by Tara Heavey
Matt picked me up at the allotted time and complimented me excessively. Proceedings were already in full swing when we arrived at the racecourse. I couldn’t get over the throngs of people milling about. Styles ranged from smart casual to elegant formal. I was relieved not to feel out of place.
Like his brother, Matt seemed to know everyone – although, among the people greeting him, the ratio of women to men was quite worryingly high. Some of these women kissed him on the cheek before eyeing me up and down speculatively. No, I felt like shouting at them, I’m not his latest bit of fluff!
But I was glad to have him with me, just the same. I felt woefully unqualified to place bets on my own. The bookies were all in one area, a bewildering array of men of various ages in varying styles of caps and overcoats, all willing and able to take your money off your hands. They all kept their takings in what looked like oversized handbags that were made of battered leather, as if the men and their bags had been on the circuit for years. They each had a child-size blackboard on which they wrote mysterious figures – they might as well have been hieroglyphics, for all the sense they made to me. Every so often, one of the men would look at something through a pair of binoculars and change one of his figures. It was baffling yet fascinating.
I allowed Matt to place my bets for me, but I insisted on picking my own horses. He suggested that we study the form first. I pretended to know what this meant. I soon found out that it involved, in part, watching the animals being led around a paddock prior to the race. I chose my first horse on the basis of its sweet expression and a charming white blaze on its nose. Matt gave me a strange look.
‘You can’t pick a horse just because it’s pretty.’
I stuck my nose haughtily in the air. ‘That’s not the only reason. I have a feeling about this horse.’
He shook his head before selecting an ugly, vicious-looking brute that I’d never have chosen in a million years.
His horse galloped to an easy victory. Mine took a tumble at the first fence.
‘Was that the feeling you had, then?’ Matt inquired.
‘What?’
‘That the pretty horse was going to fall at the first fence.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Smart-arse. I’d show him.
For the next race, I decided on Serena’s Lad. I chose him because I’d once owned a guinea pig called Serena, but I pretended to Matt that it was because he had good, strong-looking legs.
‘Strong-looking legs, eh?’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you won’t go for that chestnut filly – number eight? I’d say she could do the business all right.’
‘No.’ I shook my head firmly. ‘Serena’s Lad it is.’
‘Have it your way.’
I had it my way.
I had considerably more success this time. Serena’s lovely Lad soared athletically over the first two fences before refusing at the third, sending his jockey flying. Meanwhile, number eight, the chestnut filly, flew home to a decisive victory.
‘Two out of two,’ said Matt as we went to collect his winnings – again. Was there nothing that this man did not excel at?
I took his advice from then on and finished the day with a tidy little profit. I got so caught up in the cycle of studying form, placing bets, watching races, going to the winners’ enclosure – where the steam rose off the horses’ bodies like smoke – and eventually winning, that I forgot all about lunch. Most uncharacteristic. It wasn’t until late afternoon, as I was standing behind a woman who was wearing a hat made of a manipulated wire coat-hanger and pink and white marshmallows, that I realised how hungry I was.
‘Hungry?’ It was Matt, reading minds as usual.
I thought we’d head to one of the many food tents, but no; Matt had a surprise in store.
‘Wait here and prepare to be impressed,’ he instructed me.
He disappeared off in the direction of the car park, and reappeared five minutes later carrying a gigantic basket.
‘I hope you like picnics.’
Did I what! I followed him to a pleasant green area, a little way from the general noise and mayhem. We settled down in the shade of a massive copper beech, the sunlight dappling over us through the leaves.
The picnic hamper contained one bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne (lightly chilled), one bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice, one large bowl of green salad, one cheese board comprised of five different types of cheese, four swans made of choux pastry and fresh cream, and one punnet of peaches. Matt had also brought along two champagne flutes, cutlery, napkins, paper plates and a blanket to sit on.
We clinked glasses that were bubbling over with Buck’s Fizz.
‘I don’t know what to say, Matt. You’ve outdone yourself.’
‘As long as you enjoy it.’
I did. What is it about eating outdoors? The food somehow tastes so much better. I helped myself to salad, cheese and two swans. The combination of late lunch and early-summer sunshine ensured that the champagne bubbles went straight to my head, stopping off on the way only to tickle the inside of my nose. I took my hat off and let the sun beat down on my face. My eyes began to close.
‘Here, lie down,’ said Matt. He gently pulled me back until my head was resting in his lap. (You’ve heard the expression ‘like putty in his hands’?) He began to stroke the hair around my brow. After a while, I felt him loosening my ponytail and pulling it out of its bobbin.
‘That’s better,’ he said quietly, as he started to run his fingers through my emancipated mane.
I knew I should stop him, but I simply didn’t have the willpower. The combination of his rhythmic fingers grazing my cheek and neck, the twittering birds, the buzzing bees, the scent of fresh-cut grass, the sunshine, the champagne ... I seemed powerless to resist. I comforted myself with the thought that, if he expected me to behave like Chris, he had another think coming.
It was a few minutes before he spoke.
‘We forgot the peaches, Elena.’
