The Truth Club

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  I close my eyes and think of a beach with white sand and a hammock slung between two palm trees. I imagine a dusky-skinned waiter asking me if I’d like a piña colada. Palm trees and piña coladas, the soft swish of waves on white sand… that’s what I want. I want to get brown and swim with dolphins… Then the waiter turns into Nathaniel, bending down to kiss me. He’s touching my naked skin. He’s dipping his finger into the piña colada and dripping it onto my breasts. He’s…

  The phone rings when he’s expertly prising off my bikini bottoms. For a crazy moment I think it might be Eloise, telling me not to have imaginary sex with her boyfriend.

  It’s Erika, and she sounds very agitated. ‘Oh, Sally, I’ve been such a fool!’

  She says this a lot, and my job is to say that she hasn’t been, and that whatever she’s done is perfectly understandable in the circumstances. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I told him to get undressed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who came round here just now for a massage. I’d booked him in, and I was all prepared and excited. He was my first real client.’ She sounds like she might cry. ‘I didn’t mention him when we were at Fiona’s because I know you don’t approve of me massaging strange men in my flat.’

  I don’t comment.

  ‘Of course I didn’t tell him to get undressed immediately. I brought him up to my bedroom, only you wouldn’t know it’s my bedroom because the bed is covered in cushions and I’ve got a screen in front of it…’

  ‘And?’ I’m getting rather worried.

  ‘Then I showed him where the bathroom was, in case he needed… you know…’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And then he started asking me whether there was a washing machine, which seemed a bit odd.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘He also wanted to know if the area was noisy and if there was central heating. I thought he was just getting bashful, like Lionel, so I told him we could discuss that later. I said that once he’d got his clothes off and I started to work on him, he’d feel much more relaxed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He ran down the stairs like greased lightning, shouting that he wasn’t the kind of man who visited prostitutes. He wasn’t the massage client at all. He was a guy who rang me weeks ago about sharing the flat. I put up a notice in the newsagent’s, in case Alex suddenly wants me to run off with him in a camper van.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ I hope Erika can’t hear my smile.

  ‘He’d taken the address and said he’d call round sometime. I thought he’d forgotten. I shouted after him that it had been a misunderstanding, but I don’t think he believed me.’

  ‘Poor Erika,’ I say. ‘But I can see how it happened. It was… it was quite understandable in the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, bugger, the doorbell’s going. It’s probably the other guy. Bye.’ The phone clatters down, and I wonder if I should march around and supervise Erika’s massage; but then I’d miss Diarmuid, if he even bothers to show up.

  The phone rings again almost immediately. It must be Diarmuid. He just couldn’t face me. He wants to say whatever it is from a safe distance.

  But it isn’t Diarmuid; it’s Greta, and she’s sounding very determined.

  ‘Sally!’ she gushes. ‘I need a favour from you.’

  Oh, shit. She wants me to say those awful table-mats that look like matted dog hair are must-buys.

  ‘Sorry it’s so last-minute, dear, but the tickets are booked, all you need is your passport.’

  Passport?

  ‘The flight is tomorrow at 10.30 a.m. – a very civilised hour. Of course, you’ll need to be there about two hours beforehand.’

  ‘Greta,’ I say, wondering if she wants me to pop over to Birmingham to discuss rattan storage units. ‘Where do you want me to go?’

  ‘New York, dear, didn’t I say that?’

  I clutch the phone tightly. ‘New York?’

  ‘Yes. Can you go? It’s only for a few days.’

  ‘Mmm….’ I don’t want to sound too available. I wait for three whole seconds before saying, ‘Yes… yes, I think so. I could probably rearrange some meetings.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so relieved. It’s just a few interviews. I’m taking out a large ad feature in Irish-American, about top young Irish designers based in the Big Apple. I can get quotes from some of them on the phone, but I really want you to meet these three – they’re fabulous. We need a sense of the buzz around them. And hammer home the fact that they’re Irish, of course; the magazine’s readers are very loyal to the Old Country. I’ll send you an e-mail right now with all the details. You can collect the tickets at the airport.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic but not overexcited. And I am enthusiastic. New York! Suddenly, instead of being just a woman who has mislaid her marriage, I am a jet-setting cosmopolitan international journalist.

