Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  Nine hundred and fifty thousand. The auctioneer smoothed his tie. ‘The reserve has been reached, ladies and gentlemen. I can declare that this property is now on the market.’

  She risked a glance at Ben, who was avidly watching the room. He was nervous, eager – she could see it in the way he held himself. There could be no doubt but that he was the owner; even his gaze carried a proprietorial air.

  Nine hundred and eighty thousand, she heard. Thirty over the reserve. Pauline smiled at her, gave her hand a comforting squeeze.

  ‘Nine hundred and ninety.’

  ‘One million.’

  Still Rose couldn’t make out who was bidding. One man had a pipe in his mouth; another appeared to be reading a book. Yet another seemed to be fiddling nervously with a pen. She was afraid to look towards the third row, where Sam still continued with his crossword. Yet the auctioneer went onto nod, almost imperceptibly, towards different corners of the room as the bidding continued unabated.

  And then, suddenly, it was over.

  ‘One million, one hundred and fifty thousand once; one million, one hundred and fifty thousand twice; one million, one hundred and fifty thousand – for the third time. Sold.’

  Pauline turned to her, smiling. ‘Congratulations, Rose – that’s a great price. You’re well out of the financial woods.’ But Rose wasn’t listening. Her eyes sought Sam’s. He turned around gravely, put his newspaper on the seat, and glanced in Rose’s direction. He nodded briefly, just the once.

  ‘Pauline, come with me. There’s something I have to tell you.’

  She took her by the hand, making her way quickly towards Ben’s corner of the room. Ben’s solicitor was delightedly shaking hands with him. Rose saw the look of satisfaction on her husband’s face, his told-you-so expression as he watched her approach. She stopped at the auctioneer’s table and turned to Pauline.

  ‘Just listen. I couldn’t tell you earlier – I was afraid you might find the information . . . uncomfortable.’

  ‘What information? Listen to what? Rose, have you lost your marbles?’

  ‘No – I’ve just found a few more. Listen.’ She squeezed Pauline’s hand urgently.

  Sam made his unhurried way towards the top of the room. He shook hands with the auctioneer and spoke to him quietly. Rose couldn’t hear what he said. She saw the auctioneer gesture towards Ben, who moved forward eagerly. A young woman, dark-haired, suited, stood up from the third row and made her way towards the top of the room. Rose knew who she was, from Damien’s description. She didn’t need to be told. It was almost like watching herself.

  Rose pulled Pauline closer. She knew that she had just spotted Sam. Pauline was looking suddenly bewildered. Rose squeezed her hand: wait, wait. Don’t worry. All will soon be revealed. They could hear the voices clearly now.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to the vendor,’ the auctioneer was saying. ‘This is Mr Ben Holden. Mr Holden, meet Mr Sam McCarthy, the new owner.’

  Pauline’s chin literally dropped. She wheeled around to look at Rose. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Rose grinned. ‘Shhh – listen.’

  They watched as, almost in slow motion, Sam reached his hand out to grasp Ben’s. He shook it heartily.

  ‘A fine house, Mr Holden. A very fine house. I’m proud to be the new owner – we both are. Please, meet my partner, Rose.’

  The remaining five steps are the longest walk she has ever taken. Sam turns, puts one arm around Rose’s shoulder, and says ‘I know we’re going to be very happy there.’

  Ben simply looks from one to the other, comprehension taking a long time to percolate. His solicitor is looking puzzled, all bonhomie fading fast. The dark-haired woman’s smile suddenly collapses, her expression uncertain, troubled.

  Then, Rose watches as horrified understanding seems to begin at Ben’s hairline. His face flushes and then pales suddenly, all colour leaching away. His lips become a thin, tight line. My house, she can see him thinking. She’s going back to live in my house. For one long, dread-filled moment, Rose thinks that Ben is going to lunge at her, at Sam. His face becomes suddenly featureless; even his eyes seem to lose their definition. The moment passes.

  He says nothing, just pushes his way past them and makes for the door. McGowan follows, hurrying after his client. The dark-haired woman walks after them, unhurried. She casts a glance in Rose’s direction, hesitates, then follows the two men out of the room.

  The auctioneer is looking bewildered.

  Sam takes out his cheque book. The spell is broken. ‘I believe you have a contract for me to sign?’ he says.

  The auctioneer was suddenly all business, pulling papers from a pile in front of him, sliding them towards Sam.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mr McCarthy. Please, if you’d be good enough to sign here.’

  Pauline turned to Rose. ‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell you. We didn’t even know if the bidding would go beyond us. As it happens, it’s just what we budgeted.’

  ‘But – forgive me: I’m really confused now. I thought you didn’t want the house? I thought you wanted to make a fresh start somewhere else?’

