‘Congrats.’
She beamed. ‘Thanks.’
‘And the press office?’
‘It’s just something I do sometimes.’ Edie drained her glass. ‘If I see a case on the news or read about one and I want to know more or think I might be able to help. I ring from the hotel, so if they ever do figure it out, they won’t know who it was. We have hundreds of guests staying every night.’
Robin was seeing Edie in a whole new light. ‘Do you use your own name?’
‘Gosh, no. I say I’m Eileen Brent. She’s my favourite Agatha Christie character. And I say I’m phoning from the Sunday World.’
‘Don’t they notice your name’s never in the paper?’
Edie shrugged. ‘I guess they don’t read it. I’m actually kind of friendly with one of the press officers now. Our children went to the same crèche. Well, they didn’t obviously, since I have no children, but she thinks they did. I’m much nicer about the place than she is; I had a better experience with the childminders.’
Robin didn’t quite know what to say. She was impressed. ‘That’s almost as surprising as the article. I never would have had you pegged for a con artist.’
Edie gave a little trill of excitement. ‘Thanks!’
‘And what are you going to do about this?’ Robin poked the paper in front of her. ‘Are you going to tell Martha you know?’
Edie gathered up the pages and slipped them back into her bag. ‘No. Not yet. I’m going to see if I can help with the case first.’
Robin thought she was joking but Edie’s doe eyes were full of hope and Robin made a serious effort not to laugh. A friend of Eddy’s had been involved in a tiger raid once; they made off with €40,000 each. Not bad for a morning’s work. That’s what Robin had thought when Eddy told her. She felt bad for being so glib now. This was how everything with Eddy seemed to go: great fun at the time, a source of great shame afterwards.
Edie got more drinks and they talked about her promotion. It didn’t really change what she did but meant more money and a different title. Robin admitted that she was between jobs and when Edie asked what she used to do, Robin tried to remember what she’d told her mother. ‘Telephone sales,’ she said and, though neither of them was quite finished, pointed to their glasses. ‘Another?’
When she came back from the bar, she changed the subject to family. Edie was more than happy to spend a good twenty minutes giving out about her in-laws.
‘I mean, what sort of cake could a vegetarian not eat?’ she said, having drunk half her glass of wine almost instantly. ‘If it was a mince pie, sure, I could understand the confusion. Although, there’s not actually any mince in those. But it was carrot cake. Carrot! Carrot is literally a vegetable!’
‘Mothers can be hard to please.’
‘It’s not just his mother. His father, his sister, his brother; they all hate me. His brother’s the worst.’ Edie narrowed her slightly glassy eyes. Or at least that’s what Robin presumed she was trying to do; in reality, they were just an average amount of open. ‘He’s thirty and he’s still bullying Daniel. Daniel mind Rocky, Daniel give me some money, Daniel—Actually, no. Peter doesn’t even call him “Daniel”. He calls him “Two Straps”.’
‘Two Straps?’
‘One day when they were around twelve, Daniel wore his schoolbag on both shoulders and everyone slagged him about it.’
‘That’s it? And he’s still called Two Straps today?’
Edie nodded morosely. ‘Poor Daniel.’
Robin snorted. Edie looked at her.
‘Sorry. It’s kind of funny.’
Then Edie smiled. ‘I guess it is. But I don’t know . . .’ She tilted her glass and swirled the end of the wine. Her brow furrowed. ‘I wish Daniel would tell him to buzz off, you know?’
What grown woman said ‘buzz off’? It was like something Jack would say. Robin did her best to keep a straight face.
‘I think his family stuff stops him from wanting to be a dad. I mean, he says it’s money and stability and that, but I don’t know. If you had a family like his . . .’
‘But I thought he did want to be a dad? I thought you were trying?’
‘Oh we are,’ said Edie, suddenly snapping out of the wine-tinged haze. She nodded in agreement with herself. ‘He does. We are.’
