Cecily put down her cup then and looked straight at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would.’
Laura pulled up outside the house and blew the horn twice before getting out and opening the boot. As she hauled the black plastic sack from it, Ruth’s head appeared at one of the upstairs windows, which were all thrown fully open.
‘Hang on.’ She disappeared and opened the front door a few seconds later. ‘Hi – is there more in the car?’
‘Just the telly, for now. I’m leaving the non-essentials for later; but I thought you might be suffering withdrawal symptoms, after four months of no Coronation Street.’
Ruth laughed, imagining herself snuggling up to Andrew in front of the telly on their new deep-red couch – his colour choice, which she’d been unsure of, but which he promised she’d grow to love. Settling down to watch whatever they wanted on telly, whenever they felt like it – just a few nights from now. Or listening to music they’d chosen themselves, putting mugs of coffee – not china cups and saucers – straight down onto the table, without coasters. Or maybe glasses of wine – that one they’d brought to Laura and Donal’s had been nice, Chateau something – she’d buy a bottle of that as a treat for their first night here.
Walking back out to Laura’s car, Ruth touched her sister-in-law’s arm briefly. ‘Thanks so much for this – you’re very good.’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, I’m not; I’m using you as the perfect excuse to skive off work. Don’t get me wrong – I’m delighted to have got this schoolbooks job, but Lord, it’s pretty soul-destroying. All those bright, cheery, primary-coloured pictures; I’m beginning to feel like a Telly Tubby.’
Ruth laughed again. ‘Well, you certainly don’t look like one.’ If anything, Laura seemed to have lost a bit of weight; her old jeans looked quite loose on her. She was pale too, and Ruth noticed faint dark circles under her eyes. But she seemed in good spirits; Ruth decided to say nothing. She always hated people telling her she looked tired; it always sounded to her like they were really saying that she looked awful.
They deposited the television on the floor in the living room – Ruth had already cleaned it out – and started on the kitchen together. Laura pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began scrubbing the new worktops – they had a light film of what seemed like plaster on them – while Ruth washed down the wall tiles and wiped the shelves in the presses. She imagined them filled with their things; saw herself reaching up to take down a box of Special K with Red Berries – her weekend treat in Dublin, too expensive to have every morning. Or maybe she’d be rummaging for a jar of honey; she’d adored the Greek yoghurt and honey they’d had most mornings in Crete.
Breffni arrived in her battered Clio half an hour later. Her glossy black hair was in a single perfect French plait that Ruth guessed had taken her about five minutes to do. She wore ancient-looking, threadbare jeans and a baggy red-and-black check flannel shirt, and black, well-worn Doc Martens. She’d probably chosen her oldest clothes for this day of scrubbing; Ruth thought she looked charmingly tomboyish.
‘Mrs Mop reporting for duty.’ She dropped two full-to-bursting bags inside the front door. ‘Didn’t know what you’d need in the line of cleaning stuff, so I just brought what I had under my own sink,’ she said to Ruth. She pointed to the second bag. ‘And that has a bit of lunch when we’ve done enough slogging to deserve it.’
‘I hope there’s chocolate in there somewhere.’ Laura poked a foot at the bag.
‘All in good time. Now –’ Breffni planted her hands on her hips and looked enquiringly at Ruth ‘– am I getting the grand tour before I start, or what?’
‘Of course.’ Ruth smiled brightly at her. ‘I forgot you hadn’t been here before.’ Like there was the slightest chance of Ruth forgetting. Like she hadn’t been dreading this moment – when she would have to go through the house with Breffni and see her reaction to it. She prayed that Laura would come too.
But Laura didn’t. ‘I’ll get on with the scrubbing; don’t be too long.’ She turned back towards the kitchen, and with sinking heart, Ruth opened the living-room door and stood back to let Breffni in.
And Breffni loved it. Each room seemed to delight her; she found something positive to say about everything she saw.
‘. . . Oh look, you could put a window seat in that bay – a nice long cushion, and you could curl up there with your book; when does this side of the house get the sun . . . ?’
