by Tara Heavey
Fiona had never been introspective and through all the years of her marriage, until recently, she had been too busy to spend time brooding about her lack of close friends. She had taken the view that not having an aptitude for friendship was just one of those things, like not being musical or good at languages – it would have been a nice attribute but it was no big deal. She valued quality over quantity and she had one fantastic friend, Yvonne, the pharmacist in the next town. And, of course, Aidan, her best friend. But in the last year Yvonne had married and moved to Dublin. And now, it seemed, Aidan had left her in all but body. She didn’t know where to turn.
Chapter 11
Aidan knew he was being unfair to his wife. The guilt crushed him. The thought of hurting this diminutive woman, who had always stood by him – because, harsh though she could be, Fiona was as staunch as they made them. She didn’t deserve what he was contemplating. But then again, he considered, as his thoughts did another flip-flop, he was only contemplating. He hadn’t so much as touched the woman and he hadn’t confessed his thoughts. She knew, though. He knew she knew. How could she not? She must think him ridiculous, mooning around after her, staring at her as if he was transfixed. To imagine he was in with a chance. He shook his head, as if to jolt out his thoughts. He visualized them pouring out of his ears, his mouth, his nostrils, leaving his mind clear at last. Free of the obsessive notions he’d been torturing himself with.
Fiona had nothing to worry about. Sarah would laugh in his face when he told her. Because he’d made up his mind that he had to tell her. Tomorrow morning. It was the only way.
He waited at the boat for a full forty-five minutes. That was how long it took him to realize that not seeing her wasn’t an option. He had his camera with him, ostensibly to photograph the dolphin but secretly to impress Sarah.
He went to her house. She was renting one of the old fishermen’s cottages on the quayside. She hadn’t told him this; Fiona had mentioned it in passing. He pep-talked himself along the way. A part of him was genuinely concerned that she had failed to show up for their usual outing, but most of him knew that wasn’t it at all.
A developer from Ennis had bought the row of cottages several years back and done them up. Not bad, although a bit quaint for Aidan’s tastes. He had to knock twice before he got an answer. She looked different. She was still in her dressing-gown and it was as if the wig had just that second been plonked on her head – it was slightly off centre. Mostly she just looked distraught. ‘Oh.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. We weren’t able to make it.’
‘Is something wrong?’
A loud, shattering sound came from the sitting room, as if something quite large was being smashed.
‘Oh, God.’ Sarah turned and disappeared. After a moment’s hesitation, Aidan followed.
The room was in bits. He was about to ask Sarah if she’d been burgled when the architect of the destruction became apparent. Maia was in the furthest corner, flinging herself repeatedly against the wall. Aidan watched, appalled, as Sarah rushed over and grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. Maia kicked and flailed and began to scream – an unbearable, high-pitched sound. Then she attempted to bite chunks out of her mother. Sarah shifted her position continually, deftly avoiding her daughter’s tiny white teeth, and it was clear to Aidan that she’d done this a thousand times before.
He stood awkwardly, a large part of him wishing he hadn’t come. ‘Can I do anything?’
Sarah shook her head without looking at him.
Maia began to scream again and Aidan turned away. Not only did he feel he was intruding, it was also hard to watch. It was like driving onto the scene of a serious car accident. Shocking and unexpected. The sympathy he felt for Sarah was like a pain in his chest. He wandered into the kitchen, trying to act casual, and stared unseeingly out of the window. Not knowing what else to do, he filled the kettle and switched it on. Then he sat at the table and focused on the flowers: a jam-jar was half filled with water and crammed with bluebells and stitchwort. Little blue bells and tiny white stars. After a time, the screaming subsided. He could hear Sarah murmuring to her daughter. He stood in the doorway, looking back into the sitting room.
Sarah was laying Maia on the couch and covering her with a crocheted blanket. The little girl, her head resting on a cushion, closed her eyes and appeared to find sleep instantly. Sarah got up immediately and, without making eye contact, brushed past Aidan into the kitchen. She sat down heavily at the table, looking for all the world like a woman defeated. Aidan felt at a loss. Small-talk was of little use in a situation such as this. So he made them tea.
‘Get that down you,’ he said, sitting beside her.
‘Thanks.’ But she didn’t touch it. She was hunched over her mug, her forehead resting in her hands.
‘Is she like that a lot?’
‘Not often. It’s my fault for bringing her here. I’ve unsettled her. Maybe I should go back.’
‘No.’
The vehemence of his reply shocked them both. There was no doubting what it meant. They looked at one another long and hard. Sarah spoke first. ‘You can’t possibly be interested, Aidan. Not after that.’
‘But I am. I’m not sure why but I am.’
