tell me what to do, Danny boy” she slurred.

Then, the sound so clear my whole body tensed, there was a volley of slaps sharp and fast as whip cracks.

It was quiet for a moment then I heard Sarah sobbing.

 “I’m sorry Dan, sorry, so sorry.”

I padded softly to the door and opened it a crack. Sarah was choking back great big sobs as she climbed slowly up the stairs, clinging to the banisters. I retreated into the shadows of the room hugging the wall, even my breathing sounded loud to my own ears. Sarah paused outside the room and just when I was sure she was about to enter she sighed softly and continued down the corridor. The bathroom light fizzed on. Downstairs, I heard Dan and his slow heavy tread moving from the living room to the kitchen and back, the tinkle of broken glass being swept up and then the lift and slap of his heavy boots on the stairs.

The following morning, when we arrived downstairs, Sarah was already in the kitchen, a verdant green kimono wrapped around her, vigorously stirring a pancake mixture.

“Morning, sleepy heads. Did you behave yourselves?” she said, hugging the kids and tousling their hair. 

“I’ve coffee on” she said, smiling at me.

I sipped my coffee and scrutinised her surreptitiously as she flipped the pancakes. She looked fine, radiant even.

I left as quickly as I could.

Did I imagine it? I wondered.

I knew I didn’t. I knew I had to confront her.

Sarah continued to snigger.

“Abuse? Trust you to exaggerate everything, Dee.”

“I know what I heard Sarah.” I said, working to keep my voice calm.

“Seriously Dee?! All I did was give him a few slaps. I barely touched him.”

“It was you. You were hitting Dan?” I said, my head spinning.

“What? You thought Dan was beating me up like some cliché. He’s many things, my husband, but wife-beater isn’t one of them.” Sarah said shaking her head at me and pouring herself another coffee.

Breathing deeply, I placed my phone carefully on the table and pressed play. It’s muffled but distinct-the relay of whip crack slaps and Sarah’s raised voice saying I’m sorry over and over. Sarah paled and reached for the phone. I grabbed it back and put it carefully away in my bag.

“What do you want?” said Sarah, glaring at me, her cheeks flushed red.

“Cash” I said.

Taking out my journal, I scribbled a figure on the inside fly-leaf.

“You can’t be serious!” Sarah said. “What if I won’t pay?”

“Media exposure. Not the golden kind!”

Sarah gasped and I saw, for the first time ever, a frisson of fear fleet across her subtly-enhanced face .

“Gold-digger” she shrieked.

I smiled and handed her a folded piece of paper with my account details.

Letting myself out of the house, I retraced my steps towards home. Loose-limbed and cool in my flowing frock, I felt calmer than I’d felt for the longest time, like a weight had been lifted from me and the lightness of choices and new possibilities had returned.