Do You Want What I Want?

by Denise Deegan

  ‘I’ll pick you up in an hour,’ he says, knowing she’ll want time to change.

  Arriving at his family home, Rory is relieved to see no sign of his father’s car, a navy Nissan Micra that had to be ordered especially from the manufacturer given his father’s specific requirements – manual controls, wind up windows, key operated locks. Declan Fenton is a man who trusts little, and that includes technology. Rory opens the latch on the wrought-iron gates of the three-bed semi, passes through the space the car normally occupies – no oil patches here. Rings the bell. When there is no reply, he wonders if she hasn’t heard. Then he catches her outline through the frosted glass, moving slowly towards the door. It saddens him to see how she has aged. If he had a key, he could have saved her getting up. Why haven’t any of them been given keys to the family home? What if there was an emergency?

  The door opens and Rory is greeted by the same olive green carpet that has been in the hall all his life and probably longer. He is relieved they are going out, and not sitting looking at each other, in a house stuck in the past.

  ‘This is such a surprise,’ she says, happily. ‘Are you sure you’re not busy?’

  ‘Never too busy for my mum.’ He realizes as he says this that, given his track record, it is untrue. ‘Thought you might like a change of scene.’

  She smiles. ‘That’d be very nice.’ She gets her coat.

  ‘You’re going to miss Siofra when she moves.’

  ‘Hugely. But they need the space… I just didn’t think they’d find somewhere so quickly.’

  ‘With prices going up like they are, they were right to buy while they still could.’

  ‘When is it all going to end?’ she asks, closing and locking the door behind her.

  ‘Does Dad have his key?’ Rory checks.

  She nods. ‘And I’ve left him a note.’ Her smile is mischievous. ‘“Don’t wait up”.’

  That’s what Rory loves about her, that gentle defiance, still there bubbling under the surface after all these years just waiting to be given an opportunity. He has an urge to hug her. But lets it pass. It’s been a long time. He holds an arm out to her. She smiles as she slips hers into his.

  ‘Where to, madam?’

  ‘Bermuda looks nice,’ she says, quoting from one of Rory’s favourite TV ads as a child.

  ‘Simon,’ Rory says, to an imaginary pilot. ‘Bermuda.’

  He steers her to the car.

  ‘So, the Merrion?’ he asks, as he turns the engine.

  ‘It’d be nice, but, I was thinking, it’s late-night shopping, and, do you know what I’d love?, a quick trip to the new shopping centre.’ Siofra, it seems, used to bring her. Not that it is new. It opened two years ago.

  It is also where Louise works. And Rory is very much aware of that.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a trip on the LUAS instead,’ he suggests. The LUAS is Dublin’s equally ‘new’ tram system that she will not have tried.

  She considers it. ‘I could do with a new pair of shoes.’

  What if he bumps into Louise? What if he doesn’t? What if he works up enough courage to go into the shop and face her?

  When they arrive at the centre, his mum insists on going around on her own. ‘I don’t want to slow you down,’ she says.

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I’d feel I was.’

  He worries that she will be all right, but doesn’t want to crowd her. Neither is he in a hurry to look at ladies’ shoes. She wants to meet in the coffee shop she and Siofra used to go to. It is across from Louise’s shop. He suggests another.

  ‘They don’t have Danishes there,’ she says.

  They arrange to meet in the one she favours in an hour. He buys a newspaper and goes to the other coffee shop to kill time until she is ready. But he can’t concentrate – not with Louise so close by. He imagines her in the shop, on the phone to a customer, talking to Lolita, or carefully putting together an arrangement. What would she say if he walked in? What would he say? He finishes his coffee quickly and spends the rest of the hour touring the mostly British shops located in the centre. When he arrives at the arranged meeting point, his mother is waiting, looking across at Louise’s shop.

  He sits down, deliberately blocking her view of it.

  She strains her head to the side. ‘Is that where Louise works?’ she asks, sounding as though Louise is someone famous.

  ‘Eh, yeah,’ he says, reaching for a menu. ‘So, what did you buy?’

