Fragile Lies

by Elliot, Laura

  “Who would be in the middle, Virginia or Adrian?”

  “Virginia?”

  “Not Adrian?”

  “He’ll never enter my bed again. Not in real time. Not in dream time.”

  “But you think Virginia occupies mine?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  “She has nothing to do with us. This is just about you and me, Lorraine.”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. Michael Carmody was in the room with her, conjured from the heat of the moment, reflected in the desire she saw in another man’s face, heard in his voice.

  “My poor girl, you’re not going to cry on me, are you?” Ralph no longer sounded flirtatious, just concerned.

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He rested his finger beneath her eyes. Tears overflowed, trickled over his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Ralph.”

  “Is this about Adrian?”

  She shook her head. “I never had his love, not in the way I believed. Why grieve over something that was never mine in the first place.”

  “Have you met someone since you came here?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s exactly what Virginia used to say. Unlike you, she was a magnificent liar.”

  She made the sofa into a bed for him. He would sleep alone tonight. He was nursing a brandy and staring into the fire when they said goodnight.

  The following week, in Dublin with Eugene Murphy, she discussed the restoration of a Georgian house. The main repair work was almost completed and, walking through the large, high-ceilinged rooms, she had an immediate sense of how it would look when finished. An hour later she was driving to Drumcondra, having promised Eugene an outline of her plans and some sketches before the Christmas break. She lunched with her parents and was leaving their house when she met Mary Ruane from next door.

  “Lorraine, it’s good to see you again.” The older woman was returning from the supermarket and hurried forward, arms outstretched. She had known Lorraine since she was a baby and the semi-detached houses had been shared with equal freedom by Lorraine and the two Ruane children.

  “Donna has been keeping me up to date on everything,” said Mary, holding her close as she used to do whenever there were scraped knees and elbows to soothe. “I’m glad you’ve settled into your new home.” They talked for a few minutes about Eoin and his family, who had returned to Ireland from New York.

  “What a pity you’re not staying longer. They’re coming over this evening for dinner,” Mary said.

  “Give them my love. And tell Meg I’ll ring her when I’m next in Dublin.”

  “I hope you’ll see her on Christmas night.” Mary hesitated, held Lorraine’s hand a little tighter. “Do you think you and Emily will make the party this year? I know it will be difficult without Adrian –”

  “We’ll be there,” Lorraine promised. “Emily would never forgive me if I deprived her of Christmas night in your house.”

  “What about the little pet? Has she settled?”

  “Not so little any more, Mary. It was tough going for a while but I think we’re getting there.”

  “I’m so sorry about everything, love. I wish you were still a tot and I could make it better with a hug. But you’re all grown up now. No more magic cures.”

  “They worked a charm in the past.” Lorraine smiled and opened her car door. “I’ll see you all on Christmas night.”

  The afternoon was spent stocking up on painting materials and by late evening Lorraine was driving along the quays, heading west. The peak-hour flow was underway, the traffic slow, hardly moving, the air sluggish with fumes and weariness. She drove past Blaide House and onwards towards a block of apartments with overhanging balconies. Not once did she slow down or turn her eyes from the road.

  The sight of fairy lights slung across Market Street added a festive air to the village. Emily attended the lighting of the Christmas tree with her friends and made a wish list that included jodhpurs and riding boots. Horses were an endless subject for discussion and her conversation – which included numerous references to dandy brushes, curry combs and nutrient feeds – was beginning to sound increasingly like the dialogue in a teenage pony novel.

