The People Next Door

by Roisin Meaney

  Yvonne toyed with refusing, with having the drink and going home – what on earth would they find to talk about for at least an hour, given the disastrous start to the evening? – but then she decided again on the path of least resistance. It was certainly a less embarrassing scenario than walking out after the gin and tonic – nobody went to a restaurant for a drink – and besides, she was starving. She took a deep breath, picked up her menu and said, ‘Fine.’

  So they stayed for dinner. Yvonne ate vegetable and prawn kebabs and Pawel had pork with marsala and juniper. Neither of them ordered a starter or a dessert and the wine list stayed closed. Pawel had coffee afterwards, Yvonne had mint tea.

  They talked about hill walking: he enjoyed it, she didn’t, much, because of the weather. Sailing: he was thinking of buying a boat, but they were so expensive in Ireland. Cooking: he’d never learned, she’d always enjoyed it. (He didn’t mention the recipe she’d sent him, and neither did she.) Music: he liked classical, she preferred country. Books: he only opened them for work, she always had at least three novels on the go.

  They agreed that the food was good in the restaurant. He hadn’t been there before. She told him about Clara’s birthday meal.

  They got by, but there was a trickle of embarrassment running through the conversation that made every mouthful a trial. They rushed to fill any little pause. They laughed too loudly at each other’s weak jokes. Every so often Pawel would start drumming on the table lightly with his fingers, then catch himself and stop.

  She had to admit he looked good. His white shirt was dazzling against the navy of his suit, the pure white of a brand new shirt. She wondered if he’d bought it specially for the date. His tie was dark orange with a thread-thin navy diagonal stripe. He wore oval silver cufflinks. He was clean shaven and his nails, as usual, were immaculately manicured.

  Why hadn’t she recognised him from his description? Tall, blond, blue eyed – it was Pawel to a T. And he’d told her he was foreign – it seemed so obvious now. If either of them had posted a photo on the site, this could have been avoided. Yvonne certainly wouldn’t have responded to an email from Pawel, and she was quite sure he would have ignored one from her. They were work colleagues, no more.

  Wait till she told Kathryn, who was dying to hear about Yvonne’s first internet date. She’d laugh, of course. Who wouldn’t?

  When the bill came, Pawel insisted on paying, and Yvonne, anxious again to minimise the awkwardness, didn’t try to dissuade him. They walked out together and stood on the path. Yvonne pointed towards her car, just a few feet away.

  ‘Well, there’s me.’ She put out her hand, arranged a polite smile on her face. ‘Thank you very much for a lovely meal.’ She searched for a way to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Sorry again about the mix-up – but at least we ate well.’

  Pawel managed a half-smile that was just as polite as her own. He shook her hand. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, Yvonne. Good night.’

  Neither said, ‘See you on Monday.’ Pawel waited while Yvonne got into her car. She put her key into the ignition, conscious of him standing on the path. Such a gentleman. She wished he’d forget his manners and leave her to it. She pulled away, waving out the window at him. He waved back solemnly.

  All the way to Belford, she played Patsy Cline loudly and drove slightly too fast. When she got home it was twenty past ten and Clara was watching television in the sitting room.

  She couldn’t not go in. As far as Clara knew, Yvonne had been meeting up with a friend she hadn’t seen in a while who’d recently moved to Charleton. At least now Yvonne would only have to put up with Kathryn’s amusement.

  ‘You’re early.’ Clara had a bare foot propped up on the couch, four of the five toenails painted purple. Her head was wrapped in a cream towel. ‘Wow, I like your make-up.’

  Yvonne leaned against the door jamb. She’d forgotten about the make-up. It seemed like six months since she’d walked out of Caroline’s little salon, all excited at the prospect of meeting Peter. ‘I decided to treat myself, for the laugh.’

  ‘Nice. So, how did it go?’ Clara bent towards her foot and dabbed at her little toenail with the brush. ‘Did you find enough to keep the conversation going?’

  Just about. Yvonne smiled. ‘It was fine, we had a good chat.’

  ‘Think you’ll meet up again?’

  First thing Monday morning. ‘Possibly – we didn’t make any arrangement, but she has my email address.’ Talk about one lie begetting another.

