He glanced at her again. ‘OK.’
‘You take everything so seriously . . . lighten up, for God’s sake.’
‘Right.’ He kept his eyes on the road ahead for several minutes after that, and the next time he looked over, when they had to stop at a traffic light, she was asleep. He watched her beautiful face and felt afraid.
‘Stop.’ Ruth pushed his hand away, conscious of the taxi driver’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Darling, please stop.’
Andrew’s breath was hot on her face, and smelt spicy. His voice was low, but Ruth knew it wasn’t low enough. ‘When a woman says stop, she never means it.’ He slid his hand up under her shirt again. ‘She means don’t stop; she means go on.’ He tried to wriggle his fingers under the lacy camisole she wore. ‘You know you want it, you know it’s driving you mad.’ His breathing was harsh; his other hand was pulling up her skirt, kneading her thigh painfully, forcing her legs apart. ‘My strait-laced little wife – why don’t you just go mad for once?’ Ruth heard a tearing sound – the stockings she’d paid sixteen Euro for that day.
‘No love, please . . . ‘
The more she struggled, the more it seemed to excite him. His movements became more urgent, his breathing more laboured. He reached further up her leg, grabbing at her underwear. ‘Come on, come on . . .’ And all the time Ruth was acutely aware of the driver taking it all in, meeting her eyes quite openly any time she looked at the mirror.
She felt a sudden flash of anger. They weren’t teenagers, for God’s sake, fumbling in the back of a car because they had nowhere else to go. They were married, and could restrain themselves until they were in their own bed.
‘I said no.’ She shoved him away with all her strength, and crossed her legs tightly. ‘Stop it, Andrew – I don’t want this.’ She turned her head and looked out the window, and ignored him for the rest of the journey.
And tried not to feel too nervous about what she’d done.
The meal had been torture from start to finish. The fact that he could smell her scent, could laugh and joke with her, could say her name and meet her eye – none of that mattered, or it made it worse. She was so close, and he couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t put his mouth to that perfect skin, run his hand lightly over her smooth stomach. He imagined what the reaction would be if he leaned across and kissed her, and he wished he had the courage to do it.
His only saving grace, the one thing that kept him from putting his head into his hands and howling with frustration, was the thought that, five days from now, she would be in his arms again. He clung to that.
‘Happy Christmas, Mother – from both of us.’ Laura touched her mother’s cheek with hers for the briefest of seconds. Cecily’s skin was cool; she smelled of the Yves St Laurent perfume that always reminded Laura of Arabian nights – heady, exotic, passionate. It astonished her that such a cold-blooded creature as Cecily should favour that scent.
‘Thank you, dear – and Donal too, of course.’ Cecily took the small silver-wrapped package and opened it unhurriedly, as Laura took a large swallow of her brandy and ginger ale, and waited. Donal caught her eye and winked; Laura gave him a small, brittle smile before turning back to her mother.
‘It’s beautiful – thank you both again.’ Cecily looked down at the delicate gold and silver pendant that had cost half as much as Donal earned in a week. ‘I shall treasure it.’
And you shall never wear it – at least, not when you meet us. Laura lifted her glass again and watched as Andrew and Ruth presented Cecily with a soft-looking scarf in a beautiful mauve colour. Cecily immediately wrapped it over her shoulders – ‘one of my favourite shades too: how clever of you both’ – before standing to refresh all their glasses. Laura glanced at her watch – another half an hour at least before they could make their excuses. And she couldn’t even have another drink; as usual, she was driving. She watched Donal accepting a second brandy with a feeling that she took a moment to recognise as resentment. He never had to worry about how many jars he had. So handy, not driving.
Stop it. She willed herself to relax, breathed deeply to try to dislodge the knot that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside her. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up twisted and bitter. And it wasn’t Donal’s fault that she wasn’t pregnant – at least, they didn’t know which of them was to blame yet. Another two months at least to endure before they found out – if they ever did find out. God, why can’t I think about anything else? Her heart ached; she seemed to be on some kind of awful treadmill, going round and round the same old endless whys and what ifs.
