As Fiona drives away, the phone rings. I wonder if it’s Diarmuid phoning to discuss the house sale. He has made an inventory of all the furniture, and he wants to know what to sell with the house and what we should keep. I don’t know if I want any of that furniture. It seems alien to me now, like remnants from another life. And I wouldn’t be able to fit any more furniture into this cottage anyway. Maybe I’ll say I just want the nice bright mugs I bought. They wouldn’t take up too much space.
‘Sally.’ It’s April. ‘Sally, is that you?’ Her voice sounds strange, breathless and excited.
‘Yes, it’s me. What is it?’ She’s normally so calm on the phone – businesslike, almost brusque.
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About Marie’s party. I’ve been thinking that maybe I should come over after all.’
‘Oh, that’s – that’s great.’
‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘I don’t think I have any choice, April. Marie would probably send out a search party if I was ten minutes late.’
‘I don’t think I can keep this a secret any longer. It’s ridiculous. It’s high time they all knew.’ Her voice quivers. ‘I’ve been living a lie. Mum and Dad said they’d tell people when I was twenty-one, but they didn’t. My therapist says it’s really affected me.’
‘Your therapist?’
‘Yes, I started going to him after we met in New York. I’ve been bottling up all sorts of things for years. I really needed to let it all out.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘I’m going to tell them, Sally,’ April declares, in a tone that makes me realise she has been drinking. ‘I’m going to tell them, at Marie’s party, that Al is my father.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, April!’ I exclaim. ‘You can’t do that. Mum and Dad and Marie would be devastated.’
‘You’re the one who keeps saying people should be more open.’
‘Yes, but not quite so dramatically. I mean, you have to consider people’s feelings.’
‘They haven’t considered mine.’
‘Wait,’ I say urgently. ‘Come over another time. Talk to Mum and Dad about it first.’
‘No, I’ve talked to them about it countless times.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I told them I’d tell people if they didn’t.’
‘Oh, April, please…’ It’s like she’s a teenager again, the April who went to cider parties and stole clothes and stumbled home at three in the morning.
‘I want to come over, Sally. I want to tell them,’ she says firmly. ‘I thought you, of all people, would understand. I just want them all to know the truth.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
The week has gone by in a busy blur. Since I don’t know what to do about April’s phone call, I’ve been trying not to think about it. But I have thought about it. There is no way that April can announce who her real father is at Marie’s family gathering. I have been saying this over and over again to myself. But my phone calls to her don’t seem to be having any effect and she isn’t answering my e-mails. Now she isn’t even answering the phone.
I have been imagining Mum’s distraught expression as April makes her announcement. I can almost sense the hush, feel the disbelief, hear the uproar as Dad grabs Mum’s bag and coat and sweeps her out of the room into the car. His face will be stony and expressionless. His jaw will be clenched with outrage. And Marie will try to blink back the tears as she rushes around with plates of soggy lemon meringue pie, while everyone stares at April as though she has suddenly turned into a duck-billed platypus. She’ll regret what she said almost immediately – and, because she will be angry with herself, she will become angry with me and say I should have stopped her. But how can I stop her without actually going to California and somehow finding a way to make her see sense?
I get up from my desk and go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I long with all my heart to phone Nathaniel. He’d understand; he’d say something wise and comforting. But I can’t hide my feelings for him any more. That’s why I haven’t phoned to tell him about Diarmuid. I’m free, but he isn’t. He has Eloise, with her film-star-bright, ruthless beauty.
Someone like Nathaniel would never love me anyway. He’s way out of my league.
I reach for the box of Earl Grey tea bags. I wish I didn’t keep getting these little nudges, these little whispers saying that Nathaniel cares for me more than I think. My head knows it’s nonsense, but my heart won’t give up on him.
What was he going to say to me, that evening when Diarmuid found us together? He started to say, ‘Oh, Sally…’ as if he was about to make some kind of declaration. Sometimes I feel the heaviness of his gaze when he watches me. There’s an intensity in his eyes, a heat in his touch… or maybe it’s just my imagination. If he really cared for me, he would have done something about it by now. He’s that sort of person.