  ‘Well, actually, I came away empty-handed. I saw a lovely pair of shoes but they didn’t have my size. They’re ordering in a pair for me.’ She closes her menu. ‘This is my treat.’

  ‘No. I’m getting this.’

  ‘You brought me here.’

  ‘I invited you out and I’m paying.’

  ‘We’ll discuss it later,’ she says. Again she glances over at the florist shop. ‘Is Louise working tonight?’

  ‘Eh, yeah,’ he says, frowning at the menu as though it is written in Japanese.

  ‘It’d be rude not to pop in and say hello,’ she says.

  Now is the time to tell her, get it out in the open. If he does it now, it’ll save him having to tell the rest of the family. He imagines Siofra’s Spanish Inquisition. What happened? Who broke with whom? Why? Rory’s mother has always respected his privacy, probably because he has always guarded it. ‘Louise and I split up.’

  Her eyes widen and her mouth makes an ‘O’. Her voice follows with the same sound. Her worried expression leaves him in no doubt that she still sees him as her child, someone she doesn’t want hurt. This thing with his father is going to be harder than he imagined.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. ‘Yeah. Fine.’ And then he does an unusual thing for him – he explains. ‘We wanted different things.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, nodding knowingly, putting down her menu. ‘Louise wanted to settle down.’ She sounds like it was inevitable.

  ‘Actually, no. I did.’

  At first she looks surprised, then pleased, as if this is something she had given up on. ‘Then you will. You’ll find the right woman and you will settle down.’

  He is offended by how easily she has moved on. ‘I thought you liked Louise.’

  ‘I’m very fond of Louise.’

  He pictures them chatting together at various family events and knows it’s true. He’s glad. Not that it means anything now.

  ‘But if your relationship is over, it doesn’t really matter how much I like her, does it?’

  And once again, he is reminded of the finality of it.

  His father’s car is outside when they get back and Rory considers leaving his mother at the door. In great form now, she assumes he’s coming in. He hesitates, remembers his mission, then follows. In the sitting room, his father, watching the evening television news, ignores them, apart from telling his wife to ‘shush’ when she offers him a cup of tea. She rolls her eyes as if to say, ‘Isn’t he incorrigible?’ Rory stays in the room with his father, as is expected in his family – to go out to the kitchen to help would be unmanly. He knows not to interrupt the news with small talk he couldn’t think up if he tried, so sits, in silence, watching debris in Iraq. When his mother finally carries in tea and biscuits on a tray, a current affairs programme is on.

  ‘Turn off that old rubbish,’ she says, her voice warm, unchallenging, knowing that the TV always goes off when they sit down to eat.

  Rory’s father gets up and manually switches off the TV, doing so with a grunt, so that everyone knows that he is being put out.

  June talks about her trip to the shopping centre.

  Her husband actually seems interested. Until she finishes, when he says, ‘Those fancy places, all they do is put local traders out of business.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s grand and handy,’ she says. ‘Thanks, Rory, for taking me.’

  He winks at her.

  ‘How was Mass?’ he asks his father,
deciding to stick to a safe subject.

  His father peers at him as though checking to see if he’s being mocked. ‘I hope you’re still going,’ he says.

  Rory considers telling him about the novenas, but his father is strange about religion. There are some things he doesn’t go in for at all. Novenas may well be one of them. So Rory says nothing, just nods.

  His father slurps his tea, something Rory is convinced he does to annoy people. Rory forces himself to take his time finishing his tea. As soon as he has, he stretches before getting up, to let his mother know he is on his way. He stands, putting his cup and saucer on his plate. It is acceptable to bring his dishes in to the kitchen and he does.

  ‘Leave them, Rory,’ she says, ‘I’ll do them.’

  ‘It’s on my way out.’

  She starts to get up.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he says, putting his hand on her shoulder, aware of how unused he is to touching her. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘Thanks for this evening,’ she says. ‘It was great to get out.’

  ‘We’ll do it again, sometime.’

  ‘And I’ll get the coffee.’