‘In a one-breasted woman with no hair and a demented child?’
‘When you put it like that …’
They smiled at each other. Her smile was tired. His was cautious.
With the heavy sigh that Aidan had grown to associate with her, Sarah slid her wig off her head. It lay on the table between them like a dead animal. Aidan picked it up and hung it over his left hand. It was still warm from her body heat and the moment was oddly intimate.
‘Haven’t you got enough hair of your own?’ she said.
‘I wasn’t planning on wearing it.’ He spun it around on his fist. ‘It’s very realistic.’
‘No, Aidan. It’s a lie. This is what’s real.’ She pointed to her head, her expression mutinous, willing him to look at her.
He did. The crown was covered with little wisps of soft, white-gold hair, so thin that you could see the shell-pink scalp shining through in places. He felt as if he was seeing her naked. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.
She gave a half-laugh and looked at him incredulously.
It was true. Without the hair, her eyes seemed huge. Luminous. And her bone structure was revealed in all its fragility.
‘Here. I’ll prove it to you. May I?’
He gestured to the camera around his neck. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. He directed the lens at her.
‘I feel an overwhelming urge to put on my wig.’
‘Don’t. It’s much better like this.’
He took several shots as she stared candidly at him.
‘Done. I’ll print them out for you so you can see for yourself.’ He knew that, even though she didn’t believe it to be true, she believed him. That he was telling his truth. And that was enough for now.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Will we leave it for today, then?’
‘We will.’
Chapter 12
Sarah had tried to ignore it for so long: big, sexy, lovely – married – Aidan drawing her in. Just like he had drawn in the shoals of silvery fish with his nets. She had felt herself getting caught up, like a mermaid. Or maybe it was she drawing him in, like a siren, to where he and his boat and his marriage and his life would get smashed on the rocks of lust and betrayal and heartbreaking hurt. She had decided she couldn’t do it to him. Or to Fiona. Or to his family. She’d stay well away. She would go about her business as quietly as possible. She would leave when the summer or her lease ran out, whichever happened sooner.
But that other day in her house, his total acceptance of her, his wanting of her in spite of everything … She’d never thought she’d experience that again – had never even bothered seeking it. Yet here it was. Here he was. Offering himself on a
platter. All she had to do was reach out …
After Mitch had left, Sarah had hit an all-time low. She stopped going out, stopped getting dressed, stopped getting washed. Except when Maia had a medical appointment. On those occasions, she would drag herself along and do her best to appear normal. God knew how long she would have languished in such a state, had she not had an unexpected visitor one afternoon.
She toyed with the idea of not answering the door. She often didn’t and most people went away eventually. But this caller was persistent. She eased the door open a crack and peered through the gap with narrowed eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
She immediately relaxed and extended the gap to person width.
Peter Berkeley walked into her apartment. Her director friend, who’d once been a lot more than a friend. Who, throughout the ups and downs of their relationship, had remained a friend.
‘I came to see how you were.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’
The honesty of his response shocked her into silence. He clearly wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries. Oh, God. She hoped she wouldn’t start crying.
‘I heard that Mitch had buggered off to the States.’
‘Well. That’s what buggers do, I suppose.’ She tried to keep her tone light, but it came out bittersweet at best. ‘Coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Tea?’
‘Look, Sarah, I didn’t come here for a hot beverage, I came to help.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Peter, but I’m fine. Really I am.’ A tremor was creeping into her voice but she fought to keep it out. Damn Peter anyway. He was weakening her with his kindness.
‘Sarah, my darling, you look far from fine. Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?’
‘I’ve been avoiding mirrors.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen you so wretched. You actually look sick. You’re not sick, are you?’
She shook her head miserably and stared at the carpet. Don’t cry.
‘And you’ve lost a ton of weight.’
She laughed humourlessly. ‘The up-side of depression.’
Since she would no longer meet his eye, Peter vacated his armchair and sat beside her on the couch. He pulled her into him. This finished her off and a big fat tear rolled down the cheek closest to him. He gave her arm a squeeze, and it was as if he was squeezing all the other tears out of her.
He let her cry until they were used up, which took a while. Then, after copious nose blowing, she began to speak. About what had happened with Mitch but mostly about Maia. It was the first time she’d told anyone except family. And although Peter was silent throughout, she knew he was sympathetic. Knew he didn’t blame her as she blamed herself for driving away her man, for making her daughter sick. Even though she’d been told repeatedly that she was not responsible for Maia’s condition, the guilt still seeped through the gaps, mostly at four in the morning, alone and in bed, her thoughts compulsive and corrosive, with no one there to talk her out of them and make her see sense.
