Aisling Gayle

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “I’d love to,” Aisling said, looking up at him wistfully. Apart from the desire to be alone with Jameson, she would have loved time to have seen his beautiful house in a more relaxed way than before. “But I’d better not . . . I need to spend a bit more time with Jean and Bruce and my cousins. I’ve hardly had time to talk to Michael and his girlfriend since we got back and I want to have a bit of a chat to them.”

  Thomas gave Aisling a weary grin and a handshake, and then he and his father set off into the darkness, heading towards the white house at the opposite side of the moonlit water.

  Aisling went back and joined her aunt and the others who were now drinking hot fruit punch and watching the last of the firework display.

  An hour or so later, the crowd started to disperse from the lake, the fireworks all spent and the breeze now chilly. Groups wandered up towards cars to head off home, and the remaining family and friends moved inside to the warmth of the house.

  The sound of Jean’s son, Michael, playing very competently on the guitar drew everyone into the large sitting-room, and his girlfriend Ali surprised everyone by accompanying his playing in a beautiful, clear voice. A neighbour then joined in with his flute, and suddenly there was another party going full swing in the house with people singing and clapping. Drinks and food were once again brought out, and Aisling circulated amongst the guests, chatting and handing out glasses and plates.

  Sometime later, Jameson Carroll appeared at the door of the sitting-room and stood listening to the music and talking quietly to Jean and Bruce. Aisling approached him with a tray of drinks, but apart from the odd word and look, there was nothing that she felt gave any clue to their relationship.

  Then, as she squeezed past him with a pile of empty glasses and plates, he moved towards her. “Let me do that,” he said, taking them from her.

  Aisling pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, and then followed behind. She started washing up the crockery in the sink, while Jameson went off outside to pick up glasses that had been left on the deck.

  “What have you done to that man?” Jean whispered as she filled a bucket with ice. “I would not have put him down as being the slightest bit domesticated. I can only assume that it’s your good influence!”

  Aisling flushed and tried to think of something light and funny to say back. But by the time her brain had got into gear, her aunt had gone.

  The party finally came to an end around two o’clock. Bruce had managed to coax his slightly ‘merry’ wife off to bed, tactfully using the excuse that they had another busy day coming up tomorrow. Then the last of the guests set off for home and those in the house headed for bed.

  Then, there were only Jameson and Aisling left in the downstairs part of the house. As the last pair of footsteps disappeared out of earshot, they both gave a sigh of relief. Grateful that at long last they could relax and be natural with each other, without looking over their shoulders.

  Jameson reached out and took her in his arms. He lowered his lips to her ear. “Come back to my house for a little while . . . I don’t feel good leaving the little guy on his own for too long.”

  Aisling hesitated, then she looked up into his eyes. “I should really say ‘no’ but . . .”

  “But?” he said, waiting.

  “But,” Aisling said, “I’m going to say ‘yes’ instead. I’ve spent all my life always saying and doing the right thing for everyone else.”

  “And now?” he prompted.

  “And now,” Aisling said, smiling, “I’m going to do the right thing for me.”

  He moved his forehead downwards so that it rested on hers. They stood like that for a few minutes, and then they both moved silently through the house, hand-in-hand.

  They stayed silent, as they walked all down through the garden, round the lake with the yellow moon reflected across its surface until they reached the brightly lit fairytale house.

  As they opened the front door, Jameson put his fingers to his lips, and then he went upstairs two at a time to check on Thomas.

  “He’s completely zonked out,” he whispered when he came back down. They stood for a second in the large hallway, just looking at each other. Then, Jameson moved to wrap his arms around her, and Aisling felt all the reservations deep within herself fall away. They kissed and swayed against each other – then eventually Jameson held her gently at arms’ length. “I can think of lots of other things I’d like to do . . . but I guess we need to talk.”

  “You’re right,” Aisling agreed in a low voice, but there was a reluctance within her to spoil all this. To spoil it with unknown things that might emerge from serious talking.

  They went into the kitchen and Jameson made coffee in a large pot. Then he brought out two white pottery mugs, a small, poppy-decorated jug of thick cream and some kind of gingery-oaty home-made biscuits.

  Aisling watched him as he worked about, marvelling at how mundane objects like mugs and biscuits seemed so different and almost artistic compared to those at home. She wondered if she were influenced by the unique feel of this particular house, or whether it was just that being American, things were naturally different.

  Jameson carried the things across the room and then came to sit beside her at the old pine table. “I’ll start the confessions off first,” he said, pouring steaming dark coffee into the white mugs. “Because we need to get a lot of stuff out of the way . . . things that might make a big difference to what’s going on with us.” He passed a mug and the cream jug across to her. “I’m thirty-nine years old, divorced, and I’ve been on my own with Thomas for a long time. I guess I’ve had relationships with other women during that time – but nothing that lasted.”

  Aisling felt a stab of jealousy at the mention of ‘other women’ – but she immediately fought it back. How could she possibly allow herself to feel jealous – when she had a living, breathing husband back home?