  Rose smiled at her. ‘I do – and I don’t want the house. That’s the best part. Sam has been very quietly negotiating with a couple who refuse to buy at auction. They’ve already offered me one point two million. But they’re not in a position to close the contract for at least six months. So I’m going to keep on living there until they’re ready. They’re prepared to sign all the papers now, pay a deposit, and wait until it suits all of us to move. I’m more than happy with that. We’ll move next summer sometime, during everyone’s holidays.’

  Pauline nodded slowly. ‘A dish best served cold, isn’t that what you once said to me?’

  Rose smiled. ‘Yes – and Ben still walks away with in excess of three hundred grand. So don’t feel sorry for him. This way, my kids’ futures are secure. I told you that they were my main priority. I was willing to fight like a lioness for them.’

  ‘So you did. Remind me never to cross you, okay?’

  Rose laughed. ‘Only where my children are concerned. Even the worm turns. My mother used to say that, too.’

  Sam shook Pauline’s hand. ‘Thanks for everything, Pauline. Rose has told me how well you’ve looked after her.’

  Pauline grinned at him. ‘Seems like I wasn’t the only one, Sam McCarthy. You take my breath away, both of you. Congratulations. I’m still not over the shock. There is something truly wonderful about finally seeing the good guys win. I see that so little, these days.’

  It took hours for Rose to feel normal again. She was constantly surprised that ‘normal’ these days was increasingly coming to mean ‘happy’. It’s really over, she thought. Ben is out of my life, my kids are looked after, and now the best part of my life is just beginning.

  Sam squeezed her hand. ‘You okay?’ he asked quietly. ‘You’re very pale.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I love you, Sam McCarthy.’

  ‘I love you, too. Now let’s go home. You’ve a daughter to collect before we all do some serious celebrating. And just so’s you know, Jane and Jim and Alison are all joining us. I’m not telling you where we’re going for dinner. I want to see all of your faces when we arrive.’

  Rose hugged him. ‘Some good serving ideas for me to copy?’

  He grinned. ‘The best. And not a strawberry shortcake in sight.’

  Epilogue

  ROSE LOOKS AROUND HER in satisfaction. She likes the way the evening sun fills the bay window, the way the wood gleams gold. Damien shoves the living room door open with his shoulder and staggers slightly under the weight of a large cardboard box.

  ‘Jesus, that’s heavy.’ He dumps it on the floor. ‘That’s the last of the painters’ rubbish from upstairs. We can put the beds back now, if you like.’

  ‘Let’s do that. Then we can sit on the patio and light the barbecue. Lisa will be back around seven; so w
ill Brian. Will you stay and eat with us?’

  ‘Sam coming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that.’

  ‘Dump that box in the boot of my car – I’ll get rid of it tomorrow.’

  ‘Anything else that needs to go in?’

  ‘No, that’s it. All done and dusted.’

  Rose waits as Damien struggles out to the car. She watches him from the window, this tall, dark-haired young man. Hard to believe he has ever been a child; harder still to believe he was once a troubled youth. Almost twenty-six, warm, thoughtful, something so very solid about him now.

  He comes back into the house. ‘Right,’ he says, rubbing his hands together, ‘let’s light the barbie and get this show on the road.’

  The patio is in just the right place to catch the evening sun. Rose reclines on her lounger – a gift from Jane and Jim, with a matching one for Sam – and closes her eyes; she thinks what a lovely month September always is. Nicer than summer.

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Damien calls, checking the barbecue, which is still glowing redly.

  Lisa bounces in. ‘Hi, Mum! Is my bedroom back together again?’

  ‘Yes it is. Just be careful, the paint might still be a bit tacky.’

  ‘Okay. Sam coming tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Cool. Is it still the ultimate accolade, Rose wonders, or has its place been taken by something else? Brian used to say it all the time as a young teenager. Brian, all sophisticated now, all serious, after his two summers in Paris. His return home is only temporary, he keeps telling her, he’ll definitely be gone by Christmas. She listens. Again. She doesn’t mind.

  He and Damien still rub against each other from time to time, spatting occasionally in a way that no longer worries her. She’s seen them together when it mattered, brothers above everything else.

  Ben calls each of the three of them, from time to time. And from time to time, they call him. She doesn’t know what they talk about, doesn’t want to pry. She’s seen him only once since the auction, bumped into him in Grafton Street the day after their divorce had come through. They were civil, polite, wished each other the best. It was enough.

  The doorbell goes again. Rose loves the sound. There are no longer any shattered pieces of the past that come calling to her door.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ Lisa shouts.

  Sam and Brian come in together.

  ‘Found this ruffian at the bus stop – thought I’d better bring him in and give him a decent meal.’

  She doesn’t need to look: she can hear the friendly punch that Brian gives his tormentor. He’s too sedate for a young fellow, Sam keeps telling her. He needs to treat me with less respect, if you know what I mean.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Hi, Brian. Good day?’

  She still doesn’t open her eyes. She doesn’t need to. She prefers hearing what they all look like, gathered around her.

