With a start, she realized that Ben was still talking, his tone a little more hesitant now.
‘I don’t want to put you in the middle, Rose, but how did Brian take the news?’
Didn’t want to put her in the middle? Where else had he put her? Where else could she have possibly been for all these years?
But she didn’t say that. She knew she’d have to try and avoid all those old, intimate angers: angers that were hers and Ben’s alone, which did not belong in any of the forgiving spaces between parents and their children. ‘That’s for you and him, Ben. All I will say is that he was very taken aback. Your return has been somewhat . . . sudden.’
There was a small silence. When Ben spoke again, his voice was distant, almost brittle, as though it had retreated behind a suddenly treacherous emotion. ‘Ah. Yes, of course. There is that. They don’t know that I’ve never . . . that I’ve always . . . thought about them, all the time.’
Despite herself, Rose could feel her own eyes begin to fill. She swallowed, stood up from the table, walked around the kitchen. She felt suddenly trapped in a tangle of emotions, all clamouring like loud music inside her head. It was as though she’d been sitting for hours beside a loudspeaker, the orchestra’s notes jangling and discordant now that the concert was finally over. She was angry that she had to do this all over again. But even more than that, she felt cheated, filled with an enormous grief that this man was suddenly, once more, warm and fatherly. Why couldn’t he have stayed like that? Why couldn’t he quite simply have stayed?
‘I presume Damien doesn’t need warning, does he?’
The steadiness of Ben’s voice made her calmer. This wasn’t about her, about him, about the two of them, any longer. This was only about the three young people who had once made them a family. Rose didn’t know what to say. She felt suddenly at a disadvantage. If this were a game of Ben’s, then she couldn’t read the rules. He gave no hint of remembering all the difficulties between himself and his elder son all those years ago. Had he forgotten all the shadows of conflict, the differences that had spontaneously ignited every time each found himself in the company of the other?
Rose bit down hard on her lower lip, remembering the earlier times, too: Damien on his father’s shoulders, holding on for dear life, shrieking with laughter as Ben careened around the back garden, making loud, stuttering motorbike noises.
‘I’ve already told him. I met up with him yesterday evening.’
‘And?’ His tone was anxious.
‘He’ll be twenty-five on his next birthday – a grown man. I’m certainly not going to answer for him. I’ll call him tonight and give him your numbers.’
‘That’s fine – thank you for that. Please let him know how keen I am to see him.’
‘I will.’ Rose felt suddenly exhausted. And she used to think that catering was hard work. ‘And, by the way . . .’ It wasn’t by the way at all, of course. It was right to the heart of the matter, but she couldn’t think of any other way to say it. ‘I haven’t forgotten that you and I need to meet, but you’re going to have to trust me on that one, too. Give me a little time with Lisa, let the dust settle, and then we’ll talk again.’ She made sure that her voice was firm, her final words calm and deliberate. ‘I’m every bit as anxious as you are to have all the practical, financial things sorted out between us, once and for all. But please don’t rush me, Ben: I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m ready.’
There, that felt better.
‘I’ll leave it up to you, then. There’s just one more thing.’
‘Yes?’ She felt suddenly wary again.
‘I know that this is really difficult for all of us. My hope would be that . . . you and I . . . that we . . . might be able to sort things out without being at each other’s throats. I know I have a lot of explaining to do . . .’
‘Don’t, Ben. Please don’t – not yet.’ Rose couldn’t bear the sudden break in her own voice. ‘Not today. I’m not ready. Remember that you knew you were coming back, you had all the time in the world to prepare yourself for it. I didn’t. I’ve had time to process nothing, nothing at all. It hasn’t even been a week yet.’
‘I know.’ His words were suddenly quieter. ‘I am aware of that. Take whatever time you need.’
‘Thanks. I will. Bye, Ben.’
‘Bye. Take care of yourself.’
Take care of yourself? Rose switched off her phone, filled the kettle. When had Ben ever cared, during her last lifetime, whether she, or anybody else, took care of herself?
