At a Time Like This

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I don’t want us to lose our table.’

  She looked confused for an instant. There was no question of us losing our reservation. But she nodded. Given how I’ve always felt about Nora, she wouldn’t have been surprised that I wanted to leave. But Claire had sensed something else, I know she had.

  ‘You okay, Georgie?’ she asked, as Maggie brought around the car. ‘You looked a bit ill-at-ease in there. Not like you.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, I find it harder and harder these days to take Nora and Frank. She, in particular, makes me feel suffocated.’

  Claire nodded. I don’t know whether she believed me, but she didn’t mention it again. The three of us went out to dinner together afterwards and reminisced. We also agreed how it never ceased to amaze us that a dry old stick like Frank and our Nora had managed to produce three such drop-dead gorgeous sons. We also agreed that Robbie was by far the most handsome and engaging of the three. And that was the end of that evening.

  We all went home, duty done, and I decided to forget about it.

  Some days later, I was walking down Grafton Street. I was heading for the Westbury for a meeting. As I was parking, I’d got a call on my mobile to say that Roberto, my Italian supplier, was running about half an hour late, having fallen victim to Dublin’s traffic chaos. I didn’t mind. It was one of those early June days when the city shows itself in its kindest light. I was reminded, bizarrely, of Noel Purcell singing about Dublin’s being heaven, having coffee at eleven and all the delights of Stephen’s Green. Talk about a blast from the past. But it was, as Claire was wont to say, a ‘pet day’.

  I decided to meander down the street, leaving behind the air of purpose that seemed to define everything I did in those days. How can I describe it? Apart from the glorious sunshine, it was one of those mornings when everything seemed right with the world. A good hair day. Warmth, cheerful shoppers and an unexpected half-hour’s leisure to boot. Strangely, the combination of so many good things made me feel restless, as though something about myself and my life had now become hollow. I’d been conscious of that feeling for a while. A dissatisfaction that I couldn’t pin down, no matter how hard I tried. It was as though something had started to unravel – a stitch at a time, but nevertheless.

  Hadn’t I everything I needed? A husband, a family, a career, friends, lots of money? What could possibly be missing? Such a sense of dissatisfaction had become, however, a nagging, insistent sense of loss – sometimes vague, sometimes heart-stopping. I can see that clearly now. But then, I never paused long enough to consider it. My response was to keep busy, busier. I think I might have been afraid to step off the moving staircase.

  And so, when I stopped to look in the window of Richard Alan’s that morning, it was as much for professional appraisal as for the pleasure of a momentary distraction. I was so intent on enjoying the dresses on display that I saw nothing of a figure hovering nearby. It was only when I broke my concentration by looking at my watch that I realized somebody was standing behind me and had been for some time.

  Instinctively, I clutched my bag, pressing it closer to my side, and wheeled around to confront my stalker, shadow, mugger: whatever he was.

  ‘Georgie? Georgie White?’

  I whipped off my sunglasses, the flood of relief now beginning to make me feel angry. At least it was someone I knew. I wasn’t in any danger. All this in the space of a second, before I recognized him. More accurately, I recognized the fact that I knew the man, but for the moment, his name eluded me. Context is all.

  ‘It’s me, Robbie. Robbie Fitzsimons.’

  I stared at him blankly for another second.

  ‘Nora and Frank’s son?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, feeling foolish. How could I not have known?

  ‘This is a really strange coincidence,’ he said. ‘I was just going to call you to thank you for your very generous birthday present.’ He hesitated. ‘I know that “thank you” cards are more traditional, and I have written to you all as well, but . . .’ and he shrugged. ‘Well, your gift was nothing short of astonishing, and that’s not something I felt I could put in writing.’ He grinned. ‘The folks might have come over all sensible, if they’d found out.’

  I smiled. But I still felt put out. It was as though I had lost my sure-footedness and stumbled into the unexpected. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us. I hope you can find something completely impractical to do with the money’ I settled my bag more firmly on my shoulder and felt the ground become stable beneath my feet again. ‘Get yourself something beautiful to remember your coming of age.’

