‘Netflix,’ suggested Gonne. ‘Or Amazon Prime.’
‘It was only a small incident in the overall horror of the war,’ I said. ‘I hardly think it’s primetime Sunday viewing.’
‘Oh, but it could be,’ said Mum. ‘I can see myself as the grandmother, looking back and remembering. You must write it all down,’ she told me, ‘before you forget. So that your dad can work on it.’
It was the first time my creative writing skills had ever been called on in the family. I felt a warm glow about it, even though I struggle to write memos, let alone accounts of civil wars and haunted houses.
‘There has to be a modern story too,’ said Gonne. ‘Viewers need a bit of romance. Did you meet anyone while you were there, Juno?’
I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. Mum looked at me expectantly.
‘I made lots of friends,’ I said. ‘Nobody special, though.’
‘You can make that bit up,’ Gonne told Dad. ‘Give her a hot, hunky Spanish lover. And, of course, the husband and wife during the war can be a love story too.’
‘Can you all cool it for a while?’ I was conscious that my cheeks were flaming now. ‘You’re turning my stay into some kind of blockbuster romance. And it wasn’t anything like that.’
Which was true. There was no romance with Pep. But, as we sat down to dinner that evening, I wondered what they would think if they knew everything. If I told them about Brad and Alessandra, about Pep and Luis, and about the arrival of Max Hollander. What kind of story would they think it was then?
And I could throw in Magda Burnaia for good measure too. I remembered, once again, her prediction that a man would travel a long distance to find me.
It might work in one of Dad’s dramas, I thought, but in real life I wouldn’t be holding my breath.
Chapter 32
Although I’d enjoyed my overnight stay with my parents more than I’d ever expected, it was good to get back to the apartment the following day, and even better to return to work on Monday morning. I called into the office, where Drina asked if I was feeling better.
‘Much,’ I replied.
‘You look fantastic,’ she told me. ‘No more bags under your eyes, and I’m envying your healthy glow. I suppose a summer in the sun will do that for a girl.’
‘Thank you for giving me the chance,’ I said.
‘We all need some time out occasionally,’ she said. ‘I like to think that we look after people’s minds as well as their bodies here.’
‘Thanks,’ I said again.
‘You’re welcome. Now get back to radiology. It’s a busy department and they’ve missed you.’
I wanted to think that maybe they had, but when I pushed open the double doors everything was humming along with its usual sense of efficiency. There was no time to chat, I got straight to it, X-raying a suspected fractured wrist, followed by a clearly broken clavicle (which reminded me of Xavi Ruiz and his dislocated shoulder) and then a patient with a badly swollen knee.
Later in the afternoon, Cleo and I went for a coffee in the hospital cafeteria where, like Drina, she commented on how well I was looking.
‘Are you definitely over it?’ she asked when we’d finished the coffee. I was going home but she still had a couple of hours to put in.
‘Totally,’ I said.
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘So am I.’
‘What about the hot pool guy?’
‘Over him too.’
‘Shame.’
‘Not really.’
I finished my coffee, gave her a quick hug and then left for the apartment. Saoirse had asked me the same questions the night before. So when I got in, the question of my time in Spain had already been dealt with and we settled down to watch TV. Except for my occasional efforts to watch the weather forecast, I’d spent hardly any time in front of the TV in Spain, but it seemed perfectly right to do it again now. I propped my feet on the corner of the coffee table and got stuck into the latest Netflix series that Saoirse had become addicted to.
It wasn’t until after it had ended that I checked my phone. There was one message. It was from Max Hollander. It was a photo of an X-ray clearly showing a fracture of the metatarsal.
You? I texted back.
Yes. Took your advice. Had it seen to.
Told you.
The next text was a photo of a surgical boot with the message that it was a pain in the neck.
Better than in the foot, I sent back.
His reply was the laughing-face emojis again.
I’ve seen worse fractures, I texted.