She stood at the window now, her heart beginning to pound again. What was happening here? Was her husband’s return going to be even more traumatic, more tangled, than his leaving?
Rose dragged her hands through her hair, smoothing out the dull ache in her forehead. Here I am, dressed up in my suit of armour – all dressed up and nowhere to go.
She waited for the kettle to boil and stared, unseeing, out of the kitchen window. She needed to get going: she had a lunch party for thirty-three women at two o’clock, less than five hours away. But she stayed standing by the window, couldn’t tear herself away. Her eyes gradually began to focus on the world outside. The tide was in full, the water a rolling mass of gull-wing grey. Could she and Ben possibly have got it all wrong? Could they have worked things out back then, becoming sadder and wiser people in the process, but at least managing to stay together, to keep their now fractured family somehow intact? Rose pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to relieve the pressure that was beginning to build there, throbbing relentlessly across the top of her head.
Surely the time for re-evaluation was long past? She been over it all too many times before, and the answer had never been any different. Ben was gone, long gone, and their marriage had been over and done with even before he left. So what was all this emotional turmoil about? How could she reconcile the calculating man who had stood in her garden two days ago, with this quiet voice on the phone: a voice full of kindness, of fatherly concern? She couldn’t. She felt unsteady again, filled with confusion, ambushed over and over by all the remembered tendernesses of the past.
Then it hit her. What if this was all part of the game?
Negotiating So Everyone Wins. The week before, when Ben had spoken about ‘regularizing’ their position, Rose had been struck by the strangeness of her husband’s vocabulary. The words he had spoken were not words she had been accustomed to hearing him utter; they had sounded strange as they tumbled from his mouth, released in a rush as though he’d been afraid of forgetting them. She remembered, too, that once confronted by her anger, Ben’s reasonable exterior had begun to crumble very rapidly: he’d behaved as though the intervening years had never happened, as though he was still at the centre of his own discarded domestic universe. Leaving aside their three children, what if this unexpected niceness towards her was all part of the plan? Perhaps there really was someone standing in the wings, prompting, whispering, schooling Ben in the art of getting what he wanted. Had he managed just now – almost – to fool her again, to put her once more firmly on the back foot?
‘Eight years,’ she said now, out loud, to the seething sea in the distance. ‘Eight long years of silence, of worry, of sheer, lonely drudgery. That’s a long time, Ben Holden. It’s long enough for me to be entitled to be furious, and not to believe a single word out of your mouth.’
May God forgive me if I’m wrong, she thought, but I don’t believe I am. You will not do this to me again, Ben Holden – never unsettle me again once all of this is over. I was even beginning to lose trust in my own anger.
Quickly Rose gathered up her bag, her coat, and made her way out to the van. She felt energized again, as though the sudden whiff of potential treachery had become some sort of fuel to keep her fired up, keep her moving. She indicated left, pulled out into the thinning morning traffic. At this rate, she should be at the Bonne Bouche in under twenty minutes. Load the van, head off to the tennis club, feed the hungry. Some time later this afte
rnoon, she’d make sure to find the time to call Sam.
There was a living to be looked after here, and a home, and children. She’d felt all of this before, and she felt it even more strongly now: all that she had worked for would not be taken away from her without a fight.
‘Rose? Is that you?’
‘It is indeed, Sam. How are you?’
‘Good, thanks – and yourself?’
Rose was standing outside the back entrance to the tennis club, making sure that she was hidden from sight. She didn’t want the ladies in the dining room to think that she was slacking. Just around the corner from her, three women were dragging deeply on their cigarettes, all unwilling outcasts from the smoke-free zone inside. One of them grinned and waved at her, and Rose waved back: one outlaw to the other.
‘I’m okay, thanks, Sam. I had a meeting with Pauline O’Brien yesterday, and I just wanted to touch base with you.’
‘How did it go?’
