“No, I don't want them ruining our relationship with their judgements and disapproval. There'll be plenty of time to tell them everything later.”
They'd been seeing each other for almost a year and she'd never once suggested that he meet her family. He wondered sometimes if he should insist that he meet them but he decided to bide his time and wait. After all, she couldn't insist on meeting his parents which suited him perfectly. He didn't want her to see where he'd grown up; a plain, drab house, devoid of any beauty and he didn't want to introduce her to his parents. His mother would judge them with her watchful, accusing, reproaching eyes. Nothing he ever said or did was good enough for her. He never understood why he seemed to provoke such a reaction in her. Maybe it was because he was the image of his father and he had let her down so badly, maybe she expected the same of him.
His father was too much in love with drinking to feel or show much love for anyone else. Their once happy home had sunk into misery and despair the more his alcoholism had taken hold. His mother had finally thrown him out when Mark was a teenager and his father spent most of his days propping up the bar of the village pub. Rebecca didn't need to know any of this, not for as long as he could avoid it.
They talked about their hopes and dreams. Time seemed to rush by when they were together and stand still when they were apart. Their love for each other was overwhelming and all-encompassing. It felt like the biggest high, but for every high there was a low and Mark didn't know when or how or why their relationship had started to descend. He'd tried to recreate that feeling with other women, but nothing and nobody ever compared to those early years with Rebecca.
He'd never forget the day he'd asked her to marry him. He'd been a barrel of nerves for weeks beforehand, agonising about every detail, wanting everything to be perfect. Rebecca deserved the best and he wanted to give it to her. He'd gone to visit his mother, to tell her about his plans and to ask for his grandmother’s engagement ring.
“Hello Mark,” she greeted him in surprise when she opened her front door to him.
“Hello mother. How are you?” he asked, bending to kiss her cheek.
She looked exactly the same. The years didn't seem to age her. She was an attractive woman with a mop of Barbie blonde hair, cut in soft layers around her face. Her skin was porcelain pale with hardly a wrinkle, in spite of her sixty-odd years. She was small and petite and neatly dressed as always. She took care with her appearance, wearing makeup every day and never having even a centimetre of grey roots showing. She looked up at him, her faded blue eyes searching his face curiously. “What brings you home?” she asked, leading the way into the small living room, where a fire was roaring in the grate. The house was stiflingly warm.
“I wanted to see how you are,” he replied, warming his cold hands in front of the fire and keeping his back to her.
“I'm fine,” she said shortly, the air was heavy with the questions she wanted to ask him. “How have you been?”
“I'm terrific, mother, just terrific.” He turned and smiled at her then and she could see that he was happy.
“Good,” she said simply. “I'll make some tea.”
She pottered about in the kitchen for a while, leaving Mark alone in the living room with his thoughts. “Who is she?” she asked as they sat sipping their tea in silence.
He put his cup down and decided to tell her all about Rebecca.
“When am I going to meet this Rebecca?”
“Soon, mother, soon,” he gazed into the flames for a moment. “I'm going to ask her to marry me.”
“I see,” his mother said evenly. “I knew you seemed different. I suppose love can have that effect on a person.”
“Actually, mother, that's why I came to see you. I wondered if I could have grandmother's engagement ring. Remember you told me years ago that I could have it to give to the woman I love.”
His mother stared at him and frowned slightly. “You're serious about this woman?”
“More serious than I've ever been about anything or anyone.” She could see the determination and love in his eyes and her heart softened a little towards him.
“You can have the ring,” she said. She got up then and removed an old painting from the wall, behind which she kept a safe with her most treasured possessions. “It will need a proper cleaning,” she said, handing the ring to him. He took it reverentially from her. It was beautiful; a simple one carat diamond on a plain gold band. Her mother had willed the ring to her and she'd hoped to hand it down to her own daughter one day, but that wasn't meant to be. “She'll love it,” he whispered. “Thank you, mother.”
“I hope I'll meet your Rebecca one day.”
