All That I Leave Behind

by Alison Walsh

‘Sit down.’ Mark had reappeared at the door in a dressing gown, a blue-and-red striped number with a green belt. Rosie couldn’t help it – she felt disappointed. He indicated the sofa, pushing the cat gently over, ignoring her mewls of protest.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, perching on the edge of the sofa, the cat having moved about six inches to the left, where it glared at her, those eyes blinking malevolently. Rosie suppressed a shiver. ‘Your cat doesn’t like me.’

  ‘That’s Sophie and she doesn’t like anyone – don’t take it personally,’ Mark said. ‘Anyway, you hate cats, so she probably senses it.’

  ‘You remembered,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yup,’ he agreed, slumping onto the sofa the other side of Sophie, who blinked, tail flicking. ‘But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about your aversion to cats.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  There was a long silence, and then Mark jumped up. ‘Coffee,’ he said to himself, then shuffled into what must be the kitchen – Rosie could hear him clattering around, opening and closing cupboards, and after a little while, he reappeared, with a coffee pot and two mugs in his hands. Mark poured coffee into his mug and then into hers, along with a lump of sugar, giving it a stir. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Just the way you like it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, taking a sip. It was hot and strong and lovely, after weeks of Pius’s weak cappuccinos. ‘Remember our French phase?’ She smiled as she put the cup down. ‘When we watched À Bout de Souffle a hundred times on the video recorder and tried to smoke Gauloises?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave a small smile. ‘That’s where I got my liking for this stuff.’ He nodded at the black coffee. ‘I’ve never been able to shake it off …’ There was a pause while he registered that what he was saying might not exactly be tactful. ‘So you didn’t come here at midnight to discuss cats or French things …’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Rosie agreed.

  ‘And you didn’t come to tell me to shove my pity up my ass?’

  ‘No,’ Rosie said quietly. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said gently. ‘Rosie, what is it?’

  ‘It’s … you see … oh, I don’t know where to start,’ Rosie said, her eyes filling with those stupid, useless tears again, which she dashed away with the back of her hand. For fuck’s sake, can you just not cry, she said to herself. Crying achieves nothing.

  He was beside her in a second, pushing Sophie off the sofa in spite of her howl of protest. Rosie wiped her tears away with a tissue that he’d pulled from a box which he kept by the sofa, shushing and soothing her, smoothing down her hair. ‘C’mon, it’s OK, it’ll be OK,’ he murmured.

  ‘Trust you to have posh tissues,’ she said, blowing her nose into a soft mass of scented hankie.

  He smiled briefly. ‘I prefer them to ragged toilet roll. I find it cheers me up.’ And then he paused. ‘What is it, Rosie? What’s the matter?’

  ‘You mean, apart from the obvious?’ Rosie looked at him and sniffed, the damp tissue clutched in her hand. ‘The botched wedding and the missing husband?’

  ‘Well, yes, but that’s not it either. Why did you come to see me?’ His voice was soft and she found herself leaning against his firm shoulder, his arm snaking around her back, giving her a little squeeze. His hand was warm and strong, and she turned her head to tell him why she’d come and then his mouth was close to hers and then they were kissing, soft kisses, as he kissed her eyes, her nose and then her mouth, pushing it open, his tongue darting inside.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ she said, pushing him gently away.

  His black eyes glittered and he laughed softly. ‘No, we definitely shouldn’t.’ And they pulled apart reluctantly, sitting there for a few moments on the sofa, Sophie on the yellow armchair, glaring at them both.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ she agreed, and then she found that she was sitting on his knee, pulling open the dressing gown, feeling the hardness of his chest, running her hands over its smooth surface while he pulled at the zip of her thick waterproof jacket. ‘Still wearing the designer clothes,’ he murmured, lifting the bottom of the pale lemon T-shirt she wore underneath and putting a hand on her stomach. His hand was warm and she could feel the heat of it against her cold skin: it seemed to warm her through to the inside, and she could feel the heat spreading as he moved his hand back and forth across her stomach, gently, stroking around her bellybutton, up to her ribs, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘We shouldn’t be doing this. You’re married. We need to stop.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed, pushing the dressing gown off his shoulders and running her hands over them. She’d always loved his shoulders – they were her favourite part of him.