Rose paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Well, I suppose these things are never pleasant – but the upshot is that I’m now fairly clear about what I want, and what I need to do to make that happen.’ She paused, kicking at the pebbles with the toe of her shoe. ‘I had another telephone conversation with my ex-husband this morning, and it’s helped to make things even clearer.’
‘Good – then let’s meet up soon and have a preliminary chat, at least.’
‘Some time this week?’
There was a brief pause. ‘How about this evening? I’m free from five o’clock on. My last appointment has just been cancelled.’
Rose did a quick calculation. It was almost four o’clock now: a few minutes to check on Betty and Angela’s clean-up, a quick call to Lisa to say she’d be late. Yes, she could do it, why not? Why wait any longer than she had to?
‘Actually, Sam, that sounds great. I’ll take a taxi and I should be with you in, say, an hour or so?’
‘Good. I’ll meet you in the Espresso Bar around the corner from the office. That way we won’t be disturbed.’
‘See you there, then – and thanks.’
‘No problem.’
Rose put her mobile into her jacket pocket and hurried back inside. Most of the lunch guests were still lingering over their coffee, but the tables were almost clear.
‘That was wonderful, Rose! You spoil us!’
Rose stopped and greeted some of the women, waved over at others, noticed how the usual suspects were settling into their corner of the bar, wine glasses still full. She felt a sudden ooze of envy: wouldn’t she love to be the one waited on, rather than doing the waiting – in all senses. A leisurely afternoon, no timetable squeezing her between the incessant demands of work and family, family and work. A quiet life. That’s all she wanted. Just a quiet life.
She pushed open the door into the kitchen, already hearing the raised voices.
‘I saw you!’ Betty was standing at the sink, her plump arms glistening with soapy bubbles. ‘Don’t try to let on you didn’t!’
Angela was standing just behind her, forcing Betty to address her over one shoulder. Rose thought that both girls looked most uncomfortable.
‘Why don’t you shout louder, Betty?’ Angela folded her arms and glared over towards the sink. ‘They can’t hear you in Australia!’
‘I’m warnin’ you, Angela, and it’s not the first—’
‘You are warning me? Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a . . .’
‘Stop it!’ said Rose sharply, moving towards them. ‘Both of you. What on earth do you think you’re doing!’
Both young women stopped instantly. The silence between them was shocked, sudden. Angela’s face was flushed, two spots of colour sat high on her normally pale cheeks. Betty was looking almost bewildered, as though this was happening somewhere else, to someone else. She looked down into the sink, pushed the plates further under the frothy surface.
Oh, get a hold of yourself, girl, for God’s sake, Rose thought crossly, feeling a familiar surge of impatience. ‘I don’t know what you’re fighting about, and right now I don’t want to know. Finish the clean-up, both of you. Get everything into the van – now. I said now, Angela. I don’t want any arguments. I have a meeting across town in an hour. You two finish up here and bring the van back to the Bonne Bouche. Empty it completely: put any leftovers into the cold room. Now, get moving.’
Rose watched as Angela threw a contemptuous glance in Betty’s direction. The other girl flinched. Rose was taken aback at the venom in the air. It was a dark, almost palpable presence, hovering in the hostile space between them. She’d have to find out tomorrow what was going on, but for now she had just about more than she could handle.
‘You can leave the van in the car park overnight. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. I’ll need you both in for eight in the morning. Are there any questions?’
Betty shook her head, subdued. ‘No, Miss Kelly.’
Angela didn’t reply. She continued to stand her ground, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes too bright in her small face.
Rose looked from one to the other, careful to make an equal amount of eye contact with each. ‘Jenny’s outside: she’s the club secretary. Report to her before you leave, both of you, please, and make sure she’s happy with everything. And whatever it is you’re fighting about, can you keep it out of the workplace? Thank you.’
Rose pulled her jacket off the hanger and left the kitchen immediately. She was unwilling to be drawn. Let them sort it out between them.
After all, she wasn’t everybody’s bloody mother.
