The People Next Door

by Roisin Meaney

  ‘There’s, em, there’s something we need to talk about – something important. Can we meet somewhere?’

  He thought about meeting her, about sitting beside her and watching her talk, watching her wave her hands around, tucking her hair behind an ear and pushing her glasses up on her nose. And then he thought about watching her getting up afterwards, leaving him to go back to—

  ‘Can’t you talk on the phone?’

  ‘No.’ She spoke quickly. ‘No, I can’t. This isn’t something I can – Dan, please, just for half an hour, that’s all. Please. I really need to see you.’

  Why was she so desperate to meet him? He’d wondered suddenly if Brendan knew. ‘Can’t you at least tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘Dan, I can’t, not over the phone. But it’s really important for both of us.’

  Both of us. He pressed a finger hard on the slit in the banister, felt the rough edges of the splintered wood. Both of us. ‘OK. Where do you want to meet?’

  The fly buzzed past his ear and his hand flew up, too late. The tabletop was pocked with small black circles – had people stubbed their cigarettes out on it when they could still smoke inside?

  One of the card players got up and crossed the room to a door that said ‘Toilets’. His companion cleared his throat and spat into the empty fireplace nearby. The barman licked his thumb and turned a page.

  Dan lifted his glass and took another deep swallow. His stomach rumbled again and he checked his watch – half six exactly. He tapped his glass on the table and then lifted it. The barman nodded and reached for a pint glass and slanted it under the Guinness tap.

  By the time it was poured, she’d be there. Ali was always punctual.

  At that minute, as the thin stream of pale, creamy liquid was running down the side of the tilted glass, the door was pushed open. He turned his head slowly, fingers tightening on the empty glass.

  She looked the same. No, she looked different. Her coppery hair wasn’t hanging loose, it was caught up on one side with a long sparkly clip thing he hadn’t seen before. She was wearing a red top and a narrow grey skirt with tiny red dots in it. She carried a small black bag.

  She looked younger, and softer. She was pale and her face had fleshed out slightly. Dan stood up quickly as she walked towards him. His chair grated against the floor. A toilet flushed somewhere.

  ‘Dan.’ She smiled quickly, glanced around the pub.

  He felt the tingle of sweat on the back of his neck. ‘What’ll you have?’

  She dropped into a chair. ‘Pineapple juice, no ice, a slice of lemon, please.’ He caught a whiff of her perfume as she sat – the same, still the same – and he turned towards the bar. The toilet door opened and the card player came back in, glancing briefly at Ali as he crossed to his table.

  Standing at the counter, Dan felt her gaze on him. Taking in the stonewashed jeans she’d always liked, the dark blue T-shirt with the small red pony on the breast pocket that she’d bought him for his last birthday. He’d pulled it out of a drawer two days ago, thrown it into the washing machine, and everything else in there – boxers, shirts, towels, socks – had come out a faded, streaky blue-grey. Kieran hadn’t seemed to mind about the hankies.

  Pineapple juice. He’d never known her to drink juice – it was always rum and Coke or, once in a blue moon, gin and tonic. She’d never worn her hair like that. Never, as far as he remembered, owned any red clothes – hadn’t she always said she hated red? Was she systematically changing everything? Had her life with him been so awful that she’d had to redo every aspect of it?

  As he walked back to the table with their drinks, the door opened again and a group of people walked in, talking noisily. Dan heard ‘… but he didn’t even realise, you know?’ and ‘… every time she does it, I mean every single time …’ and ‘… they never arrived. She sent them six weeks ago.’

  ‘Well.’ Ali held her glass, twirled it between her fingers. ‘How’ve you been?’

  He shrugged. ‘OK.’

  Her hair ornament flashed when she moved her head. Her nails were painted white at the tips – another first. She was wearing a thin gold bracelet he hadn’t seen before. She had new glasses, with blue and green frames.

  Her wedding ring was gone. Her fingers were bare.

  A sudden lurch of rage shot through Dan – she was the one who’d fucking proposed to him, it had been her idea to get married. Two fucking years, that was all she’d lasted. His fingers tightened on his glass as he shifted in his chair, looked past her to the group who had come in, now standing at the counter. Fuck her.

