Putting Out the Stars

by Roisin Meaney

  Ruth smiled at her, then turned back to Helen. ‘I mean it was small and local, like this; everyone coming in knew everyone else, practically. And I knew them all too – I’d grown up close by. I loved it.’

  And after a few more questions, Helen had offered to take her on; she was to start on Monday fortnight, when Carol was due to go out on maternity leave.

  ‘It’ll have to be on a trial basis, just until I’m satisfied that you can provide the goods; but if you’re as experienced as you say you are, I don’t see a problem. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s great; you won’t be sorry.’ Ruth had practically skipped home, hugging her news to herself. First a new home, now a new job.

  All that was missing was a new baby. But that would happen too; she was working on it.

  For the past ten minutes, she hadn’t dared to look at Donal. Just kept her eyes fixed on Dr Sloan’s face, watching the gynaecologist’s mouth opening and closing, searching her expression for clues as to what she was really thinking. The strain of keeping her own face neutral was causing Laura’s whole body to feel rigid; her shoulders ached, her jaws were clamped together, her hands, so cold, clutched each other tightly in her lap. She wanted to hit something, hard.

  She stopped listening to Dr Sloan talking about alternatives and new advances and plenty of options and high success rates. How could they be expected to take anything else in, how on earth would they ever be able to think logically, behave normally again, after the bombshell that had just been flung at them? Dr Sloan had been as tactful as she could, but every carefully chosen word had struck Laura with the force of a well-aimed lump hammer.

  She forced herself to say it again in her head, feel how it sounded: maybe it wasn’t as bad as she was making it out to be. Donal’s sperm count is so low as to be practically non-existent. She felt her stomach tighten even further; every part of her seemed to be clenched. Short of a miracle, my husband is never going to make me pregnant. We’ll never have a child together. She willed herself to shut up, clutched her hands tighter, wanting to moan out loud. What made it even worse was that there seemed to be no obvious cause – no previous injury, no heavy drinking, no antidepressants.

  ‘Nothing that we can point to as the culprit, I’m afraid.’ Dr Sloan’s voice sounded so normal – so . . . controlled. As if she was discussing the latest peace plans in the Middle East, or the rise in prices since the Euro. Not that it mattered really; whatever way she said it, it came down to the same thing – that the only way Laura would ever get pregnant was with another man’s sperm.

  Suddenly Laura couldn’t bear it; couldn’t sit there for another second pretending not to be falling apart. She stood abruptly, almost knocking over her chair, vaguely aware of Donal looking at her as she turned and fled. Outside, she took huge gulps of air, hanging on to the low railing that bordered the small front garden, feeling her legs like jelly under her.

  ‘Darling.’ His hands came around her waist from behind, his body pressed tightly against hers. For a second she resisted, then she leant back against him, still breathing in deep, shuddering breaths. She felt like she’d never get enough air.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world . . . there are things we can do –’

  ‘Stop – I can’t. Just stop.’ She pulled away from him and started walking fast, out the gate. ‘I’ll see you at home.’ Her legs, still shaky, propelled her forward somehow; away from their car, which she’d parked just outside.

  She hadn’t a clue where she was going. He didn’t follow her, and she didn’t know how that made her feel.

  Frank lowered the menu and took off his glasses. ‘The steak tonight, I think – one of the few dishes I haven’t sampled yet.’ He waited as Cecily closed her menu. ‘And for you, my dear?’

  ‘I think I’ll go for the cod again; they do it so well here.’ She watched as he refilled her water glass; she never had wine when they ate out, not wanting to when Frank didn’t. He filled his own water glass and then lifted it towards her.

  ‘To our very pleasant nights out; I look forward to them.’

  She smiled and raised her glass. Funny, a few weeks ago, she’d have found a remark like that slightly laughable; she’d have scoffed at it. Now, it sounded oddly endearing. Brian hadn’t been much of a man for compliments, or sweet talk; he’d always been completely silent during their lovemaking. But it had never bothered Cecily; she’d never craved the kind of talk that she regarded as romantic nonsense – never been that way inclined herself. So it took her by surprise now, how much she enjoyed Frank’s easy way with words. He managed to make her feel . . . appreciated in some way, without sounding in the least bit corny or sentimental.

