Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  He allowed himself to be hugged. ‘Thanks, Mum. For everything.’

  That was what Damien had said, too, Rose remembered suddenly. Had she actually managed things, after all?

  ‘You’re welcome. Call me when you’ve arrived safely.’

  Brian hoisted his rucksack onto his back. ‘I will. Text me if you want me. I don’t think the phone in this hostel is up to much, according to reports. In fact, I don’t think the hostel is up to much.’

  ‘Well, as long as it’s clean.’

  Brian grinned at her. ‘You guys are so predictable. John’s mum said the same thing. We’d never afford anythin’ else in Paris anyway, so it’ll be grand. Cheap and cheerful, as you’d say yourself.’ He took a step towards her. At that moment his mobile rang. ‘That’ll be Dad.’ He let it ring. ‘C’mere. I never gave you a proper hug.’

  ‘Don’t lift me up,’ she warned him.

  ‘I can’t – look at what I already have on my back!’

  They hugged. She kissed his shadowed cheek. ‘Off you go. Have a blast.’

  ‘I will.’ He began to walk away from her, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. At the door to the lifts, he turned around and waved, the mobile already at his ear.

  She waved back, waiting, smiling until he had disappeared.

  After all, she could always have a little weep on the way home.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘SURE YOU’RE READY FOR THIS?’

  Rose replied at once. ‘Absolutely. I want to move this up a notch. What have I got to lose? He’s been bombarding us with requests for a meeting. Let’s give him what he’s looking for.’

  Pauline nodded. ‘Just don’t agree to anything – put your offer on the table and wait and see what happens. Leave the negotiations up to me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Rose grimly. ‘I will.’

  ‘Sure you’re ready for this?’ Sam handed her her new jacket, easing it carefully off the hanger.

  ‘You know I am. We’ve practised it a million times. I know it so well that if I don’t do it now, over-familiarity will make me forget it. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do, indeed,’ said Sam, smiling at her. ‘All I can say is, I’ll be thinking of you. And I’ll be waiting here with champagne on ice, no matter what the outcome.’ He turned around, picked a small, gift-wrapped parcel up off the table. ‘This is for you.’

  Rose was startled. She hadn’t noticed it before. She looked at Sam. ‘Can I open it now?’

  He laughed. ‘You can’t wear it if you don’t open it.’

  Rose tore off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid carefully. ‘Oh, Sam. It’s beautiful.’

  He took the slim, gold bangle from her and placed it carefully on her wrist. ‘For luck,’ he said, and kissed her.

  She threw her arms around him, clung to him. ‘I love you,’ she said quietly.

  He smiled. ‘I’d hug you back, but I’m afraid to crease that outfit. Now, just remember what we said . . .’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, smiling. ‘This meeting is business. Nothing personal.’

  ‘Exactly. Keep thinking like that, and you’ll be fine. I’ll be waiting for you when you finish. Don’t hang around – get a taxi back straight away. I’ll be here. And my mobile will be on all day, in case you need me.’

  She took a long breath. ‘I can do this, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, firmly. ‘You can. Now, stop thinking about it: just go ahead and do it. Remember what we said: “Let’s do it to him before he does it to us.” ’

  Rose walked smartly down O’Connell Street, keeping an eye on the time. She’d be a couple of minutes late, but that was how she wanted it. She’d already been into the Gresham Hotel earlier that week and booked the table for lunch. She’d chosen carefully, so that a passing glance would be enough to tell her whether Ben had arrived before her.

  If he hadn’t, she would simply sweep past, make a leisurely detour to the Ladies downstairs and return once he was installed. She’d already decided, too, to allow him fifteen minutes’ grace, no more. If he was later than that, she was gone, out of there.

  Keep the upper hand at all times, Pauline had warned her. Seize the advantage – don’t wait for him to initiate anything. Sam had concurred.

  ‘Remember,’ he’d kept saying, ‘this man is not your husband any longer – think of him as a business adversary, a canny operator, well able to pull a fast one. If you keep thinking of him like that, you have a fighting chance.’