  “There’s absolutely no one in my life at the moment,” Jameson continued, “and there hasn’t been for some time . . .” He lifted his dark eyes towards Aisling’s face now – waiting.

  “Okay,” she said, her throat suddenly feeling dry and tight, “I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been married for seven years. I have no children . . .” She halted for a moment. It felt really strange – laying her life out like this. “My husband . . . Oliver,” she said, “has been unfaithful to me more or less since the beginning of our marriage.” She gave a little shrug. “It sounds strange, but in his own way I think he does actually love me, but I know that I’ll never be enough for him.”

  She saw the American’s eyebrows rise in disbelief.

  “Oliver seems to need the variety, the excitement and, I suppose – the constant newness of it all. After seven years, I’m not a novelty any more.” She stopped there. What else was there to say?

  And yet, as they sat drinking the coffee and ignoring the biscuits – they found plenty to say. Aisling heard herself telling this quiet American stranger things that she had not voiced to another living soul. Not even to Pauline or Carmel. She told him about all the nights she had waited up for Oliver, and about all the blind eyes she had turned. And then finally, she told him about their anniversary weekend and the early-morning phone call.

  “That was a few months ago,” she recalled, “and it was a shock to realise that I didn’t even feel hurt any more. I didn’t actually feel anything. I decided then, that I would never depend on him . . . never believe in him again . . . and that’s what I intend to do.”

  “Are you going to divorce him?” Jameson asked quietly.

  Aisling gave a wry smile. “You obviously don’t know – but divorce is not an option in Ireland.” She dropped her head. “I wish it was . . . but then there’s my parents. Especially my mother. She’s very religious, a strict Catholic, and I think it would nearly kill her.” She gave a quick glance at his face – knowing that however he looked, he would be shocked at what she was saying. “It probably sounds really stupid to you, and it must be
hard to imagine what it’s like living in a little village, where everybody knows everybody else’s business.”

  He listened, a slight nod confirming that he did understand.

  “It’s very, very difficult for me,” Aisling said, suddenly conscious of sounding like a real moan. “But I know I can’t carry on living a lie forever. And I know that Oliver won’t change. And even if he did, I don’t think I could ever forget what he’s done.”

  There was a small pause. “Do you still love him?” Jameson said quietly.

  Aisling lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. “No,” she said in a very definite tone. “No, I don’t love Oliver any more. I don’t hate him . . . but I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I ever really did.” She hesitated, looking for the right words to explain the awful mistake she had made in her life. “I was young when we met and I fell for his good looks – he was the best of a small choice. I would have put up with that – made the best of it, if he had been different.”

  “What d’you plan to do when you go back home?” Jameson asked.

  She lifted her shoulders slightly. There was so much she didn’t know, hadn’t thought out. So much she had been trying to ignore. “I’ll wait and see. The holiday here was to get away from the situation, so that I could think clearly.”

  “And has it helped?” he said.

  “Well,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “I think I knew the answer before I came – I either learn to live with things or I leave. It’s as simple as that.” She lifted her coffee, but before she could drink it, Jameson’s hand came to cover the mug.

  “I’ll get you a fresh one,” he said, smiling. “That’s gone cold.”

  Aisling watched him as he got two more clean mugs and poured the coffee into them, and she wondered how she could be this comfortable with someone she hardly knew.

  But as he walked towards her now, she knew the answer. Deep down there was something achingly familiar about him. And it had been there from the start. Something inside him that echoed something deep inside her.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the fresh coffee from him. “Now you’ve heard all the bad news about me – I think it’s your turn again.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and Aisling could tell that however long ago it all was, it was still very painful for him.

  “The reason I divorced her is plain and simple: Thomas. And,” he gave a bitter little laugh, “that’s precisely what she thought he was – only I think her description was ugly and simple.”

  Aisling gasped. “Oh, God . . .” was all she could say.

  “Verity was a model,” Jameson said in a flat tone.

  Verity was a model, Aisling thought ruefully. It just had to be something glamorous and unusual to make her feel plain by comparison.

  “Her looks were everything to her,” Jameson said. “They still are.”

  Aisling dropped her gaze to the floor. Verity’s exotic name obviously went with her exotic looks.

  Jameson got up from the table now and walked over to the window. “She just couldn’t believe that she’d produced a less than perfect child. She blamed me – said she hadn’t wanted kids anyway. She only had Thomas to keep me happy and to keep my money.” His voice had a strained note in it now. “She couldn’t even pick him up when he was born, and when they came home she was so depressed that I had to get a woman in to look after him. That was her ticket to freedom. She was out then – pretending that she’d never given birth to him.”

  “What did you do?” Aisling asked.

  “I just took it . . . thinking that it would eventually change. That she would get it out of her system. That things would eventually get better . . .”

  “I know that feeling . . .” Aisling said quietly.

  “I carried on, took all the shit – for three goddamn years.” He leaned on the window-ledge now, staring out into the floodlit garden. “Then, one day I woke up to it all, and I just took Thomas and left. Verity got what she wanted. The house in New York, and freedom from me and Thomas.”

  “And you’ve coped all this time on your own?” Aisling said.

