Then Fiona says she wonders if she should postpone the christening, because Zak will probably have the results of Milly’s blood tests by then. I tell her that Milly will have to get christened sooner or later, and even if Zak knows he isn’t her father, he may feel obliged to put on a good show for the relatives. I say this might in fact be very useful, because it would delay his departure – even though he probably won’t leave anyway – and give them more time to discuss the situation.
‘He’s getting suspicious. I’ve heard him whispering on the phone to his relatives.’
Frankly I’m not surprised. Every time I look at Milly, I can’t help wondering if her father is Chinese or Japanese or perhaps even Tibetan. The fertility clinic really should have a look into their filing system.
‘Maybe I should have brought Milly to New York with me and just stayed there,’ Fiona says.
I try to calm her down. I say that Zak may understand; he’s a very understanding man. And he loves Milly. He is also besotted with Fiona.
‘Maybe you don’t know him quite as well as you think,’ I add. In normal circumstances this might not be comforting, but in this case it seems to offer a mild reassurance. ‘There could be a part of him that can come to terms with this. Look how my father loves April.’
‘Zak’s not like that,’ Fiona says, and I know she’s wrong to be so sure about what he is and isn’t. At least that’s something the last few months have taught me. Then her voice suddenly brightens, and I know Zak must have appeared. ‘Yes, I just loved that film too. We must go to the cinema soon, Sally. Lovely to talk with you. Bye.’ She hangs up.
I trudge along the seashore and wonder what I can do to help her. I decide that just being supportive is the most sensible approach. It’s best not to interfere in other people’s marriages, especially if they have managed to stay under the same roof. A gust of wind turns the waves into white horses. I gaze at them and wish there was a dog I could borrow. I love the way dogs dart into the waves and fetch sticks and scamper along the sand. They are a wonderful reminder not to take things too seriously.
Thinking of dogs reminds me of Fred, and Fred reminds me of Nathaniel. I am walking in the direction of his flat. I should pop in and see if he’s there and hunt for my wedding ring. I start to walk more quickly; there’s an ice-cream van parked by a Martello tower, and I need to get away from it. People are munching cones with chocolate stuck into them. I fix my eyes on the horizon. I simply must lose some weight before Marie’s party.
I am relieved to see Nathaniel’s bashed-up old Citroën in front of Greta’s house, but then I get a sudden urge to just go home. What am I to do with these feelings he calls out of me?
I stare at the large red-brick building with its luxuriant garden. Then I gingerly approach the wrought-iron gate and try to open it. As is often the case with gates like that, it involves a certain amount of tussling.
As soon as I’m in Nathaniel’s spacious sitting room, he starts squinting suspiciously out the window. ‘I think that ice-cream van is stalking me. Look, it’s just pulled up outside the gate. It turns up outside this house every afternoon, playing some tinny Viennese waltz.’
‘I want to hunt for my wedding ring.’
‘Yes, but let’s buy some 99 cones first.’ He smiles at me. ‘The guy won’t go away until I relent.’
He starts to hunt for some change on a bookshelf. I glance out the window. ‘He’s pulling away.’
‘Bugger!’ Nathaniel says. ‘He usually waits.’
‘So you want an ice-cream cone.’
‘Of course. He’s been pushing the stuff at me for weeks. I’m addicted.’
Fred is snoring on a large cushion by the window. Every so often he growls. He is probably dreaming of chasing rabbits. ‘So you’ve been visiting Aggie,’ I say.
‘Yes. I promised I would. I get the impression she thinks I’m Diarmuid, but I don’t mind. John, Cedric, Gervaise – she can call me anything she wants, as long as it isn’t Maisie. I’d like to retain my gender.’
Nathaniel heads for the kitchen and starts making tea, washing mugs, sniffing milk and staring cautiously at the sugar bowl.
‘Ants,’ he mutters. ‘Bloody ants. They treat this place like a hotel.’
‘I have them too,’ I sigh. ‘I suppose I could resort to heavy chemicals to get rid of them, but it seems rather drastic.’