  All weekend Rose had summoned images of wakeful nights, domestic battlefields, the desperation she had felt on all those five o’clock mornings after Ben had walked out. It wasn’t difficult. She could access those times so easily in her memory, it made her shiver.

  And so, armed with Sam’s blue folder, his gold bangle and all the courage she could muster, Rose made her way into the deeply piled silence of the Gresham’s dining room. Ben was there before her. In another fancy suit, she noticed, wearing one of those ultra-fashionable steel-grey, almost metallic-looking ties, and a white shirt whose collar told Rose it had cost a small fortune.

  Charvet, she thought suddenly, the name coming at her from somewhere she couldn’t remember.

  She stood up straighter, conscious of her own smart suit – long jacket, skirt with seams so sharp they were dangerous – and a pair of wildly extravagant taupe leather kitten heels. Damien would have enjoyed that, the way she’d spent his Brown Thomas voucher. The only problem was, she’d never be able to tell him what proportion of her outfit it had actually bought.

  But the shoes. The shoes were her pièce de résistance.

  Ben stood up on her approach. ‘Rose,’ he said, pleasantly, with just the ghost of a chilly smile. ‘So good to see you.’

  ‘Hello, Ben.’ She watched as the waiter approached and held out her chair for her.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked her husband, signalling to the waiter to stay. Just as she had hoped, Ben was completely thrown. With that one question, that one gesture, she had made it perfectly clear who had just gained the advantage.

  ‘Er – gin and tonic, please,’ he said stiffly. He smoothed his expensive tie back into place, and by the time he sat, he had recovered his composure.

  ‘Sparkling water for me, please,’ Rose said sweetly, and the waiter vanished, all smiles and deference.

  She allowed a silence to grow, contentedly looking around the dining room. She had steeled herself in advance not to be the one to fill in any gaps in the small talk. Looking at the other hotel guests, Rose couldn’t help wondering how many other lunchtime meetings had murder as their first course.

  Ben cleared his throat. ‘It’s good to see you again, Rose. How have you been?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Very well indeed. And you? How are all those business . . . opportunities . . . coming along?’ She sipped at her water, looking at him innocently.

  He flushed.

  Gotcha, she thought.

  ‘We’re making progress . . .’

  The waiter arrived to take their order. Wonderful, thought Rose. What a perfectly timed interruption. You’d think I’d paid him. She took her time, listened to the lunchtime specials with great concentration, asked knowledgeable questions about the salmon. At the same time, she saw, enjoyed – no, revelled in – her husband’s obvious discomfiture. She could read every nuance of that facial expression: this was his role, he was accustomed to being the host, his was by rights the tone of sophistication, of geniality, of ownership. By the time Rose had ordered, and turned smilingly to see what her guest would like, Ben’s face was shadowed with the sullenness she already knew so well.

  Take it easy. Keep just this side of nuclear explosion, or everything I’ve planned will go pear-shaped.

  Once the waiter had gone, Rose reached into her briefcase. ‘Let’s get on with what we came here to discuss, shall we?’ she said, handing Ben a blue folder across the table. ‘You told me nearly three months ago you’d come back to “r
egularize” everything between us – the house, the kids, the lot.’

  He nodded curtly, not meeting her gaze.

  ‘Well then, let’s do it. As far as our grown-up children are concerned, you’ve now met with all three of them, with considerable help from me, I might add. Whatever happens in the future is up to you and them. I’ve done my part. And whether you believe it or not, I’ve never said anything to turn any of them against you.’ She took a sip of water.

  Ben didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected him to.

  ‘I’ve thought about the house a lot, Ben, and I really don’t want to sell it before Lisa finishes school. Brian will be coming home to go back to college in October, as well; it would all be too much of an upheaval.’

  She stopped, taking the cap off her pen. ‘I know you have your opportunities here, and that you need to finance them. I’m prepared to do that, to take out a loan for your portion of the property and finish everything between us. Take a look at these pages.’