‘I’m stuffed.’
‘Have one. They’ll only go to waste.’
I made to get up, but he pressed me down again. ‘I’ll get it for you.’
Eyes still closed tightly against the sun, I listened to Matt rummaging around for the peaches. When the rustling noises stopped, I held out my hand; but nothing materialised in it. Instead, the warm, sweet-smelling, fuzzy skin of the peach was held lightly against my lips.
I took a bite. The skin yielded easily and my mouth was filled with intense softness and sweetness. The flesh of the peach melted onto my tongue and the juices slid down my throat. Once I’d swallowed, I felt the fruit pressed against my lips once more. I took another bite. This time, some juice squirted out and landed on my cheek; I could feel it dribbling down my face towards my chin. I reached my hand up to wipe it away, but Matt caught it.
A shadow fell across my face and I felt hot breath, then a peculiar sensation as his tongue delicately licked the juice from my face. I froze. When the peach was held to my lips for the third time, I hesitated for a long moment before sinking my teeth into the flesh again. No sooner had I swallowed than Matt brought his lips down on top of mine. I responded urgently and hungrily, drawing his tongue into my mouth.
He stopped abruptly and offered me more peach. Then more kisses. More peach. More kisses. Soon there was no peach left.
‘You want another one?’
I nodded greedily and we did it all again, although this time the bites of peach were smaller and the kisses longer.
When I caught myself silently willing Matt to take off my dress, I pulled myself together and moved away. I sat up and looked around, as if I’d forgotten where I was. Just to recap, I was in a field, contemplating fornication.
The sun momentarily popped its head behind a cloud, and this was enough to fully break the spell. I stood up and brushed the crumbs off my dress, then busied myself tidying up the plates and glasses, too embarrassed to look Matt in the eye; but soon everything was cleared up, and I had no choice bu
t to look at him. He hadn’t moved. He was half-lying, half-sitting, his weight resting on his elbows, his ankles crossed. He stared up at me intensely, his eyes like rockpools.
We were both startled by the sudden sound of a giggle. I gasped and whipped my head around, just in time to see two young girls run off from behind the copper beech.
‘Hey, you two!’ Matt called after them. ‘Lizzie O’Donnell and Kate Murphy! I’m going to tell your mothers on you – spying on people like that!’
This just sent the girls into further kinks of laughter. We watched them sprint off until they had disappeared into the crowd.
‘You know them?’
‘Lizzie’s a cousin of mine and Kate is Patricia’s niece – you know, Patricia who works in your office.’
Patricia’s niece! That was all I needed. The details of my illicit affair would be all over Ballyknock by sundown.
But what was so illicit about it? We were both free agents, consenting adults, etcetera, etcetera. If I hadn’t recently broken up with Matt’s brother, everything would have been marvellous.
‘Shall we go and put a few more bets on?’ I was keen to disrupt the highly charged atmosphere.
‘The last race finished fifteen minutes ago. Didn’t you hear the announcement?’ His voice was ever so faintly mocking.
No, I hadn’t heard it. I wonder why.
‘We could go down the local,’ Matt said. ‘That’s what most people do when the races finish. Should be a laugh.’
I scratched my cheek, twiddled the buttons on the front of my dress, fiddled with the ribbon on my hat. Then I retrieved my bobbin from where it lay on the picnic blanket and tied my hair back into the most formal ponytail I could manage in the circumstances.
‘No offence, Matt. Thanks for everything. I’ve had a lovely day – the races and the picnic and everything ...’ I trailed off momentarily. ‘But I’m pretty tired now, and I really don’t feel like going to the pub. Could you drive me home?’
That sounded very sensible, didn’t it? Reasonable and polite, too. I knew Matt was studying me carefully. I half-expected him to object, but he didn’t.
‘Right you are. Let’s go.’ He climbed to his feet, bundled up the last of the gear and held out his hand to me. I took it shyly, hoping that nobody would see us as we walked back to the car – ironic, considering what we’d just been up to.
Back in the jeep, I had the worrying thought that Matt might be reading more into my request to be brought home than there was to be read. He wasn’t expecting a night of squelching passion, was he? Just to be sure, I kept my arms and legs tightly crossed for the entire journey and directed my knees pointedly away from him. I gazed resolutely out of my window, ostensibly to admire the gorse as it blazed against the sky and clashed magnificently with the grass. I spoke only when spoken to, and my replies were as polite and as proper as I could possibly manage.
Power’s Cottage. I glanced nervously at the man in the driver’s seat. Please don’t make this difficult....
Matt smiled and leaned his forearm across the back of my headrest.
‘I’m not going to be invited in, am I?’
‘Um ... well, as I said, I had a lovely day, but I’m–’
‘I know. You’re tired.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll give you a call.’
I nodded in response, got out of the car and watched as he drove down the hill. Then, feeling as if I’d had some sort of lucky escape, I went into the cottage and shut the door behind me.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sleep came more easily than I had anticipated. I still felt half-drugged. It wasn’t until the next morning that I attempted a full post-match analysis. It wasn’t easy. Where was Johnny Giles when you needed him?