You’re strangely unsympathetic for someone who works in the health sector.
Not unsympathetic, I replied. You should’ve got it looked at sooner.
Was too busy.
That was true, I thought. He was busy with funerals and with the fallout from Brad and Alessandra’s deaths and with looking after Dylan and chasing after the mysterious Ms Paycock – who’d turned out to be me.
How’s Dylan? I texted. And Mac?
Doing great. You should meet Mac. You’d like him.
Maybe someday. Though not really, I said to myself, as I pressed ‘send’. When would it ever be appropriate for me to be introduced to the cat belonging to my dead lover’s son?
Meet for coffee when you’re back in Dublin? suggested Max. No cats obvs.
I stared at the text. Why would he be suggesting coffee? Why would he even think it would be a good idea?
You can assess my broken foot. His second text arrived almost at the same time as the first.
I just photograph them, I sent in return. I don’t assess anything.
You still knew there was something wrong.
Because you were LIMPING!!!!
Still. Shows professional interest.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I sent back the emoji of a face covered with a surgical mask.
So . . . are you back soon?
Am actually back now.
In that case, would you like to do the coffee thing?
I hesitated before replying.
First day off is Saturday, I texted.
Sounds good. City centre? Or Dundrum?
City, I replied. Dundrum manic on Saturdays!
Carluccio’s?
Works for me.
He sent the thumbs-up emoji.
I sent the same.
And then I wondered what on earth that had all been about.
Coffee with Max Hollander was at the back of my mind as I began work the following morning. Most of my day was scheduled at the ultrasound machine where, after a number of patients with abdominal pains, I saw a woman of about my own age who had fertility issues and had been referred by her GP. I smiled at her as she got on to the table and then applied some warmed gel to her stomach.
‘I’m afraid I’ll pee myself,’ she said, a worried expression on her face.
‘You wouldn’t be the first.’ I smiled at her. ‘Having to drink a couple of litres of water followed by me pressing down on you isn’t easy. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’
I kept talking to her as I moved the probe gently over her tummy, looking at the screen for signs of fibroids or endometriosis. I paused a few times as I studied the images.
‘There isn’t anything awful, is there?’ she asked.
Patients ask this all the time. If you’re doing an X-ray or a scan, it’s easy to be non-committal because you’re slightly distanced from them. But an ultrasound is the only procedure where you’re right there with the patient, touching them. And you can’t separate yourself quite as much.
‘The thing is,’ she added, before I had time to say anything, ‘although I don’t want terrible news, I’m sort of hoping it’s me. Because if it is, I’m happy to have treatment. I’m prepared for IVF. But if it’s Andrew, my husband . . . well, he wouldn’t accept it, you know? The idea that there might be something wrong with him . . .’ Her voice trailed
off as I continued to slide the probe over her stomach.
‘You can’t tell me, I know,’ she said when I remained silent. ‘I have to wait for the results. But . . .’
I wanted to tell her but, even though I’d be the one to write the report, it would be the consultant radiologist who broke the news. Harry Mercer is a nice guy and he’d be sensitive when he told her that the reason she wasn’t getting pregnant was that her antral follicle count was practically zero. Which meant she was producing hardly any eggs. There was almost no chance of her becoming pregnant naturally.
‘We expected to have children before now,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind him blaming me.’
‘It’s not a question of blame,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t happen.’
‘But there’s always a reason.’ She was dogged, she really was.
I agreed that there was nearly always a reason. But, I said, sometimes we don’t know why things happen.
‘Am I all right?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t see anything sinister.’ It was OK to reassure her a little. ‘But Dr Mercer will talk you through it all and discuss the scan with you.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled at me. ‘You’ve been lovely.’
I wiped the gel from her stomach and she rushed off to go to the loo. Liz Munsen, the nurse who’d been with me, looked at me inquiringly.
‘Hardly any antral follicles,’ I said.
‘Poor girl.’