“Soon, mother, soon,” he repeated.
The Chez Pierre Bistro should illustrate December, Mark thought as he and Rebecca stepped over the threshold. It was like a postcard of the perfect winter scene. The restaurant was squirreled away in Clonegal, between the Derry River and the Jacobean atmospherics of Huntingdon Castle. The dining room’s glowing stove, twinkling glassware and sash windows encapsulated a deliciously appointed balance of cosiness and sophistication.
Outside, a plaque told of Tony O’ Donoghue, a Young Irelander, who was born in the eighteenth century townhouse and went on to fight in the 1848 rebellion, before being exiled to Van Diemen’s Land and dying a pauper in Brooklyn, at the age of forty-four. It was a chilly, characterful detail.
Inside, by contrast, Rosanna Purcell, the beaming hostess welcomed them for Sunday lunch. Two hundred years after he was born, it seemed O’ Donoghue’s birthplace had been transformed into a winter warmer whose flickering inglenook and gamey menu put a glow in their cheeks, even before they ordered their first bottle of wine.
An impressive wine rack was stashed away under the old staircase. A tiny cottage window peaked into the kitchen. The details were pin-sharp. The small dining room seated just twenty eight, giving the restaurant its feel of being stumbled-upon, right down to the lack of a website.
The hostess’ partner, Pierre Reverdeau, was the man behind the menu. His work made for hearty reading, with French flair complemented by lots of venison, veal and winter vegetables; but also some sparky treatments of tiger prawns, hake and scallops from Dunmore East. Mains came with thinly sliced roast potatoes and green beans, sprinkled with sesame seeds too.
They were overwhelmed by the choices and didn’t know where to start, so Pierre suggested they try half-portions of anything they liked, including starters. It was a brilliant idea; meaning they got to sample six dishes between them in tasting-style portions.
To start, they had a charcuterie plate which included a buttery-soft chicken liver pate, a chunky venison terrine and a confit of duck terrine; all beautifully presented on a long plate, with spoonfuls of crab-apple jelly working as a seductive sweetener to the meats. A slice of Wicklow brie reminded them that Irish diners no longer needed to fritter away food miles eating good cheese.
Black tiger prawns and crab were served in a Thai-style coconut sauce with egg noodles; a delicate curry that didn’t allow its spices or creaminess to out-muscle the shellfish. The chef’s bouillabaisse had chunks of monkfish and cod simmering in a smoky French broth infused with tomatoes, onions and Provencal herbs, although a tad too much fennel for their liking. They also had the most delicious little bread buns, still warm from the oven.
Of the main courses, a pan-fried fillet of hake was topped with sweet Chantenay carrots, scallops were sweetly seared and laid atop a dill and courgette risotto, and a plate of gorgonzola-stuffed ravioli, peppered with mushrooms, parmesan with a splash of truffle oil was a minor revelation; showing just how satisfying and refined good pasta can be. Too much of the pasta served in Irish restaurants was bought-in, overcooked and lathered in cream.
By the time their desserts arrived, they were already royally stuffed. They still make room, however, for a few scoops of ice-cream and a banana, chocolate and almond pithivier with peanut ice-cream and caramel sauce.
Th
e Chez Pierre Bistro was a genuine hidden gem. Smartly furnished, carefully staffed, over-achieving and under the radar, it was utterly deserving of its Michelin Bib Gourmand. Mark made a mental note for a return visit, perhaps to enjoy the chef’s table or to see what Pierre would come up with in spring or summer.
Afterwards, they stood by the water near Clonegal’s stone-arched bridge, watching as ducks zoomed across the River Derry to tap them for some bread. Sadly for the ducks, they’d already devoured the lot.
Mark had carried the engagement ring in his pocket for weeks, waiting for the right moment to ask Rebecca to marry him. He wanted it to be a complete surprise. Finally, he decided to ask her at her birthday dinner. She'd never guess what he was about to ask her. He'd saved for weeks to take her to the most exclusive restaurant in town.