  The men wore dark suit trousers and white shirts, with the sleeves rolled to their elbows. Two of the women wore black skirts and cream shirts and the third was in a red trouser suit. The barman shovelled noisily into the container of ice, held glasses under oversized upside-down bottles, tonged in slices of lemon.

  ‘How’s Picasso?’

  Dan let his eyes wander back to her. A tentative smile tilted the sides of her mouth. Seeing his anger, trying to mollify him. Probably realising that he’d noticed the ring gone. Ali missed nothing.

  Dan wasn’t mollified. ‘Picasso? He’s OK, I think.’ He drank and wiped the foam from his mouth. ‘I don’t see much of him. He sleeps outside now.’

  Her smile faded abruptly and immediately he was ashamed. That was cruel, that was beneath him. What had been the point of it?

  ‘I took in a tenant.’ He tried to make amends. ‘That was him on the phone the other night. He loves Picasso, feeds him fish heads. Sneaks him into the house when I’m not looking.’

  Her smile didn’t come back. ‘Look, Dan.’ She put her untouched glass down and laced her fingers together. ‘There’s no point in beating around the bush. I may as well tell you why I’m here.’

  She raised her grey eyes and looked at him properly for the first time, and Dan knew, all at once, what she was going to say. She wanted to come back, it had been a terrible mistake. It was Dan she loved, not Brendan.

  The card players stood up, one slipping the deck into his jacket pocket, the other one limping on his crutch to the counter with their two empty glasses clamped between the fingers of his free hand.

  He wondered if she’d cry. He’d put his arms around her, tell her he loved her too. They wouldn’t give a damn that the office workers could see them.

  She could move back in tonight – he’d go with her to pack her stuff. Maybe she had it already packed. Maybe it was out in the car.

  Kieran would have to move out, of course. Dan hoped he wouldn’t be awkward. Just as well now he hadn’t signed a lease. Picasso would miss him, but he’d get over it, with Ali back.

  She was coming back, he knew it. He was positive.

  ‘The thing is—’ She pushed her glasses further up on her nose. ‘God, I don’t quite know …’ She took a deep breath, still looking directly into his eyes. He felt a trickle of sweat trailing down the side of his face. He opened his mouth to help her out, and closed it again. This had to come from her. The fly buzzed past his face and this time his hand didn’t move.

  ‘The thing is, Dan, I’ve just found out that I’m pregnant, and it’s yours.’

  And for the life of him, as a burst of laughter erupted from two of the women at the bar, as one of the men said, ‘Ah, come on now’, as the door thumped shut after the card players, Dan O’Farrell couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that.

  Two weeks later: 4 July

  NUMBER SEVEN

  ‘Now close.’

  Yvonne felt the little brush sweep across one eyelid, then the other.

  ‘Open.’ Caroline stood back and studied Yvonne’s face. ‘OK.’ She picked up a little pot of something that looked alarmingly green. ‘Close again.’

  More sweeping, then a little skittering around with the brush. She was going to look a right clown. What on earth had possessed her to pay good money for someone to paint her up like a trollop? She could have done that herself for nothing, and in a lot
less time. She’d have to find a loo and scrub it off.

  ‘Now open and look down.’ Caroline held a mascara wand in her hand.

  Yvonne eyed it doubtfully. ‘I wonder if we could leave that out?’ It mightn’t come off so easily. She might end up worse than ever.

  Caroline raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘No mascara? Absolutely not. No woman should leave the house without it. It opens up the eyes and adds drama – and you definitely need it, with your eyelashes.’

  Yvonne held her ground. ‘But it always makes me look like a panda.’

  ‘You’ll only look like a panda if you rub your eyes, so don’t rub them. Now, hold still.’ Caroline’s free hand tilted Yvonne’s chin upwards. ‘Look down.’

  Yvonne wished she had the courage to stalk out. What had happened to the customer always being right? She thought of what else she could have done with thirty-five euro. Bought herself a new swimsuit – her old one was practically indecent, it was so worn. Had a night out with Kathryn, a few drinks and a pizza. Treated Clara to that citrus body lotion she loved. Had her legs waxed – they were badly in need.