‘. . . oh wow, a tree out the back – you lucky thing. Our garden is too small, and I’d adore one for Poll. Mind you, she’d probably fall off and break her neck . . .’
‘. . . hey, plenty of room in that hot-press. I bet yours will be nice and tidy too – you should see the state of mine. Of course, it’s all Poll’s fault – she’s got more clothes than Cian and me put together . . .’
‘. . . Now that windowsill is just crying out for a plant, look how lovely and deep it is – and I’ve one at home that might suit. It’s too big for where we have it, but I think it could be just right there. I don’t know the name of it, but it’s got lovely purply coloured leaves. I’ll bring it next time I’m coming in to the city . . .’
Back in the kitchen, Breffni sounded genuinely enthusiastic as she spoke with Laura. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Did you see the bathroom tiles? And the original fireplace in the living room. And can’t you just see a hammock under that tree?’
And Ruth listened, and basked in Breffni’s praises, and warmed to her. Why had she ever been wary of Laura’s friend? Look how great she was being now. Obviously, she just took a bit of getting to know.
Fourteenth of December; eleven days to Christmas. Donal closed his eyes and imagined himself and Laura sitting opposite each other at the dinner table. Between them, a duck filled with Donal’s special chestnut and orange stuffing, the honey-basted roast parsnips Laura loved, her sherry trifle afterwards – they both detested plum pudding – a bottle or two of their favourite wine, a few candles, a few crackers – and a volume of unsaid words.
When he’d met Laura, the thing about her that had charmed him the most was her openness. She wasn’t very confident – she had no faith in her ability as an artist until he’d practically beaten it into her – but she was never afraid to talk about things, because she had nothing she felt she needed to hide. She spoke openly about her strained relationship with Cecily, her deep attachment to her father. When Brian died, two years after Laura married Donal, she’d been desolate for months, crying night after night in his arms; but she’d always been able to talk about her heartbreak, pulling out precious memories to console herself.
‘He’d always be the one to bring me to the dentist, never Mother. And on the way home we’d go into Eason’s and he’d let me pick out three comics. I’d be sitting in the dentist’s chair trying to decide which ones I’d get . . . When I made my confirmation I wanted to wear these shoes that were all the rage, Swedish I think they were, lovely soft leather, very casual-looking. Loads of the other girls had them. But Mother insisted on Clarke’s – a hideous black patent pair with a strap and a buckle, like little girl’s shoes. I hated them; we had a huge row about it, but of course she won. The day after the confirmation, Dad brought me into town and bought me a pair of the other ones. We had to hide them from Mother for ages; I’d wear the Clarke’s ones going out and change at Bref’s . . . He brought me and Andrew to see Star Wars three times, because we loved it so much. He said he loved it too, but we were fairly sure he was only going for us . . . When I went to see Bref, the time she moved over to San Francisco, I had to take out a bank loan for the fare. He insisted on repaying the loan in full when he found out, told me I could pay him back when I started earning, a Euro a week till I retired . . .’
For Donal, whose life until he met Laura had been a tangle of secrets and unspoken guilt, this ability of hers to vocalise everything was wonderful. She was the breath of fresh air that he desperately needed, and he gulped her in gratefully.
And then, two years ago,
it had started to go wrong. It was his punishment – he knew that. He could accept it, it was no more than he deserved. But it was punishing Laura too, and he hated that. Couldn’t bear to see the closed look on her face when she thought he wasn’t looking. The pain in her eyes as the months went by and she kept on bleeding. He heard her crying late at night, when he was supposed to be asleep, and it broke his heart. He saw her growing thinner, her beautiful cheekbones becoming more pronounced.
And now, they had begun the process that he had dreaded for years. He’d known it would come to this eventually – she’d made no secret of the fact that she wanted children – but he’d refused to think about it, hoping against hope that maybe he’d never have to.