He took her hand in his. “You know I love you, Becca.”
“I love you too, darling,” she smiled at him, her eyes full of love.
“This last year with you has been the happiest time of my life.” A wave of emotion suddenly washed over him. He'd rehearsed the moment over and over again. What if she said no? The very thought left him cold. She meant everything to him, maybe too much. She looked at him expectantly, like she knew what he was about to say.
“Will you marry me?” he blurted out. The eloquent speech which he'd rehearsed over and over was forgotten in the heat of the moment.
“Yes, of course!” Her face lit up. She threw her arms around him and they held each other close.
They stood their by the little stream, hand in hand. The diamond ring glittered on her finger in the soft evening sunset. She couldn't take her eyes off it. Several other people were strolling in the pretty grounds too, but Rebecca and Mark hardly noticed them. They were a young couple in love, talking and dreaming about their future together. It was the happiest moment of Mark's life.
“How could you ever afford such a ring?” she asked eventually.
“My mother gave it to me. It was my grandmother's,” he replied, willing her not to ask any more questions. He didn't want their perfect moment to be spoilt.
“Don't you think we should go to see her together?” she asked gently. “It seems rude not to.”
“There's no need. I told her you'd be happy with the ring.” He tried to keep his tone even, hoping she wouldn't push the matter any further.
“Is there some problem between you and your mother?”
“No, it's just I don't want her judging you the same way she judges me.”
“You make her sound like a right old battle-axe.”
“Well, she can be. Let's not ruin this evening talking about my mother. Today should be about you and me.”
“I have a surprise for you too,” she said, changing the subject. She knew there was no point talking about his mother. His mind was made up.
“Really?” He hated surprises and being taken unawares, unsure of how to react.
Her eyes were shining. “I've been speaking with my father about Cois Farraige and he said he'll help us with paying for the renovations.”
He was stunned. “Why would he do that?”
“He knows how much I love the place and he said it would be an investment for him too.”
“But I want it to be ours alone.”
“It will be ours, in everything but the paperwork. We could never afford a place like that on our own.”
He smiled and hugged her, seeing how happy she was, but he didn't like the old man interfering one little bit.
They married in a simple ceremony, just the two of them. Nobody knew but them. They'd made an appointment at the local registry office and one week later they were married. Finally, they were were Mr and Mrs Mark McNamara. It was a dream come true for both of them. They didn't tell their parents or friends. They didn't want the fuss or expense of a big wedding, preferring instead to put every spare penny into their house. Of course, their parents hadn't been impressed when they broke the news to them. Rebecca's mother was disappointed that she hadn't been able to plan a huge, lavish wedding for her only daughter, showing off to her wealthy friends, but Rebecca wasn't like her mother, she preferred a quiet, private life, rather than the glitz and glamour that her mother enjoyed.
They hadn't lived together before getting married so discovering each other's idiosyncrasies added to the excitement. Their first official home together was a cramped caravan on the site of Cois Farraige, where they’d decided to live until the renovations were complete. The caravan was small and basic but it was theirs and they loved it. Mark often reminisced about those early, carefree days of their married life. Sometimes he wished he could have those days back, just so he could appreciate them more. Those first weeks and months passed too quickly.
Rebecca's father came to visit them shortly after she told them they were married. Robert O' Neill was a short, stocky man with a puffed-up barrel chest and a deep, resonating voice who had no problem in making his feelings known. He reminded Mark of a round, fat robin. When he spoke it sounded like he was pontificating or passing judgement, which he supposed was to be expected from a barrister who was used to performing in a court room.
Robert knocked loudly on the caravan door, causing Rebecca to jump with fright. She'd been a bag of nerves all morning, waiting for her father to arrive. She'd tidied the caravan several times, fussing and primping. He seemed to fill the entire caravan with his broad presence. Mark watched him in annoyance as he looked down his nose disdainfully at their home.
