Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  Every time a car passed, or voices were suddenly raised in laughter in the dusky neighbourhood gardens, Rose stiffened, all senses on the alert. She was waiting, again, for Ben’s insistent knocking at her door.

  Lisa found her, surrounded by dim, grainy light, at almost ten o’clock that evening.

  ‘Mum! You gave me a fright! I thought you’d gone out! Why didn’t you ring me back?’

  Rose looked up at her daughter blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘I sent you a text, ages ago, but you didn’t ring me back. I . . . Mum – are you all right?’ Lisa snapped on the kitchen light and Rose winced, covering her eyes from the sudden, merciless glare.

  Should I just tell her now? Should I just say, ‘Your father is back,’ and wait to see what happens?

  Lisa put her arm around Rose’s shoulders. ‘Mum, you look exhausted. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

  Rose immediately sat up straighter. ‘Yes, please, love – that would be great.’

  She watched as her daughter filled the kettle, trying to imagine her as she once was. A shaky, tearful six-year-old, her only certainties the pink, plastic world of her Barbie dolls. Her childish universe had been rocked by the blinding flash, the grey mushroom cloud of marital fallout. What would Ben see, looking at her now? A tall, slender fourteen-year-old, all long legs and blonde hair. Would he recognise her if he met her in the street? Would she recognize him?

  ‘And you’re right, I am tired – very tired. Think you could bring me that cuppa up to bed?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. You’re not working in the morning – sure you’re not?’

  Rose shook her head. She stood up very carefully, making sure her heels were planted solidly on the floor, able to take her weight. She had the feeling that with Ben’s return, the ground might suddenly begin to shift beneath her feet again. She needed to test it, to make sure that nothing was giving way without her knowledge. ‘No, not tomorrow, or the next day, nor even the day after that. In fact, I might never go back to work again.’

  Lisa looked at her strangely. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  Rose smiled. ‘I’m fine – just feeling a bit . . . defeated tonight. Thanks for looking after me, pet.’ And she kissed her daughter’s cheek lightly. ‘By the way, aren’t you late?’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Had the hands moved at all? Or had they completed one whole revolution without her noticing?

  ‘That’s why I was texting you earlier.’ Lisa concentrated on filling the teapot with boiling water. ‘Carly invited me to stay for dinner. I just wanted to make sure that that was okay with you.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Oh. Right. Fine.’

  ‘Her mum and dad are giving us a lift to school in the morning – they’re going into town early. Will I hang out those towels for you before I go?’ Lisa pointed to the washing machine, which Rose had no memory of filling.

  Towels. Dirty laundry. All those years of hanging out the washing.

  She tried to clear her head. It was getting cluttered again with the smoke of tiredness, the present, the future, and all the lowering clouds of Ben’s return. ‘Yes, please, do that. I’ll see you straight after school tomorrow, then, okay?’

  Lisa pointed to the teapot. ‘Do you still want that cup of tea?’

  ‘Absolutely – see you upstairs.’

  But she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She tried to wait for Lisa’s light step on the landing, but her eyelids wouldn’t let her.

  She slept, dreaming of bread baking, wine spilling, crystal smashing. She dreamed of standing by her open bedroom window, watching sheets hanging on the line.

  They were being blown back and forth, back and forth, by the gusty summer winds off the bay.

  Chapter Two

  ROSE SLEPT DEEPLY, dreamlessly, until eight o’clock the following morning. She woke only when she heard Lisa close the front door carefully behind her. Her first thought was: Today is Friday; yesterday was Thursday. She needed to locate herself, to make sure her life was rooted firmly in the present. She needed a universe of logic, order, ordinariness, where the unexpected didn’t take her by surprise.

  In the dim, curtained light of her bedroom, Rose allowed herself to wonder whether she had imagined the events of the previous night. Had Ben really come back? Or was his return instead one of those waking dreams – the ones that crawl just underneath the surface of sleep, insinuating themselves into the mind’s eye, inducing paralysis, voicelessness, the jerky fear of falling from a great height.

  Rose pulled herself up to sitting. Her shoulders ached, her head throbbed. Part of her was glad: at least that was real. Even though she knew that her husband’s return belonged entirely to the waking world, Rose felt that there was still something unreal, something strangely insubstantial, about his startling presence in her home the evening before.

  She showered, dressed, put on her make-up. She needed to do all of these things very slowly, deliberately. Once downstairs, she opened the kitchen door, waited for the evidence. Two wine glasses stood on the draining board; there was a careless plastic cork in the sink. She opened the window and saw towels hanging heavily on the line. Then, she knew for sure. The flesh and blood man who had once been her husband had indeed returned and had stood inside this house again. And now, this morning, no matter where she looked, she couldn’t stop seeing him, seeing herself, seeing their children as they used to be. Every corner of her suddenly unfamiliar kitchen seemed to be populated with edgy, restless ghosts. This was not where she needed to be, not now. This warm and comfortable space had, overnight, become fractured, fragile, poised on the edge of uncertainty. She needed to get out.