  ‘I mean it,’ he insisted, pushing her gently off him, trying to rearrange his dressing gown, turning around to scrabble under the sofa for the belt.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she said, lifting her T-shirt over her head, then stepping quietly out of her tracksuit bottoms, until she was sitting beside him on the sofa in her underwear, a mismatched bra and knickers. I should have shaved my legs, she thought, remembering all the fuss she’d made about her wedding preparations, all the waxing and self-tanning. She’d been as smooth as a baby, and she was now covered with a pelt of downy orange hair, which mustn’t be that attractive, she thought. And she’d lost weight in the last few months and the bra was now too loose on her, and her breasts were flapping around somewhere under the black padding. ‘You know you don’t.’

  He groaned and pulled her towards him until she was sitting astride him, his legs bare and hard under hers, his breath soft in her ear. ‘No, God help me, I don’t.’ He pushed her gently down onto the sofa and leaned on one elbow above her, looking at her, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. She hesitated, just for a second, the thought flitting across her mind, why now? Is this really a good idea? What’s going to happen if we do this? But as soon as the thoughts appeared, she pushed them away, because she didn’t want to question it. She just wanted to give in to the moment, no matter how passing. She wanted to lose herself in it and to forget everything that had happened. Everything.

  He removed the bra with one hand, nuzzling her breasts, and then he gently removed her knickers, stroking her thighs, cupping a hand under her bottom, before easing himself down on top of her, pushing her hair off her face. ‘Am I too heavy?’

  She shook her head, even though he was twice the size of her and she felt that the air was being slowly pressed out of her.

  ‘I am too heavy. You’re so tiny,’ he murmured, lifting himself up on one elbow. ‘There, you can breathe again now.’ He ran a finger down her shoulder and along the edge of her breast down to her hip, so that Rosie shivered involuntarily. His touch was light, as he stroked and caressed, and Rosie found herself responding, pushing against his fingers as they probed gently, letting herself be kissed and held and loved. ‘Hang on,’ she said after a while. ‘I need to wait.’

  He stopped teasing her nipple with his tongue. ‘Why?’

  ‘For you, you know.’

  He didn’t reply, but he let her stroke him, the smooth surface of his skin, like the surface of one of his coffee tables, kissing every little bit of him, from his mouth to his toes, learning what his body looked like. What it felt like: the hardness of his chest, the dip of his belly. He was sprawled across the sofa, the dressing gown bunched beneath him, relaxed, a smile on his face. His body was perfect, she thought, so completely his and he was so at ease in it. She couldn’t help then but think of Craig and his stiff, mechanical movements, his polite ‘Was that OK for you?’, which made her want to strangle him.

  Mark looked up at her now. ‘Come here,’ he said and pulled her on top of him, and they collapsed into each other, a tangle of limbs, her skin warm against his. His hands were resting on her bottom. ‘Is your bottom always this cold?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie said. ‘It always is. Eno
ugh jokes now, Mark, promise?’

  ‘I promise. It’s a very serious matter.’ He made a face and she burst out laughing. ‘You’re an eejit.’

  ‘But I’m your eejit,’ he said softly. ‘I always have been, Rosie.’ He reached up and cupped a breast in each hand. ‘You are just gorgeous.’

  ‘Mary-Pat calls me Sparrowtits,’ Rosie said as he stroked and kissed them, making appreciative noises as he did so.

  ‘She’s wrong, they’re perfect. I can fit one in each hand,’ he said. ‘It’s as if they were designed entirely for me.’ He sighed.

  Rosie giggled and then he groaned and kissed her hard and her mouth opened to his, and then he was pushing her gently back down onto the sofa, parting her legs and guiding himself inside her, and even though it was their first time, it felt right, and she knew she should have stopped him, should have reminded him about a condom, or he should have reminded her, or one of them should have been even remotely responsible, but they weren’t. They were like teenagers, throwing caution to the wind, carried along with it, with the pleasure of finding each other again.