I pour some milk into my orange mug and add a spoonful of ant-free honey. Then I find myself staring at the phone. Should I just pick it up and ring him anyway? Some of April’s defiant new candour seems to have found its way to me. I said I wanted to follow my heart more – and my heart is far more courageous than the rest of me. I will ring him right now and get it over with.
As I’m thinking this, the doorbell rings – not just one ring, but four. Whoever it is doesn’t want to be kept waiting.
It’s Greta. She marches in a bit haphazardly and nearly stumbles over a heap of files by the large wooden table I use as a desk. Then she says, ‘Oops,’ and smiles, and slumps onto my orange sofa. It is two o’clock in the afternoon and I suspect she’s had a rather liquid lunch.
Great, I think. This is just what I need. I look at her warily. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Greta?’
‘He’s driving me crazy,’ she declares, waving her arms for emphasis. Alcohol tends to make her a bit dramatic. ‘He’s howling at all hours of the night and he’s made huge scratches on the front door. He won’t even eat properly; he just grabs a couple of mouthfuls and goes back to his cushion.’
‘Who?’ I say. ‘Who’s howling?’
‘Fred, of course. He’s howling for Nathaniel.’
‘But… but why?’ I get a terrible stricken feeling in my heart. ‘Isn’t Nathaniel there to look after him?’
‘No, he’s gone off with some fancy woman – Fabrice, I think she’s called. His writing was a bit scrawly, but I could read the name quite clearly.’
I just gawp at her. Fabrice? Surely I’m dreaming.
‘I was away at a conference, and when I got back I found this scribbled message about flying out of the country with this Fabrice woman for a few days. He didn’t even say where they were going.’
I fidget agitatedly with a cushion tassel. Fabrice and Nathaniel have flown off somewhere together? It’s not true. It can’t be.
‘It’s been a week now, and he hasn’t even phoned. They really must be very taken up with each other.’
I lean forwards anxiously. ‘Are… are you sure you read the name correctly?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. It definitely said Fabrice.’
I gulp.
‘I think I heard him planning the trip, actually,’ Greta continues. ‘It was a very odd conversation. I don’t normally eavesdrop, but I went into his flat one day, the sitting-room door was half open, and I heard him talking on the phone. He sounded very strange.’
‘Strange in what way?’
‘Well…’ Greta stretches out her long and rather muscular legs. ‘I heard him saying, “Yes, I’d love to go with you, but you’ll have to buy the plane tickets. I’m a bit short of cash at the moment.” Then he added, “I wish I could tell people, but I suppose we’ll just have to keep it a secret for the moment.” Then he saw me, and his face went blank and he said, “Pepperoni and mushroom, yes, with extra cheese.” He wanted me to think he was ordering a pizza. I should have asked him what he was up to.’
I feel l
ike I have suddenly landed in Outer Mongolia. Is Nathaniel having an affair with Fabrice, of all people? No wonder he couldn’t stop talking about her.
‘Do you know anything about the woman?’ Greta enquires.
I don’t know what to say. If Greta finds out her cousin may be the toy boy of an elderly blonde, she’ll have a hissy fit – and I really could do without that just now, since I feel like wailing myself. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Nathaniel is far from conventional; he believes other people’s opinions are none of his business. But surely he has some taste. I can admire him for not caring about Fabrice’s age, but why would he fancy a woman who cakes her face with make-up and piles her hair, which is probably the texture of straw, on top of her head like a small mountain? Hasn’t he noticed her coarse laugh and the fact that she jangles with cheap jewellery? And what about Eloise?
Greta is staring at me, so I force myself to make some sort of comment. ‘I met Fabrice once,’ I mumble. ‘She’s… she’s a bit older than Nathaniel. And a bit flamboyant. She’s probably just a friend.’ Now that I’ve said it, I suspect that it’s the truth: he just enjoys her company. But then why did he say he wished their relationship didn’t have to be a secret? Come to think of it, every time he has mentioned her, I have sensed there is something he’s not telling me. Dear God, I hope she hasn’t lured him into some dodgy escapade.
