‘Good morning.’ His voice was croaky with sleep.
‘Morning.’ She touched his lips briefly, then moved her mouth slowly down along his throat and chest, biting gently when she reached a nipple. He drew in his breath, put a hand on her waist and pulled her in close.
Afterwards, he twined his fingers through her tousled curls and tasted salt on her face, and saw the desperate hope in her eyes, and his heart cracked, like it always did.
She was there before him; she never arrived this early. He parked right beside her car and practically ran into the hotel. She sat in an armchair by the window, watching without smiling as he approached. He dropped into the chair beside her and took one of her hands – cold – and brought it to his lips. ‘Hey.’
She glanced quickly towards the reception desk, then back at him. ‘I don’t know if I can do this any more.’
It was like being blasted with a shower of icy water, just after stepping out of a steamy bath, all pink and puckered. He felt the shock flash through his body, something thumping down to land heavily at the bottom of his stomach. ‘What?’
‘It’s too hard, I can’t . . . we can’t do it to . . . it’s not right.’ Her head drooped, hiding her expression from him. She pulled her hand from his and covered her face. ‘I can’t, I just can’t . . . it’s too hard. It makes me feel . . . we’re hurting people . . .’
‘No.’ His head spun – whatever he said now could change everything. ‘Listen . . . listen. Come to the room and we’ll talk.’ He spoke quickly and quietly; he marvelled that his voice didn’t shake. He reached across and took one of her hands again, pulled it away gently from her face.
She shook her head, raised her eyes to his. ‘If we go to the room . . . you know I can’t resist you.’ Her hand was trying feebly to pull away from his.
It was going to be all right. He held tightly to her hand. ‘We’re meant for each other; we need each other. I would die without you.’ He watched her face soften, saw her exquisite eyes fill with tears. He wanted to put out a finger and catch one as it trembled on her lower lashes, bring it to his mouth and taste it.
He had to keep speaking, had to convince her to stay. ‘It can’t be wrong, what we’re doing. It feels so right; you know it does. We belong together.’ With each word, he could feel her drawing towards him. She blinked, and a single tear slid quickly down her face. Her hand rested in his, stopped pulling away. ‘No one will ever know, I promise. No one will ever find out; no one will ever get hurt – we’ll make sure of that.’ He stood, pulling her gently with him. ‘Come on.’
In the room, she wept against him, and murmured his name, and he kissed her tears and rocked her and told her he loved her.
Ruth put the dish of asparagus on the table, hoping to God that she’d got it right. Imagine, thirty years on this earth and she’d never once cooked asparagus. According to the recipe – taken from page 68 of Classic Dishes, presented to her by Cecily when she and Andrew had moved out – the asparagus heads should be cooked in steam, and the ends in water. But it didn’t tell you where exactly the water stopped and the steam began. Halfway up? An inch of water in the bottom of the saucepan? Ruth supposed it was asking for trouble, cooking something new for a visitor; she’d played it safe with the salmon steaks, bought already poached and ridiculously overpriced, but at least they’d be edible, and she knew Cecily liked salmon. And the baby new potatoes that some French farmer had managed to grow in January – they should be fine too. Which just left the asparagus.
Andrew picked up a few spears with the little tongs Ruth had bought the day before, and looked questioningly across the table. ‘Mother?’
‘Thank you.’ Cecily accepted the asparagus and waited while Andrew served himself and Ruth. ‘Well, this is nice; thank you both.’ She picked up her water glass and looked from one to the other. ‘I do hope you’ll both be very happy here.’
‘Thank you, Cecily.’ Ruth smiled placidly at her mother-in-law. ‘I’m sure we will.’ She glanced at Andrew, cutting into an asparagus spear. ‘Darling?’
He looked up. ‘Sorry – I was miles away.’ He lifted his glass. ‘It’s great to have you here, Mother; we must do it regularly, now that we’ve settled in.’
Just then, his mobile rang. He put down the glass and stood immediately, pulling it out of his pocket as he went towards the hall. ‘Sorry about that; I thought it was switched off.’ Cecily and Ruth exchanged a look as he left the room.
