‘I’m sorry for ringing so early.’ Diarmuid’s voice sounds softer. ‘I’ve only just looked at my watch; I thought it was later. You probably haven’t even had a cup of tea. Why don’t you go and make one and I’ll ring you back?’
I find myself grimacing. Why can’t Diarmuid be bad or good? Why can’t he be one thing, instead of this strange mixture? I want to hate him, but now he’s remembered how much I need tea first thing in the morning. It’s like when he asked me if I needed to buy milk. He remembers this kind of thing. On our very first date he gave me his jacket because it was raining.
I hang up and go downstairs. I feel like I have suddenly landed in another country, a foreign, odd place with a stark, strange landscape. Even the kettle and the teapot and the mugs look different. They’ve lost their cosiness; they’re just things in my kitchen. The ants are still trying to get into the jar of honey. I leave them to it. South Africa, I think. Why does Diarmuid make it sound like another planet? It would be funny, if his new love didn’t come from there.
As I pour the boiling water over the teabag, I catch a thin reflection of myself in the glass pane in the back door. I recognise the expression. It is my mother’s, the one she wore on the long, lost days after she left Al. Suddenly I love my mother, in a way I have never loved her before. She came back to us, even though she could have left. It must have taken such courage. It must have taken a bigger kind of love. She must have set so many of her dreams aside for us. She saved her marriage – but I can’t save mine. It’s gone. I wish with all my heart that I could step back in time and alter the part of my past that I have chosen to belong to. I wish I had noticed my mother’s courage and faith, instead of her brief infidelity. I would have become another kind of person. And I would have spoken to Nathaniel at that party.
The phone rings just as I am stirring in the half-spoon of sugar. Diarmuid even knows how long it takes me to make a cup of tea. He knows the side of the bed I prefer, my favourite Chinese takeaways and crisps and chocolate; he knows I keep forgetting to return DVDs on time. He used to do it for me. There are so many things we know about each other, small crucial details. I used to be able to recognise the sound of his car hundreds of yards away. What are we to do with all this knowledge? Where are we to put it now?
‘Have you got your cuppa?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘I should replace that plug on the kettle for you. It’s getting a bit loose, isn’t it?’
Don’t do this, Diarmuid, I think. Don’t keep pretending you’re still in my life. You’re not, not really. You’ve wandered hundreds of miles away. I didn’t know you could move that fast. I didn’t even know you wanted to.
‘I know how to change plugs, Diarmuid,’ I say firmly, to myself as much as to him. I am about to add, once again, that Nathaniel is just a friend and that Diarmuid seems to have given up on our marriage because of a misunderstanding, but he speaks first.
‘Anyway.’ His voice is calmer now. ‘I suppose I should explain why I’ve changed my mind about Charlene.’
I don’t say anything, so he continues. ‘I’ve decided it doesn’t matter where Charlene comes from. The important thing is that I feel comfortable with her. My family will just have to get used to it. Charlene says there’s a kind of love you sometimes want, but the important kind of love is the kind you need.’
I almost tell him to shut up about bloody Charlene, but her words seem wise. They seem like words I need to hear.
‘I did love you.’ He sounds sad now, bereft and bewildered.
‘But you don’t any more?’
There is a lengthy pause; then he says, ‘Surely this can’t be too much of a surprise to you, Sally. You’ve found someone else too. We’ve both moved on. You don’t even wear your wedding ring any more.’
So he noticed. I decide this is not the right time to mention that I suspect Nathaniel’s dog may have eaten it.
‘If you’d talked to me, Diarmuid, you would have discovered that I haven’t moved on and I haven’t found someone else. Nathaniel is just a friend.’
‘As you said in your telephone messages.’ Diarmuid sighs wearily.
‘Look, Diarmuid…’ I take a deep breath. ‘You think I’ve been having an affair with Nathaniel, but I haven’t. He was only here because we went for a walk by the sea and a wave drenched us. He came to my cottage to dry off a bit. That’s why he was wearing my dressing-gown.’
‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’
‘Yes. If you’d stayed for a moment, you would have seen his jeans on the heater.’