  One thing was for sure: she wasn’t going near that site again. If it wasn’t sex-mad youngsters emailing her, it was her boss fooling her into thinking he was someone else. She’d forfeit the membership – no money was worth the evening she’d just had.

  She stayed away for three days. On the fourth, when she and Pawel were finally able to look at each other properly, when the agony of embarrassment she felt whenever she had to talk to him began, finally, to lessen, she typed in her password and pressed enter.

  Just for curiosity. Not that she had the slightest intention of responding to anyone who might have contacted her. Absolutely not. She was just curious, that was all.

  There were four messages in her inbox, none from Peter. Naturally. One was from manofsteel, who’d emailed a couple of times before. Yvonne had responded to him without much enthusiasm; Peter had sounded more interesting. This time, manofsteel was telling her about his voluntary engineering work in Somalia the previous year.

  The other three messages were from strangers: one was from Benwallace in Cincinnati, who asked if Yvonne lived anywhere near Cork, where his grandmother, Martha Cleary, came from. Another was from Goodlookingguy, asking if she liked adult movies. The last was from Dirtyoldman and simply read ‘How about it?’

  She still had the guts of two months’ membership left – be a bit of a shame to waste that. She deleted the other three messages and answered manofsteel.

  Hello again. Nice to hear from you. Somalia sounds very exciting, and very different from here. Was it hard to come back to Ireland after nearly a year abroad? I’ve never gone away for longer than two weeks, and France is the furthest I’ve been.

  What else? Emailing strangers was harder than it sounded. Did he care that she’d never lived abroad? Would she tell him about going to meet an internet contact and finding her boss waiting for her? No, of course she wouldn’t.

  What kind of music do you like? I’m a country music fan, mostly American – Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Billy Ray Cyrus. Did I mention that I’m widowed, with one grown-up daughter? My husband died in an accident, nearly twenty years ago now. I work as a receptionist in a health clinic just across the road from where I live.

  That would have to do, she was out of inspiration. She shut down her computer and got ready for bed.

  The following night – last night – manofsteel replied.

  It wasn’t hard to come back from Somalia. I missed the pint of Guinness and the rain, and the home comforts in general. I’ve never been to France, would you believe? Must go there sometime, drink the wine, eat the snails. I’m sorry your husband died so young – that must have been tough, bringing up a child on your own. I got divorced last year, after five years of living apart from my ex-wife. Relief all round.

  Our musical tastes couldn’t be more different. Country music brings me out in a rash. I’m an old rocker, the Stones, Clapton, Pink Floyd, Joe Cocker. We’ll have to agree to differ, and get headphones.

  He signed himself Joe. He was ten years older than her. He sounded nice, and fairly normal. Maybe she’d keep emailing him for a while, see how it went. What had she to lose? She’d already been totally humiliated – surely the law of averages meant it couldn’t possibly happen again.

  ‘Come on, Yvonne, you’re doing overtime.’

  She looked up from her desk and there was Dolores, lunchbox in hand. ‘Oh, is it that time already? Hang on a sec.’

  She and Dolores hadn’t had lunch together all week. Dolores had bee
n off work with a sore throat on Monday and Tuesday, and when she’d come back, Yvonne had found enough reasons – a trip to the hardware shop for wood stain for the shed, shopping for an outfit for Kathryn’s birthday, a visit to the library with overdue books – to avoid her on Wednesday and Thursday.

  Silly as it sounded, Yvonne was convinced that Dolores would sense that something had happened between herself and Pawel and wouldn’t rest until she’d got the whole story out of her. She was already so eager to pair Yvonne and Pawel off – the thought of her discovering that they’d had dinner together was too awful to contemplate.

  But today, Friday, the excuses had run out. They walked down the street, turned into the park and made their way to the usual bench. The sky was mottled with clouds, but so far there was no sign of rain.

  Dolores opened her lunchbox and took out a tub of cottage cheese. ‘Fionn is entering a painting competition. His teacher has high hopes.’

  ‘That’s great.’ For once, Yvonne was grateful for Dolores’s children – they’d keep the conversation away from her social life. ‘So he’s artistic, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes – gets it from Martin’s side of the family. I can’t draw to save my life.’