  He lay on top of her afterwards, his breath slowing, and she could feel his heart beating, vibrating through the wall of his chest. She wanted to stay like that for ever, but the danger of passing out overcame the moment.

  He pulled himself gently out of her and lay beside her on the couch, his arm flung across her breasts. She ran her hands through his thick, short hair, feeling the bristles against her palms, and across his face, and he grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one. ‘Nice ring,’ he said, when he spotted the silver and purple band.

  ‘Thanks, it was Mammy’s wedding ring.’

  He looked as if he was about to say something, but then changed his mind.

  ‘What is it?’ Rosie asked.

  He kissed the tip of her nose, his eyes searching hers. ‘You have no idea how much I missed you.’

  That wasn’t what you were going to say, Rosie thought, even as she replied, ‘I missed you too.’

  ‘That’s why I stayed, you know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought if I left, you wouldn’t know where to find me when you came home.’

  Rosie felt stunned by the admission. She sat back on the sofa, unsure what to say for a moment.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m pathetic.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think that. How could you think I’d ever think that? That’s just … I never thought anyone would do that for me, that’s all. It’s so …’

  ‘Pathetic, I know,’ he said ruefully. ‘Abject, foolhardy, pitiable; supply your own adjective.’

  ‘I was going to say romantic.’ She smiled, feeling tears welling up. ‘Oh, look at me,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Such a fool.’

  ‘A fool for love.’ Mark reached out and took her hand and began to twist her mother’s ring on her finger. ‘Ever since you called around that first night, in your wedding dress, and you just stood there with it tucked into your knickers and your hair was a mess and you had a big streak of mud across your cheek, I wanted to tell you how I felt, but I was too angry and I wanted to say how sorry I was about what your father said. It was a terrible thing and I should have been there for you, but I wasn’t.’ He kissed her softly on the lips and her cheeks, all the way up to her ears, and she was sure then that she heard him say something. It sounded like, ‘And now it’s too late,’ and she meant to ask him, but instead she returned his kiss, knowing that all she had to do now was to keep quiet, to say nothing, just to let things happen with Mark and be happy that she’d found him again. To be grateful for the sudden gift of it after everything that had happened. They could be happy, the two of them, she knew that. But she also knew that if she ignored what she thought she’d heard, she’d only be repeating the mistakes of the past, being whoever Mark wanted her to be instead of being herself, even if she didn’t yet know who that was. And sooner or later, next week or next year or in five years, she’d find herself back where she started, alone and lost.

  ‘Mark, what did you just say?’

  He didn’t look her in the eye, but instead stared fixedly into the distance.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I’m going to Vietnam.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice,’ she said, thinking, No, that is not nice. Not nice at all.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I know this changes everything, but I’ve spent ten years planning and dreaming. I’m not sure how long I’m going for, but a while anyway. I have this idea. It sounds a bit daft, really, in this neck of the woods, but I want to come back in a bit and open a Vietnamese restaurant, a proper one.’ He smiled. ‘And I need to do some research, track down ingredients, that kind of thing. And I’ve been thinking of introducing curry sauce to the Vietnamese. What do you think?’

  You told me you’d been waiting for me, Rosie thought, but she said ‘They’ll love it. That and battered sausages.’ And they both chuckled, and he squeezed her shoulder again, and she tucked her head in the hollow between his chin and his shoulder. They were silent for a long time, and then Mark said, ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’ He sounded like a young boy, tentative, uncertain.

  She felt it then, the urge to reassure him, even though it nearly killed her, even though she knew that she could probably persuade him to stay. ‘Yes, you absolutely are, Mark. It’s something you need to do. It’s where you come from, you know. And that’s really important, to know where you come from.’ I of all people should know that, she thought. ‘So, when do you leave?’

  ‘Couple of weeks. I’m going to see Mum in London first and then …’

  ‘Oh. Well that’s good, that’s great. I’m really pleased for you.’ And then Rosie decided that she’d had enough of congratulating him. She’d used up her ration of magnanimity and now she needed to go home and throw herself on the bed and howl with rage and regret that she’d left it too late.