  Lorraine forced herself to buy a Christmas tree and decorate it with her daughter. They unwrapped the familiar baubles from tissue paper and hung them from the branches. Along the lane they collected holly and ivy. On the last school day before the Christmas holidays, Lorraine attended the pupils’ carol service. She envied the ease with which Sophie wept, her black cheeks glistening as she smiled towards the stage where the pupils were assembled. Sophie had talked about her family, a rebel brother who had joined the Sudan People’s Liberation Army and was fighting government forces. Her elderly parents had not heard from him for over a year. She hoped to visit them in the summer but there was much injustice among her people and she lived with a quiet dread that her journey would be too late. Everyone around Lorraine had a story, hidden deep within the reality of ordinary days, but, as the carol service continued, a hushed peace settled over the congregation and the ache in Lorraine’s chest eased until she heard only the sweetness of the singing, the solemnity of a message of hope that never changed, no matter how wilfully it was challenged throughout the year.

  Adrian had bought a pony for Emily’s Christmas present. He had rung the previous day, speaking quickly, his voice low. “I knew how much she wanted one so I rang Con and asked him to organise it. I was afraid to contact you in case you knocked the idea on the head.”

  “You’re free to buy her whatever you want.”

  “It’s what she wants, Lorraine. All I want to do is to make some kind of peace with you so that I don’t feel I’m trespassing in your life every time I come to Trabawn. We should make this a special occasion for Emily. I was hoping we could have another meal together. The last time meant a lot to her and we could –”

  She heard a door open, a voice in the background. Virginia had obviously arrived unexpectedly into the room. She heard his muffled response, imagined his hand over the receiver, his placatory smile, and hung up the phone.

  A pony, brown satin coat, cream markings, arrived on the Saturday before Christmas. Lorraine walked towards the farm where the new arrival would be stabled. In the farmyard, the horse box was open and Emily’s friends had gathered to inspect the pony. Con ran his hands over her in an experienced way as he explained something to Adrian, and Emily, her face alight with excitement, had her arm around the animal’s neck.

  Adrian’s smile became more confident as the group opened up and admitted Lorraine. A name had already been decided. The new pony would be called Janine. But nothing, Emily declared sternly, would alter the affection she felt for her first love: absolutely adorable, amiable, agreeable, affectionate and accepting Antoinette.

  Noeleen came from the kitchen to look at the pony but it was upon Adrian that she settled her shrewd eyes. He retreated from the pungent smell of the stables. Mud caked the ends of his trousers and covered his shoes. It was impossible to imagine him in wellingtons. He belonged to the city and to another life. The atmosphere began to relax. It was almost possible to believe this was a normal gathering of friends and family. Eventually they dispersed, leaving Con to settle the pony in an empty stall.

  As she walked back to the house, Adrian fell into step beside her. “Are you annoyed with me?” he demanded, hurrying to keep abreast with her. “Say so if you are. It’s better than the ice-cold treatment. I was never able to tolerate it and time hasn’t made it any easier to endure.”

  Without replying she walked faster. If he touched her she would splinter and fall apart. Emily was waiting at the gate, her foot resting on the lower rung.

  “Is Daddy coming in?” she asked. “Can we make him something nice to eat? He’s had such a long drive to get here.”

  Lorraine nodded, moved ahead to open the hall door. He breathed into the space she was so carefully creating. His laughter rose to the wooden
rafters as he toured the house with Emily. He was lavish with his compliments. It was late by the time he left. Tomorrow Emily would have Christmas lunch with him in O’Callaghan’s before he returned to Dublin. He walked to the front door and embraced his daughter. She stood, her hand shielding her eyes, watching until his car disappeared from view.

  “He could have stayed here tonight, you know.” She turned angrily on her mother. “But I was afraid to ask ’cause I knew you’d have a fit. Why should he be punished so much when it was all her fault?”

  “Did he say that to you?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “He wouldn’t have left us otherwise. She’s a vicious slag.”

  “Stop it, Emily. Virginia didn’t hold a gun to his head.”

  “Why are you standing up for her? You hate her as much as I do.”

  “Hating her has nothing to do with it. It’s too easy to package the whole messy thing up and stick a label on it saying ‘Virginia’s Fault’. Your father made choices and one of those was to move in with Virginia.”