  Yvonne unwrapped her cheese and tomato sandwich. ‘And the others? Are they arty too?’

  Dolores considered. ‘Well, Chloë’s very good – you should see the cat she drew the other day. I must bring it in to show you. Hugo is more into the academics, though. He came top in his class at biology in the Easter exams. Did I tell you?’

  Several times. ‘I think you might have mentioned it. They’re all doing very well, aren’t they?’

  And just as Yvonne was beginning to relax, Dolores dipped her spoon into the cottage cheese and said, ‘So, what have you been up to lately? Any more dinner dates you’re not telling me about?’

  To her horror, Yvonne felt a blush flooding her face. She bent over her sandwich, pretended to be picking something out of it. ‘Dinner dates? No, not since the one with my … cousin. And I told you that wasn’t a date.’

  Dolores stared. ‘You’re going as red as a beetroot. Come on, what are you hiding?’

  ‘Nothing – there’s nothing to hide, believe me.’ But the evidence was there – Yvonne could still feel the heat in her cheeks. Forty-two, and still blushing like a sixteen-year-old.

  Dolores was studying her. ‘Is there a little romance starting up, then, with you and your cousin?’

  It was a straw, and Yvonne clutched at it gratefully. ‘Well, maybe just a harmless flirtation, nothing serious.’ She apologised silently to Greg. ‘But he has invited me to Tuscany next month – he’s going to stay in a friend’s villa for two weeks.’ That should keep her well away from Pawel.

  Dolores’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Don’t worry though, I’m not going. Can’t leave you in the lurch, and anyway I’ve no money.’

  Thank God Greg had rescued her, even if it meant that Dolores now believed that he and Yvonne were an item. It was safer than having her find out about Pawel, much safer. And she could dispose of poor Greg in a few weeks, no harm done.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Dolores put the lid back into her empty cottage cheese container. ‘Martin and I went to Tuscany on our honeymoon.’

  Yvonne stared at her. ‘I thought you went to Canada – didn’t you tell me you visited his sister?’

  Dolores looked blank for a second, then shook her head. ‘No, that was for our first anniversary. Tuscany was the honeymoon. I should know.’

  ‘Right.’ It wasn’t surprising that Yvonne had got it wrong. She hardly paid much attention to Dolores’s chatter. She finished her sandwich and checked her watch – half an hour to go. ‘I’m cooking dinner for my father-in-law tomorrow tonight. He usually comes on the second Saturday of the month, but I was out last Saturday, meeting an old schoolfriend, so I had to switch him. And I’m off to a birthday party tonight, in a neighbour’s house.’

  Thankfully, Dolores was quite happy to hear about Kathryn’s party, and Yvonne’s budding romance with Greg was temporarily forgotten.

  NUMBER NINE

  ‘You look lovely. That colour is so good on you.’

  Kathryn smiled. ‘The tag said raspberry sorbet, so of course I had to buy it.’

  ‘And the necklace is perfect with it.’

  ‘A happy accident.’ Kathryn sipped from her glass and added, ‘I love what you’re wearing.’

  Yvonne looked down at her lilac blouse and wide-legged, cream trousers. ‘Thanks. About time I splashed out on some decent clothes. Clara had taken to walking ten paces behind me when we were out together.’

  Kathryn laughed. ‘She’s a hard act to follow, that daughter of yours. Always so up to the minute.’

  ‘Yes. Being twenty-three is half the battle, of course. I think she might be single again, by the way. Haven’t seen poor Barry around lately.’

  ‘Really? Did she tell you?’

  ‘Oh, she tells me nothing – I won’t know for sure until the next boyfriend shows up.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Kathryn paused. And speaking of boyfriends—’

  Yvonne groaned. ‘Oh, don’t – you’ve had your laugh.’

  ‘No, I’m not laughing, honest. Just wondering if you and Peter have got over your mutual mortification?’

  Yvonne grimaced. ‘Just about. It took a while, but I think it’s safely in the past now.’

  Justin appeared holding a bottle. ‘You ladies ready for a refill?’ The bartender cousin had had to leave for work half an hour earlier.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Kathryn smiled at him. ‘Are you having fun between serving drinks?’

