Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  “Dunno.” He spooned coffee into the mugs. “Maybe he’s married.”

  In the act of unwrapping the butter, Hannah paused. “Married?”

  “Hey, I could be wrong,” Adam said. “There might have been nobody there, but I just got a feeling.”

  Hannah made no reply.

  “No doubt we’ll find out soon enough if there’s someone on the scene,” Adam said. “Coffee’s made.”

  “Thanks…” Hannah took eggs from the fridge. She got sugar and flour from a cupboard and lay them next to the eggs. She attached the beaters to the stand mixer and filled four baking trays with paper liners.

  “Look what I bought today.”

  She turned back to Adam, who was holding out a little plastic bag. She peered inside. “Iced Gems—I haven’t seen them for years.”

  “Yeah—I’d forgotten how much I like them.” He tipped a scattering of the brightly colored little biscuits into her hand and turned toward the door. “And now you must excuse me—I have to practice my Beethoven.”

  “Now that’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear you say. You have half an hour before I go to bed.”

  “Plenty. See you tomorrow.”

  Hannah bit into a pink-iced biscuit. Just because Adam thought there’d been a man in his apartment didn’t mean there was. And even if there was, it didn’t mean he was married, or with someone else—there could be a totally different reason for Nora to not want anyone to know about him.

  She filled the kettle for her hot-water bottle.

  “Jesus,” Patrick said, “that was a bit close.”

  Nora ran a fingernail along his back. “Imagine his face if he’d walked in and found you in his bed.”

  Patrick laughed shortly. “Actually, he’s really not my type.” He winced. “Hey, easy with the claws—no marks, remember?”

  “I thought you said Leah wasn’t interested.” Continuing her slow trail down his spine. “So I’ll only leave my mark where she won’t be looking.” Bending and nipping his buttock with her teeth.

  He jerked out of her reach. “Cut it out—we can’t take chances like that.” He rolled over, pinning her beneath him and trapping her arms. “We can still have our fun—we just need to be careful not to get caught.”

  She smiled. “But darling, the risk of getting caught is where all the fun comes in.”

  June

  I can’t get hold of Tom,” Stephen said. “I’ve tried ringing him, several times—his mobile is switched off, and the landline just rings out.”

  “Can’t you leave a message?” Geraldine asked.

  “No—there’s no answering machine on the house phone.”

  “Oh, that’s true. I forgot that.”

  “It’s like he’s trying to hide.” Stephen pushed his plate aside. “It’s been nearly ten weeks now. The clinic can’t keep paying him indefinitely for not showing up.”

  Geraldine set her fork down. “Stephen, I don’t know what I’d have done if it had happened to you.”

  “Don’t think like that.” He rubbed a hand across his face wearily. “I’ll have to call around there.”

  “It seems like you will.” Geraldine stacked the plates and brought them to the sink. “Should I say anything to Alice?”

  Her hours had been cut. Now she didn’t go to work till two, and then usually held the fort on her own till closing time.

  “No,” Stephen said slowly, getting up. “Best say nothing to Alice.” He took the salt- and pepper cellars back to the shelf above the fridge. “Tom might lie low if he thinks I’m coming.”

  Geraldine spooned ice cream into dishes. “Poor Tom. Poor Alice.”

  Stephen thought, but didn’t say, At least they’re both alive.

  “I’m trying to get my daughter to come over for a visit,” John said, “as soon as she gets holidays at the end of the month.”

  “That’s good.” Hannah put a hand over her glass as he lifted the brandy bottle. “Better not, thanks. You said she’s in college?”

  John topped up his own drink. “Yes, in Edinburgh. She’s just finishing first-year law.”

  “And she’s been to Ireland before?”

  “Yes. We often came to visit my mother’s family in Tipperary when Danielle was growing up. But she hasn’t been over here in years, and it would be her first time in Clongarvin.”

  “Wonder what she’ll make of us.” Hannah took a tiny sip of her remaining brandy. “Well, I must say that dinner was most impressive.”

  “So my cooking hasn’t scared you off.”

  “Not in the least—I love spare ribs. You’re a far better cook than I am.”

  “Oh, I doubt that very much.” He set his glass down on the coffee table. “But maybe I’ll have the chance to compare our cooking skills sometime.”

  “You never know.”

  He moved closer and bent his head and put his lips against her throat. “I’m glad I met you,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” She closed her eyes as he moved his mouth to the opening in her blouse. She felt her way to his shirt buttons and began to undo them.

  His skin was warm. His hands were gentle. And his mouth, when he finally found hers, tasted of brandy.

  Vivienne was not herself.

  “You’re not yourself,” her mother told her at the dinner table. “You never say no to apple sponge. It’s not a bit like you.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Vivienne replied.

  “That’s what I mean,” her mother said. “It’s not like you not to be hungry.”

  “You’re miles away,” Wally said when he called around as usual for Saturday tea with his sister and mother. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

  “She’s not herself,” their mother told him.

  “You forgot to give him the new piece last week,” Robbie O’Donnell’s mother told Vivienne on Tuesday. “You were going to give him that new Debussy piece to practice, and you forgot.”