‘I agree.’ Nathaniel opens a window and flings a handful of ants and sugar into the shrubbery. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to freeze them out with our disapproval.’
There is a silence. An easy silence. Then he says, ‘Have you been trying to phone me?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well. Fred buried my mobile phone somewhere in the garden. Sometimes I think I should have him shot at dawn.’ Nathaniel hands me a turquoise mug. He didn’t ask me how much milk or sugar I take; he remembered. ‘I’ve been asking people to ring me and skulking around the garden trying to find it… Greta thought I was listening to the geraniums, until I explained what I was up to.’ He sits down beside me and takes a large gulp of tea from his mug.
‘Who cut your fringe?’
‘Eloise.’ He languidly stretches out his legs. ‘I think she made quite a good job of it.’
‘An excellent job.’
Fred suddenly jumps up from his cushion. ‘Walk time.’ Nathaniel looks at me wryly. ‘He’ll start howling if he has to wait too long. He’s awfully bossy.’
Fred is now dancing around our feet with excitement. ‘Let us at least finish our tea,’ Nathaniel tells him sternly. Fred runs off into the hall and jumps up and down until he manages to dislodge his lead from a coat hook.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I am being bossed about by a mongrel. I’m going to have to let him take me for a walk. You can stay here if you want.’
I drain the last drops of tea from my mug. ‘Well, I had planned to look for my wedding ring…’
‘I’ll look for you.’
I smile gratefully. ‘Really?’ He nods. ‘OK, I’ll come with you. I’ll walk home along the beach. I’m trying to get more exercise.’
It’s nice walking along the strand with Nathaniel. I find myself thinking that, if I were on a bus and saw us, I might think we were a couple, a real couple with their crazy dog.
‘I’m so glad you called round,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I really enjoy our talks.’
‘So do I.’
‘I find it easier to talk to women. Most of my friends seem to be women these days.’
I pick up a shell. How many women friends does he have? Am I just one of a big bunch?
‘I know it’s a cliché, but women do tend to be more in touch with their emotions. Julia hates it when I say that; she says I shouldn’t generalise.’
‘Julia?’
‘Haven’t I mentioned her? She’s a computer whiz; I keep ringing her for advice. She prefers sensitive men, but Eloise keeps telling me that women don’t want their men to be wimpy. I sometimes suspect she’d like me to take up body-building.’
As he laughs affectionately, I wish he had found himself a gentler girlfriend. Eloise is clearly a pretty tough cookie. She’s beautiful and sexy and bright, but I don’t think I’d want to talk to her about my feelings.
Fred keeps bringing us sticks and demanding that we throw them for him. Even though Nathaniel throws them onto the sand, Fred scampers after them through the water.
‘Look at that.’ Nathaniel sighs. ‘He insists on getting drenched every time we come here.’
I look at Nathaniel quickly, and then I look away, towards the curve of Killiney Bay and Bray Head in the distance. ‘He’ll miss you if you go back to New York.’ I almost add, ‘So will Eloise,’ but I don’t. Maybe she’ll join Nathaniel there. She’ll have a whole new market for her cabinets.
‘Yes.’ Nathaniel frowns. ‘Greta said she’d take him on, but she’d probably want to turn him into a party dog. Everyone in her life gets roped into helping out at her PR receptions.
She’d probably train him to hand out press releases.’
I bite my lip. ‘When would you go back – if you go back?’
‘I don’t know – I haven’t decided. Maybe in a couple of months.’
A couple of months. He says it so casually.
We aren’t taking notice, and we’ve wandered far too close to the water. A wave crashes over our shoes, drenching our socks and jeans. We both gasp with surprise.
‘Oh, feck!’ Nathaniel laughs. I giggle too. The water is freezing. We must get some dry clothes on. I stare into the distance. My cottage is only ten minutes away; we must have been walking faster than we thought.
‘Come to my place and we can dry out. I’ll make you tea.’ I’ve said it before I can even think about it.
‘OK.’ Nathaniel’s eyes meet mine.
We walk purposefully, silently, along the beach.