  “Only because you threw him out. He never wanted to leave us. We could have divided the house in two and then I wouldn’t feel like I’m splitting myself in two every time I want to see him.” Her bottom lip swelled mutinously as she brushed past Lorraine and ran up the stairs.

  The spray was blowing strong off the sea. The hedgerows crouched into the wind, stilted limbs braced against the coming storms.

  Forty-one

  Brahms Ward, 7 p.m.

  “You don’t understand it, Michael,” you cried one night when it seemed another beginning was possible and, for that instant, I was tempted to lose myself in the cold power of a needle. To share with you the ultimate deadening hit. To reach Nirvana. Was that what it was like, Killian? Wanting, not wanting?

  I was singing her name when I awoke this morning. Sweet Lorraine … when I marry Sweet Lorraine. I loved that song once. Nat King Cole, the smooth crooner, evoking mystery and glamour and the hint of happy-ever-after endings.

  Christmas will soon be here. A Santa Claus on every corner and reindeers on the roof. You were reluctant to stop believing in Santa Claus. No matter how often Lorcan placed irrefutable proof in front of you, you refused to accept reality. I hope that fat old man with his Coca-Cola beard is still alive in your mind tonight. Magic is important in a child’s heart.

  She’s in my veins, Killian. I want to lie beside her and never rise. Her voice runs over my skin. This delirium can’t last. All I want is oblivion but her name sings in my head and I’m bereft.

  She’s not the one. Don’t ask … I just know! Hold my hand, do you hear me? Damn you … hold my hand. Oh Jesus, this is unendurable. I love you, Killian. OK … where were we? Let’s talk some sense tonight. The next series of Nowhere Lodge starts production in the spring. I’ve started writing a new one. Roz O’Hara is pleased. How I love the world of fiction.

  Look at the moon. Full as a rich man’s belly. Maybe we’re all a bit touched by its madness. You always wanted to catch the moon. Remember how we chased it, running behind it as it swept across rooftops, skidded giddy as a hoop around corners, somersaulted behind monkey-puzzle trees and lampposts. When we stopped defeated, and we were always defeated, there it was, still resting securely on your horizon. An old devil moon that cows jumped at random while the dish and the spoon ran fast and far away from home.

  * * *

  Want the moon … the moon … chase the moon … wired to the moon … too many Killians … hospital … screens around the bed … Killian is my name …

  Forty-two

  It was too much. Virginia forced her way up Grafton Street, ignoring carol singers whose cheerfulness and jingling tambourines increased her irritation to boiling point. The Sunday before Christmas, their first real Christmas together, and he was in Galway with his daughter. Surely Virginia would not deny him the opportunity of seeing Emily and wishing her a happy Christmas, he demanded when she protested. She knew better than to continue the argument. Christmas and family were sacrosanct. Her own parents always signed a peace pact for the season of goodwill and allowed harmony to reign over the turkey.

  She was waiting at the tail end of a queue to exit the car-park when a text came through on her mobile: Virginia – why are you alone on a Sunday afternoon? For answer meet me in our favourite restaurant. Unlike us, it remains unchanged. Some things were meant to last.

  Quickly, she texted back. Piss off Ralph and get a life!

  He responded immediately. I’ll be waiting for you at the usual table by the window at 7 p.m. Don’t be late. I’ve something important to tell you.

  How did he know she was alone? Guesswork, she decided, cheeky bastard. Her hopes that Adrian had arrived home before her were dashed when she opened the door of the apartment. She rang his mobile. He was apologetic, hassled. The visit had taken longer than expected and he was just about to leave his father’s house. With the holiday traffic on the road, God knows what time she could expect him home. At six-thirty she showered, dressed and took a taxi into the city.