  21

  What the apartment is missing is flowers, Rory thinks. Lilies, too open to sell. He looks up the Golden Pages. His eyes are drawn to Louise’s ad, the ad they worked on together. It’s good. He’d buy from it. If it wasn’t Louise’s. He can’t believe she hasn’t called. Well, he’s not going to. He practically begged her not to leave. And she went anyway. Maybe it had nothing to do with babies. Maybe she was just fed up with him. She was so cold and distant when he rang from Cambridge. He’d come home, dying to see her, optimistic, thinking it would all work out. And boom, she’d cut him off. Still, when he tracks his finger down the list of florists, he finds he can’t give the business to her competitors. He closes the directory. Visits her website. After all, it is her flowers he is used to, not anyone else’s. He lingers on the site, his mind travelling back to when they set it up together. He’d forgotten how involved he’d been. And how much fun it was. Adventurous. He remembers back to before the business, when she was working at the florist’s in the hospital, and the first time he saw her, passing a bunch of red roses over the counter to a customer. He sees it all in slow motion now. That smile! Those eyes. Her thick, fabulous hair. Enough! He clicks the shopping basket to complete the transaction. Then panics. Who’ll deliver them? She has that delivery guy. But, sometimes, when he’s busy, she does the odd drop. What if?

  When the lilies arrive, he gets what he expected, a double disappointment. Delivery man. Closed lilies. He puts the flowers in the sink and goes in search of the vase. He hopes she hasn’t taken it. No, there it is, tucked in behind the breakfast cereals. He remembers the steps. Cut stems at angle. Plunge into cold water. Arrange. Sounds simple. And it is. But no matter what he does, he can’t get them to look right; all closed up, tight, alien. He is tempted to prise them open himself, but instead abandons them in favour of Grand Theft Auto, Vice City.

  Days later, they open. He rolls up his sleeves and has another go. He covers himself in pollen. But that’s not what bothers him. What does is that he still can’t seem to get the flowers looking right. How hard can it be? If only she were here. His phone vibrates in his pocket and for the briefest moment, he is hopeful. But it isn’t Louise. The number is vaguely familiar. Local.

  ‘Rory Fenton?’ Though he hasn’t heard it in months, he recognizes the voice as Sergeant O’Neill’s.

  ‘This is Rory.’

  The policeman introduces himself too quickly for this to be just another check-up call.

  Rory waits, unsure what it could mean.

  ‘There has been a development. We’ve nominated someone for your crime.’

  ‘Nominated?’

  ‘We arrested a youth last night for a similar offence. While interviewing him we questioned him about your attack. From his reaction we think he might have been involved.’

  Rory didn’t expect this, having written off the idea of him ever being found. ‘Did he admit to it?’

  ‘No. But we were wondering if you’d come down to the station and have a look at a picture of him.’

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘As soon as is convenient.’

  ‘I’ll come now.’

  ‘Good. Ask for me.’

  At the station, O’Neill shows him into the interview room.

  ‘Won’t take long,’ the guard says, opening a folder and passing a photo across to Rory.

  Rory freezes, realizing too late that he should have prepared himself for the shock of seeing that face again. He lets the photo fall.

  O’Neill looks at him expectantly.

  ‘It’s him.’

  The guard smiles. ‘Thought so.’ He puts the photo back in the folder. ‘So. We have our man.’

  Rory’s heart rate is returning to normal. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We’d like to organize an identification parade.’

  ‘A line-up?’ He is thinking of movies he has seen, like The Usual Suspects.

  ‘Yes. Though in Ireland, you’re not behind a screen. We need you to walk up to your assailant and point him out. Then take a step back.’

  Rory imagines it. Facing him. Looking into his eyes. Pointing him out. He could do it – if he was certain he’d be put away for a long time. But what if he gets off? Or is out in months? What if they meet on the streets of Dun Laoghaire and he has a syringe and isn’t too thrilled about having been locked up?

  ‘What if I don’t do the identification parade?’ Rory says carefully.

  ‘He’d probably get off, for your crime at least, and it would be harder for us to get a conviction for the other, seeing as he hasn’t offended before yours. The courts are more lenient on first-time offenders.’