There is a significant pause; then Diarmuid says, ‘Look, I don’t know if his jeans were drying or not –’
‘They were, honestly they were.’
‘But that doesn’t change the fact that you love him. I knew it from the first moment I saw you two together. You love him, Sally. You love him in a way you’ve never loved me.’
I feel like he’s punched me. Am I really that transparent? Can other people see things that I can hardly admit to myself? ‘He’s a friend.’ I decide to be defensive. ‘That’s all he is, Diarmuid. That’s all he wants to be.’
‘I think you should confirm that with him,’ Diarmuid says. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I saw the way you were both snuggled up on that sofa.’
‘What?’
‘I looked through the window before I rang the doorbell.’
‘You were spying on me?’
‘Yes, and who would blame me in the circumstances?’
‘What are the circumstances, Diarmuid?’ I feel a sob rising in my stomach. ‘I really don’t know any more. I thought we were both taking time out to think things over.’
‘You’re the one who wanted to do that.’
‘Yes, but then you said you wanted to do it too.’
‘I don’t know what I said.’ Diarmuid sighs. ‘You got me so muddled about the whole thing, I could have said anything.’
I suddenly feel desperately tired. Why on earth couldn’t Diarmuid have called at a civilised hour? I can’t even bear talking to him any more; it seems utterly pointless.
‘I don’t want to talk to you any more right now.’ I just say it.
‘Oh.’ He sounds surprised. ‘I thought you wanted me to talk more to you.’
‘Not about this kind of thing!’ I scream. ‘Not about how you don’t love me any more. I’ve never felt you loved me.’
‘Did you love me?’
I don’t answer. That’s the thing about wanting to be loved: you don’t spend enough time thinking about giving love back. And just wanting to be loved isn’t real love. I start to cry. How can I have been so ignorant about being a wife?
Diarmuid hears me crying. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been far too blunt. I thought it would make it easier.’
‘What do you mean?’ I sniff.
‘I… I didn’t want to think about all the things I like about you. I thought it might make me change my mind about Charlene.’ His voice lowers. ‘Do you want me to change my mind about her?’
‘No.’ It’s a whisper, but I mean it. I say it before I even think about it. The word just scoots out of my mouth.
‘I didn’t want it to end like this.’
‘Neither did I.’ I clench my hanky in my hand. ‘I’m sorry, Diarmuid. We just kind of lost each other somehow. I don’t think either of us meant to – to be so careless.’ I start to sob.
‘No.’ Dear God, Diarmuid is crying too. ‘I’m so sorry about the mice, Sally. I kind of got obsessed with them. At first I was just fascinated with the research, but then each one of them seemed like a little friend, somehow. They always seemed so glad to see me.’
‘And I didn’t?’
‘You seemed disappointed, Sally. I couldn’t stand seeing you so disappointed with me.’
‘I disappointed you too.’
Diarmuid doesn’t answer.
‘At least we’ve talked,’ I say. ‘This is the most open conversation we’ve ever had.’
‘OK.’
‘Bye, Sally. I’ll phone again soon.’
‘Bye, Diarmuid.’
The line goes dead.
I go back to bed and cry until my pillow is soaking. I just cry, letting the tears leave me – big, fat tears that stream down my face. Some of them find their way into my ears. I can’t name the feelings behind them. There are too many. I just know I need to cry.
Half an hour later I dry my face. I get up and pad down to the kitchen in my thick pink socks. I make myself a very large mug of tea and stare numbly out the window at the potted plants in my back garden – the geraniums and sweet peas, the large terracotta pot full of lavender. There is a water lily flowering in a blue glazed bowl.
The phone rings. I almost let the answering machine take it. But it could be Diarmuid. Maybe he’s changed his mind… It’s Nathaniel.
‘Hi, Sal. I’ve found your wedding ring.’ He sounds very bright and perky. ‘It was wedged into a chocolate chip cookie in a particularly complicated part of the sofa’s upholstery. I also found three euros and a packet of mints.’
