by Laura Elliot
Obligingly, she takes out her phone and shows him photographs of Grace. She is conscious of a woman at Steve’s table, who keeps glancing across at him, and an increasing pressure from Nicholas’s knee.
‘She’s inherited her mother’s beauty gene,’ Steve says. ‘Like I said, Nick, you’ve hit the jackpot.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Nicholas puts his arm round her. Elena is conscious of its tautness, the stiffness of her shoulders as Steve, oblivious of any tension, talks about mutual acquaintances he meets on his travels. She is eager to know more about his agency and if there is someone special in his life but the questions will only prolong their conversation.
‘Why don’t you come to Woodbine and meet Grace before you go back,’ she says.
Nicholas knocks his knee against hers again, two hard taps that express his annoyance more effectively than words.
‘Looks like the waiter is ready to take your order.’ Nicholas stares pointedly across at Steve’s table and the woman, sitting beside his empty chair, gestures towards him.
‘Duty calls.’ He stands, his reluctance obvious. ‘I’d love to see Grace but I’m flying out early tomorrow morning. Next time – that’s a definite date.’
She should not feel a sense of relief that Steve has refused her invitation but it washes hotly over her and trickles down her spine.
‘Nick. What’s with the fucking abbreviation?’ Nicholas asks when Steve has returned to his companions.
‘That’s Steve’s way,’ she says. ‘He’s always been very informal.’
‘So I noticed, Laney?’ He leans towards her. ‘Would you like to explain that one to me?’
‘It’s what Steve always calls me.’
‘Is that why you were so tense with him?’
‘Tense?’
‘Yes, tense. How come you never told me about him?’
‘There was never anything to tell.’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘Romance wise, we hardly lasted any time. But he was one of my best friends at university.’
How long had they lasted as an item? A few weeks, no more than that. They had decided their friendship was more important than the emotional entanglement of a break-up that – knowing how woman were attracted to Steve, and he to them – had been bound to happen.
‘Susie, Killian, Tara.’ He lists the names on his fingers. ‘It’s interesting that I’ve never heard his name until now?’
‘If you’re keeping count, then include Steve.’
‘Don’t mock my feelings for you.’
‘I’m not mocking anything. You need to loosen up, Nick.’ He dislikes having his name shortened, as she discovered when she addressed him as such in one of her earlier emails, but the after-dinner brandy and the wine she drank earlier is fuelling her annoyance.
‘Did you fuck him?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘So, you did?’
‘I didn’t say that. You’re my partner, not my confessor. Do I ever ask you about the intimate details of your life with Amelia?’
‘You’re right. I shouldn’t pry.’ He drains his brandy and gestures at Elena to finish her drink. ‘Time to go. Yvonne will be wondering what’s keeping us.’
His change of mood from belligerent questioning to agreeing with her is a surprise. Alarm bells ring in her head but alcohol has muted their chimes. They pass the restaurant window on their way to the car park. Steve’s profile is visible as he talks animatedly to his companion.
Nicholas is silent on the drive to Woodbine. She tries to gauge his mood and fails. When they enter the living room Henry awakens from a snooze and Yvonne switches off the television. Grace is asleep in her cot. The baby monitor has been silent all night, Yvonne tells them.
‘A little angel. She was no trouble at all,’ she says. ‘You just need to be more confident with her, Elena. Babies can always tell if a mother is stressed.’
Yvonne’s inference that she is incapable of looking after Grace annoys Elena but she stays quiet, afraid of breaking the fragile peace between her and Nicholas.
When his parents have driven away, Nicholas sits on the sofa beside her and takes her in his arms.
‘Not tonight, Nicholas.’ She kisses his cheek and tries to rise. ‘I’m so tired and Grace is due a bottle soon.’
‘Yes, tonight.’ He presses her back against the cushions and kneels down in front of her. ‘I want you to relax. That’s all you have to do.’
‘I don’t want to relax—’ She gasps as he slides her dress over her thighs. Gently but insistently, he eases her legs apart, his breath warm on her thighs. His tongue probes deeply and Elena, surrendering to him, moans softly as the tension eases from her and then falls away.