And no answers. Nobody to tell her that she was being silly – that of course she’d get pregnant, any time now. That it just took longer with some people, that was all. That there was absolutely no problem – none whatsoever.
‘Laura, dear?’ Cecily was holding out a plate. Laura saw immaculately arranged crackers on which were perched slices of herbed cheese and slivers of cucumber, wafer-thin salami, some kind of pâté topped with olive halves.
‘Thank you.’ She took a salami-topped cracker – Cecily would probably take it personally if she refused – and placed it on the small china plate on her lap. She felt sure that Breffni and Cian were getting merry on sparkling wine, along with the gang they’d invited to the turkey dinner. No standing on ceremony there; no perching on a spindly-legged chair, forcing down silly, fiddly food you didn’t want, listening to operatic music, which Laura had always detested, and trying to look as if you were enjoying yourself.
After what seemed like an eternity, they managed to escape. Laura turned to Donal in the car as they drove off. ‘Please let’s go on a Christmas break to the sun next year.’
‘I promise.’ He grinned across at her – probably a bit high on Cecily’s brandy. ‘Listen, it could be worse. I’m just glad that she doesn’t expect us to stay for dinner. Poor Ruth.’ When Laura didn’t respond, he put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Darling?’
She darted a look at him, unsmiling. ‘What?’
‘We have each other. We’ll always have each other, whatever happens.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’ She felt a tear trickle out of one eye and run slowly down her cheek.
‘I love you.’ He squeezed her shoulder gently; hadn’t noticed the tear.
She nodded again, and then said, ‘God, I could use a drink when we get home.’
Donal said nothing, just looked at her as they turned onto the North Circular. After a minute, he took his hand away.
All day long, she was on autopilot. Doing what was expected of her. Saying all the right things. Dragging her thoughts back whenever they strayed to him. Managing somehow to get through the day without someone looking curiously at her and asking, ‘Are you OK?’
A few days ago, the third time. The same room as the first time, when he’d been so endearingly nervous. He was more confident now, more sure of her. Took his time with her. Her hair was damp with sweat, her voice hoarse as she begged him not to stop.
‘I adore you . . . you’re so beautiful.’ His voice was muffled against her neck. ‘So unbelievably beautiful.’
She drank in every word, shuddered when his tongue traced her collarbone lazily. I adore you. She echoed it back to him in her head, afraid to say it out loud.
Afraid now that this thing they’d started was going to be impossible to stop. Terrified that it would grow and blossom and take control, and destroy everything that got in its way. Already, so soon, she was powerless to resist him. Unable to say no, stop this, we have to end it. She couldn’t imagine it ending; it could never end.
Somehow, she got through Christmas Day without him.
‘Frank – kettle’s boiling.’ Ruth drew in her head when she saw him look up and wave. She put spoons on the table, emptied the last few digestives onto a plate, poured steaming water into the teapot.
The back door opened and Frank appeared, shaking his feet out of his battered-looking boots. ‘How do you always know just when I’ve decide
d that I could murder a cuppa?’ He stepped into the pair of shoes on the mat and crossed to the sink. ‘It’s a perfect day out there, actually quite warm in the sun. Hard to believe it’s December.’ He turned on the tap and pumped the liquid soap into his hand.
Ruth poured tea into both cups, wondering again why Frank kept reminding her of someone. ‘You’re doing fantastic work out there. You must have loved your job, did you?’
‘I did; never minded getting up in the morning, no matter what the weather was like. Loved getting my hands mucky; the muckier the better.’ He put the towel back on its hook and sat at the table. ‘Poor Angela was worn out trying to get the grass stains out of my trousers. Didn’t matter how much I told her it didn’t bother me – ’twas only my gardening gear – she’d still go at them with every kind of cleaner.’
Ruth pushed the sugar bowl over to him, thinking how rarely he mentioned his late wife. ‘You must miss her.’