  “Yup,” he nodded. “Just him and me. Any help we need, I pay for. I reckon it’s the best way. I owe nobody a thing.”

  “What about your family?” she said. “Have you parents, or brothers and sisters?”

  “I’m the only one. My folks are in New York City. I have another place near them, and up until last year Thomas went to school there.”

  “And now?”

  “And now,” he said, turning back towards her, “Thomas and me are here on our own. And that’s exactly how I like it.” He came back to the table now, looking a little more relaxed. He sat down in the chair, close by Aisling. “This place brought me peace and escape from the rat-race in New York. First I used it for weekends and holidays, and then eventually I moved out here full-time. I’ve found a good school for Thomas, and he’s real happy here.”

  “What about you?”

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You mean am I happy? I don’t know. I don’t know if such a thing as happy exists. But, I’ve definitely settled for an easier, less stressful existence.” Then suddenly, he reached out and caught her hand. “If happy does exist . . . I’ve a feeling I might find it with someone like you.”

  Aisling looked up at him, and their eyes held for a long time.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “I know it’s a ridiculously short time . . . but I feel something with you, that I’ve never felt with anyone else before. What do you say to that, Aisling Gayle?”

  But Aisling Gayle said nothing. Instead, she threw her arms around him, and buried her face in his beard and neck, and held on tightly.

  As they sat together, watching the sun come up over Lake Savannah, Jameson Carroll asked the question he had been dreading since he met her. “How long do we have, before you go back home?”

  Aisling looked up at him. “I don’t want to think about it,” she said.

  “How long?” he repeated, almost whispering.

  “Nearly three more weeks,” she said.

  “Do you think,” he said, “that three weeks is long enough?”

  “Long enough for what?”

  “To get to know each other real well . . . to see if this might develop. Long enough to see if we might even have some kind of a future together . . .”

  There was a long, long pause. “Oh, Jameson,” she whispered, “I’m scared . . . I’m so, so scared. Scared of lots of things. Scared that this is just a holiday romance. And even more scared that when you get to know me properly, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?” Amusement crept into his eyes. “In what way? What dark, forbidden secrets have you still to tell me?”

  Aisling lowered her head. “You might find me more exciting if I had more secrets. The fact is I’m just dead ordinary . . . nothing like a model.” Her shoulders drooped now. “There’s nothing special about me, I’m just a plain, ordinary old-fashioned teacher from a plain ordinary town in Ireland. I’m not the kind of woman you’ve been used to.”

  He gripped both her hands. “You’ve got me figured out all wrong . . . but go on, I want to hear everything that’s on your mind.”

  “It’s not just about me,” she said, feeling really embarrassed at what she felt compelled to say next. “I’m not used to all this luxury.” Her arm swept around the huge kitchen. “All these lovely things . . . and all the money it takes to buy them. My life is so much more simple. There’s nothing big and exciting about my life . . . or about me.” Her voice wavered a little. “With me, what you see in front of you now – is all there is.”

  “Oh, Aisling, Aisling,” he pulled her closer, “you do not know what a rare thing you are. You are a breath of fresh air in my life.” And then he kissed her again – her hair, her eyes, her lips – longer and harder than ever before.

  His tongue explored her mouth, his hands moved over her shoulders and down her back. And then gently . . . very gen
tly, she felt them brush against her breasts.

  A feeling of both shock and pleasure shot through her. Automatically, she moved her body against his, feeling his strength and warmth engulfing her. At the same time feeling the newness of him and yet – that familiarity again. A feeling of knowing the very essence of him. As though they had known each other a long time ago.

  “Oh, Aisling,” he breathed into her hair and neck, “I want you so, so much – I want to be with you all the time. To lie beside you, to talk to you, to touch you . . . and I really, really want to make love to you.” His sensitive, artistic fingers moved up to trace her face. Every part of it. Her forehead, her closed eyelids, her nose, her cheeks and then her mouth. “I want to do all those things . . . while you are here beside me. I don’t want to regret it long after you’ve left me and gone far away back to Ireland.”

  Aisling eased herself out of his embrace, and moved back to look at him. “I want to do all those things, too,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears, “but I’m so frightened . . .” A large, heavy tear dropped. “I’m afraid of breaking my marriage vows . . . of my parents finding out . . . and everything I’ve been brought up to believe is wrong in the Catholic Church. But . . .” she paused, gulping back more tears, “right now, I want to be with you more than anything else.”

  Jameson took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he told her in a quiet voice, drawing her into his arms again. “Look, it’s five-thirty in the morning – we’ve had a long day. We’ll talk some more later.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep . . . I’m wide awake,” she whispered.

  He gave a slow, lazy kind of smile. “Me too . . . but it’ll all keep.” He stood up now, and reached out a hand. “C’mon, young lady – time to go back before the others are up and moving across at Harpers’.”

  “They won’t be up for hours yet,” Aisling protested.

  “I’m actually being selfish,” he confessed. “If your folks don’t notice what’s happening here, then they won’t complain. But,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, “if they discover that you’ve been missing from the house, there could be more fireworks than we saw last night!”