  “She’s not herself these days,” Vivienne’s mother said to Mrs. O’Donnell as she showed them out. “It’s not a bit like her to forget something like that.”

  “Maybe she needs a tonic,” Mrs. O’Donnell said. “Maybe she’s coming down with something.”

  “When can I stop having piano lessons?” Robbie asked, and his mother shushed him and pushed him ahead of her out the front door.

  Vivienne bought a lipstick. It was called Candy Floss, and it cost her €8.99. She had no idea if this was expensive, as lipsticks went. She brought it home and sat in front of her dressing table and pulled off the top and ran the color across her lips. She turned to Pumpkin, who was sprawled on the chest of drawers. “What do you think?” she asked him.

  He purred gently and flicked his tail.

  “I’m wearing lipstick,” she told him, and he closed his eyes and went on purring.

  She studied her face in the mirror. She took off her glasses and peered at her shiny mouth. She made it smile at her, and then she stopped smiling. “No,” she said. She pulled a tissue from its box and rubbed away the lipstick and threw the tube into her wastepaper basket.

  Ugly, Specky Four-Eyes, Freckleface. The size of those feet, they’re gross. What color is red, Four-Eyes? Look at her, she’s puce.

  Nobody to walk her home from school. Nobody to ring and ask her out. No cards on Valentine’s Day, no flowers, ever, for Specky Four-Eyes O’Toole. Nothing but music to lose herself in, to block out the cruel voices, to take her away from them all.

  Music helped her to forget. Music filled her empty spaces. Music was all she needed, until Pumpkin had appeared in the back garden one day six years ago, shivering and thin, as unwanted as she’d been. Now they had each other. It was enough.

  Wasn’t it?

  “Dinner is on the table,” her mother shouted up the stairs.

  “Coming,” Vivienne called back. She pushed the lipstick deeper into the wastepaper basket. No more of that silliness. She would be herself again.
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  She lifted Pumpkin into her arms and left the room and walked downstairs.

  “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” he asked. “It’s not even nine.”

  Hannah buttoned her blouse. “Nine is my bedtime. Actually, nine is late for me—I have to be up in six hours, remember. Anyhow, the taxi’s on the way.”

  John watched as she slipped her arms into her jacket. “You don’t regret what happened?”

  She smiled, put a hand to his face. “Of course not. It was as much my doing as yours.”

  He kissed her palm. “Good.”

  It had been different. It had been strange, being with another man after Patrick. But John had been tender, and she’d felt comfortable with him—not, she suspected, that “comfortable” was a word a man would like to hear used to describe his lovemaking.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m just amused at the way things turn out,” Hannah answered. “You never know, do you?”

  “No.” He started to say something else, but just then a car horn sounded in the street below—and for a second, Hannah was back in her bedroom, scattered jewelry at her feet, listening to Patrick telling her he’d fallen in love with someone else.

  John crossed to the window and looked down. “That was quick.” He came back and took her into his arms.

  “I like how you smell,” she said against his shoulder. “Nice and soapy.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll walk you down.”

  “No need,” Hannah said, drawing back. “You haven’t got shoes on—I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said as she let herself out and hurried down the two flights of stairs to where the taxi waited. She opened the door and slid into the backseat.

  “Not you again,” the driver said, watching her face in the rearview mirror. “We’ll have to stop meeting like this.”

  Hannah smiled. “I think you must be stalking me.”

  His eyes crinkled in the mirror. “How’s your yellow shop?”

  “Still there, thank goodness.” She leaned back in her seat. “Will you turn up that music a bit?”

  “So you don’t have to talk to me?” But he raised the volume, and Hannah closed her eyes and let the soft, mellow sound settle around her.

  The evening had gone pretty much as she’d imagined it would. They’d both known how it was going to end. She’d sensed John’s attraction, and she’d been happy to let it take its natural course. And if the earth hadn’t exactly moved, so what? It had been perfectly pleasant, and she was happy with that.

  And earth-moving experiences didn’t last anyway. Her first time with Patrick, at the end of their third date, had been intense, her climax leaving her trembling and limp—and look how that had turned out. Maybe the slow burners were better.

  She opened her eyes and studied the back of Wally’s head. His hair needed a cut. Funny how they kept meeting up. “How long have you been in the band?” she asked him.

  “Couple of years,” he answered, “give or take. I started it.” There was a short silence, and then he said, “So you and Johnny are an item then?”

  “Kind of,” Hannah replied, meeting his eyes again in the rearview mirror.

  “He’s a good man,” Wally indicated as he changed gears. “Even if he is from Scotland.”

  Hannah laughed.

  “I assume, by the way, that I’m taking you home.”

  She started. “Sorry—did I forget to give you my address?”

  “I know where you live,” he said. “I’m your stalker, remember?” Turning to flash her a grin.

  “Of course.” She smiled. “I’d forgotten that.”

  When they reached her house, she opened her bag. “How much do I owe?”

  He turned to face her again. “On the house,” he said, “in return for a free fancy bun when I eventually make it into the yellow shop.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t—”

  “Oh, yes, you can,” he said. “You’re a friend of Johnny’s. Don’t worry,” he added, “you’ll pay the next time. I’m not made of money, you know.”