Unable to find the words to apologise for his earlier behaviour, is he offering sex as an act of atonement? She no longer cares. She begs him to come into her but he refuses, intent only on releasing the ruckus of pleasure he has stirred within her. When her cries die away and he is looking down on her, all askew and spent, she wonders if what he did to her could be defined as rape? This thought, so unexpected and appalling, stuns her. It diminishes the true horror of rape and should not even be considered in the same breath. She is overwrought, reading too much into what was a selfless giving of himself; yet his stance, so contained and controlled, sours the wanton pleasure she has just experienced.
Later that night, aroused and wanting her, he awakens her from a deep sleep. Drowsy and unresponsive, her body bends and shakes, and is ruptured so fast she is unsure if she is still in the realm of dreams.
Eleven
Unaware of the tempestuous reaction his meeting with them in the restaurant provoked, Steve will have returned to Paris by now. The passion Elena experienced last night… she should be glowing in its aftermath, not resenting her body for having responded so eagerly to Nicholas’s caresses. And later, when he came into her, the force of his desire numbing her, that memory stirs her with an uneasiness she’s unable, or unwilling, to name.
Unable to stay indoors, she straps Grace into her buggy and leaves Woodbine.
Her daughter’s eyes move to the mesmerising sway of branches overhead as Elena wheels her along the narrow path by the edge of Kilfarran Lane. The width of the road belies its title as a lane but the houses along either side of it are sparse, as are the cars that use it.
Fifteen minutes later Elena reaches Kilfarran Village. She hopes to meet other young mothers in the café or the library, but the streets are quiet, sunk in an afternoon hush. Mornings are the best time to make new friends, the librarian tells her. She hands Elena fliers with information about a mother and baby yoga class that is held in the community centre, a parents’ coffee morning organised by the Ginger Nut Café, group buggy walks through the woods and the local cinema, which features films one morning a week for parents and babies. Obviously, the village is not as sleepy as it looks and Elena feels her spirits lifting as she walks back to Woodbine.
She needs an outlet and Nicholas is not yet ready to put the house on the market. His workload has increased since Peter Harris was diagnosed with a heart condition. He is awaiting surgery and Nicholas is now travelling in his stead to the New York office for fortnightly meetings. He had related this information to Elena with relish. He dislikes Peter, whose job he has coveted since he joined the company. To add to Peter’s woes, his wife has left him and is demanding a divorce. The indent on Nicholas’s forehead deepened when he mentioned this latest piece of office gossip. He called Lilian Harris, ‘a whinging, mercenary bitch,’ who was capable of taking her husband to the cleaners in terms of the alimony she would demand. Elena had been surprised by his vehemence. What had Lilian ever done to him? She remembered the group photograph he destroyed. That would explain his reaction. If had obviously been the sight of Lilian, and not Amelia, that had triggered his fury.
Grace is becoming restless. She is due a feed. Elena walks faster. The narrow footpath is edged by a bank of g
rass that slopes down into a ditch. The stream flowing through it is almost obscured by weeds and bulrushes. She hears its low gurgle as it flows towards the Kilfarran River. Bunches of cut flowers are laid regularly on the grass. Usually they have disappeared by the following day but, inevitably, more flowers appear. It has to be a roadside shrine. A fatality must have happened there and a bereaved loved one has turned the site of the accident into a memorial.
Today, an elderly man stands on the grassy ridge. The carnations he has spread out in a fan shape are just about to open. Elena recognises him as one of her nearest neighbours; he lives in a secluded dormer bungalow and she has seen him working in his front garden as she passes his gate.
He lifts his cap in a salute when he sees her and steps down onto the path. ‘Well, Elena, we meet at last,’ he says. ‘I’m Billy Tobin. Congratulations on the new arrival.’ He leans over the pram. ‘A little girl, I see. What a beauty. Does she have a name?’
‘Grace.’
‘A sweet name. I hope she has many graces throughout her life.’ He peers at Elena from under the brim of his hat. ‘How are you settling into Woodbine?’