  He nodded, considering this. ‘I already have something special in mind.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he said. ‘I was pretty sure it was you, even from the back. But when you didn’t turn around, I thought I must have been mistaken.’

  I can smile now, at how his words were almost echoed by his mother, some three years later. But on that day, in the blue heat of Grafton Street, how could I possibly have known what lay ahead?

  ‘Are you in a rush?’ he asked. ‘I mean, can I buy you coffee?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘I’ve probably got twenty minutes.’ He didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Good. I know just the place,’ he said. We turned right on to one of Grafton Street’s many tributaries and sat outside one of the new cafés, its round metal tables gleaming in the sunshine.

  ‘What would you like?’ he asked.

  ‘Espresso, please.’ I waited to see how he would respond to this bit of sophistication, until I realized that for him, it was probably no sophistication at all. He had grown up with Dublin’s café society, accepted it as normal.

  ‘Two, please,’ he said to the young waiter, who retreated, giving his tray a flamboyant twirl.

  I remember that we talked about his birthday party, then his architecture studies, then his plans for the future. I was impressed. He was a single-minded young man, determined to succeed. Our conversation grew more serious, more intimate, until I realized that thirty-five minutes had passed. My mobile shrilled, making me jump. ‘On my way’ I said to Roberto, ‘with you in three minutes.’ And I stood up to leave. I held out my hand to Robbie. Another Robert calling,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’

  He shook hands. ‘Lovely to meet you again,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’

  ‘Me too,’ I told him. And the best of luck for the future.’

  He nodded, but there was something in his expression that made feel unsure of myself again. I left him and headed off towards the Westbury, conscious all the while of eyes burning into the small of my back.

  Three, maybe four days later, just after the weekend, he called me.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I won’t waste your time. But I’d like to speak to you. I must speak to you.’

  I was intrigued. There was an urgency to his tone that I couldn’t ignore. Was he in some kind of trouble? Had something happened that he couldn’t tell his parents about? God knows, I am not the maternal type, but there was a need in his voice that compelled me to see him. That, and curiosity, I have to say. What could possibly be wrong in his life? Handsome, clever, articulate. Mature beyond his years. We’d all heard Nora’s boasts over and over again.

  We agreed a time and place for the following day. We met at a small café in Donnybrook, one of those local, hidden-away gems off the main street. He was waiting for me when I arrived, already drinking an espresso. I couldn’t help it, I was amused.

  ‘Hello, Robbie,’ I said, as he stood up to greet me. We shook hands.

  ‘What would you like?’ he asked as we sat.

  ‘Green tea,’ I said. ‘I’ve already had my ration of coffee. I’ll be speeding for the rest of the day if I have any more.’

  He ordered and we sat in silence for a moment. Then he turned to face me. Somehow, at that moment, I knew what was coming. My breath-catch was audible, I’m sure of
it. I don’t know where the knowledge came from, but it assaulted me, made me feel vulnerable in some inexplicable way. It was how I’d felt in Grafton Street the day he had appeared behind me; how I’d felt on the evening his father took our photograph. He passed a small box across the table after the waitress brought my tea. Gift-wrapped; gold-ribboned; full of hidden possibilities.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said. His expression was unmistakable.

  The forty-one-year-old me said get up, go home now, no harm done. Be firm, no-nonsense. You are the adult woman, this is a love-struck boy. You can see it in his eyes, see it by the way he’s looking at you. You know you can. He looks like Danny. Stand up and leave. Now.

  But I didn’t. It would be more accurate and more honest to say that I couldn’t. My heart was racing and my mouth had gone dry.

  ‘Open it.’

  There was a knowingness to his tone, a wisdom in his eyes that made me think, ‘He is all that you’ve said, Nora, and more besides. What a time to find out that you were right.’ I wanted to laugh, I wanted to leave, but above all, I wanted to stay.

