Rory died of an aneurysm. ‘It was so horribly sudden.’ Her face clouds. ‘I can’t describe the shock.’
Since then, perhaps she finds it hard to trust that happiness will last? It would certainly explain her non-stop drive.
She has never spoken about when her relationship with Johnny Casey started. He was working for Parnell when Kinsella died, and she’s credited Casey with keeping the business going during those months after her bereavement.
It was only when Parnell became pregnant with her third child, less than three years after the death of her first husband, that she went public with Casey. They married that same year, a low-key register office affair, compared to the 120-person extravaganza of her wedding with Kinsella.
According to several sources, Rory’s parents and two sisters, Keeva and Izzy, have never forgiven her. They declined to contribute to this piece.
I ask Parnell what it’s like working so closely with her (current) husband.
‘Handy,’ is her immediate answer. ‘If something crops up about the business, I can address it there and then. I’ve been known to wake him in the middle of the night to ask if he’s remembered to do something.’
Managing a demanding career with five children – how does she do it?
‘With a huge amount of help. I’ve a housekeeper who comes in every weekday. He does the laundry, housework and after-school childcare.’
Hold up. ‘He’?
‘Totally. Why not?’
You have to wonder why. This is the woman whose first husband was her employee, then her second. And she didn’t take either of their names.
So how does she unwind? If ever?
‘My kids and I pile into my bed and watch TV or just catch up. I’m all about family and I’m at my happiest when we’re all squashed in there together. I adore children. I was nearly forty-two when I had Dilly. I’d have loved more but Johnny threatened to go for the snip.’
Without checking her phone, she knows when our allotted hour is up. I’m treated to a warm, fragrant hug, and then she’s gone, click-clacking away in her pristine coat, changing the world.
‘It’s fine,’ Johnny said.
‘It’s mean. Like, going on about my coat. It’s only my North Face cold-weather thing – it’s practical. It’s only white because all the black ones in Large were gone. And I’m not “whippet-lean”, I’m average-sized.’ She flashed a trying-hard smile. ‘And I’m not a control freak.’
Johnny raised an eyebrow. ‘Babes …’
‘Not in that way! He makes me sound like a monster! And I’m only five foot seven. Like, why has he exaggerated my height? And that thing about you being in love with me for my entire marriage!’
‘I know.’ Johnny had said it as a quip, a long time ago. But it was one of those things that was trotted out every time a new interview was done.
‘Now it’s treated as hard fact, like the moon landings. He makes me sound like a man-hating, two-timing, slutty, white-coat-wearing giantess-who-sleeps-with-chefs. And his shite-y attempt at psychoanalysing me, it’s pathetic.’
‘C’mon. Don’t let it get to you. It’s fine.’ In fairness, he thought, it could have been a lot worse.
FIVE
Outside Newcastle West, with less than an hour to go, Ed suddenly said, ‘Did we pack the Easter eggs for Jessie and Johnny? I don’t remember putting them in.’
Cara laughed. ‘Oh, I remember. It was such a relief to get them off the premises.’
For the past four days, seven hand-crafted artisanal Easter eggs had lurked in the garden shed, bought as paltry thanks to Johnny and Jessie for this weekend. None had been purchased for their own two boys, because they’d get so much chocolate over the next four days that it would surprise no one if they collapsed into a diabetic coma.
It was a matter of deep shame that she felt so conflicted about this upcoming weekend. What nobody would understand was that she found Easter nearly as bad as Christmas. So. Much. Food.
Even at home in her own house it was difficult, with all that sugar knocking about. But staying in a hotel, with Jessie at the helm, the next few days would be just one meal after another: giant breakfast buffets with an obscene array of irresistible choices, leisurely lunches featuring wine, then elaborate three-course dinners every night. Sometimes she joked to Ed that she wouldn’t be surprised to be woken at 2 a.m. to be forcibly fed to ward off ‘night starvation’.
She might be able to duck out of a couple of the lunches but Jessie liked big family get-togethers at dinner time. Attendance was borderline mandatory.
In addition to the many meals, sugar would be everywhere.
There was the giant egg hunt on Easter Sunday morning, where overexcited children swarmed through the grounds snatching Creme Eggs from hedgerows and flinging them into small buckets. (Last year Vinnie had found eleven and Tom got sixteen.) In addition, the hotel distributed full-sized eggs to everyone, adults and children alike.
As daunting as the tsunami of food was this weekend’s compulsory sociability. She didn’t want to see people. Or, rather, she didn’t want people seeing her. She wished she could hide herself away until she was thin again.
‘You’re okay?’ Ed asked, squeezing her knee.
‘Fine.’
‘You’d tell me if you weren’t?’
‘Course!’
He was a good man, the best. But she refused to offload on him because the boys – and Ed – were so happy. For the past month, Vinnie and Tom had talked of little else: the swimming pool, the kids’ movies, hanging out with their cousins. They’d literally been crossing days off the calendar in the kitchen.
Bottom line, the next four days were precious and the least she could do was try to enjoy them.
‘We have our own telly!’ Vinnie yelled from the interconnecting room. ‘Literally our own actual telly!’
‘And our own key!’ Tom raced into Cara and Ed’s bedroom to wave the card at them, then scooted away again. ‘We’re grown-up now.’
You had to hand it to Jessie, Cara acknowledged. This was exactly the right age for the lads to have their own space. Vinnie was ten, Tom was eight: they were thrilled with their independence yet reassured by their proximity to herself and Ed.
‘Nearly time for dinner,’ Ed announced. ‘This is your three-minute warning.’
Bracing herself, Cara stepped before the full-length mirror. This wrap dress was … grim. Even with the sucky-in pants. But at least it fitted. Her jeans had cut into her for the entire drive from Dublin, a pain that was almost pleasant because it felt suitably punitive. She could have eased the discomfort by putting on her ‘fat’ jeans before they’d left, but that would have been like opening the floodgates.
And – her blood froze – what if the ‘fat’ ones were too tight?
Oh, those wonderful days at the start of the year when she’d quietly shed eleven pounds in six weeks! Being a long-term veteran of extreme eating plans, she knew a lot of that had been water. But she’d been in the groove, as if a switch had been flicked and she was in not-eating mode. Everything had stayed good until the evening of 13 February when the kids were in bed. Suddenly some sort of euphoria flooded through her, an ecstatic relief: it was reward time.