In less than a minute, he was back, without the phone. ‘One of the lads from work, looking for a lift in the morning. His car is in for a service.’ He took his seat at the table, and raised his glass again. ‘Here’s to my two favourite cooks; I’m a lucky man.’ And he tipped back his head and emptied the glass. ‘So, Mother, what do you think of our new home? Any decorating ideas for us?’
As Cecily responded, Ruth watched her husband with relief. He’d been so off-form lately, she’d wondered if this dinner was going to be a bit of a strain. Of course she should have trusted him – Andrew was well able to turn on the charm when he needed, especially for his mother.
She turned her attention to Cecily, who was looking out the window in admiration ‘. . . and I must say, the garden is going to be just lovely.’
Ruth nodded; she was delighted with the way the garden was shaping up. Frank was able to describe so clearly what was going to go where, she could almost see it. And he was full of ideas – camomile seeds scattered on the lawn, so when you stepped on it, you released the scent; lavender planted by the clothesline – ‘I came across that in France once; gave the laundry a wonderful smell.’ He talked about a winding path down to the shed at the end – ‘and of course we must plant some bluebells around the tree’ – and a display of wild poppies against the wall just outside the patio window: ‘They look magnificent in bloom; a real talking point if you’re sitting in the kitchen.’
Ruth must arrange for Laura to call around sometime when Frank was there; she was sure they’d get on. And maybe Laura would spot who Frank looked like – it was still niggling at Ruth; she was sure he reminded her of someone. She thought of asking Cecily if she’d ever felt that, but decided not to; it might sound a bit odd. And anyway, Ruth got the impression that Cecily hadn’t much time for Frank – she probably never looked properly at him during the meetings. Pity – he was such a nice man, and Cecily could do with someone to take her out and about, now that she was living on her own. But of course they’d never be suited; they were far too different.
Listen to her – she sounded like a matchmaker. She looked over at her mother-in-law’s plate. ‘Cecily, more asparagus?’
Laura looked up as the waiting-room door opened.
‘Now, Mrs O’Neill.’ Dr Sloan’s young receptionist – surely no older than sixteen – held the door open as Laura closed the magazine she hadn’t been reading, and walked through. The urge to urinate was very strong; her full bladder ached dully. Dr Sloan smiled as Laura walked into the surgery.
‘Good morning, Laura. All set?’
Laura nodded, forcing an answering smile, resisting the urge to say I’ve been set for two years. She wasn’t nervous; she’d often given blood, so that test was nothing new. And the thought of an ultrasound didn’t bother her; she’d seen pregnant women having them on TV – a kind of jelly spread on your stomach and a harmless-looking instrument moved backwards and forwards over it. There was nothing to be nervous about. Terrified of what might be revealed, yes. Nervous, no.
Donal had wanted to come with her, but she’d stopped him. ‘I’ll be in and out very quickly; there’s really no need for you to be there. Anyway, you might need time off next week, so it’s better if you go in to work today.’
If today’s tests proved inconclusive, or didn’t provide them with all the information they needed, Dr Sloan would have to perform a laparoscopy. She’d explained the procedure during their initial visit. ‘It’s a straightforward operation, takes about twenty minutes – just to check that there’s no
blockage in your fallopian tubes – but it does require you to have a general anaesthetic, so you’ll need someone to bring you home when you wake up.’ She’d looked enquiringly at Donal.
‘He doesn’t drive.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Laura regretted them. Somehow they sounded like an accusation; another crime that he was guilty of. Won’t give me children, won’t drive me home. And how ridiculous she was being now, making it sound like Donal was doing it on purpose – keeping a child from her just because he felt like it, just because he didn’t fancy the thought of being a father. Anyway, it might turn out to be Laura’s problem, not his at all. She put out a hand and grabbed his. ‘But you’ll come in with me, won’t you, if I need a laparoscopy? We can get a cab home.’