‘Very well. It’s a beautiful house.’ She points towards the carnations. ‘Why don’t you put them into a vase? They won’t last long without water.’
‘They won’t last long, period.’ His genial expression hardens. ‘Vases break easily, as I’ve discovered. This is the best way.’
‘Did someone die here?’
‘You haven’t heard about the accident?’ He stands a little straighter. ‘Surely Nicholas told you about it?’
‘Told me what?’
‘Amelia’s father died here. A hit-and-run.’
‘How terrible.’ She blushes, embarrassed before his frank gaze. ‘I didn’t know. Did the gardai ever find out who caused the accident?’
‘No. His case is probably closed by now. It was a long time ago.’
‘You must have known Amelia very well?’
‘She was a lovely young woman in the prime of life.’ He nods, vigorously. ‘Such a tragedy. Her father was my best friend. But it’s a nice summer’s day and not the time to dwell on the past. Would you like to walk back to my house with me and have tea?’
‘Thank you for inviting me but I can’t today. I need to feed Grace.’ Her daughter is awake, little fists raised and a frown that suggests she is about to give vent to her hunger. ‘I’d love to have tea with you another time.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Don’t be a stranger when you pass by.’
As she walks back to Woodbine, she wonders why Nicholas has never mentioned Amelia’s father. Is she supposed to peel away his past life layer by painful layer?
At dinner that evening, she mentions her encounter with Billy Tobin. ‘He seems like a nice man,’ she says. ‘He invited me in for tea but Grace was hungry―’
‘Billy Tobin is no friend of mine.’ Abruptly, he interrupts her. ‘You are to have nothing to do with him.’
‘Why ever not? What’s the matter with him?’
‘He wanted to pick your brains about me. That’s the only reason he invited you into his house.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘You spoke to this man for five minutes today and you’re prepared to discount what I’m telling you.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ she protests. ‘He never asked about you, apart from being surprised that you hadn’t told me about Amelia’s father’s accident.’
‘There you go again.’ He smashes his fist off the table and rises, his meal untouched. ‘You keep talking about her, even though you know how much it upsets me.’
She crosses her hands on her chest, shielding herself against his anger. ‘I’m not trying to upset you. All I said was―’
He will never find out what she intended to say. On the floor, trying to crawl away from him, she loses a little bit more of herself and wonders if she will ever be whole again.
* * *
The carnations are missing from the roadside shrine the following day. Someone, she has to assume it was Billy, has left a spray of purple dahlias in their place. The low growl of his lawn mower reaches her when she passes his house and the heady smell of cut grass sweetens the air. She walks swiftly past before he sees her. Once past his house, she turns the buggy around the corner and into a narrow side lane. Devoid of traffic and pedestrians, it stretches before her, as empty as the days she must endure until her bruises fade.
Twelve
It’s two o’clock in the morning and Nicholas remains sleeping as Elena slips from his side. He is a heavy sleeper but she, aware of the risk she is taking, holds her breath as she rifles through the pockets of his jacket. She has searched every drawer in the house for a key to Amelia’s bedroom and now, acting decisively, she grasps the keyring and moves soundlessly across the landing towards Amelia’s room.
Only two of the keys on the ring look as if they could fit into the lock. Both fail to work. Struck by a sudden thought, she stands back and studies the casing that surrounds the door. It curves outwards in an ornate sweep and allows just enough space for her to run her fingers along the gap between the edges and the wall. She finds the key hanging from a hood near the top of the casing. Finally, she will be able to open the door to this mesmerising room. She touches the key for reassurance, then, terrified in case Grace cries and awakens Nicholas, she returns to the bedroom and replaces the keyring in his pocket. He stirs but does not awaken as she eases back into bed beside him.
The following day, her first reaction when she enters the bedroom is one of disappointment. The room she shares with Nicholas is modern and bright; by contrast, this one looks as if it has been used by many generations. The old-fashioned furnishings have a highly polished sheen that suggests care and attention. The bed is covered by an eiderdown that, she suspects, was once a treasured possession of Nicholas’s. He would have caressed Amelia on that bed and loved her as he will never love Elena. Now, adrift without her, he has turned into a monster and she stands in the centre of his tortured path.
