Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Distraction. That’s a good word. Sums up just what I feel.’

  Beatriz returned and put Rose’s coffee and cake on the table. Rose looked at the large plate with something akin to delight. The lush red of the strawberries formed a perfect contrast with the white porcelain. The ornamental swirl of blue and black berries, the delicate dusting of icing sugar, the soft white comma of the cream – she stopped herself, mid-rhapsody, aware of Sam’s puzzled gaze.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.

  She grinned, feeling herself come back to reality again. ‘No, not at all, quite the opposite. My mind has just become a speaking menu, that’s all.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I can’t see any sort of food with an uncritical eye, and I’m always looking for simple serving ideas. This one is stunning, and it’s the large, white plate that pulls it off.’

  Sam wasn’t getting it; she could see by his face that he wasn’t getting it at all. She tried again.

  ‘Look – put these same ingredients onto something smaller, and you have – well, the difference, let’s say, between singing scales and singing an aria. It’s the same voice, but the effect is quite something – a lot more high voltage, if you know what I mean.’ She stopped.

  Shut up, Rose. Just shut up.

  ‘I see.’ Sam appeared completely at a loss. He hesitated for a moment, seeming to consider her words. Then he scratched his head, a comical expression of bafflement spreading across his features. ‘It’s bloody good cake, you know.’

  And they both laughed.

  ‘I won’t complicate it any more than I already have, I promise.’ Rose paused and took a deep breath. ‘Thanks for seeing me so quickly, Sam. I really appreciate it. The Bonne Bouche aside for the moment, I really need to start working out some domestic financial details very soon, and Pauline tells me you’re the man to do it.’

  He inclined his head, a silent acknowledgement of Pauline’s compliment. Rose thought that he looked very pleased. For some reason, his evident pride touched her.

  ‘Well, we’ll certainly do whatever it takes to make this as easy as possible on you and your family.’ He reached into his shirt pocket and took out his reading glasses. ‘Now, tell me whatever you think will help. Once I have the broad outline, I can go away and work on the figures. But it’s very important that we overlook nothing. You get one shot at this, and we have to get it right.’ He waited, seated patiently across the table from her, pen poised. At that moment, he bore an unexpected resemblance to David O’Brien, Pauline’s father. Rose remembered how much he had helped her all those years ago: he’d brought her by the hand through the treacherous financial quicksand that had filled all the spaces left behind by her husband’s abrupt departure.

  Déjà vu, she thought, and not for the first time. I suppose I’d better get used to it. Telling my life all over again, as though it belonged to someone else; as though it was composed of nothing other than random acts of arrival and departure.

  Rose took a deep breath. It felt strange, imposing a reasoned, chronological narrative on her previous life, particularly the events of the past eight years. Reason, order, storytelling: these all seemed completely out of synch with those events which, as she had lived them, were composed only of chaos, anger, shock – all the fractured component parts of emotional freefall.

  ‘Well, Ben and I married back in 1975. I was twenty-two, he was twenty-five.’ She caught Sam’s sidelong glance and smiled at him. ‘I know – mere children.’ She looked down at her hands, caught in a sudden grip of emotion. Its blunt force took her unawares: she had thought that Ben had long ago lost the power to surprise her. ‘It’s hard to explain, but it was as if . . . as if it was expected of us; do you know what I mean? Or, at least, expected of me.’

  Sam nodded, but said nothing. Rose felt grateful for his silence, encouraged to continue. His matter-of-fact expression seemed somehow to reduce the treacherous well of emotion inside her to a mere muddy trickle, an insignificant puddle after rain. ‘And the truth is, I wanted to be married. I wanted a home and children of my own: I was never bright enough, or brave enough to follow a career.’ She could see Sam about to interrupt, had watched the quizzical lift of his eyebrow. She shook her head at him. ‘No – let me continue, please: I’ve only recently come to understand all these things. Last year was the seventh anniversary of Ben’s rather sudden departure from my life, and seven seems to be some sort of magic number. I’ve been able to tease things out since then that I wasn’t able to do earlier.