  She blinked instinctively as the wand pulled at her lashes.

  ‘Don’t blink.’

  Thirty-five euro to be ordered around by Hitler in a white coat.

  ‘Now close your mouth.’ Caroline held what looked like a colouring pencil. Yvonne clamped her mouth shut – what else could she do?

  ‘Not so tight – close it gently.’

  Dinner with Greg a few weeks ago had been pleasant, as always. Seafood platter, a bottle of straw-coloured wine and a brandy each afterwards. He’d told her he was flying to Tuscany for a fortnight in August, staying at a friend’s villa in the countryside.

  ‘Sounds great. Why don’t I have friends like that?’

  He’d smiled. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I know they wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘God, don’t tempt me.’ She imagined two weeks lying in the sun by a pool or wandering through the galleries of Florence or sitting under the shade of an olive tree with a book and a glass of something cold. Wonderful.

  And completely out of the question. ‘I’d never get two weeks off in August at such short notice – and anyway, I really don’t have the cash after that roof job.’

  ‘You could come for a week. All you’d have to pay for would be your flights – and the odd plate of spaghetti.’

  She’d laughed. ‘You make it sound as easy as going to the corner shop.’

  ‘It is – and I’d love to have your company.’

  But she’d shaken her head. ‘Thanks, Greg, it’s a lovely thought, and I’m tempted, really I am, but there’s no way. Bring me back something local.’

  ‘Don’t smile – relax your mouth.’

  Caroline was brushing colour onto her lips. Why had Yvonne let herself be talked into this foolishness? Kathryn was fairly sensible most of the time, but she didn’t always get it right.

  ‘Go on – it’ll really boost your confidence, knowing you look terrific. And I’ve heard good reports of that woman – Mary at work, her daughter had her make-up done there when she got married, and Mary said she looked fantastic. Go on, you’ve nothing to lose.’

  Nothing except thirty-five euro and twenty-five minutes.

  ‘Right, I think that’s it.’ Caroline stood back again and examined Yvonne’s face. ‘Here.’ She handed Yvonne a mirror and waited. ‘See what you think.’

  How on earth was she going to pretend she liked it? Full of dread, Yvonne took a deep breath, lifted the mirror to her face – and said softly, after a few seconds, ‘Good God.’

  Her eyes were dramatic, all dark-edged and green-lidded, framed with eyelashes that she could have sworn were longer and thicker than they had been twenty minutes ago. Her cheekbones – she had cheekbones! – were defined with subtle colour, a healthy glow, and her skin was clearer than she ever remembered it, not a single broken vein to be seen. Her lips seemed fuller, in a much paler colour than the one she usually wore, a kind of pinky-beige with a slight gloss to it. Much more flattering, she had to admit.

  She really did look better, but in a beautifully natural way. She looked as if she’d been born with that face.

  ‘Wow – it’s great. I love it.’ Yvonne tilted her chin, turned her head. From every angle she had improved.

  ‘You should love it. You look ten years younger than when you came in.’

  Yvonne laughed into the mirror. ‘Really? Well, that can’t be bad.’ Caroline might be lacking in the niceties of conversation, but she more than made up for it with her talent. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Enjoy your evening.’ The barest hint of a smile crossed Caroline’s face and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Probably avoiding crow’s feet.

  Driving the thirty-five miles or so to Charleton – thank goodness she’d thought to tell Peter she lived there, where there was little chance of bumping into anyone she knew – Yvonne wondered if Kathryn’s turquoise top was a little too low cut; she wasn’t used to having such an impressive cleavage.

  ‘I don’t want him to think I’m sluttish.’

  But Kathryn had insisted. ‘You don’t want to come across all prim and proper either. No harm to tease him a little, let him know what may be on offer – eventually.’

  A truck roared past, surely much too fast. What time was it? She checked the dashboard clock: ten to eight. Another fifteen minutes’ driving ahead of her – just enough to be slightly late. She turned on the radio and Sean Keane was singing ‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles.

  Brian had been a big Beatles fan; his favourite song was ‘Something’. They’d chosen it as their first dance after they were married.