  Greta hangs up just as the doorbell rings. I put down the receiver and walk slowly towards the door. I know Diarmuid will be looking solemn – solemn and sad, and a bit guilty about being late.

  But he isn’t. He’s smiling broadly and carrying a big parcel. He looks both shy and excited, and a little nervous.

  ‘You’ll understand why I’m late when you see this,’ he says, marching over to the coffee table and putting the parcel down.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and find out.’

  It’s not my birthday; it’s not the anniversary of my engagement or my wedding. I stare at the parcel dubiously.

  Inside it is a music box shaped like a Swiss chalet. All the details are perfect. ‘When you wind it up,’ Diarmuid says, ‘it plays “Edelweiss”.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘I’m so glad you like it.’ Diarmuid smiles at me. We are lying snuggled together in my double bed. The music box is on my bedside table. He knew I’d lost the one I loved, so he made me another one. It’s gorgeous. Aggie will love it too. I burst into tears of happiness when I saw it. When you open it up, there’s a small figurine of a woman in a pink dress – she was an ornament for a wedding cake, but he got his sister to give her a new outfit. She is smiling with all the joy of a new bride. Diarmuid hunted around for ages for ‘Edelweiss’; eventually he tracked it down on the Internet. He made the box in the workshop in his parents’ house, during study breaks (I was right about him studying at his parents’ to get away from Barry’s CDs). That’s why his phone was out of range so often: his parents live in a valley north of Dublin, and Diarmuid has to climb a nearby hill if he wants his mobile to work.

  Of course, I didn’t need to sleep with him just because he’d made this lovely gift. In fact, it would have been more sensible not to, because we have so much to talk about. But he’d also brought a bottle of wine with him, and he insisted that we drink it with the almond biscuits… It was the cheap-drunk thing all over again.

  By this stage of the evening I thought we’d be discussing our divorce. I’m still somewhat dazed by the sudden resumption of our affections. Diarmuid really is an amazingly forgiving man. After all I’ve put him through, the last thing I thought he’d be doing was making something so special for me. I’ve been so wrong about him; I’ve jumped to all sorts of unfair conclusions.

  He must have spent ages making the box. No wonder he didn’t have time to meet me. I thought he didn’t care, but he does; he must.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ I ask. I seem to have sobered up quite quickly. I’m hungry now; in fact, I feel a deep yearning for some takeaway fish and chips.

  ‘No, let’s just stay here a bit longer.’ He nuzzles my shoulder. Diarmuid is a good nuzzler. He’s great in bed all round, in fact. I particularly like it when he massages my toes. And the fireworks really get going when he kisses that special spot behind my ear. He went straight for it as soon as the bottle of wine was opened. Our lovemaking was very passionate. I just wish there weren’t quite so many biscuit crumbs in the bed; all the bouncing around must have d
islodged them from inside the pillowcase or something.

  It feels strange, lying here and not talking. But maybe Diarmuid is right; maybe all this talking stuff is overrated. He is a wonderful lover, and he has made me this beautiful present. He still wants me. Surely that says all I need to know about his feelings?

  I am the Sally who married him again, and I’m going back to him. I can’t think of any good reason not to. We’ll make the marriage Fiona talked about. We’ve got past the stupid part where you want everything to be romantic and schmaltzy. This is the cake, and it’s nice. It’s tasty. We can go to Marie’s family gathering together, so I won’t even have to cycle round Ireland to distract them from my divorce. Maybe we should start a family immediately, before I change my mind again. And if I get pregnant soon, that will stop Aggie talking about DeeDee; she’ll completely forget about her in the excitement. I’m almost sad I used my diaphragm. I stare up at the ceiling and think of little Milly’s gurgles. Yes, a baby would get rid of this ridiculous restlessness that lunges at me out of the blue.