  Temple Bar was noisy, a seamless flow of people enjoying the festive atmosphere. The glass-fronted restaurant – decorated with silver bows and bells and twinkling lights ordering her to be of good cheer – still managed to look unnervingly familiar, as did the sight of Ralph in a sharply tailored navy jacket rising from the window seat to greet her. He was dressed formally in a shirt and tie, the effect more suited to the office than a restaurant where the majority of diners were wearing reindeer horns and Santa hats.

  “Virginia, you never fail to astonish me. Your text read like a she-devil’s jingle but here you are, as angelic as ever.”

  “You said this was important.” She slid into the seat opposite him and linked her fingers on the table. “My time is limited. Make it snappy.”

  “First things first.” He accepted the menu from the waitress, choosing, as Virginia had known he would, a fillet steak, rare. She ordered prawns and he smiled, as if he had also anticipated her choice. After the waitress departed with their orders he glanced around. “As you can see, it’s hardly changed at all.”

  “What did you expect?” she snapped. “A changed décor to match our changed circumstances?”

  “Yes, I keep expecting everything to be different. Don’t you?”

  “What do you want to discuss with me?”

  “All in good time,” he said. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Perhaps you’ve time to waste but I can’t stay long.”

  He bent towards her and traced his finger along either side of her lips in a provocative semi-circle. “Do you know something, Virginia? I believe you’re getting a disgruntled mouth. Is the sanctity of a monogamous relationship already beginning to pall?”

  She felt her skin contract, as if his touch had already furrowed her smooth skin. No matter how much she tried to deny the facts, there were deepening lines around her eyes and in the mornings her complexion was puffy until she applied make-up. Lack of sleep was the problem, not age, she assured herself. But what was she to do about it? Sleeping tablets helped but they only provided fitful relief.

  “Why did you ask me here?” She sat perfectly still until he took his hand away.

  “I want a sensible answer to a sensible question. Why him, Virginia? The others I tolerated. Like fleas, they could be eradicated. But him? Why take that step too far?”

  “I was in love with him.”

  He shook his head slowly. “You never intended leaving me. I know you too well, my darling. You scorch your wings but you never fly too close to the flame. You went with him for a reason. Don’t call me a fool by pretending it was love.”

  The waitress returned and laid their meals before them.

  “Bon appetit, Virginia.” He cut deeply into his steak. A thin drizzle of blood ran across the plate. “How is business?” He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Excellent.” She bit down on a prawn, tasted ginge
r and garlic.

  “And Adrian?”

  “The same.”

  “The days of lying to me are gone, Virginia. I’d advise you to keep a close eye on him or he’ll drag you down when he hits the deck.”

  “Such concern,” she mocked. “It would be touching if you were not such a vindictive bastard. I know what you’re trying to do to him.”

  “Trying?” He shook his head. “I think succeeding would be the operative word. Where is he today?”

  “Minding his own business.”

  “Minding his own business in Trabawn, you mean. Be warned, Virginia. No matter how many times he goes to Trabawn, Lorraine won’t forgive him. But, this is a teaser, will Adrian be able to forgive you? And, more importantly, will he ever be able to forgive himself? As for me …” He paused, his fork in mid-air. “Now that is the real million dollar question.”

  For an instant her composure deserted her. “Not that it’s got anything to do with you but Adrian does not go to Trabawn.”

  “Even when he visits his daughter?”

  “They meet in Galway.”

  “Geography was never my strong point so correct me if I’m wrong. I was under the impression that Trabawn was in the majestic kingdom of Kerry. At least it was the last time I saw Emily.” He continued to carve his steak into small tender pieces and she felt cold suddenly, even though they were seated near the open kitchen where flames leaped from ovens and grease spat viciously against the bars of the grill.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing at all. If Adrian says he’s in Galway who am I to suggest otherwise? We both know he never lies.”

  “You’re the one who’s lying.”

  “Always the optimist, Virginia. But I never believed you to be a credulous fool.” He stretched back in his chair and watched her rise to her feet. “Going so soon? What a pity. I was hoping we’d have the rest of the evening to enjoy each other’s company.”