  She looked forward too to their weekly nights out – always, except for New Year’s Eve, in the same little hotel. They were beginning to be recognised by the waiters; were usually seated at the same corner table, which afforded them a good view of the main dining area without being easily visible themselves. Not that they were hiding from anyone, of course not. Still, it was preferable to be . . . discreet. No need to parade their outings, to risk their becoming the talk of the book club.

  At the last meeting, Cecily had deliberately seated herself between Emily and Dorothy, with Frank at the far end of Margaret’s big old dining table. For a while, she wondered if he’d noticed; he chatted animatedly with Ruth when the general discussion had ended. But as she got up to leave, he looked over and smiled a warm farewell.

  Tactful. Sensing that she didn’t want their friendship broadcast. On impulse, Cecily reached across the table now and touched Frank’s hand lightly.

  ‘I look forward to seeing you too.’

  And Frank’s face softened as she drew her hand back.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, leave me alone, would you? I’m all right.’ Laura swung around, tea towel in hand, and glared at Donal, then turned back to the draining board and picked up another cup and started drying it furiously.

  Donal stood for a few seconds, hands dropped to his sides. When Laura continued to ignore him, he swung on his heel and went into the sitting room. After a while Laura heard him rustling the paper.

  She sighed deeply and dropped the tea towel, then planted her palms on the draining board and looked out through the window into the black night. The light from the kitchen showed the outline of the stone-flagged patio, the red-brick barbecue that Donal had spent one full summer putting together, beyond it the big old wooden bench with the lovely wide armrests that they’d found in a scrap yard, and that Laura stained with a fresh coat every September. The narrow strip of earth running along beside the fence, just beginning to push up the tiny spears of future daffodils and tulips. The two dwarf apple trees they’d planted at the bottom of the garden, leaf buds still tightly closed now. The rotary clothesline in the opposite corner, red plastic peg-container hanging lopsidedly from one metal arm.

  She remembered a barbecue they’d had for her birthday last August. The girls from the studio had come with their husbands, and Breffni and Cian, and a few of Donal’s workmates, and a couple from across the road who’d invited them to their house-warming a few weeks before. Andrew and Ruth had been in Dublin, making last-minute wedding arrangements, and Laura had persuaded herself that her mother really wouldn’t be bothered attending a party where she’d be the only one of her generation there.

  They’d spread rugs out on the grass, and brought the stereo speakers out the window, and served Pimm’s, just to be posh, and wine spritzers when the Pimm’s was gone. The weather had almost obliged; one quick shower had them grabbing the rugs and scurrying for cover, but then the sun had reappeared, and Donal had spread plastic sheets on the wet lawn, so the rugs could be flung down again.

  They’d feasted on Donal’s blue-cheese burgers and chicken kebabs and Cajun cod. Afterwards, Donal had put whole unpeeled bananas onto the barbecue, and when they were black all over he had split them open and sprinkled the hot flesh with cinnamon and slathered them with rum mascarpone
cream.

  When everyone had gone home, Laura and Donal had lain out on a rug and watched the stars flickering on, and listened to Crowded House, and Donal had given her the new Norah Jones CD and the gold daisy in a silver vase on a slender silver chain that she’d admired one day, months ago, when they’d been out together.

  He’d knelt on the rug behind her and fastened it around her neck as she leant back against him. ‘Happy birthday, flower girl.’

  And after that they’d gone to bed and made slow, tender love, and Laura had prayed that it would happen that night, on her twenty-ninth birthday night. But of course it hadn’t.

  She brushed away the tear that had come out of nowhere, and picked up the tea towel again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Her voice was low, and hurried. ‘Can you talk?’ He glanced around, checked that no one was close enough to hear.

  ‘Yes. Anything wrong?’ Was she having second thoughts again? What they had was so precious . . . and so fragile. He was aware, all the time, how easily he could lose her, and the thought terrified him.

  ‘I – I do want to spend the night with you.’