  Rose made a physical effort to shrug off the lethargy, picked her keys up off the hall table, and pulled the front door closed behind her. She had to come back to check it twice, forgetting each time that it had been secured already, made safe and solid: her fortress. Halfway down the street, she noticed that it was starting to rain again. She’d left the house without her coat. And she had no umbrella.

  Jane answered the door almost at once. She smiled broadly when she saw Rose on her doorstep. ‘Rose! Great to see you. Come on in. Goodness, you’re wet!’

  Rose followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Take a seat. I was just about to fill the kettle. Your timing is impeccable.’

  Rose looked around her, as though seeing this kitchen for the first time. She’d stumbled in here a lifetime ago, a briefcase stuffed full of credit card statements, receipts, Post-its, all the forgotten detritus of her husband’s pockets. She’d sat for hours at this table, over endless cups of tea. In the evenings, she’d sipped wine while she pieced together the garish jigsaw of her husband’s betrayal. How many times since then had she come here looking for solace?

  Rose sat, feeling all at once that there was no substance to her below the knees. Jane handed her a towel and she patted her face, hiding, just for a moment. Then she blotted dry the ends of her hair.

  ‘You great ninny – out on a day like that without an umbrella! Fancy a cup of coffee?’ Jane turned to look at her as she flipped the switch on the kettle. All at once, she seemed to notice something in Rose’s expression. ‘Hey – are you okay?’

  Rose hung the towel on the back of the chair and tried to smile at her. ‘You asked me exactly the same thing – and I mean those exact words – eight years ago. “Fancy a cup of coffee?” you said.’

  Jane sat down beside her. ‘Rose, what is it? You’re like a ghost. Tell me – what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.’

  ‘It’s Ben. I’m sorry. How can I say this? It’s . . . Ben’s back.’

  Jane looked at her strangely. ‘What about his back?’

  ‘No, no, no, not his back – he’s back: Ben’s here, in Dublin, right now. Landed on my doorstep yesterday evening.’

  Jane leaned forward in her chair. She looked at Rose, her face suddenly paler. ‘You are joking.’

  Rose shook her head slowly. ‘I wish I was. But he’s back, larg
e as life.’

  Jane’s tone was guarded, deliberate. ‘And do you know why? I mean, why has he turned up now, rather than any other time?’

  Rose smiled at her sadly. ‘My thoughts exactly. He’s back to “regularize our position”, according to him.’

  The kitchen went silent, just for a moment.

  ‘What does he think you are? After all this time?’ Jane’s words were heated, indignant. ‘A set of accounts!’

  Rose looked at her in surprise. ‘Why, yes, yes I believe that that’s exactly what he thinks I am.’

  Jane stood up suddenly and busied herself with the coffeepot. ‘Sorry, Rose. I shouldn’t have said that. It kind of . . . slipped out.’

  ‘Jane, look at me.’

  Jane turned around, leaning against the sink, her arms folded. She had never been very good at hiding her feelings. Right now, her face was flushed; her expression hovered somewhere between disbelief and outrage.

  ‘I want you to listen to me, now,’ Rose said quietly. ‘You do not have to be careful of what you say, you do not have to censor your thoughts. Ben and I will not be getting back together – not in this lifetime, not ever. I wouldn’t have survived these past years without you. If we can’t be honest, and angry, and say what we think to each other after all this time, then what’s the point?’

  Jane moved over to the table, started to stir the coffee carefully. ‘It’s just – it’s always such a minefield. Particularly when couples separate. I don’t want anything I say to drive a wedge between us.’ She pulled cups and saucers out of the cupboard, set them carefully on the table, fished the milk jug from the back of the fridge.

  Rose smiled as her friend sat down again beside her. Jane must have forgotten how, together, they’d once developed a sliding scale of domestic disasters and their signifiers. They’d joked that mugs were for the banal, the friendly, intimate everyday: rows with children, temporary shortages of cash, the minor, recurring frustrations of family life.

  Cups and saucers, on the other hand, were for times of crisis; for mothers-in-law, for children’s poor exam results, for all the unwelcome distresses of formality. Painted china became something to focus on, a welcome, delicate distraction. Jane had also insisted that that the scale of the crisis could be further judged by the presence of milk jugs: once they took the place of cartons, or plastic containers hefted onto the table, then the world was declared officially to have shifted, unsteadily, on its axis.

  Rose looked directly at her friend. ‘You did everything absolutely right when Ben walked out. Now he’s back: that doesn’t mean he’s in my life for any longer than it takes me to get rid of him for good. Okay? Nice cups, by the way.’

  Jane grinned at her, suddenly remembering. She shook her head, started to pour the coffee. ‘Jesus, I still can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. You must have been gobsmacked.’

  ‘I was. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after work, and I woke to find him pounding on my front door. Just like that.’

  ‘What do you think he wants then, really? I mean, what does “regularize a position” actually mean?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t say so in so many words, but then he wouldn’t, being Ben – but I know he wants money. Oh yes, the Celtic Tiger has brought him home, according to him. My guess is he wants to sell the house.’

  Jane frowned. ‘But he’s been gone for ages.’

  ‘I know. I’d imagine he knows I could have gone ahead and sold up without his consent last year, but I didn’t, did I? I was too busy trying to make a living and keep the roof over my kids’ heads.’