  She laughed again. “Well, if you insist, thanks very much—but do call into the shop. You know where I am.”

  “Indeed I do—good night, now.”

  She watched him drive away, and then she took her key from her bag and let herself into the house.

  She smelled sweet, she smelled of vanilla ice cream. She reminded him of something in bloom. He remembered her crying that night, months ago. He remembered turning on the light for her when she was dabbing at her eyes, how she’d said thank you. How he’d called her back to give her the blue scarf she’d left behind. How he’d wondered about why she was crying.

  So Johnny had gotten her. Fair play.

  Every afternoon Alice left Glass Slipper soon after Geraldine arrived at two. They had tea together first, both pretending that everything was still as it always had been, and when the mugs were washed and put away, Alice left. She’d stopped inventing reasons for leaving, and thankfully, Geraldine had stopped asking if she’d be back.

  She varied her routine. Sometimes she went straight to the cemetery, other days she drove directly to Springwood Gardens.

  The flowers were finally gone from the gate of number 37. One day she saw Dave mowing the lawn, up and down, up and down. Wearing a dark blue hat with a brim, stopping every now and again to pull it off and wipe his brow with a bare forearm.

  Once Claire came out and walked right past Alice’s car. Alice sat and watched her until she turned a corner.

  She thought of them as Claire and Dave now.

  A green plastic rectangular planter had appeared on the grave, about a foot and a half long. It lay on the earth in front of the wooden cross, filled with real violas and pansies.

  She wondered if they were planning to add Jason’s name to the big headstone, or if the cross was going to stay. The oval frame of his photo was spotted with tarnish that she couldn’t get off, even with Brasso.

  She left him flowers every few days. She signed the cards “A.”

  At half past ten Fiona ran her usual evening bath, adding plenty of lavender salts. Lying in the scented water, she read one chapter of the Gandhi biography and drank a tall glass of warm milk. Afterward she toweled herself dry before applying her nighttime body lotion.

  She cleansed, toned, and moisturized her face, applied hand cream and massaged it in. She adjusted her clock radio so the display was turned away from the bed; nothing like watching the time pass to encourage insomnia. She pulled on the white cotton gloves she wore in bed.

  And just before she lay back on her down pillows, she felt a sudden impulse to talk to her daughter, after almost a week of no communication. She lifted the cordless phone off its cradle and reached a gloved finger toward the keypad—but as she was about to press the first key, she paused to turn the clock radio back to face her.

  She saw that it was 11:18, too late. She replaced the phone. She’d call Leah tomorrow afternoon. They had nothing much to say to each other these days anyway.

  Stephen pressed the bell again. After several more seconds had passed, he stepped back from the door and looked up toward the first-floor windows.

  “Tom?” he called. The car was in the driveway. The curtains were drawn back. “Tom?”

  He put a hand over the side gate, slid the bolt, and walked around to the back of the house. He rapped loudly on the door, calling Tom’s name again. There was a plastic bag by the wall. Stephen glanced in and saw empty bottles with the gold labels of Powers whiskey on them.

  He walked up the side passage again, bolting the gate after him. He opened his wallet and found an old receipt. He wrote on the back of it and posted it through the mail slot. He checked the upstairs windows again before walking down the short driveway to his car.

  He got in and drove back to the dental clinic.

  “Hi.”

  “Well, hello.” The pleasure in his voice was evident. “What�
��s up?”

  “I got the flowers,” she said. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Sorry; I’ll try not to do it again.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

  They were big orange daisies, six of them in a long-stemmed bunch. She had no vase in the shop, so she’d filled her tiny sink with water and propped them in it.

  “Thank you for last night,” he said. “Are you tired?”

  “A bit,” she admitted, watching a man push open the door. “I have to go.”

  “Okay—I’ll call you later.”

  He was perfect on paper, he was doing everything right. She loved being in his company, she enjoyed the way he treated her. Her feelings would deepen, given time. She was sure of it.

  She should have said something to Patrick before he left for work. She should have mentioned the ache in her back that had woken her a couple of times in the night, sliding dully through her and then easing. She should have said something as he was getting dressed, as she was struggling into the shower, as he was drinking coffee in the kitchen, standing by the window. As she was dabbing concealer under her eyes, smoothing foundation onto her swollen face.

  I have this pain, she should have told him. It comes now and again, down my back. It’s a new pain. It’s different.

  But she’d said nothing, because Patrick must be sick of her complaints, tired of hearing about her constipation and her heartburn and her constant need to pee, weary of her indigestion and her nausea and her craving for salt.

  So he’d gone to work, kissing her cheek briefly, his aftershave making her want to gag. And that had been three hours ago, and the pain in her back was worse now, much worse, and she’d rung her two appointments and canceled them until further notice. And the pain was slicing through her now, easing for a while before returning and making her gasp with its intensity.

  She waited until the latest one had passed, and then she picked up the phone and called Patrick’s mobile. When it went straight to his voice mail, she disconnected and tried again, and when the same thing happened, she waited for the beep and then said rapidly, “Patrick, it’s me—please ring. It’s urgent.”