He nodded, spooning sugar into his tea. ‘Every day. She was a wonderful woman; always so positive – and God knows, we went through our share of tough times.’ He glanced over at Ruth. ‘We lost a daughter, you know. Leukaemia.’
‘Oh Frank, I didn’t know. How terrible.’ Ruth instinctively took his hand and squeezed it. ‘You poor thing. How old was she?’
‘Twelve. Just getting ready to start secondary school.’
‘God.’ Ruth held his hand tightly. ‘Had you . . . have you other children?’
He paused, picked up his cup with his free hand. ‘A son, yes.’ Another pause; he sipped his tea, put down his cup. ‘I . . . we lost touch, years ago.’ Then he shook his head slightly and smiled. ‘And that’s quite enough about me and my dark past. Christmas reminds you of the ones who are gone – that must be why I’m rattling on like this. Now, my dear, I’m admiring your beautiful necklace and guessing it was a present from your husband.’
Ruth smiled, fingered the necklace. It had been from Andrew – she’d been delighted when she’d opened it, amazed when he insisted that no one had helped him choose it.
She still felt a lurch of unease when she remembered the other night – how she’d pushed him away in the taxi on the way home from the Chinese restaurant. She knew she had nothing to apologise for – he’d only had himself to blame, pushing himself on her like that, ignoring her protests – but still . . . she was his wife, after all, and he’d had a lot to drink, didn’t really know what he was doing. Fortunately, he’d seemed to have forgotten it by the morning – how he’d lurched upstairs as soon as they were in the door, and gone straight to bed without another word to her. When she reached the bedroom a few minutes later, he was fast asleep in his underpants, clothes tossed in a heap onto the floor. Ruth had picked them up and plonked them on a chair, not attempting to straighten them out. She was his wife, not his mother.
In the morning, he’d turned to her with a groan: ‘God, my head’s splitting; did I make a total idiot of myself last night?’
‘Not at all; you were in great form.’ Ruth got up and made him tea in bed, grateful that the little unpleasantness on the way home seemed to have been forgotten.
After Frank had finished his tea and gone back outside, Ruth stood at the kitchen window and watched him digging just inside the back wall, pushing the spade down into the earth, bending to lever it up and turn the soil, cutting into it with the side of the spade. Ruth had asked him about climbers; she wanted to cover the ugly concrete wall. He suggested summer jasmine for scent, and Virginia creeper for the glorious flaming colour it went in autumn, or maybe variegated ivy, if she didn’t want it too bare in the winter, and a few sweet peas here and there, because their scent was wonderful too, and their colours so delicately pretty.
He also suggested runner beans, which surprised her until he described the beautiful orange blossoms that covered the plant before the beans appeared. ‘And then you’ll get a few dinners out of them too; you’ll be like the woman on The Good Life, remember her, Felicity somebody?’
Ruth had laughed. ‘Only the repeats, I’m afraid.’
She watched his slow, systematic turning of the earth; saw him crouching down every now and again to look closely at whatever had caught his attention. She wondered how anyone could survive the loss of a child; and terrible as the death of his daughter must surely have been, wasn’t it as bad in its own way not to know where his son was – or even if he was still alive? What on earth could have been so awful for them to have lost contact, to have stayed apart for years? She supposed his son would be in his thirties or forties now. Ruth’s heart went out to Frank; she wished there was some way she could help him.
Her eyes roamed the garden; it did look like a lovely day, and she hadn’t put her nose outside the door yet. She’d finish the few jobs around the house and go for a walk; maybe track down a few local hairdressers. In just three days it would be January – time for some serious job-hunting.
She’d pick up a gardening magazine for Frank somewhere too, when she was out.
‘Only me.’
‘In here.’ Breffni lifted the throw and draped it over the back of the sofa. As she sat up, yawning, Cian came in. ‘What’s up – are you sick?’
She shook her head, pulling her fingers through her hair to untangle it. ‘I was just grabbing a quick snooze after Poll went up; I think Christmas has caught up with me.’
‘Poor you.’ He sat next to her and massaged her shoulders. ‘Worn out looking after us all. Will I phone for a takeaway?’