‘I really should take off these jeans,’ Nathaniel says, when we’re in my untidy sitting room. ‘Do you have a radiator I could put them on?’ He is already taking off his socks and shoes.
The afternoon seems to have acquired its own momentum. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ll get you my dressing-gown.’
Soon we are sipping tea. I have changed clothes, and Nathaniel is in my blue gown, which is covered with tiny pink roses. Steam is rising from his jeans, which are on a plug-in Dimplex radiator. I don’t know quite how this has happened. We could have just gone back to his flat, even though my cottage was closer. The cushions on the sofa seem to be sagging towards the middle, sort of shoving us together. My hand touches his knee when I offer him a biscuit. My skin drinks in the feel of him, the smell, the warmth.
Then I start laughing. It’s a belly laugh; it bursts out of me. I laugh so hard that I have to put down the plate.
‘What is it?’
‘You look so funny in that gown.’
Our eyes meet again. ‘Oh, Sally…’ Nathaniel says. But then the doorbell rings. It’s probably one of my small neighbours, wanting me to retrieve a ball from my back garden. I am still giggling as I go to the front door.
It’s Diarmuid, and he’s holding a bunch of flowers. My stomach lurches. He mustn’t see Nathaniel; he’ll put two and two together and get fifty.
‘Hi, Diarmuid! It’s good to see you!’ I want my voice to sound welcoming, but it’s a high-pitched squeak. ‘I – I was just about to go to the shop for some milk. Could you give me a lift?’ The shop is only a minute away by car, but it will give Nathaniel time to pull on his jeans and leave. ‘Then we can come back here and have a nice chat.’
I try to move out the door, but Diarmuid is standing in front of me and he doesn’t budge. ‘But what about your visitor, Sally – your other visitor?’ His voice is cold and angry. I gulp. How does he know I have a visitor?
He pushes past me and marches into the sitting-room. He glares at Nathaniel. Then he flings the bunch of roses on the floor, turns on his heel and walks out.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘I’ve moved in with Charlene.’ It is eight in the morning, and the bedside phone has woken me up.
‘Hello,’ I say vaguely, rubbing my eyes. ‘Is that you, Diarmuid? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you just said.’
‘I’ve moved in with Charlene.’
That’s what I thought he said, but it can’t be. Diarmuid wouldn’t just say something like that so bluntly.
‘She and I had a long talk about the whole situation, and I’ve decided that my marriage to you is a sham. I have to get on with my own life.’
This is a Diarmuid I have never encountered before. ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I pull my duvet up under my chin and lie there with the phone stuck to my ear.
‘When I saw you with Nathaniel, I knew our marriage was over.’
‘But – but didn’t you hear the messages I left on your phone? I explained the whole situation. He was only in my dressing-gown because –’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Well, it’s the truth.’ I feel like crying. ‘He’s just a friend, Diarmuid. That’s all he is, really.’
Diarmuid decides not to be sidetracked. ‘We’ll have to sell the house as soon as possible. Do you want me to contact the estate agents?’
‘You’ve moved in with Charlene?’ I feel the need to confirm this fact.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re living with another woman, even though you’re still married to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Diarmuid says, somewhat impatiently. ‘How many more times are you going to say it?’
‘As many times as I need to,’ I say with a note of steel in my voice. ‘You can surely see why it may take me a little while to get used to the idea, Diarmuid.’
‘Well, I had to get used to you running off without a word of explanation.’
‘I did explain.’ My voice has risen in anger. ‘Only you didn’t listen. But you listen to her, don’t you? You listen to Charlene.’
‘This isn’t a competition, Sally,’ Diarmuid says wearily. ‘I listen to Charlene because she listens to me.’
‘I listened to you too!’ I am now sitting bolt upright in bed. ‘I listened to you going on and on about the bloody mice and your carpentry classes and how once we had a baby I’d feel more settled. I even listened to you talking about football. As far as I recall, you went on about new bathroom shelving for an entire week.’
‘But I never said what you wanted to hear, did I?’ Diarmuid says sadly. ‘That’s why I stopped talking. You just didn’t want to hear what I was saying.’