  It took a moment but then I came to my senses, or thought I did. ‘Robbie, this is complete madness. What on earth can you be thinking—’

  ‘Open it, please.’

  I shook my head and pushed the gift-wrapped box back to his side of the table. ‘No. I don’t know what you’re feeling, but whatever it is, it’s impossible. I’m leaving now.’ And I stood – somewhat uncertainly, it has to be said, but I stood nevertheless and felt proud of myself. Behaving as an adult should. Sensibly, responsibly, firmly. But it didn’t throw him.

  ‘I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,’ he said, as though announcing the weather forecast. I was conscious of other people in the café turning their heads. But it was a vague consciousness. They were local colour of some indeterminate shade, background noise to the main event. ‘I know I’d met you before, over the years, but I didn’t really notice you. Not in the way I saw you on the night of my birthday. Don’t you want to know why?’

  What woman could resist that? I should have, but I didn’t. I sat, more heavily than I normally would, my knees having ceased to bend properly. I couldn’t help it – I was watching myself from the outside, alarmed at how I displayed all the characteristics of a Victorian heroine. Shortness of breath, racing heart, perspiring palms. I even had to control the urge to faint. I rested my forehead in my hands, not looking at him. This, I told myself, is not happening. This is madness. Get a grip. It cannot be happening, not to me. I won’t let it. I am used to being in control.

  He leaned towards me. I could feel his closeness, feel the warmth of his breath, that tingling note of his aftershave again. ‘Before you say anything, listen to me. I’ve grown up all my life knowing what love is. My father told me he fell in love with my mother the first minute she walked into his shop. He told me that if I was ever lucky enough to have that, no matter what the circumstances, I should never ignore it.’

  I swallowed. Frank. Nora. All my derision, all my impatience, my cynicism over the years. Hoist with my own petard? I should think so.

  ‘Robbie,’ I said, my words slow and deliberate, ‘my two daughters are only a few years younger than you are. You are a boy. There is nothing possible between us. This is a crush, infatuation – call it what you like. It isn’t real’

  He grinned. ‘And tell me, what were you up to at twenty-one? Were you a mere girl, an innocent?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, firmly. ‘That’s exactly what I was. A girl. An ingénue.’ An image of Danny loomed before me again. I could almost taste the intensity of his physical presence. I drove him away, back to whatever shadows he had emerged from.

  Robbie’s brown eyes were steady. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. His voice was calm. And I understand why. And if you are so sure that I’m only a foolish boy, then why are you so terrified?’

  Then I stood, with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘I am not terrified, I am simply taken aback. This is ludicrous. I’m leaving now. Please don’t call me again.’

  And I left the café, hoping against hope that there would be a taxi to take me home. There was – and I fell into it and shut the door, just in time to see Robbie run out into the street after me, the glass doors of the café swinging to a close behind him. But of course, he did call again. And again and again over the course of the next few days. As soon as I’d recognize the number, I’d switch my mobile off. He never left a message. Once, when I was having a coffee with Claire, I was taken unawares and answered without thinking. On that occasion, I was sharp to the point of rudeness.

  ‘I want you to stop harassing me,’ I said. ‘Next time, I’ll report you as a nuisance caller.’

  ‘Then meet me,’ he said. ‘Just once more. Six o’clock tonight. Same café in Donnybrook. After that, if you still want me to, I’ll leave you alone.’

  If you still want me to. The arrogance of the young. Claire was looking at me, her expression one of concern. I did not want to have to explain anything to her. I hung up without responding.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked.

  I shook my head impatiently. ‘It’s only a nuisance call. I’ve had two or three of them recently. It’s nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like “nothing” to me. You’ve gone as white as a ghost.’

  I tried to smile at her. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of an irritation, that’s all. And I really don’t want to have to change my number – it’s far too much of an inconvenience. They’ll get fed up eventually and leave me alone.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘whatever you do, don’t let it drag on too long.’