I got ready for the next patient. But I was thinking about my own desire for children and wondering if there was anything that would prevent me having them in the future. Other than finding a father for them. Which would be difficult, seeing as I had no interest in men any more.
Saoirse was taken aback when I told her on Saturday morning that I was meeting Max Hollander. She was even more taken aback when I filled her in on his visit to Spain.
‘You kept that very quiet,’ she exclaimed. ‘For crying out loud, Juno, why don’t you share this stuff?’
‘There didn’t seem to be much point,’ I told her. ‘He came, we talked about Brad, he left . . . it wasn’t important.’
‘Clearly it was, if he wants to see you again,’ said Saoirse.
‘It’s not seeing me in that kind of way,’ I protested. ‘It’s just . . . we’re linked because of Brad, that’s all.’
That’s what I’d decided as I’d thought about my coffee with him. That, despite everything, he was the one who wasn’t over what had happened to his brother, and he was the one who needed to talk about him still.
‘Nonsense!’ Saoirse looked at me sceptically. ‘He’s been messaging you and he’s asked you out for coffee. He wants to date you!’
‘He doesn’t,’ I retorted. ‘It’s . . . it’s that we’ve both lost someone, and we’re both trying to cope the best way we can. He’s struggling to know what’s best for Dylan too. He probably wants my advice.’
‘Are you for real?’ she demanded. ‘Read those texts again. They’re not the texts of a broken-hearted brother. They’re the texts of a man trying to sound cool with a woman he wants to sleep with.’
‘Don’t say that!’ I cried. ‘You’re getting it all wrong, Saoirse. It’s not like that. Really it’s not.’
But, as I got the tram into the city centre, I wondered if she was right. There was no doubt, I admitted to myself, that I felt a certain connection to Max Hollander. But that was simply because he was Brad’s brother. Brad was the thread that held us together. Nothing else. And it would be downright creepy to start seeing Max in a different light. It would be like dating Luis after sleeping with Pep. And I hadn’t wanted to date Luis. Leaving aside the potential fallout it would have caused, it would’ve felt all wrong. Although . . . the thought suddenly flitted into my head . . . Max Hollander was Brad’s stepbrother, not his biological brother. Which surely made a difference.
You don’t want it to make a difference, Juno Ryan, I muttered under my breath as I walked down Dawson Street. You’re not about to have a relationship with Max. This is coffee. This is two people using each other to get better. Even if you don’t really need anyone to get better, because Spain and Pep and the Villa Naranja made you better. But Max might need something, someone to help. And you have a responsibility to do what you can.
He was already there when I arrived, sitting at an outside table.
‘Last available one in the fresh air,’ he said as he stood up to greet me. ‘Thought I’d better nab it. It’s not quite as hot as Beniflor but nice to be outdoors.’
In fact, it was a beautiful day with the sun shining from an almost cloudless blue sky. Dublin is always great in the sunshine – not as hot and dusty as other major cities because, let’s face it, it’s not as big and crowded. The flowers of the street vendors added big splashes of colour, while the morning shoppers strolled rather than scurried around the town.
‘What would you like?’ asked Max when we were both sitting down and a waiter came over to take our order.
‘A cappuccino and a croissant would be lovely,’ I said.
‘Americano and bread for me,’ said Max, then turned to me. ‘You’re looking great,’ he said.
‘And you’re not wearing your boot.’
He sighed. ‘I couldn’t. Not walking around town. Too much bloody trouble. And it honestly doesn’t feel any better than before.’
‘It takes nearly two months for a stress fracture to heal,’ I told him. ‘And if you’ve been pretending there’s nothing wrong and running on it, it hasn’t had a chance.’
‘You sound just like the doctor,’ he complained.
‘Sorry.’ I made a face at him. ‘What I meant to say was, don’t worry at all about your broken bone, it’ll get better all by itself without you having to modify your life in any way whatsoever.’