  She could see that he was agitated, that he resented the initiative having been wrested from him. He wanted to reply, but curiosity got the better of him, as she’d known it would. She watched the fury build across his forehead as he read. Good, she thought. Just the reaction I wanted. She was surprised at her own sudden ability to play this game. She felt curiously dispassionate, detached from any emotion. Nothing personal, just business.

  ‘You’re offering me twenty-five per cent of the value of my own house? You’ve got to be kidding.’ His voice was tight, strained, holding onto his temper with some difficulty. Rose was immediately grateful that all of this was taking place in a neutral space, far away from her home. She had deliberately chosen a very public venue, one where no memories or hidden agendas lurked in ambush. Early that morning, she had visualized parcelling up all her feelings – love, anger, bitterness, tenderness – and wrapping them in gold paper. She’d placed them in her kitchen, on the table, and very carefully locked the door behind her.

  I am nothing but a tough negotiation on legs, wearing a new suit and expensive shoes. That’s all.

  ‘It’s not your house; it’s the family home. You walked out eight years and four months ago and you’ve still never paid a penny towards it, or your family. You’ll see that all I have deducted is what you owe.’

  She watched the reply forming, watched as Ben shifted in his chair so that he could lean across the table at her. Now it would start. But she was ready for him: she knew this tactic too. Twenty years of marriage had prepared her.

  In Your Face. She sat back. She raised her hand, just a fraction: but it was enough. Astonishment seemed to silence him.

  ‘I’m not finished, Ben. There’s not a court in the land that would force me to sell my children’s home, not a judge anywhere that would absolve you of what you owe. This is a generous offer, and it’s based on the highest of three estate agents’ valuations – you’ve got the originals there in front of you.’

  Rose pressed her hands into her napkin. She could feel their trembling getting out of control.

  The waiter arrived, setting their food before them. Rose looked at her plate, filled with a watery nausea. Hurry up, she urged her husband silently. Hurry up and say “no” so that I can walk out of here while I’m still able.

  ‘I don’t accept these valuations. I don’t accept them at all.’ Ben pushed the pages away from him, his gesture signalling contempt.

  Rose shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’d like to send in your own experts? Perhaps the man with the measuring tape, the one who showed such interest in the width of the garden, the length of the driveway?’

  But it was lost on him. He leaned even further across the table. ‘You’re not listening to me,’ he hissed. ‘I don’t accept any of these valuations because they can’t predict what a house like . . . like ours will fetch at an auction. These are all bullshit.’ He stuffed the papers back into the blue folder and glared at her.

  ‘Well, that’s my offer, Ben. Take it, or wait eleven years until Lisa’s finished college. Doesn’t matter to me.’ She picked up her fork and made a pretence at eating.

  ‘You can’t seriously expect me to accept two hundred thousand euro out of a house that I know is worth well over a million? Christ almighty, things can’t have cost you that much over the last eight years.’

  What a wonderful note on which to make my exit, Ben Holden.

  ‘Tell that to the judge.’ Rose picked up her handbag, her briefcase and stood up – a little shakily, but nothing that anyone else would notice. ‘I’m not going to sit here and listen to any more of your fatherly concern. Stay as long as you like – I’ve already paid the bill.’

  And she turned her back, counting the steps to the dining room door. She was left with a vivid image of her husband, red-faced, open-mouthed, just as he had been when she’d closed her door against him all those years ago.

  Round one, she thought, as she hailed a taxi.

  I think that went rather well.

  ‘So what’s next?’

  Pauline poured another cup of coffee and pointed to the papers in front of her. ‘Well, he certainly won’t accept your first offer, but we knew he wouldn’t. He’s looking for a minimum of four hundred thousand, according to this. He wants his own independent valuation.’

  ‘Fine by me. Any time he likes. Although he told me last week that he didn’t accept any valuations, because they wouldn’t take “auction fever” into account. I don’t care how many independent experts he gets. I just want him to continue believing I don’t want to sell. I want this to be tough for him, and I want him to acknowledge what he owes his children. That’s all.’