  As soon as she spoke, I felt the rightness of her words. This had to be dealt with now. This boy had to be sent away. When Claire went up to pay for our coffee, I sent him a one-word text: ‘Yes.’

  I would meet him that evening and then that would be the end of that.

  I arrived at the café at ten-past six. I gave Maggie one excuse as I left the shop and gave Pete a different one by phone. But Maggie has never needed explanations from me and as I’ve said, my husband is not a suspicious man. I didn’t feel guilty about my white lies, either, because I had no intention of doing anything about which to feel guilty, either then or later. Instead, I was angry. I wanted this to stop. And yet, Robbie’s pursuit of me was flattering, at times even thrilling. There were days when the edginess of anticipating his calls and texts made me feel alive, vibrant, almost-three dimensional in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time – not since Danny. Or Luis.

  He was there before me, as I’d known he would be. I sat down opposite him. He met my gaze, no sign of embarrassment or uncertainty in his expression. I was nonplussed. It felt as though I were the twenty-one-year-old girl, and he the older, more experienced man. It seemed that neither of us wanted to be the first to speak. Eventually, I was the one who broke the silence. I kept my voice low and controlled. No histrionics, I’d promised myself – not that histrionics have ever been my style, anyway.

  ‘Robbie,’ I said. ‘Please stop contacting me. You’re wasting your time and mine and making me feel uncomfortable.’ At least that last was true.

  ‘I want you to open this,’ he said, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I want you to keep it, no matter what you decide. If you don’t take it, then I’ll leave it here on the table when we go.’ His tone was quiet, insistent. I believed that he meant what he said. I had to humour him. At least, that’s what I think I thought at the time. The truth is, the moment I stretched out my hand for that gift I knew. There was no going back. Inside the box was a white gold Tiffany heart, studded with tiny diamonds. I froze.

  ‘You told me to get something beautiful and impractical,’ he said.

  ‘ For yourself.’

  He leaned forwards and took the necklace from me. ‘I did.’ He moved with speed and fastened it about my throat. As he did so, he leaned down and kissed the back of my neck. Lightning struck. I didn’t trus
t myself to move or speak. Instead, I remember looking around the dimly lit interior of the café, searching for somewhere safe to stand. And I remember thinking: lightning never strikes the same place twice. I repeated it to myself, over and over again, like a mantra.

  ‘I did buy something for myself. I wanted to see you wear it.’ His voice was quiet. He sat down and leaned across the tiny table. I thought I could smell the sun on his skin again, the way I had the day we’d met in Grafton Street. But that was ridiculous. It was evening and we were indoors.

  He took my hands in both of his. The pressure of his fingers reminded me all over again of how his hand had felt through the thin fabric of my dress. ‘I don’t know how, not yet, but I will.’ His gaze was warm, confident. I sat looking at him, more and more immobilized as he stroked my fingers, kissed them one by one. ‘It will probably have to be in some highly unconventional way. But you and I are going to be together. I’m sure of it.’

  Even now, even as I write this, I can hear sensible people groan. Quite right, too, but I was no longer sensible, no longer sane. The only thing I was conscious of right then was the depth of my own madness. Because the words Robbie spoke had struck at something within me that responded, without my wanting it to. It was as if all the conflicting elements of my life had finally become fused. I could feel those disparate parts of me, the acknowledged and the unacknowledged, some present, some missing for years, all rushing towards this new centre like iron filings to a magnet. My thoughts became random, almost wild – but at the same time, I felt a stillness, a serenity, a sense of the rightness of things that I had never felt before.

  My kingdom for a kiss? My life for a cliché? Was I about to abandon husband, family, friends, business, to become a woman seeking to relive her life in the arms of a man half her age?

  ‘Together? How can you say that?’ I tried to pull my hands away. Even to my own ears, my voice lacked the strength of conviction.

  He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Because I know it’s true. And you know it’s true. You knew it on the night of my birthday. We both did. That’s why you ran, why you wouldn’t look at me after the photograph.’ He reached into the pocket of his shirt. ‘Look.’