  What had their first date been like? She tried to remember. They were both seventeen when they’d met at the tennis-club disco. She still wore the awful brace on her teeth that her mother had insisted on getting her at twelve. Brian had been standing nearby with a few of his friends and there was the usual pushing and jostling and sniggering. Eventually he’d come over and asked the girl standing beside Yvonne if she’d like to dance.

  The girl took one look at Brian. ‘No, thanks.’

  His face flooded with colour. Yvonne was mortified for him. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor. ‘C’mon – I’m dying for a dance.’

  She’d rescued him, and he’d fallen in love with her. He was her first real boyfriend. When they’d finally slept together a few months later, in his narrow rented bed, it was the first time for both of them. Yvonne found it terribly disappointing. Why had nobody told her it would hurt so much and be so messy and be over so quickly? Where was the magic? Where was the ecstasy she was supposed to be feeling?

  And why hadn’t she had an orgasm? Shouldn’t that have been part of it, making up for the pain? She’d given herself orgasms plenty of times – why hadn’t it happened with Brian? She thought of the beautiful women in the films, moaning with pleasure, arching into their partners’ bodies. No mess there – not even smudged lipstick.

  She had to brace herself when they tried again, a few nights later, and it wasn’t much better. And just as they were beginning to get the hang of it, they’d got drunk on the night of her Leaving Cert results, forgotten about the condom, and she’d got pregnant.

  She hoped Clara’s first time had been better. She wondered which of the boyfriends it had happened with – because, of course, at twenty-three, Clara was bound to have had sex with at least some of them. Not that Yvonne was ever likely to find out. On the one occasion she’d attempted, clumsily, to talk about contraception, fifteen-year-old Clara had cut her off. ‘It’s OK, Mum, we learned about that at school, years ago. I know all that stuff.’

  ‘Oh …’ How times had changed. At fifteen, Yvonne hadn’t had a clue. The closest her school had come to explaining about sex was their religious education teacher, Sister Montgomery, telling them that their bodies were temples of the Lord and should be treated accordingly, that boys ha
d no willpower so it was up to the girls not to be tempting them because once boys were tempted that was it – they had no control over their vile urges.

  The subject of sex or contraception had never come up again between Clara and Yvonne. Maybe most daughters felt embarrassed to be having those kinds of conversations with their mothers. Yvonne would just have to hope that Clara was behaving responsibly, particularly as she herself hadn’t exactly been the ideal role model.

  But so far, so good. Apart from changing boyfriends with alarming regularity, Clara seemed to be coping with that part of her life. She’d never, as far as Yvonne knew, been broken-hearted when a boyfriend had disappeared – if Yvonne commented on the absence of the latest, Clara usually shrugged and said, ‘Oh, that’s finished. It didn’t work out.’

  But actually, was her apparent lack of regret such a good thing? Shouldn’t Clara be investing a bit more emotion in relationships? Maybe she just hadn’t found the right man yet. No harm in that, she had plenty of time.

  Yvonne sighed. So much guesswork, so many questions to which only Clara knew the answers. And they’d been so close, once upon a time. For several years after Brian’s death, Clara had clung to Yvonne, reluctant, at the start, to let her mother out of her sight. They’d done so much together – from the minute Yvonne picked Clara up from her parents’ house after work, they were hardly apart until Clara’s bedtime. They went shopping or to the pictures, they cooked dinner together or they curled up on the couch and watched television. Of course, Clara had her own friends too, but more often than not she seemed just as happy to spend time with her mother.

  And then, somewhere along the way, Clara had changed. She couldn’t say exactly when, but Yvonne had become aware of a withdrawal, of Clara pulling away from her. Perfectly natural, of course, when she was growing up, to want her independence; to be honest, they’d probably been a little too close before that. But still, Yvonne had found this new distance difficult to take.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Yvonne’s mother assured her. ‘In a few years she’ll be your pal again. Every girl goes through it.’ So Yvonne had waited, had held her tongue when Clara made another excuse not to go shopping, disappeared to a friend’s house or up to her room for the evening, leaving Yvonne alone. It’ll pass, she told herself. I can wait.