  ‘Oh, Mark,’ she said sadly.

  He gave a small smile, ruffling her hair. ‘Rosie, I’m sorry. I really am, and I didn’t mean to take advantage of you.’

  Rosie snorted with laughter. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  Rosie sighed. ‘June and Mary-Pat told me something today.’

  ‘Oh?’ She felt him tense ever so slightly. Don’t say it, she told herself. Don’t.

  ‘They told me that Frances O’Brien was my real mother.’

  It took him a while to react, pushing Rosie slowly away from him, a look of horror on his face. ‘They what? Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘No.’ Rosie shook her head, puzzled. Why would she joke about something like that?

  His shoulders slumped and his head dropped to his chest. ‘Oh, Rosie.’

  Rosie felt her stomach muscles clench, that familiar tightness in her chest. ‘Is that all you can say. “Oh, Rosie”?’

  ‘No, of course not. Jesus, what a shock. I mean …’ He sat up on the sofa, arms circling his knees, the way he always did when he was thinking about something, that muscle working in his jaw.

  ‘What is it?’ Rosie said. ‘Mark, talk to me.’

  When he said nothing, when he didn’t even look at her, the penny dropped. ‘Oh my God, you knew.’

  He went to reach out to her then. ‘Rosie—’

  But she pressed on. ‘You knew and you never said a word.’

  He didn’t try to deny it, just shook his head, his eyes now full of tears. What the hell are you crying about? she thought. What do you bloody have to cry about?

  ‘Who else knew? The whole town?’ She sat upright on the bed. ‘I mean, was there a person alive in Monasterard who wasn’t up to speed on my parentage, apart from me, of course? Might there be anyone who hasn’t heard the news?’

  ‘Rosie, calm down,’ he managed then, reaching out and placing two hands on her shoulders.

  She shook off his hands, then pushed him violently in the chest, so that he fell back on the cushions. ‘I will not calm dow
n,’ she hissed. ‘I’m not some hysterical woman, so please do not patronise me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, listen to me. I had an idea, but I didn’t know for sure. You have to believe me …’

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she muttered, getting up from the sofa and gathering her clothes, yanking on her bra and bottoms, stuffing her knickers into the pocket of her jacket. She felt that she needed to do all of this quickly so that she could get out. The air seemed suddenly thick and she was struggling to breathe.

  Mark got up and put a hand on hers, trying to catch her eye. ‘Rosie, Rosie, c’mon, let’s talk about this.’

  ‘No. We are done talking.’ She extracted herself from his embrace, stepping back, her feet colliding with Sophie as she did so, who gave a squawk of protest. ‘Sorry, Sophie,’ Rosie said automatically. She pushed her feet into her trainers and put her coat on, zipping it up, while he just sat there, face rigid with shock. Eventually, he managed, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  She turned to him then. ‘You will not. You will not go near me or speak to me ever again. Do you hear me?’

  His eyes widened as if to say, ‘You don’t mean it,’ but when she didn’t speak, he just nodded sadly.

  I don’t mean it, she thought as she ran out of the hall door and onto the little side street. He knows I don’t mean it, so he’ll come after me, I know he will. She stood and waited for a few seconds at the top of the street and, when there was no sign of him, tried to ignore the way her heart plummeted in her chest. He’s not coming. I know what he was going to say earlier, but he stopped himself. That must mean he doesn’t really care.

  Dazed, she wandered onto Main Street, the wind buffeting her as she turned the corner, remembering then that she’d left her bike in his front garden. Crap, she thought, I’ll have to go back and get it, but there’s no way I can go now. No way. And then, like a ship in the night, she saw Wee Petie driving towards her in his Passat. She knew it was Wee Petie, because he drove everywhere at ten miles an hour. He drew slowly alongside and rolled down the window, the folksy country yarns of Johnny McEvoy blasting out of the opened window. ‘What’s a lady like you doing out on a night like this?’