  He was flooded with relief – could feel it coursing through him. ‘Wonderful.’ He’d do anything, tell any number of lies. ‘Let’s see what we can arrange then, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah . . . it might take a while to organise.’

  He could wait forever. ‘OK – see you Thursday; we can talk about it then.’

  And she was gone. He pressed the off button and held the phone against his chest. The whole night together. Dinner first in the restaurant, like a real couple. Then a second bottle of wine in the room. No rushing, no checking the time. Candles maybe, maybe a bath . . .

  Someone called him from across the room and he turned slowly, hoping to God he looked normal.

  Ruth pushed the basket towards Laura. ‘You’ve had no garlic bread.’

  Laura had taken only a small portion of lasagne, and loaded the rest of her plate with the mixed leaf salad, and as far as Ruth could see, she had yet to take a single bite. She had managed two glasses of wine, though, while Ruth was still on her first.

  ‘Thanks.’ Laura smiled and took a slice from the basket and put it down beside the untouched lasagne. As she picked up her fork again – just to push the salad around, it seemed – Ruth glanced down the table. Breffni and Donal were arguing about the right way to make trifle, and Cian was watching them with a small smile on his face. Andrew had gone out to the kitchen to get another bottle of wine.

  Donal was shaking his head at something Breffni had just said. ‘You have to let the sherry soak into the sponge first; and then the jelly has to be half-set before you add it, otherwise the whole thing will just go mushy.’

  ‘Not if you use those bourbon biscuits, or whatever they call them – the hard, fingery ones. You have to pour the jelly over them while it’s still hot, to soften them up a bit.’ Breffni was leaning over the table towards Donal – Ruth wondered if she was aware of how low her top was; Donal’s eyes kept wandering down to the blue pendant that swung between her breasts. And the tiny skirt she was wearing – of course Breffni got away with it, with those legs, but still . . . Ruth would have been mortified to go out in such revealing clothes. She was certainly managing to distract the men – Donal was almost gaping openly at her cleavage, and Ruth had spotted Andrew looking at her too. Funnily enough, Cian was the only one who didn’t seem to notice Breffni’s get-up. Used to it, Ruth supposed.

  Donal was shaking his head again. ‘No – the sherry will soften the biscuits enough. If you pour the hot jelly over, it dilutes the sherry taste too much. And you’re not supposed to use those biscuits anyway; proper trifle is supposed to have cake in it, preferably day-old.’

  Breffni made a face, fingers playing with her pendant. ‘Yeuk – who wants a trifle with stale cake in it? Even if it is loaded with booze. And speaking of which –’ She held out her glass to Andrew, who had just come back with the wine.

  He poured, and she smiled up at him, still fiddling with the pendant – couldn’t she see that that was just drawing more attention to her low neckline? ‘Thank you, darling.’

  Andrew smiled back, a little stiffly, Ruth thought. Probably embarrassed at her obviousness. He held the bottle over Laura’s glass. ‘You’re not driving tonight, are you?’

  Laura stretched out her empty glass. ‘No, I’m not. So yes please, I will. Cheers, everyone.’ Without looking around the table, she lifted the glass and took a sip.

  ‘So, Ruth, how’s the new job going?’ Ruth turned towards Donal with relief; he either hadn’t noticed Laura’s odd manner, or he was choosing to ignore it. And that suited Ruth just fine.

  ‘Great – I’m really enjoying it.’ And she was; Helen couldn’t have been better to work with – never pushed her weight around, never let things fluster her. Someone coming into the salon for the first time would find it hard to decide who the boss was. After two weeks in the job, Ruth felt totally at home there – and her new-found independence had given her the confidence to invite everyone around for the long-promised dinner.

  She’d played it safe with lasagne, one of the few dishes she felt capable of getting right. The recipes in Cecily’s cookbook were all too posh really – she didn’t want the others to think she was trying to show off. To go with the lasagne, a couple of packs of mixed leaves that you emptied into a bowl with some nice dressing. And the garlic bread wrapped in tinfoil, eight minutes in the oven. The dessert was safe too – you really couldn’t go wrong with apple and sultana crumble and a jug of cream. They’d stocked up on wine and beer, and the fire had been on all day, so the room was lovely and cosy when everyone arrived.