‘You – you could have asked me what I wanted to talk about,’ I splutter indignantly. ‘When we were engaged, we used to talk about all sorts of things.’
‘It was mainly about the wedding, as far as I remember.’ Diarmuid sighs. ‘You were determined to impress your relatives.’ This is indeed true.
‘Do… do you love her?’ I bite my lip and wait for his answer.
‘She loves me.’
‘That’s not what I asked you.’
‘She loves me, and now I suppose I love her. We kind of fit together, somehow. We seem to want the same things.’
I stare at a picture of a lavender field in the south of France. It’s on the wall opposite my bed. There are sunflowers, too, and a little path leading down to the blue ocean. I wish I were there. I don’t know if I can stand Diarmuid’s callousness.
‘I know it doesn’t sound very romantic,’ Diarmuid says, ‘but I’m not like you, Sally. I don’t need some grand romance – in fact, I don’t think I’d know what to do with it if I found one.’
I blink away the tears. I don’t want him to know I’m crying silently. It might even please him.
‘I thought you were that sort of person too,’ he says. ‘Before we married, you kept saying that you wanted someone uncomplicated. You said you wanted someone steady, someone you could trust.’
This is true too. I did want someone uncomplicated and steady, because I didn’t want my marriage to be like Mum and Dad’s. Their eyes had met across a crowded room, and when I was little they were besotted with each other; sometimes I even felt excluded by their high-octane intimacy. But when Mum met Al, she seemed to forget all that. Their grand romance suddenly seemed terribly flimsy, like a house full of ornaments and pictures but without a proper foundation. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Nathaniel when I first saw him at that party. I didn’t want those intense feelings, that flamboyance. I didn’t want to want anyone that much.
‘I… I thought you were worried about Charlene being from South Africa,’ I say. ‘You said you were too different.’
‘We’ll work out the cultural differences as we come to them. I did think my family might have problems accepting her –’
‘Especially your mother.’ I almost hiss the words into the receiver. ‘She’s a right bitch, Diarmuid. I don’t know why you keep making excuses for her. You always take her side, but you should have stood up for me.’
‘Yes, you’re r
ight about that.’
I almost drop the receiver.
‘I mean, I’m not saying she’s a bitch. But she didn’t really make you feel welcome. I’m sorry.’
Why on earth couldn’t he have said this before?
‘She was reluctant about our marriage because she wanted me to marry Becky, even though Becky didn’t want to marry me. She keeps forgetting that.’
I look out the window. It’s a cloudy late-July day, and it must be windy too; I can hear my neighbours’ wind chimes tinkling in their tiny patio garden. ‘Did you ask Becky to marry you?’ I have to know.
There is a long pause. ‘Yes, when I was in my early twenties. I phoned her in New Zealand. It was kind of silly. We hadn’t seen each other since we were teenagers.’
‘But you loved her?’
‘Yes.’ Diarmuid’s voice sounds funny, sort of empty and doggedly resigned. ‘But she never loved me the same way. The truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love someone so totally again, Sally.’ He sounds as if he wants to cry. ‘I think I put that part of me away forever.’
I wish he’d told me this. He kept saying he’d forgotten about Becky, that he loved me now, not her. He lied. But, deep down, I knew anyway.
Now I understand that distant look in Diarmuid’s eyes. Now I understand why I never really felt I could reach him. He didn’t want me to. That part of him was closed off and carefully forgotten. And I know, suddenly, that many people do this; it isn’t just Diarmuid. My parents did it with their love. They made it into something else, businesslike, determined; the ornaments are gone, and all that’s left is the structure. I did it too, that day I saw Mum kissing Al. I didn’t trust love any more. I knew it was something flimsy and prone to alteration. It didn’t seem a safe thing to want. And I stopped believing in the angels – I simply couldn’t summon up the faith. And when I stopped believing in them, I stopped seeing the shiny, gentle shapes floating near the ceiling. Maybe love is like that too. If you don’t believe in it, maybe you just don’t notice it. All you sense is the contours of its absence.
The Truth Club Page 27