  ‘I did love Ben – at least, in the way I understood love thirty years ago – but there was also a measure of escape in my marrying him.’ She looked at Sam steadily. ‘My mother had died when I was quite young. I was the Miss Responsibility of the family. Somehow, I knew that if I didn’t make my own life when I was offered the opportunity, I’d end up being my father’s housekeeper until he died.’ Rose swallowed. She’d begun by needing to tell Sam the facts: just the facts, ma’am, nothing but the facts. And now, here she was, unburdening herself to a man who wanted only the figures, nothing but the figures.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam – I’m blathering on here with stuff that’s of no possible interest to you. I apologize.’

  Sam waved one hand in the air, a gesture that could have meant anything from forgiveness to mild interest to crucifying embarrassment. Rose decided not to let him speak: she could already feel the warm prickles of mortification caused by such an inappropriate exposure of her private self in such a public place. To a man, moreover, accustomed only to dealing with clients’ profit and loss statements, balance sheets and revenue demands, not the subtler profits and losses of their emotional lives. She sat up straighter.

  ‘Anyway, the facts are that we had three children – Damien, Brian and Lisa – and we kept things together for the best part of twenty years, in the way that married couples do. But about ten years ago, I sensed that something was wrong: I mean, really wrong, apart from all the daily “wrong” stuff we’d both just learned to live with. Things had gone stale, I suppose, and disappointing. Ben had become more and more obsessed by his business deals – he was really into property back then, and I just retreated into the family. Then, out of the blue, eight years ago, I discovered he was having an affair.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘That must have been tough.’

  Rose nodded. ‘It certainly was. Even though things hadn’t been good for a long time – I’d learned very early on that I was way down Ben’s priority list – being dumped for someone else is quite another story. Suddenly, you miss all that you never truly had, and a real emotional roller-coaster begins. I’ll cut to the chase: one April morning eight years ago, he comes into the kitchen and tells me he’s leaving, that he doesn’t love me any more. His bag was already packed and that was it. Off he went.’

  ‘And you never saw him again?’ Sam’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘Oh, I did – he was off on a Spanish holiday with the other woman: that’s why the bag was packed. Pathetic, isn’t it? Wife of his business partner: the glamorous Caroline. Actually, she’s a very nice woman. We mended fences later on; she even sent me clients when I started catering on my own. I think falling for Ben was her one serious lapse in a lifetime of otherwise impeccable taste.’

  Sam grinned at her. ‘So she dumped him, then?’

  Rose laughed. ‘She did indeed – in fact, she lost no time in putting him in his place. He was a passing fancy for her. She was horrified when he told her that he’d left me and the kids: she’d no intention of anything permanent with Ben. She got rid of him pretty damn quick and went back to her husband. So much for their romantic holiday. And the rest, as they say, is history. I came to my senses with astonishing speed and decided I didn’t want Ben back, even if he asked. It was like a wake-up call, like something I’d been unconsciously waiting for for years. I wanted to finish things between us, make sure the kids were looked after and get on with my life.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Ro
se had the strange sensation that the events of the previous years were growing less, rather than more, familiar every time she related them. ‘He was in financial difficulties back then, his property deals all collapsed more or less at once, and he left the country, just like that: without a word. Disappeared to England. “Divorce Irish Style” it used to be called then, before we got our own.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Sam grimly. ‘I knew quite a few victims of that particular brand of marriage breakdown myself.’

  ‘Since then – apart from him turning up on my doorstep the other night, of course – I heard nothing from Ben. Not a word. Ever. Not even a card at Christmas for the children, or a birthday present. Nothing.’

  ‘Did you chase him for maintenance?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘No. Too busy getting on with things. And for what? Spending money I didn’t have to secure money I’d probably never get? Seemed like a mug’s game to me at the time. Still does. No, my best chance of closure is this present negotiation. Time to draw a line in the sand.’