To backtrack a little, I woke early – early for a Sunday morning, that is – and, struggling into my dressing-gown, wandered barefoot into the small conservatory. It was already sauna-hot in there. Another glorious day loomed ahead, and I had nothing to fill it with. But that was okay. I had always had an infinite capacity for doing nothing – a generous navel to contemplate. If I were ever to write an honest CV, I’d list ‘doing nothing’ as my main hobby. I’d probably dress it up, call it meditation or something.
I drove down to the shop and returned with a blueberry muffin and the Sunday papers. I made proper coffee and settled down for a morning of complete rest and relaxation. Only my mind had another agenda. That was when the analysis began.
What was it about these Power men? There had been a time – not so long ago – when I’d had complete control in all my relationships; when I hadn’t felt like a tiny, insignificant feather being blown along by every gust of wind life sent my way. I hated this feeling – but I was surprised by the realisation that I loved it too.
I also realised, that morning, that I was still smarting badly from the humiliation I’d suffered at Jack’s hands. I’d never before been so thoroughly rejected by a man, and now I saw that it had shaken my confidence to the core. Any belief I might have had in my own physical attractiveness had been diminished significantly. It would be nice to tell you that I had too much self-esteem to be adversely affected by the insensitive actions of one man, but that didn’t appear to be the case.
And surely Matt knew about that awful night. Men talk about these things as much as women do, and the two brothers were close. Several times, yesterday, I’d only just managed to stop myself from asking Matt how Jack was getting on. I badly needed to know why he’d done what he’d done. Embarrassment and pride were the only things that had stopped me from asking outright.
But there was something else holding me back – from Matt, that is. I felt as if I was on the brink of something – what, I wasn’t sure; as if I was about to take a plunge into dark and mysterious waters, like a mermaid who would never be able to go back to living on dry land. I didn’t know whether I was ready to burst out of my safe mould. It wasn’t foreboding I felt; only fear.
So I did what I always did when confronted with a perplexing situation. I made a list. I can’t remember all the details now, but it went something like this:
Title: The Continuation of My Relationship with Matthew Power
Subtitle: Provided, of course, he wants to pursue a relationship with me
Pro
• Chris says he’s great in the scratcher
• Less likely to end up as sad old crone
• Could be fun
• Got nothing better to do
• He’s a spectacular kisser
• He saved Terence’s life
Con
• He slept with Chris
• Polite Ballyknock society will be scandalised
• I strongly suspect that he may only be after one thing
• He gets around a lot – what if I catch something?
• I don’t know if I could face another rejection
• He’s Jack’s brother
Usually, such an exercise served to clarify the situation; but this time, as both lists were precisely the same length, it merely added to my consternation. Maybe I was looking at this from the wrong angle. A little comparing and contrasting might be in order.
Matt
• Exciting
• Fun
• Good-looking
• Puts together an amazing picnic
• Chris says he’s great in the scratcher
Paul
• Kind
• Fun (when he wants to be)
• Reliable
• Good-looking
• Down-to-earth
• Honourable
I immediately scribbled out the list in frustration. This was getting me precisely nowhere. What was the point in comparing the two men, anyway? Paul was part of my past now. I threw down my pen and took a sip of my lukewarm coffee. I idly watched a pair of bluetits collecting strands of Terence’s fur with which to line their nests. How cute – and how strange, that little bits of Terence should be up goodness
knows how many trees in Ardskeha.
My pleasant musings were rudely interrupted by the telephone.
‘Hello?’
‘Morning, Lainey.’
‘Morning, Matt.’
‘What are you up to today?’
‘Don’t know yet.’
‘Fancy a walk?’
Hmmm ... what to do? If only my lists had produced a more conclusive result.... Oh, feck the lists. It was a beautiful day. Why let it get away?
‘All right. What time?’
Another summer dress, this one in shades of blue and lilac, was resurrected. No hat or heels required today.
It was a walk. Just an innocent walk. Then why did I feel so guilty – as if I were betraying someone?
Matt arrived at ten past two. White T-shirt, dark canvas jeans; crinkly black hair, tanned, freckly face and forearms; knowing blue-green eyes. He wasn’t as tall as Jack, nor as well built. He was more lithe – wiry. He moved with a cat-like grace. I’d never come across a man so comfortable in his own skin.
We decided to walk around Ardskeha. There seemed little point in going elsewhere when you’d be hard pushed to find scenery that stunning. Hand in hand – as if we were a couple – we walked up and down the boreens. Matt helped me over stiles into fields where he’d played as a child. I walked barefoot on the grass. He pointed out the tracks the foxes used. He showed me a badger’s den and a rabbit warren. He told me the names of all the wild flowers and trees I’d been wondering about, and which insignificant-looking weeds were hiding cures for common ailments. He seemed so perfectly at home, so totally in synch with his environment.
We were back at Power’s Cottage before I knew it. Matt looked at me expectantly. How on earth was I going to avoid asking him in this time? The truth was, it just felt too dangerous to have me, Matt and a double bed in close proximity.