Sam was already there when Rose arrived, sitting with his back to the wall, facing the large plate glass window. She pushed open the door of the café, smiling in response to his raised hand. He stood up as she approached and she had the fleeting impression of something old-fashioned, almost courtly, in the way he took her jacket, pulled out a chair for her.
‘Good to see you, Rose. What can I get you?’
‘Whatever you’re having looks good.’
‘It’s an excellent espresso – and a piece of strawberry shortcake with cream, which I neither need nor deserve. There, I’ve expunged my guilt, like a good Catholic.’
Rose sat opposite him and laughed at his expression. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m fresh out of guilt – I’ve been told that it’s a wasted emotion. Besides, that cake looks too good to miss.’
‘Sorry for starting without you, but I missed lunch and my stomach was getting restless.’ Sam caught the waitress’s eye. ‘So. How was your day? You sounded under pressure when you called.’
Rose shook her head, a gesture of disbelief. ‘Oh, when I called, things were fine – just the usual flat-out activity that goes with being a caterer. It was only after that that I realized all the gods must be against me, these days. Not only am I fighting with my ex-husband, I’m also fighting with my staff. I don’t know what it’s about, but Betty and Angela were close to armed combat when I left them an hour ago.’
Sam turned to the waitress. ‘Same again, please, Beatriz. We’ve agreed that your shortcake is far more appealing than our guilt.’
The young woman smiled. ‘With cream, too, Mr McCarthy?’
Rose was charmed by her voice. All those elongated vowels seemed so redolent of innocence, somehow. Spanish waitresses in Dublin: why? Rose wondered now. What could possibly bring them here: the high cost of living, the miserable summers? It must be yet another one of those signs that her native city had secretly changed its clothes while she’d had her back turned, slaving away in the suburbs. The baggy, unfashionable cut of its old suit had been transformed overnight into smart Armani, all razor-sharp creases and matching metallic ties. Dublin, it appeared, was now as exotic to the ambitious youth of Madrid, Paris, Rome, as all of those cities had once seemed to her. Except that I was never ambitious, thought Rose abruptly. She felt a sudden, sharp sense of loss. There were so many things she had never been.
She smiled at the young girl. ‘Ye
s, please,’ and she sighed theatrically. ‘Lots of cream. The whole hog.’
Sam chuckled as Beatriz retreated, puzzled. ‘Don’t think that her English is quite up to that.’
Rose grinned. ‘What the hell – stretch her a little. I have to say, she’s a lot more pleasant than my two.’
Sam finished his cake. ‘That was truly excellent. Tell me, would Betty and Angela normally get on well?’
Rose shrugged. ‘I suppose they don’t really get on at all. I mean that in the sense that they have very little to do with each other. They work independently, kind of side by side, rather than as a team, if you know what I mean.’
Sam nodded vigorously. ‘I’m afraid I do know what you mean – all too well, as it happens. Are they likely to become a liability, do you think?’
Rose looked at him in dismay. ‘God, I never even thought about it like that. I think that Betty’s solid enough, but Angela’s been a bit flighty lately. I’m keeping a very close eye on both of them.’
Sam nodded his approval. ‘Good. The last thing you want right now is either of them taking advantage of your distraction.’
Sam’s words stirred something at the back of Rose’s memory, that primitive, reptilian part of her brain that was always alert to trouble, poised to recognize betrayal of any kind. She didn’t know what it was that was trying to swim to the surface, struggling its way up from the depths. But it was something that she knew, without knowing: something that she recognized instinctively, but couldn’t put a name to. She shook her head, hoping to dislodge the clutter that seemed to jam up her circuits more and more these days. Sometimes she felt as though her brain was made of porridge: thoughts got formed only sluggishly on many occasions, then failed to make connections, or else simply gave up the fight before they reached any kind of coherent consciousness. She felt that some vital firing of her neurons was missing, that rather than fizz and crackle as they did in a normal person, with her, they simply flared briefly and went out.
Something Like Love Page 14