They were fairly drunk now and Edie went to the bar to get a final round as Robin sat staring into space. After their phone call last weekend, Eddy was back to playing good cop. He kept sending her messages saying he missed her and Jack, and sending photos of the three of them in better times. Robin hadn’t replied, but she knew that wasn’t sustainable. The threat was still there, underlying everything he said: he had something on her, even if she played it down. And Eddy turning up on her parents’ doorstep, shouting blue murder and humiliating her was a distinct possibility.
It was easier not to worry when she was tipsy. When she was drunk, she forgot that she’d done everything wrong.
‘I think I’d like to sing a song,’ announced Edie, placing the two glasses on the table with that bit too much force.
‘I would heartily support that.’
Edie’s eyes popped. ‘Really? Okay!’ She squirmed with exhilaration. ‘What should I sing?’
Robin scraped back her stool. ‘I’ll pick for you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’
‘I won’t pick anything difficult, nothing too high or complicated. Cross my heart.’ She dutifully did just that. ‘I’ll be quick. All right? Okay.’
Edie nodded.
‘Stay here and don’t chicken out.’
Robin took her drink and ran up to book a slot.
‘No indie stuff!’ Edie shouted, and Robin gave her a thumbs-up. As she did a lavish twirl to face back in the direction of the karaoke booth, she clocked the moustached queue-skipper from earlier. He was back at the bar. She swung her hips as she strode the rest of the way.
‘I’ve got four ahead of you,’ said the guy in the top hat and ‘karaoke impresario’ T-shirt. He slid the songbook in her direction. ‘And no more fucking power ballads.’
Robin flipped open the bulky folder, which landed with a thud. The pages were laminated and sticky. Thousands of songs, all listed alphabetically.
‘Rap’s usually a safe bet.’
Robin arranged her face into the unimpressed, slightly bored expression she had mastered in her early twenties. Then she turned her head to find the queue-skipper standing beside her, an identical order to earlier in his hands. His pale skin was scattered with moles and he had dark hair parted slightly to the right. He was a little taller than her and thin, but with decent shoulders. Nothing worse than a neck that just turns into arms. He wore jeans and a dark green checked shirt, the kind Kurt Cobain used to wear, sleeves rolled to just below his elbow. He was good-looking, which presumably he knew, or he wouldn’t have attempted such unflattering facial hair.
She proffered him the book, eyebrows raised. ‘You want to go first?’
He moved his hands away as if touching the laminated list of songs might compel him to sing one of them. ‘Not drunk enough for that. But if I was, I’d go for rap. That’s all I’m saying. It’s effectively talking, so it doesn’t matter if you’re an awful singer.’
‘Who says I’m an awful singer?’
Mustachio grinned. ‘No one.’
Was this flirting? Or was alcohol impairing her judgement? She went back to the book and moved her eyes over the pages without taking in a word. She didn’t usually get flustered with men, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Time kept passing. If she didn’t come up with something, he was going to leave.
‘You skipped the queue earlier.’
‘What’s that?’
Shit.
He’d already taken a step away. He turned back awkwardly now, head facing in one direction, body in the other. His Guinness slopped slightly over the edge of the glass.
‘Nothing.’ She shook her head and went back to the book.
‘No, sorry, I just didn’t hear you.’
Where was he going anyway? Was he still sitting in the lounge? Who was he here with? Was he on a date? What if the Rioja-orderedwith-extra-throat-phlegm was for a date?
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She shook her head again and tried not to cringe. ‘Sorry.’
He looked more confused. ‘Sorry for what?’
‘What?’ Just leave. She wanted to disappear. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’ She turned back to the book. ‘Ignore me.’
He said nothing further and when she looked up a few seconds later, she expected him to be gone.
But no.
‘I didn’t want to pick a song,’ he called out as ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ kicked in.
‘I know,’ she shouted back, really wishing he’d feck off and put them both out of their misery.
‘I just wanted to talk to you.’ He gave a sheepish grin. A lovely grin, it had to be said.