  Sam was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Right,’ he said, after a moment. He became suddenly brisk again. ‘I have more than enough here to be going on with. Think you could go ahead and get valuations on the house for the next time we meet?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Of course. Any particular firm you’d recommend?’

  ‘Use a few of the big names, for a start. Then get at least one local agent. They’re all pretty well linked these days, but the local guys usually have a private list of people looking for property specifically in their area. You might just get lucky, and have a buyer-in-waiting.’

  Rose drained her coffee cup and pushed the empty plate away from her. She remembered the man with the measuring tape: couldn’t bear the thought of having to consult him. Don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s nothing personal. He was just doing his job.

  Sam looked at her closely. ‘You don’t have to do this: you don’t have to move, you know. I’m sure Pauline’s told you that.’

  Rose nodded. ‘She has, and I know all that. But I think it’s best that I do. I’ve come to the conclusion that selling up is what’s right for me.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Mind you, I can’t help feeling that the logistics will be a bit of a nightmare. Can you imagine – almost thirty years’ worth of hoarded junk, and all the goods and chattels of three children who threw out even less than I did?’ She shuddered. ‘What a prospect.’

  Sam smiled at her, his brown eyes full of sympathy. ‘Good chance for life laundry, though. I did a lot of that when I left Australia.’

  Rose looked at him with interest. ‘I thought there was something in your accent – particularly the first time we met. How long did you live there?’ She felt ridiculously pleased with herself; after that first meeting, she’d wondered idly whether Sam had spent time in Australia, New Zealand, or, at a push, South Africa. There was an absurd sense of satisfaction in having got it right.

  ‘Fourteen years, in Melbourne.’

  He stopped. Rose felt at something of a loss. There it was again, just a fleeting presence across his eyes: that ghost of some half-familiar expression, something she couldn’t pin down, couldn’t seem to grasp. It stopped her from asking him the obvious, the conversational questions. So why did you leave sunny Australia? Why did you come back to Dublin? What significant arrivals and departures are there in your life that I know nothing about?

  ‘I came back to Dublin two years ago. Dónal and I were at college together, oh – a lifetime ago, and he was expanding the business. We’d always kept in touch, mostly by email, and he let me know that he was on the lookout for a new partner for the firm.’

  Paahtnah. Rose tried not to smile at the broad, open vowels that slipped into Sam’s speech from time to time. It was an intonation that made her think of barbecues, bright beaches, kind blue weather.

  ‘As it happens, that particular piece of information came to me just around the time I needed to leave Melbourne.’ Sam put his pen and notebook away and smiled ruefully at her. ‘My previous business partner, who also happened to be my life partner, ripped me off after almost ten years of harmonious cohabitation. She took our business, our bank accounts, our clients – even our dog. Left me high and dry. Took me four years to recover.’

  Rose didn’t know what to say. Before she had time to cobble together some sort of a reply, anything at all, he interrupted her. Grinning broadly, he leaned across the table and said: ‘It was a real shame – I was awfully fond of that dog.’

  Rose couldn’t help laughing at his conspiratorial air. ‘Is that what you meant when you told me you’d once “lost your shirt”?’

  He nodded and looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember that. But, yeah, that’s what I meant. I never even saw it coming – think I was in shock for about a year.’

  Rose smiled at him. ‘I know what you mean. I felt for so long that being left was like a bereavement, except worse. There was no body to bury, no sense that something was finished, so that you could move on.’

  Sam looked at her and nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah, that’s for sure. It took months before I stopped leaping up every time the phone rang, or the doorbell went, or a dog barked. But mind you,’ he said quickly, ‘I had no children depending on me. My survival – my economic survival – was not all that difficult to organize.’ He shrugged. ‘And here I am.’