He has not yet made an appointment with a psychologist to discuss his stress disorder, which is becoming more pronounced. He accuses her of nagging at him when she reminds him of the promise he made to her. If she continues to undermine him, he will be forced to take action. He speaks softly, as if they are sharing an intimate exchange; a promise of pleasures to come, and she, hearing his implicit warning, is silenced.
Amelia’s make-up is still on the dressing table. Nicholas has made no attempt to tidy it away. Lipsticks are lined up in rows according to their shade. Tubes of foundation, jars of moisturising creams and bottles of perfume are aligned with the same symmetry. The only item to disturb this evenness is a crumpled sheet of tissue paper. Elena picks it up, then lets it fall when she sees the imprint of Amelia’s lips, a vibrant, fuchsia pink. Why has he not thrown it away? Does he hold it to his own lips when he is here, remembering… remembering?
She opens drawers filled with underwear, rainbow colours in satin and lace. Stockings and tights, two suspender belts, fun pyjamas with cartoon prints, some sexy, flouncy nightdresses. Her stomach turns as the intimacy of the life he shared with Amelia is spread before her.
She reaches the en suite just in time. Holding her hair back from her face, she kneels in front of the toilet bowl and retches, convulsively. Afterwards, sitting back on her heels, she wipes her mouth. The last time she was this sick— no, it isn’t possible… but that night when they met Steve… she was dazed with sleep and can’t remember if Nicholas used a condom. She rises and returns to the bedroom, slams the drawers closed. The nausea has passed. A stomach bug, that has to be the reason. Anything else is unthinkable.
She opens the wardrobe. The coat hangers all face the same way and the clothes – colour-coded and coordinated, look as though they are on display in a boutique. After seeing Amelia’s lingerie, Elena finds it hard to imagine her wearing these structured suits, tailored trousers and formal dresses.
She had always imagined Amelia floating from room to room in layers of silk. The only dress to attract her attention is the silver lamé one she saw in the photograph Nicholas has burned. Sleek and slim-fitting with a long slit at the side, it must have hugged every curve of her slender body.
The zip is easy to slide down. Elena lays it on the bed and takes off her top, wriggles out of the trousers with the elasticated waist. She used to laugh with Tara when they went shopping and saw these shapeless, chain-store trousers that offered comfort instead of style. Never, in her wildest nightmares, did she believe she would ever wear them but Nicholas had bought two pairs for her – one navy, one indigo – as a stopgap, he said, until she recovered her figure.
She stands before the long cheval mirror and steps into the dress. Amelia was smaller than Elena, and the hem hangs a few inches above her ankles. The zip sticks at her waist and won’t go any higher. She tugs hard but it’s caught in the fabric. Her tears fall without warning. She can’t believe she is making this sound, her body racked with sobs, her face livid and blotchy. The dress, glittering in the mirror, is a mocking tribute to Amelia’s beauty and svelte figure.
Downstairs, Grace is also crying. Elena glances at her watch and is shocked at how much time has passed since she entered the bedroom. Her hands shake as she shoves the dress into the back of the wardrobe. The clothes have the musty smell of unopened spaces and Nicholas, she hopes, will never notice that they have been disturbed.
* * *
That tingle on her skin, the feathery brush against her cheeks fuels her fear when he comes downstairs from the bedroom that evening. She has become accustomed to his waxen complexion when he is angry, his eyes glazing over as he studies her.
‘What were you doing in her bedroom?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It is futile to lie but confessing the truth is not an option either.
He wrenches her from the armchair to her feet and twists her arm behind her. ‘You are a deceitful bitch.’ He breathes hotly into her ear. ‘I gave you the run of my house. Her bedroom was my only refuge from your prying obsessions. All I asked in return was that you should respect my privacy. Was that too much to expect? Was it? Answer me. Why did you have to defy me and enter it?’