‘Poor Nathaniel,’ Greta sighs. ‘Women keep falling in love with him. I think it makes his life rather complicated.’
‘In what way?’ I gaze at her disconcertedly. It’s like she’s talking about someone else. Not my Nathaniel. Not my secretly lonely and charmingly bewildered friend.
‘Well, Eloise and Ziggy have been calling every evening asking where he is,’ she says wearily. ‘When they can’t get him on the phone, they call me.’
‘Ziggy?’ I frown. ‘I thought they weren’t that close any more.’
‘Oh, no, she’s still in love with him – though it’s pointless, of course, since she loves Richard too.’
‘The guy who wears fishnet tights?’
‘Yes. They’ve moved in together, so I suppose she’s accepted that the marriage is over, but she still wants to talk to Nathaniel. She’s a very strange woman. I don’t think she knows about Eloise.’ Greta looks at me sadly. ‘I’ve told him over and over again, you can hurt people by being too soft-hearted.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. The cushion tassel has come off in my hand and I’m weaving the threads through my fingers.
‘He hates people to feel rejected. Surely you’ve noticed?’ I just look at her.
‘Even when Ziggy tried to start a ménage à trois with Richard, I don’t think Nathaniel really told her how much it upset him. He put up with so much in that marriage – but that’s Nathaniel for you. He’s amazingly tolerant.’
‘And Eloise?’ I prompt bleakly.
‘Oh, Eloise,’ Greta says meaningfully. ‘She’s beautiful, of course, and her cabinets are excellent, and she was sweet to him at first; but now she seems to think she can boss him into loving her. She’s forever trying to change him, smarten him up. Eloise is so used to men adoring her that she thinks, if she says, “Jump,” Nathaniel should say, “How high?” But he just listens and takes no notice of her. It’s really beginning to irritate him, actually. That’s probably why he’s gone off with this other woman. He’s told Eloise he just wants to be friends with her, because he can’t change himself to suit her, but she won’t accept it.’ Greta studies her nails, which are long and shiny and painted dark red. ‘And then, of course, there’s Sarah.’
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes, she’s a psychologist friend from New York. She keeps wanting to come and stay. I think she’s in love with him too. She says he’s the only man she can really talk to. Women just seem to love Nathaniel.’
Oh, stop rubbing it in! I want to scream. Greta seems to have absolutely no suspicions about my feelings for her cousin. She isn’t to know, of course, that I find these revelations dismaying because they have turned my quiet adoration into something almost comically predictable. I knew Nathaniel was popular, but I didn’t realise he was a minor love celebrity. For a weird moment I imagine me and a bunch of other Nathaniel devotees chasing him down Grafton Street waving our knickers.
‘I think he should take a break from the whole thing, frankly.’
‘What do you mean?’ I don’t know why I ask – or why on earth she is telling me all this. The Greta I thought I knew only shares personal details with a tiny circle of trusted confidantes. And then I suddenly know why she is telling me these things. She does know my feelings for Nathaniel. She must have seen me gazing at him longingly at that reception; and last time I visited his flat – which is, after all, in her house – I saw her curtains twitching. He may even have told her that he was worried that I was becoming a little too fond of him. And now she’s trying to warn me off him because she knows I have already made a total arse of myself with my marriage. She arrived just in time. Oh, God, I was just about to phone him!
‘He just seems to go from one woman to another,’ Greta says. ‘There’s always one waiting in the wings, as far as I can tell. If only he could meet the right person – someone who could help him get over Ziggy. He feels so betrayed by her… He needs someone who can be loyal to him and love him for who he is.’ She gazes at me earnestly.
There is a long silence. I stare at my rubber plant. It’s grown very big lately; in fact, it’s too big for this room, but I’m fond of it. It’s so enthusiastic, somehow. I really should re-pot it.
‘Sometimes he comes into the kitchen and steals my dinner,’ Greta suddenly adds. ‘Then he runs off with it and eats it in the sitting room.’