‘Oh.’ My voice must sound like it’s travelling through cement. I try to raise it a few octaves. ‘Oh! That’s great. Thank you.’
‘What’s up? You sound kind of down about something.’
‘Really?’ I try to sound surprised. ‘Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my second cup of tea yet.’ I don’t like this any more. I don’t like it that Nathaniel knows all these things. It makes me want to tell him everything, but I can’t – not after how appalled he was when Diarmuid found him on the sofa in my dressing-gown. He even wanted to phone Diarmuid, to reassure him that nothing had happened between us. He even collected Diarmuid’s roses and insisted I put them in a vase. Any secret hopes I had had about Nathaniel vanished in that moment. He looked so scared and guilty, so upset that Diarmuid had jumped to the wrong conclusion.
So had I, for a while. Nathaniel is naturally affectionate, and he exaggerates. I used to like his exaggerations, but now I don’t; they’re very misleading. I am just one of his little coterie of female confidantes.
‘I have to go, Nathaniel,’ I say quickly. ‘I must make myself some breakfast.’
‘How’s Diarmuid?’
‘He’s… he’s fine. We’ve just had a long talk on the phone.’
‘Oh.’ He sounds surprised. ‘That’s good. You said you wanted him to be more open.’
‘Well, he was,’ I say. I try to make my voice sound chirpy. I don’t want Nathaniel to know what Diarmuid and I said to each other. I might start bawling and he might want to come round, and I couldn’t bear that. I don’t want him to feel so close and yet so far away.
‘What do you want me to do with the ring?’
‘Could… could you just post it?’ I get a horrible hollow feeling in my stomach. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to collect it. I’m very busy at the moment.’
‘Fine.’ He sounds a little puzzled. ‘I’ll send it recorded delivery.’
‘Yes. Yes, that would be good.’
There is an uncomfortable pause.
‘How’s Eloise?’ It seems appropriate to mention her. Nathaniel should mention her more often. He should use the ‘we’ word: We went to the cinema, we went to the park… It would remind his female friends of his true affections.
‘Busy too. She’s got an order from a posh hotel in Connemara. We went to Scowly Henry’s restaurant to celebrate. She’s determined to make him smile.’
We. ‘Oh. That’s great.’ I try not to feel too jealous.
‘Yes, she’s really getting known now.’ It seems to be a morning in which men extol the merits of other women to me.
I’m just about to say I have to go, again, when Nathaniel adds, ‘You should get to know Fabrice.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say dubiously. ‘And why is that?’
‘You’d like her. And she likes you. She told me on the phone.’
‘You phone her?’
‘Yes. When I met her with Aggie, she gave me her phone number. She said we should meet for tea and cake.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. It was great fun. She’s a breath of fresh air. She’s led the most amazing life.’
God, I think. Now Fabrice is part of Nathaniel’s little coterie of female friends too. She probably fancies him. She probably likes her men young and nubile. Maybe I should warn him about her. He’s so trusting.
‘You’d like her, Sal. You two have a lot in common.’
I clench the phone in outrage. I think of Fabrice – her tall stories, her layered make-up, her rattling, showy costume jewellery; her solemn, calculating, calm eyes. How dare he compare me to her? He mustn’t know me at all.
‘I think she could be a good friend,’ Nathaniel continues. ‘Aggie has her mobile number. You should give her a call.’
I am so flabbergasted that I just stare out the window. What does Fabrice do to people? Both Nathaniel and Aggie can’t stop talking about her.
‘She’ll be going away soon, on business; she might be away for a while. You should phone her soon.’
‘Look, Nathaniel,’ I say firmly, ‘I have no wish to get to know Fabrice. I don’t even like her.’
‘But you don’t know her,’ Nathaniel persists. His voice sounds odd; once again, I get the vague suspicion that there’s something he’s not telling me.
‘I have to go now, Nathaniel.’
‘OK. By the way, I found my mobile phone. Fred had buried it near the hydrangeas.’
‘Good. I mean, I’m glad you found it.’
‘What is it, Sally? You sound really weird. Do you want me to call round?’
