Malcolm had been kind in letting him camp with him. Thankfully, his friend was resolutely single, which meant James wasn’t playing gooseberry. Yet sitting alone in his friend’s apartment he had mourned Harri every minute since he’d picked up his aunt’s fish. He hadn’t returned to work, having booked holidays for his honeymoon. Instead he slept, walked aimlessly and visited showrooms test-driving cars he would never in a million years have dreamed of buying.
‘She’s lovely.’ He’d point to a Mini Cooper. ‘I’ll try her.’
The salesman would look at him oddly, judging him to be at least six foot three maybe even six foot four. Then he’d look at the tiny car before them. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try something a little larger?’
‘No, I’ll be happy in the Mini,’ James would say firmly, then get in, push the seat back as far as it would go and drive off with his knees in his mouth and an over-enthusiastic wave.
That had kept him humoured for a few days but it didn’t dull the pain. He didn’t dare drink because he knew if he did he’d cry, like his dad did every Christmas when he talked about how he had been a laggard when he’d met James’s mother, then lamented over how she’d saved and made something out of him. He had a pride in himself that he accredited to her. James felt that way about Harri, not that she had changed him but that she had accepted him for the man he was. It made him feel the same immense and combustible pride his dad cried over each year. But that was gone. He was raw and sore and so empty he thought it possible that he’d never again know what it was to be full.
But then, from nowhere, the phone had started to ring.
First it was Susan. ‘I have to tell you …’
Then Aidan. ‘You need to know …’
After that it was Duncan. ‘Please, James. She loves you. She needs you …’
Melissa was last. ‘I know the others have called and I know it’s a lot to ask …’
Duncan again. ‘James, even if you phoned her …’ And Duncan over and over until he was forced to switch off his phone.
How was he supposed to respond? What were these people trying to tell him? That his weddings had been aborted for a reason other than lack of love? Were they trying to link his fiancée’s panic over marrying him to a dead girl in the Wicklow woods and a life based on a lie? Did their argument hold water? And poor, poor Harri, how she must be suffering – what a nightmare she had found herself embroiled in! Incidents came back to him in flashes. Her nightmares: once they had made no sense and they still made little, but now they resonated. Her awkwardness, the jagged sense of misplacement that had forced her into corners but ensured she stood out, now made sense. Her charming inability to lie, even though she had come from a home built on obfuscation. In James’s mind she had always stood apart from her family: from her brother who, though he had the fortitude to be who he was despite encircling homophobia, was desperate to hide the part of himself that agreed with his detractors; from the mother who allowed herself to be treated as a fragile maiden when she ruled those around her; from the father who had long ago halved himself into the detective, who dealt with hate, intolerance, anger, violence, victims, death and dismemberment, and the husband, who wiped his day on the mat to play king in his wife’s castle. To James, Harri had stood out from her family because she had always been straightforward.
He had discussed it with a fascinated Malcolm. Was this because she wasn’t really a Ryan? Were her strands of DNA so powerful that nature beat nurture hands down? Had a part of her always known? Was he talking bollocks? Did it have anything to do with him?
The final question was the only one that he and the ever-patient Malcolm agreed on over a super-sized pizza. It did have something to do with James because he loved her. He would search until he found her, and he would ensure she was on her own two feet before he left again. Maybe her fear of marriage was connected to the lie she had unwittingly lived and maybe it wasn’t, but this was no time for her to deal with their relationship. She had to find herself before she could find him or even them – if there was a them, and he hoped and prayed there was. James would wait for her. At least, that was what he told himself, because it was the only way he could say goodbye to the devastated, vulnerable, beautiful Harri.
James never ate fried food in Dublin – his father had been a bacon-egg-and-chips junkie: he had had high cholesterol, two heart attacks and a bypass because of it – but in Wexford James did like to cook a fried breakfast from scratch. The local butcher sold good-quality herb sausages, delicious black pudding and lean bacon that emitted a hickory-based aroma that made him dribble. He had forgone his luxury breakfast for the three mornings since his arrival. Harri had been too ill to endure the smell of fried pig’s blood, but yesterday he felt there had been a breakthrough: he had managed to get her out of bed, out of the house and into the fresh warm air. They had gone over the grassy hill that led to sand dunes and a beach. The tide was far out, so they had walked towards the water rather than beside it. Fresh air blasted their faces, turning them pink, and entered their lungs. When the tide turned they quickened their steps back towards the grassy hill, where they sat and looked far out across the Irish Sea towards Wales.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harri said. ‘I’ve been sleeping since you came.’
‘That’s a good thing. You needed it. You resembled the walking dead.’
‘I felt like it.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I feel better. I think I’ve regained the power of cognitive thought.’
‘Good.’ He laughed. ‘Cognitive thought is pretty important.’