  They really couldn’t have done more – so why was the evening not going well? Laura had hardly spoken since she’d arrived late with Donal – nearly three quarters of an hour late, leaving Ruth to juggle with the oven temperature: down so the lasagne wouldn’t dry out, up again when it was time to put the garlic bread in. Trying to talk to Breffni and Cian when they arrived had been difficult too, with Ruth having to pretend that she didn’t notice Andrew ogling Breffni – and who could blame him? She was relieved, though, to see that at least he wasn’t drinking an awful lot this evening. That would have been all she needed – a drunken husband, on top of everything else.

  And then, when Donal and Laura finally arrived, with apologies and a bottle of expensive-looking wine, Ruth suspected that they’d had a row: Laura looked tense, and Donal seemed much more subdued than usual. And both Breffni and Laura were drinking like fishes now, with Laura looking gloomier as the evening wore on. Altogether, the atmosphere struck Ruth as distinctly strained, and she’d so wanted this meal – their first time entertaining as a married couple, apart from the few dinners with Cecily – to be a success.

  But she’d better keep trying; she was the hostess, after all. She pasted a smile on her face and looked over at Laura. ‘We must get together for lunch soon – we haven’t done it for ages.’

  Laura nodded. ‘Mmm – but won’t it be harder to arrange now, with you working too?’

  ‘Yeah – it’ll have to be on my day off, which I can gather is generally going to be Wednesday. How’s your job going – are you still on the schoolbooks?’

  Laura nodded again. ‘It’s slow going: there’s a lot to be got through. And it’s fairly tedious, but I shouldn’t complain. The money’s good – or it will be, whenever I get it.’

  No doubt about it, Laura had definitely lost weight. Her black top seemed to emphasise the drawn look on her face, the hollows underneath her cheekbones; her arms in the elbow-length sleeves looked thin. As Ruth watched, Laura picked up her wine glass again and took a long swallow. Then she turned and called down the table. ‘Andrew, would you ever take off Leonard Cohen? He’s making me suicidal.’

  Andrew smiled. ‘Blame your husband – he chose it.’

  ‘Oh right; I should have known.’ Laura propped her chin in her hand and
studied Donal. ‘He likes singers his own age – makes him feel less like a dinosaur.’

  ‘Better than being like a kid.’ Donal was smiling, but the room was thick with tension. Ruth’s heart sank; she wished this miserable night was over. She stood and began to collect the dinner plates, not knowing how to fix things. Andrew got up too, and went to the CD player. ‘Now children, stop squabbling. Uncle Andrew will put on something nice and cheerful, and if you’re very good, Auntie Ruth will get the dessert she’s been baking all day.’

  And somehow, it helped. They all laughed; even Laura managed a feeble grin. Breffni got up and reached for the plates nearest to her. ‘Here Ruth, I’ll give you a hand.’ Ruth noticed Andrew’s eyes on her again as she walked around collecting plates. In the kitchen, Breffni put her bundle down on the table and then folded her arms, watching Ruth as she opened the oven door. The crumble looked good, nice golden top.

  ‘So – new house, new job. Everything going well for you.’

  Her tone of voice was perfectly pleasant, but Ruth felt a stirring of familiar alarm. Even though Breffni had been so helpful when the house move was on, and had chatted away with Ruth whenever they’d met for coffee with Laura since then, Ruth still didn’t feel totally at ease in her company; particularly now, on her own with her. And Breffni had had a fair bit to drink tonight – who knew what she might come out with?

  Ruth forced a bright smile. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, touch wood.’ She took her oven gloves from their hook and reached in to take the apple crumble from the oven.

  ‘All you need now is a new baby.’ Breffni began fiddling with her pendant again, watching Ruth intently.

  ‘Mmm.’ Ruth willed her smile to stay in place as she put the crumble on the table and turned to get the jug of cream from the fridge.

  ‘Are you trying?’ Perfectly pleasant, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

  God, what gave her the right to be so personal? Ruth gripped the cold handle of the jug and looked Breffni straight in the eye.