Dr Sloan had shown them an x-ray of some anonymous woman’s uterus, and pointed out the fallopian tubes – impossibly narrow, wiggly threads, hardly visible to Laura’s searching eye. So that was the pathway for the egg; all the little turns and twists it had to wriggle through on its journey. So many potential obstacles to herself and Donal creating life . . .
She dragged her head back to the present, where Dr Sloan was releasing the air from the rubber strip around Laura’s arm. ‘Your blood pressure is down slightly, nothing to worry about.’ She unwrapped the strip. ‘You also look like you’ve lost a bit of weight since I saw you last. Is your appetite all right?’
Laura hesitated. ‘I’ve a lot of work on at the moment – I suppose I don’t always remember to eat properly.’
‘Be careful; you need to keep healthy when you’re trying to get pregnant. Make sure you have regular, balanced meals, plenty of green leafy vegetables. Did you start on the folic acid?’
Laura nodded.
Dr Sloan walked to her desk and pulled a pad towards her. ‘Now, will you take a seat there for a minute?’
After writing rapidly on the pad, she looked up. ‘Laura, there’s one other thing. Your husband’s semen analysis proved inconclusive. We’ll need another sample, so maybe you can discuss this with him? I feel it would be better coming from you.’
‘Inconclusive? In what way?’ Laura’s hands tightened on the strap of her bag.
‘Nothing to get alarmed about – we just didn’t get an accurate reading, or not one we were completely satisfied with. We need to do a repeat analysis, so we can be sure of our findings.’ Dr Sloan paused. ‘It’s really not something you should worry about, not at this stage. Any number of factors can affect these tests – even a bout of flu from a few months ago. And if Donal prefers, he can produce the sample at home and bring it in to us right away; we’d need to get it to the lab within ninety minutes. Remember to abstain from sex for two days beforehand.’
Driving home, Laura tried to concentrate on the traffic, heavy as usual at this late-afternoon hour. A people carrier full of children drove through an intersection in front of her, seconds after her light turned green. Two cars cut ahead of her as she drove down Henry Street, causing her to brake hard. On the road out to Corbally, she was stuck behind a bulldozer as it crawled along uncaring, before mercifully turning in to a building site.
She was glad of the traffic, relieved not to be able to think, and worry, and despair. Not to be able to wonder, if it did turn out to be Donal, whether they’d survive – because of course they would. Nothing in this world, not even the thought of no children with him, could ever make her love Donal the tiniest bit less.
Nothing at all.
Ruth dropped the magazines on the table and sat back, leaning her head against the soft plaid behind her. The carriage was empty so far; she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before letting the air whoosh out of her open mouth. She wondered what the weather was like in Dublin, and imagined stepping out of Heuston Station in two and a half hours, hopping on the LUAS to Abbey Street, and then catching a bus home
She hadn’t told anyone she was coming; she wanted to surprise them this time. Behind her closed lids, she imagined her mam’s face when she walked in the kitchen door. Would Dad be around, or was he on early shift this week? If he was, she’d have to wait till he came in around two. She and Mam could have a cuppa; Irene might be around too, if Friday was her day off this week.
And she had the whole weekend. Three whole days, almost – she’d get the latest train back on Sunday. Andrew hadn’t minded a bit when she brought it up with him.
‘Of course go – why not? I’ll manage fine.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Just remember to come back before you’ve spent all our money.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She’d said she was going to have a look in the sales for stuff for the house. She supposed she should be honest with him, give him the real reason, but she wanted her family to know first. Maybe that wasn’t how it should be, but she didn’t care. She’d tell them first, then come home and tell Andrew. He need never know that he wasn’t the first to hear.
She opened her eyes – the carriage was nearly full now – and picked up one of the magazines as the train pulled slowly out of the station.
‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’ His head and one palm rested on her stomach; she felt the words as well as heard them. ‘I wondered if you’d change your mind.’