‘Okay, well, what did you—’
But at the same time, he blurted out: ‘I think you’re gorgeous!’
They both stopped talking, clamping their mouths shut. His eyes were a colour between brown and green, and they were kind.
She burst out laughing. ‘Who says that?’
He grinned. ‘Me.’
‘Ready yet?’ The karaoke impresario was back in front of them, arms folded.
‘Em . . .’ Robin grabbed one of the selection sheets, wrote down Edie’s name and then, from the page opened in front of her, selected the first song she recognised: ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’.
She handed it to the man, who read it and rolled his eyes.
Mustachio grinned. ‘You took my advice. Edie.’
‘Edie’s my friend.’ She nodded towards their table, where Edie was scrolling through her mobile. Probably organising a phone tap for the Costello–Rigby residence. ‘She’s singing. I’m just picking the song. Okay.’ Robin pushed back her shoulders and stood a little taller. ‘What’s your worst trait?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your worst trait, your most deplorable characteristic, whatever. And don’t bullshit me. Don’t tell me you’re too kind or you’re too good to your mother or some nonsense like that. Tell me the truth.’
He stared at her just long enough to make Robin think her routine wasn’t cute or quirky but actually just a little weird and stressful. She was about to tell him she was joking when—
‘I can be spineless.’
‘Okay.’ She nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Sometimes I tell people what they want to hear, even if it means telling different people different things.’ He squirmed slightly, moustache twitching. ‘Because I want them to like me, I guess? I hear myself doing it and I don’t like it. I’m trying to be better.’ He paused. ‘What about you? What’s your worst trait?’
‘I’m selfish.’ Robin took a sip of her drink and spoke in a blasé tone, as if such a confession cost her nothing. ‘I make a show of thinking about other people but I usually just do what suits me. I’m reckless too. And sometimes I turn a blind eye to things that I know are wrong if it means I get what I want.’
A dimple formed where the apple of his left cheek met the bone. ‘Can I get your number?’
Robin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear, aren’t you?’
‘Nah. It’s the selfishness. Self-involvement and good legs; you’re my ideal woman, basically.’
Robin grinned and picked up the karaoke pen. She turned over another of the song selection slips and wrote down her number. Then she added her name. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. She pretended to blow hair from her face, but really she was cooling the burn from her cheeks.
He smiled back, pocketed the paper and picked up his drinks. ‘I better get back.’
‘On a hot date?’
‘Oh, yeah. I’m in danger of burning myself, it’s that piping hot.’
‘Sounds dangerous. I’ll try to be cooler.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve no doubt.’ He really was very good-looking, even with the moustache.
‘Well, enjoy your furnace,’ she said, turning back towards her table so he couldn’t see the smile erupting across her face, but hoping he appreciated the swing of her hips.
Edie bounced on her bar stool as she watched Robin approach – her eyes all but ready to roll out of her head.
TWELVE
Martha’s mood had improved in the past week. The new neighbours weren’t exactly her old friends but they were nice enough. She’d unpacked almost all the boxes and made a start on the garden. She was seeing Ellis more, which was always welcome, and she’d joined the book club at the local library. She might even read the novel this time.
The only downside was how happy it all made Robert.
Sometimes she worried about her rage. It was disconcerting to be fine most of the time, and then suddenly incandescent. She didn’t like having an urge to scream at her children. Surely that wasn’t normal. But it always came back to Robert. He was the reason she felt like this.
That morning he pointed out that they hadn’t had sex in three months. Even though, actually, it was three months and twelve days. Yet more proof that she was the only one with that day emblazoned on to her dreams.
‘Obviously after the attempted robbery . . .’ Robert began. Martha felt her mouth twitch. He always said ‘attempted’; focusing on what he had stopped and not what had happened. ‘I didn’t expect you to be yourself, none of us were, but moving house doesn’t seem to have made it any better. I’m starting to wonder if it’s something else.’ He stopped searching through drawers for where she’d put his ties. ‘I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s me.’