‘No – it’s in the oven, all ready.’
He stood again. ‘Well then, you stay there and I’ll bring it in on a tray.’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘No, I’ll come out. I’m fine, honest.’ She stood and put her arms around his neck. ‘You’re far too good for me – I don’t deserve you.’
He considered, then shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You deserve someone a lot better-looking, and a damn sight more exciting; not to mention a bit skinnier.’
She dug him in the ribs. ‘Stop; I’m serious; you are too good for me. And if I wanted a skinny man, I’d put you on a diet.’
He hugged her tightly, chin resting on the top of her head. After a few seconds of silence, he said, ‘Bref.’
‘Yeah?’ She pulled her head back and looked up at him.
‘Is it time to think about another baby?’
He felt her stiffen slightly – such a tiny movement; or maybe he imagined it – before she answered. ‘Let’s leave it a while; Poll’s not out of nappies yet.’ She watched him with those wonderful blue eyes.
He nodded. ‘OK, if that’s what you want.’ He dropped his arms. ‘Can I run up and say hi before she drops off?’
‘Do; I’ll dish up.’ She stood in the middle of the living room and listened to his footsteps for a minute, staring off into the distance. Then she smoothed the cushions on the couch and turned towards the kitchen, wondering how long she could put him off.
Laura smiled as the toddler wrestled with the bright red plastic cube, trying unsuccessfully to force it through the oval-shaped hole in the lid of the sturdy blue bucket. His face was screwed up with the effort, tiny pink tongue stuck out of the corner of his pursed lips. He suddenly lost his grip on the cube, which shot out of his fat little hand and bounced off Laura’s shin before landing beside her.
‘Upsadaisy.’ Laura bent to retrieve it, then held it out towards the child. He looked from the cube to her face, then back at the cube, but didn’t move to take it from her. His face was solemn.
She held it out further. ‘Look.’ He watched her, unsmiling, as she dropped the cube neatly through the square hole in the bucket lid. ‘All gone.’
He looked down at the lid, lifted the bucket and gave it a clumsy shake, patted the top with a podgy palm. Then he picked up a round yellow shape from the collection beside him and banged it against the lid. He looked questioningly up at Laura, who put a finger on the round hole. ‘There.’ After a few attempts, he pushed the shape through the hole.
She nodded, beaming back at him. ‘All gone, good boy.’ She picked up a green oval. ‘Now, try this one.’ She held it out to him and he grabbed it.
‘Sorry; I’ll take him out of your way.’ The young mother – Laura presumed it was his mother – scooped him up and plonked him into a buggy, whisking the bucket out of his arms and replacing it on a low shelf. ‘Off we go. Say bye-bye to the lady.’
He flapped cocktail sausage fingers at her and she smiled and waved back. ‘Bye.’ When they were gone, she picked up the bucket and opened the lid, and replaced all the brightly coloured plastic shapes inside. Then she walked to the checkout desk with it.
‘I’ll take this, please; it’ll be perfect for my little boy. He’s just beginning to handle things.’
‘They’re a great seller – very popular.’ The assistant rang up the total. ‘That’ll be fourteen fifty please.’ She wrapped the bucket as Laura rummaged in her wallet. ‘Is he your first?’
Why did they always ask that? Laura shook her head. ‘No, I’ve a little girl too, she’s four. She’ll be starting school next September.’ Funny how much easier it got every time. Details just seemed to add themselves. Her son who’d just had his tonsils out. Her little girl who was going to her first birthday party. Her baby who was growing out of everything so fast.
It was all very, very easy.
What was more difficult was finding a place to store everything. When the drawer at home was too full for any more, she’d started filling a big cardboard box under her table at work – quite safe, the girls never went near each other’s spaces – but that was full now too. She had to find more space. She wondered about the attic at home – it wasn’t big enough to stand up in, no floor on it either, so they really didn’t use it for anything. The only time Donal had been up was when they noticed the damp patch on the bedroom ceiling. A box up there would be quite safe.
Putting Out the Stars Page 17