Yes. Yes, I do, I think. I want you to call round and hold me. I want to rest my head on your chest and hear your heart. I want to make you tea. I want you to tell me your stories. I want to know you, Nathaniel. I want to love you. I want to stare into your clear blue eyes and remember my dreams and hopes and who I once wanted to be. I seem to have forgotten.
Only I can’t say this. It isn’t what he wants to hear. He wouldn’t know how to answer; he would be embarrassed. It would frighten him off. ‘No – no, I really don’t want you to call round, Nathaniel. Maybe… you know… we shouldn’t see each other for a while.’
‘Yes,’ Nathaniel says slowly. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested it.’
I know he thinks I’m saying this because of Diarmuid, and I let him. I can’t just be friends with Nathaniel any more. It would be easier if he just left my life; then maybe I could forget him.
‘Bye, Sally.’
‘Bye, Nathaniel.’
After I’ve hung up, I stare at the phone. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Erika’s cats are all looking at me from the shelf beside the fireplace. Some are smiling and some are solemn and some are inscrutable and mysterious. I can’t cry; I’ve cried enough this morning. Instead I make myself some toast and another cup of tea, put them on a tray and go back upstairs to my duvet. It is a duvet day. I just want to hide away under it and maybe watch something comforting on the telly.
I am halfway through my second slice of toast when the doorbell rings. I decide to ignore it, but the person won’t be ignored. Whoever it is thumps the door and shouts, ‘Salleee!’
It’s Erika. I plod gingerly downstairs and open the door. She is looking very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and she’s wearing cord trousers and thick leather boots.
‘You’d better hurry up and get ready,’ she says. ‘We’re supposed to be at the stables soon.’
I stare at her. Then I gulp. Oh, feck! Today is the day we’re supposed to be going riding. The last thing I feel like doing is getting on a huge animal who may run off into the hills with me.
‘Fiona’s giving us a lift,’ Erika says. I look out onto the road. Fiona waves. She’s borrowed Zak’s jeep for the occasion, and Milly is sitting in her baby seat in the back.
‘
I tried to ring you, but you were on the phone for ages,’ Erika says.
I wonder if I should just say I can’t go riding today. If I tell her about Diarmuid’s phone call, she’ll surely understand.
‘Go upstairs and change. Fiona brought her jodhpurs in case you needed them.’
‘There is no way I could fit into Fiona’s jodhpurs,’ I say grimly.
‘I’ve been so looking forward to this!’
I look at Erika warily. She is almost bursting with excitement. She needs this, and she needs me to be with her. I sigh and smile. And then I trudge upstairs to dress.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The creature is huge and brown and snorting. She’s called Blossom, and I don’t like the look of her. Saffron, the boot-faced woman who has herded us and the horses into the paddock, tells me that Blossom is very gentle, which is clearly a lie worthy of the most devious politician. Saffron has one of those frightfully solemn faces that make everything seem very serious. Whoever named Saffron clearly thought she was going to be someone else entirely. Saffrons should have long flowing scarves and smell of patchouli. This one looks as if she’s taking a quick break from the army.
She informs me that Blossom sometimes puffs out her stomach when you try to fasten her girth. ‘When you get on her, you’ll have to check the girth again and make sure it’s tight enough.’
‘Saffron, do I have to do that with Bluebell?’ Erika pipes up.
‘No,’ Saffron says, unsmiling. ‘It’s only Blossom you have to watch out for.’
I glower at Blossom, while also reluctantly admiring her subterfuge. If I had to spend the day hauling strangers around the Wicklow hills, I’m sure I would resort to all sorts of ruses. In fact, I might dump the strangers in a large hedge at the earliest opportunity. Blossom is stamping her feet, and I can’t say I blame her. She probably wanted to lead an entirely different kind of life. Today might be the day when she finally makes a break for it. She will probably gallop desperately towards the distant hills, with me on her back. I glance enviously at Erika’s mount, Bluebell, a short, stubby creature who is probably half Shetland pony. Why couldn’t I have been given Bluebell? I feel like I’m back at school. Saffron is talking to us as if we are teenagers.
The Truth Club Page 28