And of course, the worst thing, the most despicable thing, was that all of this was unnecessary. All of Laura’s anguish, all her waiting and praying and hoping – all of it was just a huge waste of time. He knew, and he couldn’t tell her.
Because if he ever told her, if she ever discovered what he had hidden from her, she would have no choice – honest, open Laura would have no choice – but to leave him.
So he had to wait for her to find out the hard way, through the doctors, and the tests, and the months of trying – and then, when he and Laura were given the news, he would have to pretend that it was news to him too.
He turned away from the calendar, wondering how on earth they’d make it through Christmas.
She hardly noticed the rain on the windshield, until her vision blurred, and a car coming opposite flashed at her to keep in to her own side of the road. Even at three in the afternoon, the day was dark, with showers falling suddenly and heavily, and not making much difference afterwards to the leaden sky.
She saw the hotel ahead of her, and her heart lurched. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go home and forget this insanity. Pretend it had never happened – just something daft she’d dreamt up on an idle afternoon. He’d wait awhile, eventually realise that she wasn’t coming. It would all blow over, it would have to. They’d avoid each other as much as they could; they’d survive, and no damage would have been done.
She checked her mirror, indicated, and turned in the gravel driveway. Too late, much too late for that.
She saw his car, parked in the furthest away of the marked spaces. She pulled in four spaces down from his, avoided her eyes in the mirror as she lifted her bag from the floor in front of the passenger seat. When she walked through the front door, he stood and came towards her, and she smiled and put her cheek up to his. You’d swear she’d been doing this all her life.
‘Hi.’ He looked nervous. ‘I’ve got the key.’
‘Let’s go then.’ She took his arm and they walked through the lobby. She didn’t look towards the reception desk.
Lord, what on earth had possessed her? A dozen times a day since the book-club meeting, Cecily wished fervently that she could pick up the phone and call Frank, make some excuse – anything; she didn’t need it to sound genuine, for God’s sake – that would get her out of this ridiculous situation. How had it happened, what devil had possessed her, persuaded her to agree to having dinner with him? Had her head been so easily turned by a few silly compliments? Was she that desperate for male company?
But she couldn’t phone him; she didn’t have his number, and he wouldn’t be in the Limerick phone book yet – and anyway, she couldn’t remember his last name. In a few hours, she was going to sit into a car beside a man whose last name she didn’t know, and let him take her out to dinner. She would be trapped with him for at least two hours, would have to talk to him and listen to him, and in the end, thank him.
One thing she was grateful for – no one else knew. She was quite sure that nobody had been near enough to overhear as they’d made the arrangements, and Cecily intended to keep it that way. When he’d asked her if there was anywhere she would like to go, she’d named a little country hotel, not at all fashionable, almost ten miles outside the city. No chance of bumping into anyone she knew there, she was certain.
And that would be the end of that. One dinner, and a polite but firm refusal if he asked to see her again. She’d acted impulsively, made a mistake; everyone was entitled to that. But she would make quite sure not to repeat it.
One dinner. With a sinking heart she went upstairs to change.
For hours afterwards, his whole body burned. He marvelled that his voice, when he spoke, sounded so normal, that his hands could do what he needed them to do without shaking. That nobody at all noticed the change in him, or the fact that he’d been missing from work for almost three hours. That it had taken just half of a wintry afternoon in an unremarkable hotel bedroom for him to be certain that nothing would ever be the same.
And in a week’s time, they were going to do it all over again.
Lord, what had she done?
Was she out of her mind? Suddenly she was one of those women who meet men in hotel rooms in the middle of the afternoon. She had gone there knowing what was going to happen, wanting it to happen.
And did she feel guilty now, did she regret the last few hours, did she wish she could turn the clock back to the moment when he’d closed the bedroom door and stepped towards her? Would she wipe it all away if she could, and be glad that it had never happened?
She tried to imagine that – if she’d ignored the letter and stayed away from his work, and if they hadn’t spent the last few hours making the kind of love she’d given up on – and she realised that the thought of it never having happened was unbearable. No, she wouldn’t turn the clock back, given the chance. She’d turn it forward if she could, to one week from now. Already, she could hardly wait.