‘Yeah.’ She smiled and even laughed a little.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Better than fine.’
‘The second I saw you I felt better. I know it didn’t look like it but I did.’
He detected wistfulness, which unnerved him slightly. He didn’t want his determination to help the woman he loved confused with an attempt at reconciliation. He was also desperate not to disappoint her – she was in enough pain. He needed to clarify his intentions.
‘You are probably the kindest and best woman I’ve known. It’s your habit to put others before yourself sometimes to your own detriment. You really listen. You speak your mind and you care about the people around you even when they disappoint. You have strength. You don’t know that about yourself. You see George as the strong one but he’s not – he leans on you.’
Harri’s smile faded and the fresh light in her eye dimmed. All these compliments could only mean one thing: goodbye. Bollocks. She huddled into herself, waiting for him to finish.
‘And ever since we first met, I knew that a part of you was a little lost.’
She raised her head and looked quizzically at him, directly into his eyes.
‘And you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong. I liked it that you stood out. It was as though you were making a guest appearance in your own life but now I understand. I understand why you never seemed comfortable enough in your skin to fit right in. I understand why you couldn’t marry me. You need to find out who you are, Harriet Ryan. You need to do it alone and it’ll be fine.’
Harri didn’t speak. Instead she smiled and kissed James on his forehead. Then she got up and led the way home.
After they’d had supper, when Harri had eaten most of her meal, they played dirty-word Scrabble into the small hours of the morning.
‘“Gap” is not a dirty word!’ James argued.
‘Not at first glance but it certainly has potential!’ Harri retorted.
‘Potential?’ James wasn’t convinced.
‘Okay.’ She sighed – and then she grinned, which made him grin too. She shook her hair and winked. ‘Why don’t you come on over here and play “find the gap” …’
James turned his head away, laughing. He was also blushing. This blush was born of heat rather than embarrassment and if she’d had the gumption to look she would
have noticed his trousers had become a little tighter. But she didn’t. Instead she bit her lip and nodded. Score.
‘You win! “Gap” is a filthy, filthy word!’ He laughed, turning to face her, and for a moment they shared a look. Then it was gone.
And although Harri felt like crying she didn’t because it wasn’t fair on James, who had come to save her after everything.
I love you. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave.
They wouldn’t speak about it again. Instead she would agree that it was time to return to their individual lives. It was appropriate: the very next day would signal the end of the honeymoon that had never been.
James called up the stairs to Harri that her fried breakfast was on the table. She arrived moments later and joined him. Her hair was wet: she had plunged it into the stupid washbasin because the stupid shower hadn’t been powerful enough to wash out the shampoo.
‘I’ve only given you a small plate but there’s plenty more in the oven.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s probably better to get an early start,’ he said.
‘You should do that. I’m going to leave later.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’ He proceeded to enjoy the sinfully delicious black pudding. Harri drank coffee while checking her texts.
Dad: When can we see you? Have you heard from George?
Soon. He’s fine, Dad, just give us time.
James moaned on introducing crispy bacon into his mouth. ‘You have got to try this.’
She smiled at him. The pure joy he extracted from a simple breakfast had always entertained her.
She was still angry with her parents but she couldn’t hurt them. George was ignoring them so she couldn’t ignore them too. They were as lost as she was. She felt she could manage her relationship with her father better by text: if she was with him, she might succumb to the urge to punch him. Either that or she’d fall at his feet and cry until she was nothing more than a puddle. She needed more time.
The phone beeped.
Dad: Thanks for talking to me. We miss you.
Now she wanted to hug him tight and tell him everything would be okay – but she wasn’t sure that was true. Every moment her feelings towards him changed so she didn’t write back. She didn’t know what to say.
George was easier. Initially there had been no contact but for the past four days she had sent him a text when she’d woken.
I love you.
It was simple and to the point and each morning, seconds later, her phone would beep. George: I love you too. That was it. Nothing more and nothing less but it was enough for now.
‘Are you going to eat that?’ James said, pointing to her black pudding.
‘No,’ she said, dishing it on to his plate.
‘I’ll really miss this,’ he said to her, and she saw his lip quiver ever so slightly.
She wanted to beg him to stay with her and to put his lovely little speech aside. She did need him. She couldn’t do this alone. She was only functioning because he was beside her. If he left her, she would be desperate once more. ‘Please don’t leave me,’ she said.
James lowered his fork. ‘Harri,’ he said.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ she repeated, tears gathering and waiting to fall.
‘Don’t,’ he warned.
‘I love you. You love me,’ she begged.
‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ she said, and her tone suggested a simmering rage that she could hold back no longer.
‘You know why not.’ He tried to stay calm.
‘Bullshit!’ she heard herself scream. Oops! Rational has left the building. Fuck it, I’m on a roll. ‘If you really loved me you’d stay with me!’