  ‘What are you going to do? I mean, is he even entitled to anything at this stage?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But one thing’s for sure: he’s going to keep pushing for whatever he believes is his. And that’s fine by me. I want to put this behind me, once and for all. I want a divorce. I’m prepared to pay to make it all . . . just . . . go away.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m not going to tell him that – not yet, at least. But I am going to handle this. I’m going to manage it.’ Shakily, she raised her cup to her lips. ‘I know I don’t look as though I can manage much right now. But by the time this weekend’s over, I’m going to have a plan.’

  Jane grinned at her. ‘Good woman. Are you going to contact your solicitor today?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘I could, but I’m not going to. I need the rest of this weekend just to let the dust settle. Pauline will always fit me in, even if it’s after hours. I need the time to work things out before I get in touch with her. I need to think about what I want. This is not the time to be a headless chicken.’

  ‘Do the kids know?’

  Rose drained her coffee cup, and shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. Lisa didn’t come home from Carly’s until after Ben had gone, and Brian’ll be away until Sunday night. According to Ben, he does want to see them; I just don’t know whether they’ll want to see him. I mean, two of them are adults, but Jesus, that doesn’t mean that they won’t be affected. I dread to think what all of this might do to Damien.’

  Rose pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She could feel another, awful headache just starting. ‘In fact, I’m terrified of what this will do to all of them. I am not going to have them thrown into turmoil all over again on what might be just a whim.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Just keep on doing what you’ve always done,’ Rose stood up and hugged her. ‘You might get in some good red wine, though.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it?’ Rose paused on her way out of the kitchen. ‘Me sitting here all those years ago, wondering how on earth I was going to tell my kids their father had left. Now, here I am again, wondering how in God’s name I’m going to tell them that he’s back.’

  ‘I’m so sorry you’ve got to go through this all over again. And I feel so helpless. If there’s anything I can do, just shout. You need anything for this afternoon, for tonight?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m going home to try and get my head straight. Then I think I’ll lie down for an hour or so before Lisa gets home. I’m barely up out of bed and I’m exhausted already. I have to get a handle on this. I’ll talk to you over the next couple of days, okay?’

  ‘Any time. You know that.’

  Rose opened the door of the kitchen.

  ‘Rose?’

  She turned around. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You do know that any time means any time?’

  ‘I do. I do indeed. See you tomorrow.’

  Once Rose came home from Jane’s, she crawled up the stairs to bed and pulled the duvet around her, pausing only to kick off her shoes. But she couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t get warm. Finally, she lay there, pinned under the armour of a heavy, restless half-sleep.

  She dreamed, watching herself as she waded through some swampy place, surrounded by the chill fogs of memory. There were lights everywhere, but they were pallid ones, their beams shifting and multidirectional. Untrustworthy light, all of it. Elusive, evasive light. There was no way out that she could see, apart from the path she hacked at for herself.

  She struggled into wakefulness in time for Lisa’s return from school.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’

  Good. She was home, and by the sounds of it, in high good humour.

  ‘How was today, love?’ Rose called down to her, scrambling out of bed.

  Lisa dropped her bag in the hallway. She looked up as Rose began to make her way downstairs. ‘You okay? You look very pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, love. Just still very tired. How was school?’ She followed her daughter into the kitchen.

  ‘Fine. Same old same old, as you’d say yourself.’

  ‘I was wondering . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’ Lisa was rummaging in the fridge, not looking at her.

  ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

  Lisa shrugged, made her way over to the table with a tub of yogurt. Rose followed. ‘I was suppos
ed to go babysitting with Carly, but her brother’s little fella is sick, so I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere.’

  Rose decided to seize her opportunity. ‘How about dinner out, then? Just you and me?’

  ‘Tonight?’ Lisa looked surprised.

  ‘Yeah – why not? Whole weekend off, ain’t nobody here but us chickens . . . I haven’t treated you in ages.’

  ‘Can Carly come, and maybe Alison?’

  ‘No, not tonight. Next time, and that’s a promise. I want to talk to you about a couple of things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ The spoon stopped halfway to Lisa’s mouth. Her expression was immediately suspicious.

  ‘Family things, Lisa – what your plans are for the summer, what money you’ll need, clothes . . . that sort of thing. We haven’t really had a chance to chat in a good while.’

  It wasn’t a lie, Rose thought, but it wasn’t really the truth, either. The whole truth could wait a little longer. It wouldn’t spoil.

  ‘Oh, okay. Yeah – that would be good. What time?’

  ‘Let’s say we leave here about half six? That’ll give me time for a bath – and you, too, if you want one. I’ve the water on.’

  ‘I’ll wear my new black trousers with the pink top – what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ll look just gorgeous.’ Rose planted a kiss on top of her daughter’s fair head, hugged the slim shoulders from behind. ‘I’m going up now for a good soak. See you in about an hour.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t use up all the towels.’ Nonchalantly, Lisa licked strawberry yogurt off the back of her spoon, then scraped the inside of the carton, not looking up.

  Rose grinned. ‘That’s my line.’