“You could do a damn sight better than this, my girl,” Robert announced, lowering himself carefully onto their sofa which doubled up as a bed.
“Please don't start,” Rebecca implored. “Where's mother?”
“She point blank refuses to come and see you in this caravan. She can't stand the thought of her only daughter living in such squalor. How can you live like this?”
“I'm Mark,” Mark stepped forward and stuck out his hand to the grumpy old man.
“Mark,” Robert repeated, taking his hand in a vice-like grip. It was all Mark could do not to wince. “So you’re the young man who’s swept my daughter off her feet.” He beamed a big smile at him, one of the falsest that Mark had ever seen. If ever a father hated his son-in-law, Robert O’ Neill hated Mark McNamara.
“How are you, daddy?” Rebecca asked as she rattled about the tiny kitchen making tea.
“Fine, busy as usual.”
There was an awkward silence as the two men sat opposite each other. “You two gave us quite a surprise,” Robert said reproachfully. “Was it really necessary to sneak off without telling anyone?”
“We didn't want any fuss,” Rebecca tried to explain. “You know what mummy's like. It would have taken her a year to arrange the whole thing and we didn't want to wait that long.”
The old man's face suddenly fell. “You're not pregnant, are you?” He sounded completely aghast.
“Don't be silly,” Rebecca laughed.
“Can't you be happy for us?” Mark piped up. He was sick of the other man's bad attitude towards them. “Isn't it up to your daughter who she wants to marry?”
Robert glared at him. “If my daughter is happy, then I'm happy too but we're entitled to be upset by the suddenness of the situation. You'll have to tolerate our shock.” He looked Mark up and down slowly, making him feel very uncomfortable. His scrutiny was unnerving.
“Daddy, please.” Rebecca glanced beseechingly at him.
Her father relented. “I suppose if you two are in love, then that's what really matters. I can't be too annoyed, after all, you've saved me a small fortune on the wedding.” He forced a smile. “So this is where you want to live. You've certainly picked a grand spot. It's an idyllic location, a prime piece of real estate with massive potential.”
“I want to thank you, sir, for your help with buying us this place,” Mark said, feeling embarrassed.
“Don't mention it,” Robert waved a hand dismissively. “It will be an investment for all of us. At least
I know my daughter will have a decent house at the end of it.”
Mark's temper began to rise at the old man's words. He wished he had enough money himself to pay for a grand home for Rebecca. She put a warning hand on his knee and he bit back the words which were on the tip of his tongue.
Robert's shrewd eyes never left Mark's face. He was getting the measure of him and Mark didn't like it. Mark wished he would hurry up and leave.
Robert took a deep breath, obviously there was something on his mind and he was debating whether or not to say it. “I'm going to be blunt with you, Mark,” he began. “You're not the type of man I would have wanted my daughter to marry. I would have preferred her to marry someone more suitable.”
“You mean richer,” Mark interrupted. He'd had enough.
“Yes,” Robert agreed. “I don't mean any offence, young man. I only want the best for my daughter.”
“I know I don't have much money but I love your daughter and I'm determined to get ahead in life. I'm not going to sit here and defend who I am or where I come from. I may not have had the same, privileged start in life as Rebecca but I've had a good education and I know I can make a decent living for both of us.”
“I like a man with ambition,” Robert nodded approvingly. “I've made some enquiries about you and I hear you're quite a gifted photographer.” They both stared at him then, quite taken aback. The old man had revealed his more devious side.
“He's sold a few photos already,” Rebecca said, beaming with pride.
“Good. Well, I hope you have a happy life together,” he said, finishing his tea and struggling to his feet. He put his arm around his daughter's shoulders. “Don't worry about your mother. Leave her to me. She'll calm down soon enough, especially when I tell her how excited you both are about the party she's insisting on throwing for you.” He smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Daddy!” Rebecca exclaimed in exasperation, but she couldn't help smiling back at the old rogue. “I suppose we have to let mummy have some of her own way.”
Unfaithful (The Complete Trilogy) Page 48