‘I’ve done this before,’ he said, and cleared his throat.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t be your nursemaid. I can’t be the one you lean on while you find what you’re looking for. I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and some surfer in Australia benefited.’
‘I’m not her,’ she said.
‘I know. You mean more to me than she ever did so another disappointment at your hands would kill me.’ He laughed but his eyes were leaking. ‘Maybe some day when you’re whole again we might bump into each other – and then who knows?’
‘I can’t call you after today, can I?’ she asked, finally resigned to heartbreak.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for a while.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed, tears burning holes into her cheeks. How long is a while? A week? A month? A year? Should I mention a specific timeframe? No. Damn it. Say something. Stop him.
‘I should go,’ he said, getting up and leaving the rest of his breakfast.
‘Okay,’ she replied. Oh, God.
His bag was in the hall. She shadowed him to the door. She could see he wanted to break but he wouldn’t, not in front of her. She grabbed him and hugged him tight and her tears dampened his shoulder. Break. Please break. Break and stay. Break and stay. He squeezed her and her head disappeared into his chest, wetting the front of his shirt. He’s not breaking. They stood in silence until he let go. He’s not staying.
He opened the door and walked out, leaving his longed-for fry, determinedly making his way through the chaotic front garden to his car. He got in and drove.
Harri sat on the step of their holiday home in Wexford shedding tears until there were no more left to shed.
Hours later, while night descended outside, Harri Ryan was doing something that was quite contrary to anything anyone would have expected of her. She was wrecking the place with her ex-fiancé’s five-iron. Fuck strong. Fuck kind. Fuck listening. Fuck lost. Fuck alone. Fuck James. Fuck my father. Fuck my mother. Fuck Father Ryan. Fuck everything and fuck everyone! She stopped at pulling the sink off the wall. Fuck me, I’ve lost it again.
She vacated the once-tattered, now completely vandalized cottage a little after one, suitcase in hand, and it didn’t occur to her to look back. No more tears.
George was asleep in the passenger seat of the open-top rented car under a bright rich velvet blue sky. Aidan had graciously agreed to drive most of the way through north-west Italy as his partner was spent from negotiating, finagling and swaggering. George always injected just a hint of swagger into his demeanour when he was in a business situation. He felt it was important in the sales game. No one could carry off swagger quite like George Ryan. Aidan had often said it was one of the things that had first attracted him: George swaggered with James Dean cool. Unfortunately, when Aidan attempted to emulate him he appeared to be in need of a hip replacement. ‘Too light on my feet,’ he complained. ‘No weight in my gait.’
George had agreed but he was quick to point out that it made him a better dancer. Aidan agreed he was most definitely a better dancer – and so he should have been after clocking up thousands of teenage hours in front of ‘Footloose’ practising the moves. To this day his ‘Footloose’ and ‘Let’s Hear It For The Boy’ were step perfect. George didn’t dance. George didn’t do anything he wasn’t good at.
They would soon be taking their leave of Piedmont, having secured a deal to ship and sell Barolo, which, according to George, was the greatest of all Italian red wines. Aidan didn’t know or care much about that – he was just glad to see a smile on his partner’s face. The map on George’s lap revealed that their destination was not so far, which was a good thing because the Barolo meeting had run on and they had less than an hour to make the second and, according to George, all-important Barbaresco rendezvous to secure the high-quality yet more affordable wine of choice.
Aidan was glad George had this new venture to take his mind from his family troubles. However, with each passing day he was becoming more concerned about George’s determination to ignore his parents and the problems confronting them. ‘They deserve it,
’ he had declared, the evening before, at dinner. Aidan disagreed. George clammed up. Aidan changed the subject so he didn’t have to endure George’s insufferable huffy silence. He was relieved that George was not taking his anger out on Harri. At least he was texting her. Poor Harri. Aidan was very fond of her, and in times of relationship crisis he would often turn to her to help him find a road back to the difficult man he loved. Harri knew George better than anyone else on this planet. That wouldn’t change, Aidan was sure, but everything else hung in the balance. He wanted to see Harri to find out where her head was at. He wanted to hear her voice to know she was okay, but he wouldn’t call until he was home, which would be the following day. George couldn’t bear to speak to his sister until he had worked out what to say. It wouldn’t be fair for him to overhear a call between Harri and Aidan. At least, that was what Aidan told himself. Maybe deep down, as much as he missed his pal, he was as unsure of what to say as George was. After all, although George had been deceived he was still a Ryan. Who the hell was Harri?
Later, while he was waiting for George, Aidan enjoyed a glass of wine in the sun, looking out from the villa’s stone patio to the tree-lined path that led to the vineyard. Colourful foliage danced in the faint breeze, catching his eye, and the time passed quickly.
The Truth Will Out Page 10