He laughed.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m shit at being injured. Or being sick. Or anything outside my comfort zone of just getting on with my life.’
‘So are most of us,’ I said.
The silence between us was only broken when the waiter returned with our coffees.
‘Why did you ask to meet?’ I broke a piece off my flaky croissant and looked at him inquiringly.
He didn’t answer straight away. I buttered the croissant, which I normally never do.
‘I feel as though I should be keeping you in the loop,’ he replied.
‘I’m not sure you should.’ I wiped my buttery fingers on a napkin. ‘I’m nothing in your life, Max. In Dylan’s either.’
‘I wouldn’t say nothing.’ He frowned. ‘I’d like to think we were friends. After all, we’ve been on holiday together. Sort of.’
‘I split up with my fiancé after a holiday abroad,’ I told him.
‘You were engaged? Before Brad?’ He looked at me in astonishment. I suppose he’d thought that I’d been naive and vulnerable when I’d gone out with his brother, not someone who’d already been around the block.
‘Why did you break it off?’ he asked.
‘He suddenly realised he didn’t want to settle down,’ I replied. And then it struck me – Sean hadn’t wanted to settle down with me. Brad had been two-timing me with his wife. And Pep had used me (as I had used him) for summer sex. Clearly, I wasn’t the sort of girl men settled down with.
‘So you sort of rebounded on to Brad?’ asked Max.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ I said. ‘I met him a year later. I got on well with him. I didn’t throw myself at him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ he said. ‘I know my brother. I know how he lived his life. I told you before. And, if you remember, his last message to me was about having got himself into a bit of a mess. I don’t think he was blaming you for it.’
‘I blamed myself,’ I admitted. ‘But not now. And I’ve put it behind me, Max. I’ve reached acceptance in the five stages of grief and, quite honestly, I don’t think there’s anything to be gained from talking about it any more. B
ut if you need to talk, feel free. Just don’t bring me and my decisions into it.’
‘I thought I might be helping you.’ His tone was unexpectedly cranky. ‘I didn’t realise you were perfectly capable of helping yourself.’
‘For crying out loud!’ I stared at him. ‘What is it about men? Why do you all think women are hopeless without you? When the truth is that most of the time we’re clearing up after the mess you’ve made of things. Especially the messes you leave behind when you’ve lied and cheated and hurt the people who matter most in life.’
‘Generalise, why don’t you?’
‘Every time I’ve had a relationship with a man he’s the one who’s been a dick,’ I returned. ‘My ex-fiancé, then your goddam brother – both of them suiting themselves and not giving a shit about me.’
Max didn’t say anything.
‘But you’re blaming me, aren’t you?’ I continued. ‘You’re thinking I’m the deranged woman who couldn’t keep a man. Because that’s how you all think!’ I pushed my chair away from the table and stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not the person you wanted me to be. I’m sorry if I’ve managed to get over it all by myself, without giving you the therapy of fixing me. I’m sorry you can’t fix yourself by meddling in my life.’
He still didn’t speak.
I picked up my bag and stalked down the street, leaving him to pay the bill.
Chapter 33
I was halfway up Dawson Street before I halted my angry stride and asked myself what on earth had just happened. Why had I flown off the handle so inappropriately with Max? Why had I dumped all of my resentment over Sean and Brad on him? And why had I been so determined to show him that I didn’t need anyone? Perhaps he’d been a bit patronising – and I hate being patronised – but there’d been absolutely no need for me to lose it in such a bizarre way.
I released the breath I’d been holding and walked briskly back to Carluccio’s. I was an idiot. I needed to apologise right away.
But, of course, he wasn’t there. I went inside the café to see if he was paying at the till (I was already embarrassed at having walked off without even leaving money on the table), but there was no sign of him. I walked up Duke Street to Grafton Street but I couldn’t see him among the throng of people in the city. I rambled around for a while, keeping an eye out for him, before finally stopping outside Brown Thomas and taking out my phone.
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