I think this is rather thoughtless of Nathaniel, but the details just wash over me distantly. I’m too numb to take them in.
‘Of course I try to forgive him, considering the circumstances. But I don’t know why he needs to go out so late at night and wander round the garden.’
I just nod. Very little about Nathaniel could surprise me now.
‘And I really wish he hadn’t developed this awful habit of burying my jewellery in the middle of the hydrangeas. I have to lock it away now.’
The words land with an improbable thud. Nathaniel may be daft enough to fly off with Fabrice, but he is not daft enough to bury Greta’s jewellery. She must have switched the conversation to Fred.
Confirming this, Greta adds, ‘And his paws get so muddy. I’m going to have to get the carpets cleaned.’ She peers at me. ‘Are you all right, Sally? You look a little…’
‘I’m – I’m just a little tired,’ I mumble quickly. Then I sit up straighter and say, ‘Actually, Diarmuid has moved in with another woman. Our marriage is over.’ I know what I’ve done – telling Greta is a bit like taking out an ad in The Irish Times – but people have to know sometime.
‘Oh, I see.’ She studies me solemnly, but she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. ‘To be honest, I never felt you were that suited.’
Greta has only met Diarmuid once. Was it that obvious? How on earth wasn’t it obvious to me?
‘Marriage is a strange old business,’ Greta continues. ‘I think some people just aren’t cut out for it. That’s why Nigel and I have stayed single. He stays with me at the weekends, but by Monday I can’t wait for him to leave so I can clean the house and put things where they’re meant to be. He moves things around.’
In normal circumstances I would be itching to hear more about Nigel, who is Greta’s mysterious boyfriend. He has been sighted waiting for her in his car outside receptions; he appears to be about her age and is portly and distinguished-looking, though his clothes are crumpled. On this occasion, however, I have absolutely no wish to hear about Nigel. I just want Greta to leave. I want to be on my own so I can rearrange my views on Nathaniel.
When Erika asked me what kind of biscuit Nathaniel would be, I didn’t answer. I said it was because I had no
right to think of him as a biscuit because I wouldn’t ever be allowed to taste him; but, deep down, I know it was because I was thinking of him more as a house – the kind of house we had in California, with its quirks and its crannies, its idiosyncratic beauty. I thought I knew him in the way love reveals a person to you – a one-off way, not mass-market. I was wrong. Nathaniel’s golden intimacy is lightly given, and even more lightly prized.
‘What on earth are you doing with your column these days?’ Greta suddenly enquires. Her eyes are glinting. Maybe she’s a bit miffed that I haven’t asked for more fascinating revelations about Nigel. ‘The last one seemed to advise people to live in squalor,’ she adds with an indignant sniff. This is the Greta I am used to.
‘Of course it didn’t,’ I snap. ‘You obviously didn’t read it properly.’
‘I was talking to your editor, and he was very disappointed with it too.’
I feel a twist of fear in my stomach.
‘He said the advertisers were appalled. You’re supposed to drum up business for them, Sally, not tell people that their houses are just fine as they are. This business thrives on discontent and aspiration. What’s happened to you? You used to know that.’
‘Maybe I just want to be a bit more truthful, Greta.’ I glare at her. She can be extraordinarily insensitive sometimes – but, since the world she inhabits is tough and somewhat ruthless and liberally laced with cynicism, this is probably an advantage. ‘Maybe I’ve decided the most important things in life are not things.’ I think of the beautiful dark curve of Nathaniel’s eyelashes. I suppose all his women feel the same way about them.
‘I’m not saying things are the only things that matter!’ Greta splutters indignantly. ‘But they make people happy. Many people lead very boring lives. The thought of a new sitting-room suite is genuinely uplifting.’
‘We buy all this stuff, and then we have to pay for it.’ I’m thinking of the small fortune I spent on my marital home. ‘We get into debt, and that leaves us with fewer choices. We can even feel trapped in jobs we loathe, because of – of some daft notion that we have to replace our fitted kitchens every few years!’
The Truth Club Page 31