  Rory thinks of the difference between a first-time offender and someone who has been caught for the first time. He becomes aware that his hand is flat against the top of his head. And takes it down. ‘I don’t want to hold you up. Do I have to decide now?’ He wonders how many cowards they see in the average day.

  ‘Think about it overnight. Here, let me give you my card.’

  ‘I have it.’

  Rory starts to get up, when, unexpectedly, he wonders what his attacker’s name is. He is about to ask but then decides that, on reflection, he’s better off not knowing.

  ‘We want people like him off the streets,’ O’Neill says, as if to help Rory with his decision.

  And though he nods, he is thinking that he doesn’t want them back in his life either. He shakes O’Neill’s hand and walks out. Into the fresh, clear air.

  Rory feels guilty that he is only contacting Orla now that he needs to talk to someone.

  ‘Sorry for taking so long to get back to you,’ he says. ‘Things were a bit crazy.’

  ‘No problem. So, have you recovered from the course?’

  ‘The course,’ he says. It seems worlds away.

  She laughs. ‘God, I was like a zombie the week after I got back, talking rubbish, missing what people said, spilling tea on myself.’

  Weird, Rory thinks. He was the same, though that was to do with missing Louise. ‘Have you been in touch with anyone? Morel?’

  There is a pause. ‘Long story.’

  He’d like to hear it. ‘You doing anything now? Want to go for a drink?’

  ‘Love to.’

  He calls for her, and they walk to her local. She hasn’t lost any of the glow she developed in Cambridge. In fact, she is looking better than ever. Still in love, then, Rory assumes. On second thoughts, he doesn’t want to talk about love.

  ‘The police have got the guy who attacked me.’

  Automatically she puts her hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Rory. That’s great.’

  It’s as if he doesn’t hear her. ‘They want me to walk up to him in an identification parade and point him out.’

  Her expression changes to one of concern.

  He feels better already. ‘I
keep thinking – what if he gets off on a joke of a sentence and I bump into him again in Dun Laoghaire?’

  ‘That could happen, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Which makes me wonder if I should risk getting involved again.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t?’

  ‘He’ll probably get off with a fine. A fine he won’t be able to pay.’

  ‘Free to attack again.’

  ‘I know.’ He thinks of vulnerable people visiting the flats – public health nurses, social workers, Orla. ‘You haven’t been to see Jason, have you?’

  ‘As it happens, I have.’

  ‘You’ve gone into the flats alone?’

  ‘During the day. It was fine.’

  ‘You shouldn’t call for him alone.’

  ‘They’re different flats.’

  ‘With the same risks. His own mother…’

  ‘Rory, let’s not go there.’

  ‘OK, but next time, I’m coming, all right?’ He should have been to see Jason anyway by now. He has been putting it off. Not wanting to get in the way. Not sure what to say to Naomi. Maybe it would be easier with Orla there.

  ‘We’ll talk inside,’ she says, as they arrive at the pub.

  But when they get inside and have settled she has an announcement to make that throws him completely. ‘I’m filing for divorce.’

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘I need to move on,’ she explains.

  ‘Just like that?’ So different from her attitude only weeks before. Something must have happened. Morel! Is he leaving his wife?

  ‘I’ve learned a lot,’ she says. ‘About what’s good for me, and what’s not. Being tied to Owen is not.’

  ‘Morel must be pleased.’

  She looks at him. ‘This has nothing to do with Paul.’

  He opens his mouth to speak.

  ‘He’s married,’ she says.

  ‘I know, but…’ He’s about to say, ‘that didn’t stop you before’, but thinks better of it.

  ‘What happened on the course, ended on the course. It was so bizarre, like being in a time warp. I told myself going over there to be open. I didn’t mean to men. But I let myself go, acted on instinct. And ended up doing something I’d never normally do. Everything was so intense. I don’t regret it. Maybe I even needed it – to remember who I was. But it’s over. To carry on would be to turn it into something different, something destructive. Paul has a family. He’s never done anything like this before.’