And anyway, it wasn’t as if she was married.
Laura opened the bottom drawer – the one Donal never went near, usually full of her winter jumpers – and looked inside. She lifted out the little yellow jumpsuit and stroked the blue furry teddy stuck onto the front: so cute. And the tiny green padded jacket just under it; she’d had a doll once that it would have fit. She pulled out a woolly patterned hat with a giant orange pompom and held it against her cheek: adorable.
One by one, she took everything out and laid them all on the carpet, all the doll-sized clothes and hats and shoes that nearly filled the drawer. There were the bootees that she’d bought the first time. It seemed amazing now, that feeling of guilt she’d had in the street afterwards, as if she’d stolen them. The second time had been easier, when she got the hat. And after that, she didn’t bat an eyelid – just strode in as if it was the most natural thing in the world, just another item on her shopping list: clothes for baby.
She was glad now she’d bought nothing too frilly, no pale blues or pinks. She had to be careful not to get anything that wouldn’t suit her baby; she couldn’t put a pink jumpsuit on a boy – or a blue one on her daughter. Her daughter: The words sounded wonderful in her head.
Lately she had started dreaming about her babies. Her little girl in yellow dungarees and cute little pigtails, chuckling when Laura tickled under her chin. Her little boy, rosy cheeked, brown hair tousled, digging in his sandpit for treasure. She could see their adorable little faces, smell their baby scents. They clambered onto her lap and covered her face with tiny bird kisses and begged for stories.
After a while, she folded everything carefully again before putting it all back and shutting the drawer quietly. Then she went to her bedside locker and took out her temperature chart. There it was, plain as day: on Wednesday last, her temperature had risen. The gynaecologist had told her that once this happened, ovulation was over. So she was ovulating – her body was functioning properly, presenting her with an egg every twenty-eight days, just like it was supposed to. They’d made love nearly every night since the consultation – the odd ones they missed didn’t matter; Dr Sloan had told them that sperm remained active inside the woman’s body for up to three days – and often again before Donal went to work in the mornings.
And now, Laura was pregnant: she felt certain. And s
oon she’d be able to prove it, and tell Donal. And Breffni. She imagined how thrilled they’d be, and wished with all her heart that her father was still alive to rejoice too. What a wonderful grandfather he’d have made.
She put the chart back carefully and closed the locker. She checked her watch: lunch time. She knew she should have something, now that she was eating for two, but she hadn’t felt hungry for ages. She was too excited.
Cecily stood at the window of the dark sitting room and watched as Frank drove off. When his car had disappeared in the direction of the North Circular Road, she turned and went into the kitchen. She filled and plugged in the kettle and took her caddy of herbal teas over to the table.
Who would have thought that she would actually have enjoyed herself? She’d been dreading the whole business, not at all relishing the prospect of being in Frank’s company for a whole evening, unable to imagine them managing to sustain any kind of conversation over that period of time.
And it had turned out fine. He’d been attentive and polite; the conversation hadn’t flagged once. He hadn’t been too intrusive, as she’d feared – any questions he’d put to her were quite impersonal. And to her vast relief, the subject of his past hadn’t come up once. She’d enjoyed talking about plants with him – he certainly knew what was what. And he was surprisingly well read; no wonder he’d agreed to come with Dorothy to the book club.
He’d insisted on her having a gin and tonic before the meal, ordering mineral water for himself – he told her that he never took a drink when he was driving, which she heartily approved of. The dinner had been quite a pleasant surprise too – she hadn’t known what to expect. But her baked cod had been quite tasty, with a well-put-together salad accompanying it – dressing on the side, as she’d requested.
And Frank hadn’t once tried to take advantage. In fact, he’d been the perfect gentleman all evening. While she wasn’t in the least attracted to him – absolutely not – Cecily had to admit that she was quite looking forward to their next meal out: same time, same place, this night week. Who would have thought it?
Putting Out the Stars Page 15