  He topped up their glasses. ‘Absolutely. And the birthday girl?’ He leaned and brushed Kathryn’s cheek with his lips. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous, Yvonne?’

  ‘She certainly does.’ Yvonne watched him threading his way through the people on the patio. ‘Now there’s a man in love with his wife. Have I mentioned how jealous I am of you with your handsome husband?’

  Kathryn sipped. ‘Every time you see me. We’re going to have to find you a nice young man of your own.’ She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. ‘I still say Greg would be perfect.’

  Yvonne groaned. ‘Yes, and you’ve said it often enough – and now I have Dolores at work convinced that Greg and I are about to ride off into the sunset.’

  ‘How come? I didn’t think she even knew Greg.’

  ‘She doesn’t. But I sort of pretended we’re an item. I was terrified she might find out about Pawel somehow. I figured it was the lesser of two evils.’

  Kathryn giggled. ‘Poor Greg, the lesser of two evils. Well, if you’re not interested in him, it looks like it’s back to the Internet for you.’

  ‘Actually—’ Yvonne stopped and glanced around. Another couple were dangerously close, but they seemed to be deep in conversation.

  ‘Actually what?’ Kathryn was staring at her. Are you telling me you’ve got someone else lined up?’

  ‘Ssh – not quite.’ Yvonne sipped the cold champagne, enjoying the gentle buzz in her head. The evening was just warm enough to linger a little longer on the patio. Justin was lighting the candles in the glass lanterns that sat on top of the fence bordering the decking. ‘I was going to tell you in a while, if anything happened.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Ah, it’s nothing, really – just this fellow called Joe sounds nice. We’ve emailed a few times. I’ll let you know if there’s any development.’

  ‘You certainly will, you trollop.’

  Yvonne looked around the little patio, glowing softly now with candlelight. ‘Shame your mother-in-law’s missing all this.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Kathryn made a face. ‘That woman’s the biggest hypochondriac you could meet. Migraine, my foot. D’you know what she gave me for my birthday?’

  Yvonne smiled. ‘Not yet.’

  A pair of anti-ageing creams, one for night time, one for day. Talk a
bout subliminal messages. She never misses a trick.’

  Yvonne laughed. ‘Oh, very tactful. I thought you said you were going to invite Dan, by the way.’

  ‘I did, but he made an excuse I didn’t believe for a minute. Poor thing probably doesn’t feel very sociable.’

  Yvonne reached for a smoked salmon roll from the nearby table. ‘Have you met the cowboy yet?’

  ‘Cowboy? Oh, the tenant. No, but I’ve seen the hat. Priceless.’

  Yvonne had glimpsed him a few times in the garden, talking to Dan or feeding the grey cat. Once or twice he’d cycled past her in the street, whistling. You couldn’t miss the hat. ‘Poor Dan – imagine having to share your home with a stranger just to pay the mortgage.’ She tried to keep a straight face. ‘I notice they’ve finished off the barbecue.’

  ‘God, did you see it? Not a clue, either of them – and they’ll never get that cement off the patio. They’re well matched.’

  The light faded, striping the sky with purple and pink. In their glass casings, the candles glimmered softly. Vivaldi’s ‘Summer’ wafted from the stereo.

  From her bedroom window, Grainne watched her daughter-in-law’s birthday party. Forty-five years old. Look at her, smiling and laughing as if she had something to celebrate. Wearing a suit that was much too young for her. Drinking champagne that had probably cost Justin the earth.

  In the dimness of her room, Grainne smoothed the end of the linen curtain between her fingers.

  Much later, Kathryn studied her husband’s face in the mirror as he opened the clasp of the beautiful necklace he’d given her for her birthday, and she wondered again who he’d bought the perfume for.

  NUMBER EIGHT

  He could eat a horse; nothing like a few pints to put the edge on your appetite. Dan belched comfortably as he walked past number nine. Some kind of music was playing – he could barely hear it. Something civilised, no doubt.

  Maybe he should have gone, it had been nice of Kathryn to invite him. There’d be decent grub there too. But the chicken korma in the white bag under his arm smelled damn good.