  ‘Yeah, starving, though.’

  ‘How you surprise me. There’s some quiche left over from lunch. Why don’t you have that before dinner? It’ll be a good hour yet.’

  ‘Okay.’ He disappears into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, Lady Muck.’ Sam sits beside her, taking her hand in his.

  She smiles, opening her eyes now. ‘That makes you Lord Muck.’

  ‘But I’ve been out slaving over hot figures all day. I’ve not been sitting here in the sun, indulging in the good life.’

  ‘More fool you.’

  ‘Any word from Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, go on, then – don’t keep me in suspense.’

  Rose has to shade her eyes from the slanting sun. ‘She jumped at it. She’s buying me out. She’s very happy with my client list, even happier to keep Betty on. And as from January next, I’ll be working a maximum of twenty hours a week – that’s a third of my average over the last nine years or so.’

  ‘How do you feel, then, milady?’

  She grins at him. ‘Absolutely wonderful. A five-year contract, consultation fees, part-time work – how else would I feel?’

  He kisses her. ‘Lustful?’ he asks, hopefully.

  She smiles at him, pulls him closer. ‘Always. Stay tonight?’

  He nods. ‘Try sending me away after that.’

  ‘And I made another decision today.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m going to do something different next autumn. Haven’t decided what it is, yet – but I want it to be something that’s not remotely practical or useful. Something for me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Maybe history of art, or literature, stained-glass making – I don’t mind. I want to stop my brain from atrophying.’

  ‘I think there’s two chances of your brain atrophying – but anyway. Go for it, young woman, go for it.’

  Rose grins at him wickedly. ‘I wasn’t asking your permission, you know.’

  Sam strokes her cheek. ‘Nor was I giving it. I was just making some general, approving noises. Speaking of noises, I’d better take a look at this barbecue. Seems to be spitting at your elder son quite a bit.’

  She watches as he crosses the small area of decking that separates the patio from the house. She loves the very bones of her new home, her new life. Loves its compactness, its welcoming light, its friendliness.

  Damien and Sam discuss the technicalities of barbecuing. Music pours down from Brian’s bedroom – more melodic, softer music since his return from Paris.

  She can hear Lisa talking. Just turned sixteen: all grown up. Her summer life has been a constant round of parties, friends, long conversations on the phone, just like this one. Probably to a mobile, too, Rose thinks now, and suddenly doesn’t care.

  Life is . . . serene. She leans her head back, closes her eyes again. She can feel herself begin to drift.

  She hears laughter, Sam’s voice above it, and is consumed with love. How lucky I am, she thinks. How very, very lucky.

  She hears Lisa again, closer now, discussing with Sam the merits of tongue-piercing, nose-piercing. He teases her about the perils of turning into a pin-cushion.

  She hears Damien tell him about his recent promotion. And then Brian’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, come to scavenge more food.

  This is how it should be, she thinks. This is all I ever wanted. Unsummoned, the thought makes itself clear inside her mind: I love my life.

  What else was there? It was here, all of it.

  Tranquillity. Peace of mind.

  This.

  Love.

  Or something like it.

  Something Like Love

  CATHERINE DUNNE was born in Dublin. Her first novel, In the Beginning, was published in 1997. It became an international bestseller and was shortlisted for the Bancarella, the Italian booksellers’ prize. A Name for Himself, which followed in 1998, was shortlisted for the Kerry Ingredients Book of the Year Award. The Walled Garden was published in 2000 and Another Kind of Life in 2003, both to critical and popular acclaim. Catherine Dunne lives in Dublin.

  ALSO BY CATHERINE DUNNE

  In the Beginning

  A Name for Himself

  The Walled Garden

  Another Kind of Life

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to Audrey McDonald and John Carty for taking time out of a hectic schedule to discuss the finer points of cold rooms, food preparation and snazzy serving ideas. Not to mention the rigours of loading and unloading the van . . .

  Thanks, too, to Geraldine Lockhart of Lockhart and Company, Solicitors, for helping me pick my way through the intricacies of Irish family law. Any mistakes in interpretation are my own, and occur despite Ms Lockhart’s illuminating insights into difficult, often bewildering, and always sad, territory.

  Lia Mills and Mikaela Wiezell read early drafts of this novel and made many welcome suggestions, as did Julia Forster and Shirley Stewart of the Shirley Stewart Literary Agency,
and Trisha Jackson of Macmillan. I am grateful to all of them, particularly as they took me at my word and were cheerfully blunt when the occasion demanded.

  And, finally, special thanks to my editor, Imogen Taylor at Macmillan, for just about everything. Her interventions have made this a much better book than it could ever have been without her.

  First published 2006 by Picador

  This electronic edition published 2012 by Picador

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

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  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-54184-8 EPUB

  Copyright © Catherine Dunne 2006

  The right of Catherine Dunne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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