  It’s in the family genes, I’m sure of it. DeeDee definitely has the same tendency, and so has my mother – after all, she almost went AWOL out in California. It definitely affects April, too. She couldn’t wait to leave Ireland. She whooshed off as soon as she’d got her American passport – because she was born there, she didn’t have to plead for a Green Card. And then, of course, there was Aggie’s recent bid for freedom. Even at Marie’s family gatherings, my cousins talk ardently about weekend yachting and hiking and windsurfing, as though they can’t stand to spend protracted periods in their own houses.

  I lean on Diarmuid’s sturdy chest and listen to his heart. This feels so snug, so cosy. That’s what I missed most when he was so taken up with the mice – that snug feeling we have when we nestle like this.

  ‘I’m giving the mice back to the laboratory,’ he says, as if he’s read my thoughts. ‘The research is over. They can just grow fat and old now and eat what they like. I think they’ll be used for breeding… they might enjoy that.’ He gives me a naughty smile. ‘I’m sorry I got so obsessed with them. It’s just that I didn’t know what to say to you. You seemed so disappointed.’

  I peer at him. ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Yes. I could see it on your face. You were disappointed in me. I thought I bored you. All your friends are so much more… sophisticated, I suppose. I’m pretty basic.’ He smiles at me ruefully. ‘I have no hidden depths. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course you have hidden depths,’ I protest. ‘You’re a lovely man. And you’re kind, too.’

  He deepens his head on the pillow. It is ten o’clock at night and still light outside. We can hear the sound of the ocean through the open window, the soft swish of the wind through the leaves of the mimosa tree in the garden.

  ‘I really did try to phone, that day Aggie went missing,’ I say. ‘I longed for you. I knew you’d be able to comfort me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He runs the back of his hand lightly over my cheek.

  ‘It’s all right. You’re here now,’ I say. ‘I’d even begun to think you were back with Becky.’

  ‘She’s in Galway with her boyfriend.’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile at him. ‘I believe that now, but I didn’t before. And, even if you were with her, I thought I had no right to be angry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was a bolting bride – that’s what my Uncle Bob calls me. I really did think you might never forgive me. Especially when you saw me with Nathaniel… even though he really is just a friend.’ I kiss his forehead. ‘You’re a much better person than I am.’

  Diarmuid seems to stiffen slightly.

  ‘What is it?’ I glance at him worriedly.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ He suddenly sits up and gets out of bed. Then he starts hunting on the floor for his boxer shorts.

  ‘Are you going?’ I stare at him disbelievingly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘ Why?’

  He pulls on his jeans and navy sweatshirt, finds his socks and ties the laces of his runners. Any minute he is going to march out of the room.

  I leap up and race to the bedroom door to block his exit. I stand there like someone in a film, panting, almost hissing. ‘I can’t do this, Diarmuid. I can’t be with you if you clam up every time we need to talk about something.’

  Diarmuid suddenly slumps onto the bed and puts his face in his hands.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ I sit down beside him.

  ‘Oh, Sally…’ He looks at me bleakly. ‘I haven’t forgiven you. I’ve been furious. I’ve… I’ve felt so humiliated.’ He runs his hands agitatedly through his thick black hair. ‘I keep thinking of the wedding – those grand declarations in front of everyone, the presents, the photographs. I don’t know what to do with the photographs, whether to keep them in an album or throw them away.’

  ‘Oh, Diarmuid.’ I lean forward. Our noses are almost touching. ‘You’re so faithful and kind and sweet. I really wish you’d married someone nicer.’

  ‘Stop saying that!’ He is suddenly shouting. ‘It’s not true. I’m not those things.’

  ‘You are! Look how you behaved this evening, coming round with the beautiful music box, bringing the wine… and seducing me so expertly.’ I trace a finger tenderly along his arm.

  He pulls away sharply. ‘I did it because I felt guilty.’