  ‘And are you still quite sure that you want to concede? Are you really happy to live somewhere else? You don’t have to, you know. Please remember that.’

  Rose smiled at her. ‘I’m already living somewhere else, in all the ways that matter. That house ceased to be my home a long time ago – I just didn’t know it. It’s got nothing to do with conceding anything: I just don’t want to live there any more.’

  ‘Do the kids know you’re going to sell?’

  ‘No, nobody else knows, except the two of us, and Sam, of course. I’ll tell them all when I have to. I’ve already started house-hunting, very quietly. I’ve lots of options – even if we end up with a sixty–forty split. I want to string this negotiation out for as long as possible, and then agree to sell.

  ‘Let Ben think he’s won, that I’ve agreed reluctantly because I can’t take the pressure of the negotiation. Then we can go to auction in September or October, which is supposed to be the best time, and then it’s over, done with. I’ll pay him off and I’ll never have to see him again.’

  ‘Okay. It certainly makes financial sense, as long as it makes emotional sense for you and the kids.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle them. Brian is planning on moving out in October, anyway, so it’s really just Lisa I have to worry about. And she’s grown up a lot through all of this. The important thing is that Ben accepts that some things are just not negotiable.’ Rose paused for emphasis. ‘He pays what is due to his children, that’s all. I don’t want anything for myself, but I’m not budging on that figure: that’s their future.’

  Pauline nodded. ‘Okay again – we’ll proceed on that basis. All the haggling is now over the percentages; the day in court seems to be receding somewhat after the last volley we fired across their bow. There was a deafening silence to my request for medical reports on Ben’s depression, and for copies of his bank statements. We’re making progress.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rose. ‘Tell him to go ahead with his valuation and then we’ll talk again.’

  Rose stood up to leave.

  ‘You okay? Mr McCarthy okay?’

  Rose smiled. ‘More than okay. It’s – like a whole other life.’

  Rose left Pauline’s office and made her way out onto the street. It wasn’t time to tell her of Sam’s plan, not yet. Too many ‘i’s to be dotted and ‘t’s to
be crossed. It might even have to wait until the day.

  September. Or maybe even October.

  She’d tell her when she was sure the time was right.

  Rose put Lisa’s case by the front door and left her rucksack lying beside it. She had a quick glance around the living room, but the earlier thunderstorm of clothes and shoes and make-up seemed to have abated. The air had settled again. Calm after the storm.

  ‘Lisa? Are you sure you have everything?’ Rose called.

  She appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Yeah. I went through the list again before I locked the case.’

  ‘What about your rain jacket?’

  ‘It’s down in the hall, under the stairs.’

  ‘Right. You’ve another ten minutes, no more.’

  Rose opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out Lisa’s rain jacket. Her new handbag came with it, its velcro clasp somehow having wedded itself to the fastenings on the jacket. As Rose tugged, the handbag fell away suddenly onto the hall floor, its contents scattering widely.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, and bent to pick them up. A purse, lip gloss, a notebook and a hairbrush had all made their way under the hall table, along with several envelopes. Puzzled, Rose reached out for them. As she did so, fifty-euro notes slithered everywhere, disappearing further underneath the table. She got down on her hands and knees, retrieved them and counted, with mounting astonishment. Nine brand-new notes: four hundred and fifty euro, in cash. For a brand-new fifteen-year-old? For three weeks in the countryside?

  Rose stood up to find Lisa looking at her from the bottom stair. She didn’t even wait for her daughter to speak.

  ‘Lisa, where on earth did you get all this money? You spent Damien’s hundred on new clothes, and I gave you a hundred last night. Where did you get the other three hundred and fifty?’ But she already knew the answer, or most of it.

  Lisa looked at her defiantly. ‘I saved fifty myself, from babysitting. Dad gave me the other three hundred.’

  ‘Come into the living room.’ Rose opened the door and gestured to Lisa to go in ahead of her.