Her hand twined through his hair. ‘I thought about it . . .’ She sighed deeply, and his head rose and fell again. ‘But the thought of finishing it was . . . just not something I . . . but I wish it didn’t have to be like this – it makes me feel so . . .’ He waited, then he heard her breath catching. He lifted his head, moved up until his face was touching hers; her cheeks felt hot and wet under his. He kissed her eyelids, stroked her face from forehead to chin, wiped at the tears with his thumbs, whispered against her mouth.
‘Shh . . . don’t . . . don’t be sad . . . you make me so happy . . . shh . . . my love . . . don’t cry, please don’t cry . . . how can it be wrong, when it makes us feel like this? We’ll never tell, no one ever needs to know.’ And as he spoke, as he said all the things he knew she had to keep hearing, she closed her eyes and lifted her hand to cradle his head, and after a while her tears stopped, and she whispered ‘shhhh’ and he stopped talking.
In the car park, they stood by her open door. A chilly wind was blowing; her dashboard clock showed five past five. He held her hand, pressed it against his side to keep it warm. ‘Can you get away for a full night, soon?’
She looked at him in the orange light from the street. ‘I don’t know . . . it might be difficult.’
‘Try. I love you.’ He squeezed her hand and then walked rapidly towards his car.
On her way home, she thought about a whole night with him. Falling asleep beside him. Opening her eyes in the dark and reaching out and finding him there, waking him slowly with her hands and her mouth. She turned the radio up full blast and joined in when Billy Joel sang about an uptown girl.
Her eyes felt tight; when she rubbed them and licked her finger, she tasted salt.
‘Ruth, my dear, that’s wonderful news.’ Frank beamed at her with such obvious delight that Ruth wanted to hug him. She didn’t, of course – what would the others think?
She contented herself with an answering smile. ‘I know; I’m thrilled. I start on Monday.’
Valerie came over holding a homemade coffee cake, iced and sprinkled with chopped toasted nuts. ‘Look what Dorothy brought; doesn’t it look yummy? And what do you start on Monday?’
‘My new hairdressing job.’ Ruth took the cake and put it on the table next to a little dish of wrapped sweets.
Valerie’s face lit up. ‘Ruth, that’s great – count me in for a cut and blow dry; I’m long overdue. Where’s the salon?’
‘On the Ennis Road – on the right as you go out from town, just past the school.’
‘Oh I know that place; isn’t that where you go, Mags?’ Valerie turned to Margaret, just approaching with a small bundle of paper napkins. ‘That hairdressers on the Ennis Road.’
Margaret nodded. ‘Helen’s place, yes. What about it?
’
‘Ruth has just got a job there; isn’t that great?’
Ruth stood and listened, and answered questions, and smiled, and nodded. She felt like pinching herself – still couldn’t quite believe that she was going to be working again. Earning her own money, meeting new people, going off in the morning like everyone else. Mam and Dad had been thrilled when she’d told them, and Andrew had seemed pleased too, when she broke the news to him – he said they should go out to dinner to celebrate. They’d have gone tonight only it was the book club.
And getting the new job had been so simple. Helen, her new boss, had been lovely when Ruth had walked in off the street, purely on spec; she didn’t seem to mind chatting away to Ruth in the middle of putting in highlights.
‘Isn’t that a good one – you come looking for work just when I’m wondering where I can find someone. Here, Sal, give those to Ruth –’ she pointed to the foil strips the junior was holding for her. ‘She can do that while you make us a coffee, and I can give her the third degree. Milk and sugar, Ruth?’ And just like that, Ruth was having her second job interview in Limerick. As she fed Helen the foil strips, she answered questions about her experiences in Dublin: the kind of training she’d had, the cutting and colouring techniques she was familiar with, the type of salon she’d worked in.
‘Actually –’ Ruth glanced around her ‘– it was very like this place.’
Helen laughed. ‘What – you mean full of out-of-date mags and old geriatrics like Chris here?’ She pointed her little brush in the direction of the customer she was working on, who couldn’t have been more than forty.
Chris caught Ruth’s eye in the mirror. ‘Take my advice – get out while you can. I only come in here because I feel sorry for her. And because she’s my sister-in-law.’
Putting Out the Stars Page 19