  ‘And are you happy to be back?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He seemed to consider her question for a moment. ‘I am. “Home” suddenly started to mean something completely different, once I’d been on my own for a few years. The ties I’d felt were to Susanna, not to Australia. It took a while for me to make the decision, I didn’t want to rush into anything. But yeah, it’s good to be back.’

  Rose felt her mobile begin to vibrate. She sighed. Sometimes the technological leash was just that bit too tight for comfort. She glanced apologetically at Sam as she fished it out of her skirt pocket.

  ‘Hi, Lisa, what’s up?’ She listened for a moment. ‘When?’

  Rose became aware of Sam watching her keenly, knew that her face had already begun to betray her.

  ‘Don’t do anything until I get home. Lisa – listen to me. I’ll be there in half an hour. I’m leaving right now to get a taxi.’ She snapped her mobile shut and met Sam’s troubled gaze.

  ‘Are you okay, Rose?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam, I’ve got to go. Ben has just called to the house. He was around on Monday, too, when he thought I didn’t see him. I asked him not to do this.’ She struggled into her jacket. ‘And he agreed, he actually agreed. Lisa was in the shower when the doorbell rang. She hasn’t let him in, but she’s upset because she doesn’t know what to do.’ Rose grabbed her handbag, checked that she’d left nothing on the table. ‘He promised he wouldn’t do this; he promised he’d give me the time to make sure she was ready. And now, just when my back is turned . . .’

  Sam was already on his feet. ‘Let me give you a lift, Rose – my car is parked just around the corner.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you – please don’t think me rude, but a taxi will be faster – there’s a bus lane all the way to Fairview.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay. Let me help you hail one, at least.’ He threw a note and some coins onto the table and signalled to Beatriz, who waved and hurried towards them. ‘Come on.’ Sam put one hand under Rose’s elbow. ‘With any luck we’ll pick one up straight away.’

  They almost ran out of the café and made their way back towards Pembroke Road. Rose couldn’t speak. She hardly acknowledged Sam as he opened the taxi door for her, barely heard what he said.

  All she was conscious of was Lisa’s high-pitched voice, the memory of Ben on her doorstep and the feeling, once again, of her heart leaping into her mouth.

  Lisa was watching TV when Rose got home.

  ‘Hi, hon. You okay?’

  She shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ she said, and continued to gaze at the screen. Rose said nothing more. She sat besid
e her daughter on the sofa and allowed her heart to slow down, her eyes to drift, unseeing, towards the television.

  It was a technique she had refined over many years. Teenagers – at least, the teenagers in her family – seemed to communicate their difficulties more freely if no eye contact with the parent was required. Rose remembered how she used to address the top of Brian’s head while he concentrated on handheld computer games. She had, also, in the past, become all too familiar with the sharp contours of Damien’s shoulder blades as she’d follow him around the kitchen. She used to keep several careful steps behind him, coming as close as she dared, waiting patiently as he’d rummage for food in the fridge, or open and close the kitchen cupboards. In such circumstances had the most profound, the most difficult, the most revealing of all conversations with her children taken place.

  I can wait, she thought now. I can wait another five minutes. Rose knew that with Lisa, the trick revolved around the TV. The girl would talk while keeping her eyes locked on the manic, noisy antics of MTV.

  ‘I didn’t answer the door,’ she said eventually.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Rose.

  Pause. ‘He put something through the letterbox for you. It’s in the hall, on the table.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rose didn’t move.

  ‘I just didn’t know what to do. He kept ringing and ringing at the doorbell. I didn’t know who it was until he started to walk away. I’d got out of the shower and watched from my bedroom window, and it was like, you know, I was six again, watching him go off to work, or something.’

  Now Rose turned and looked at her. ‘How did it feel?’

  Lisa shrugged. ‘It was weird – that . . . feeling like a little girl again. Just totally weird.’

  ‘What would have happened if you’d opened the door, do you think?’

  Lisa met her gaze. ‘I dunno – I s’pose we’d have talked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known what to say. I mean, what do you say to a dad you haven’t seen in eight years?’