Peter listened to it all. Patient and egoless. He didn’t try to speak until she’d run out of words.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I’m very sorry that this has happened to you.’ He gave her another little squeeze, which nearly set her off again.
‘Second, Robert Mitchell is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve having two such special women in his life.’
‘That’s Maia’s father you’re talking about.’
‘He doesn’t deserve the title, Sarah. Real fathers don’t walk out on their families.’
‘He’s not a bad person, Peter. Just weak.’
‘Why are you defending him?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself that I didn’t make such a stupid choice in the first place.’
‘Anyway, bad or weak, it doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s just not bloody good enough.’
Sarah was silent, absorbing his anger. Peter was right. Mitch’s actions had been reprehensible. His actions, not hers. She was feeling a little better.
‘And third,’ said Peter, ‘about Maia.’ His tone softened. ‘How on earth can you think you’re responsible for a medical condition she was born with?’
She knew it sounded mad but there was still a niggle. She decided to confess the root cause of her guilt. ‘I didn’t realize I was expecting for a long while and I just kept living normally, which involved, well, quite a lot of alcohol.’
‘And you think you gave her autism.’
‘It can’t have helped.’
‘Sarah. That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard in my whole life. What does your doctor say?’
‘That it had nothing to do with it.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘But how does he know? They don’t really understand what causes autism.’
‘The way I see it is this. You can waste all your time and energy beating yourself up over something that’s not your fault and that you can do nothing about, or you can take all that time and energy and put it into Maia. You’re not going to be able to do both effectively. And your daughter needs you, Sarah. You’re all she’s got in this world. You can’t let her down.’
Of course, that set her off again. But his words had got through.
‘How did you get to be so wise?’
‘Ah, you know, us old guys.’
‘I should have stuck with you old guys. I would have been a lot better off.’
‘You can’t beat us baldies.’
He’d made her smile, which was his intention.
‘Don’t torture yourself about the alcohol, Sarah. My first wife, Penny, was a complete dipso. She had at least one glass of wine a day every day she was carrying Mark, and sometimes a hell of a lot more, and he turned out okay, didn’t he? Apart from a complete lack of direction in life and terrible taste in women. But you can’t really blame that on the booze.’
‘Mark will find his way.’
‘Oh, I know he will. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my son. I want to help you.’
‘Peter, just seeing you has been a tonic. Thanks for the pep-talk. It’s really helped. I promise I’ll get my arse off this couch and start moving again.’ She wiped the last of her tears away.
‘I’m delighted to hear you say that, because I have a proposition for you.’
‘You don’t want another wife?’
‘Oh, no, thank you, dear. I’ve had quite enough of them.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I’m directing a new play.’
‘Oh?’
‘And there’s a part with your name written all over it.’
She examined him closely for several seconds. ‘This wouldn’t be your version of a charitable donation, would it?’
He affected an expression of indignation. ‘Have you ever known me to cast anyone who was anything less than perfect for a role?’
‘Well, no, I suppose not.’
‘So?’ He was leaning back in the couch now, legs crossed, posture relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for her response.
‘Would I have to sleep with the director?’
‘Absolutely not. Unless, of course, you were overtaken by an irresistible urge and couldn’t stop yourself.’
They smiled at each other like old, old friends between whom sexual tension was a thing of the past.
‘In that case, thank you. I’d love to take a look at the script.’
‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’
‘Only …’
‘What?’
‘Maia.’
‘You’ll need childcare, of course. Let me sort it out.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I couldn’t possibly let you do that, Peter. That really is going above and beyond.’
‘Nonsense. We both know I’m loaded. And if it’s the only way I can have my favou
rite actress in my play, then I’m happy to do it for as long as it takes you to get back on your feet.’
Sarah snuggled into him and hugged the arm closest to her. She felt as if she was cuddling her dad.
Sarah’s life improved instantly and dramatically. A nanny, no less, trained to care for children with special needs, had been appointed: she would accompany Sarah to rehearsals so she could be with Maia on breaks. But the best thing was being back at work.
It was as if her blood, hitherto sluggish and stagnant, had begun to flow through her veins again, pumped by pure joy. She had the sensation that things she hadn’t even known she was missing were being returned to her – her love of life for a start. The quality that gave her that elusive sparkle. And the biggest surprise, in some ways the best, was that she didn’t miss Mitch at all. Not one iota. She realized what a burden their relationship had become – the constant insane drama coupled with the ever-present disappointment that he wasn’t pulling his weight, that he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be the man she needed him to be. She felt angry on Maia’s behalf. That he had rejected her as soon as she was proven to be less than perfect. And she despised his weakness. But mostly she didn’t think about him at all. Felt glad to be shot of him.