  ‘Why?’ I gaze at him. ‘Because you weren’t there when I phoned, when Aggie went missing?’

  He shakes his head numbly. His eyes look dull and miserable. ‘No. Because I got so insanely jealous when I saw you with…’

  ‘Nathaniel?’

  ‘Yes. I know you said you were just friends… but you looked so close. So right together, somehow. I couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘But you looked so calm – almost as if you didn’t care.’

  ‘I can hide my feelings; surely you know that. I can do it well… too well, probably.’

  ‘OK, so you felt jealous,’ I say soothingly. ‘That’s understandable. But he really does have a girlfriend who makes cabinets. I wasn’t lying.’

  ‘I know that now.’ Diarmuid looks down at the cheap, multicoloured Indian rug beside my bed. ‘I saw them together a couple of days later. They were in the newsagent’s together, returning a DVD. She was holding his hand.’

  ‘Sounds like Eloise, all right.’ I manage to say it without any trace of emotion.

  ‘I should have stayed with you that evening. You’d had a difficult day, and you were worried about Aggie… But I didn’t. It all seemed to get to me suddenly. I’m like that sometimes; I let things build up.’ He glances at me apologetically. ‘I couldn’t face revising that evening, so I decided to take Charlene up on her offer of dinner. She’s the colleague I’ve been –’

  ‘Teaching to drive.’ I complete the sentence for him. ‘Which is very kind of you. I’m sure she’s very grateful. No wonder she wanted to cook you dinner.’

  ‘Barry was having another barbecue,’ Diarmuid continues. He is speaking so softly I have to lean forward to hear him. ‘I didn’t want to go home… to what was supposed to be our home.’ He pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘I wanted to be away from everything… everything that reminded me of you.’ His words sound hollow, as though he’s heaving them up reluctantly.

  ‘Was the meal nice?’ I ask, too brightly. I don’t like the way he’s talking. I almost wish he’d shut up. I miss his silence now. It was far more restful.

  ‘She’d had an argument with her boyfriend. It’s a very on-off situation. He’s sort of volatile.’ Diarmuid sighs. ‘We drank far too much wine. We were both lonely. We hardly knew what we were doing.’

  I sit completely still.

  ‘Oh, Sally, it’s such a mess. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Just tell me, Diarmuid,’ I say. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘I slept with her.’

  I stare at the Indian rug. I feel
numb and cold and strange, as if I’m watching us talking. As if this isn’t happening to me at all.

  ‘I meant to go home, but I’d drunk too much to drive. She lives in Glencree, in County Wicklow; there’s no way I could have faced the dual carriageway.’

  ‘Do you love her?’ I say, before Diarmuid starts to expound on the importance of sobriety when one is in charge of a vehicle.

  ‘We were drunk, Sally!’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  He places his elbows on his thighs and hunches over. He appears to be intently studying the floorboards. ‘I think she loves me. I didn’t know that before. My mind was full of you, but I should have seen it.’ He turns towards me suddenly. ‘She wants me, Sally. She wants me to live with her.’

  I can’t meet his eyes. I feel fooled and angry. We have just made love. He should have told me beforehand; then we wouldn’t have done it. I feel the way Diarmuid must have felt when I bolted out of the house and left him on his own with the photographs and the presents and all the new bouncy furniture. I want to be angry with him, but I don’t know if I have the right to be. I always knew he might find someone else if I left him. I knew it might come to this.

  Even so, I wonder if I should pick up the music box and hit him over the head with it. I could also demand that he leave the house immediately. Or I could throw a jug of water at him. It wouldn’t stain the carpet or the rug. It would just need to be mopped up with a paper towel.

  ‘You’re not even angry, are you?’ Diarmuid says. ‘Not really. Not the way you should be.’

  ‘I am angry, but after the way I’ve treated you, I suppose I’m just not that surprised.’

  ‘Are you in love with Nathaniel?’ He searches my face.

  ‘He’s in love with Eloise.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’