Obviously, she wanted to shout. Fucking obviously. But he looked at her with his hangdog expression and she realised that he, inconceivable as it was, had no idea. Robert’s world was black and white and if their marriage came to an end it would not be because of anything he had done but because she had stopped sleeping with him. That would become the shorthand. ‘Robert Costello? Such a catch! Great job, too. Yes, he was married once. His mentally unstable wife refused to have sex with him.’
She thought about telling him to have an affair, to go off and find someone to fulfil his carnal needs. But instead she said: ‘In the wardrobe. Top drawer.’
‘In the . . .?’ Robert opened the old pine wardrobe that had been here when they moved in and pulled out two ties. Then, though she was willing him not to, he came and sat on her side of the bed. He put a hand on her blanket-covered legs. ‘I’m not blaming you, Martha. I’m really, really not. I just want to help.’
He stood again. ‘Which tie?’ He held out a navy blue one that would go with anything and a yellow and red one that made him look like a clown.
She pointed to the yellow and red.
‘I’m going to bring you home flowers this evening – those simple white ones you love, you’ve always had such excellent taste – and then let’s talk about a night away, or even just a night out. And maybe you could go and see the doctor here. We have to register with a new practice anyway, as a family, so even just to do that. Okay? All right? How do I look?’
He turned from the mirror, smiling widely. He looked like Ronald McDonald.
‘Wonderful.’
Martha waited until he closed the bedroom door before picking up the navy tie and hurling it after him. It barely made it beyond the bed, and her mood became astronomically worse. She heard the click of the front door – Robert never had breakfast now; far too important – and got out of bed.
She worked up a mild sweat pulling weeds but, in the shower several hours later, it was still rage she was scrubbing from her skin. Then she brought her fingers up to touch her left cheek, lightly, softly, though of course it wasn’t necessary to be delicate any more.
It might seem her rage was misplaced, and it was true she didn’t dwell on the people who’d broken into her home and ter
rorised her daughters and refused to untie them even as they struggled to breathe. And yes, it was also true she could have told the police about the one face she had seen. But what could she have said except that he’d been white? She couldn’t make out any distinguishing features from that distance.
It didn’t matter who they were, not really. They were just men who had seen an opportunity and taken it. It was nothing personal. They had taken nothing – and more importantly, they had owed her nothing. Her family was just business to them. She should not have been able to say the same about her husband.
A bang downstairs and her shoulders shot up, a towel half-wrapped around her. Then the front door gave way and there was the thud of book-laden bags hitting the floor.
‘Muh-ummmm! Tell Sinead to stop telling me what to do!’
Martha wrapped the towel the whole way around. She pushed the bathroom windows open and felt the cold air rush in as the steam billowed out.
‘I’m not telling you what to do, Orla! I’m saying that you have to protect yourself!’
‘Who needs to protect themselves?’ asked Martha, hurrying down the stairs, towel tucked into place but her left arm stuck to her side just in case.
‘Women,’ said Sinead. ‘All women need to protect themselves.’
‘Well, yes, everyone does, but I don’t think you need to be worrying your sister about that today.’
‘Oh yeah?’ That familiar, glassy triumphalism filled her daughter’s eyes. ‘Well, they found a list at school in the boys’ bathroom, and my name was on it.’
‘What kind of list?’
‘A sex list,’ said Orla, rolling her eyes. ‘I know what sex is, Sinead. I am twelve.’
‘Oh,’ said Martha, remembering a list that went around among the boys in her school when she was a teenager: what girl would you most like to have sex with? She was ashamed to say now that she’d been pleased with how highly she’d scored.
‘Not a sex list, Orla,’ said Sinead, shoving her sister slightly. ‘It was a rape list, Mum.’ She turned to Martha, eyes like bottomless wells. ‘It was a rape list and I was on it.’
Three Little Truths Page 9