by Laura Elliot
* * *
They browse the galleries and craft shops of Kinsale, explore the harbour clanging with boats, find small pubs where music is played and singers rattle out old, familiar ballads. A Do Not Disturb notice hangs outside their bedroom door. No thoughts of Zac play on Elena’s mind as she lies with Nicholas on the wide, rumpled bed.
Quivering from the touch of fingertips, feathery kisses on skin, they are seized by a whirlwind of desire, their nights and mornings tangled up in pleasure, unable to stop laughing, loving, talking. Only one thing mars her happiness. Amelia Madison. Her absence from their conversation has succeeded in making her invisible presence all the stronger.
On their last evening together, they dine in a restaurant with a view of the harbour. Twilight settles over the busy town and the setting sun casts a reddening glow on the water. The light on the ocean intensifies. Yachts, heading towards the marina, stencil the horizon like black Chinese lettering. Amelia must have witnessed a similar sunset, Elena thinks. Had she been so dazzled that she was unaware that the wheels of her car had only the most precarious grip on the mossy surface of Mason’s Pier?
* * *
Elena had visited the pier, drawn there by a voyeuristic curiosity that shamed her yet nagged her constantly. The sturdy barricade blocking entry to the pier had obviously been erected since the accident. No more cars would sink into that deep well. She could see the slipway, its dangerous slant. The shift in Amelia’s car must have been almost imperceptible at first. Perhaps, feeling the subtle movement, she braked too sharply. The skids on the tracks still visible on the slipway the following morning suggested she had lost control, though the handbrake was full on when her car was lifted ashore. She should have been a confident driver who knew how to brake gently; her work took her all over the country and she had written about her love of driving in one of her online features. Why had she chosen to visit Mason’s Pier with its tragic connotations? Was it possible that her drowning had not been an accident? Is that why Nicholas was so reluctant to discuss it?
After leaving the pier, Elena had driven to Lemon Grass Hill, the organic farm that Killian and Susie owned. Killian was picking plums in the orchard when she arrived and Susie was grooming their horse, Cassandra. Killian had shown her around the farm before leaving for a meeting with other organic growers, and Susie, preparing a lunch of cheese and olives, said, ‘You’ve a bloom about you. Who is he?’
‘You met him at my mother’s funeral.’
‘Nicholas Madison?’ Susie, who was cutting slices of home-made brown bread, paused and glanced enquiringly at her.
‘Yes. I’ve been seeing him for a few months now.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘I guess I must be.’
‘Love is not a guessing game, Elena.’
‘I went to Mason’s Pier.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Unable to hide her shock, Susie’s voice rose.
‘I don’t know… she haunts me. And I feel as if she’s haunting Nicholas as well. He never talks about her. Doesn’t even mention her name. How strange is that?’
‘Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss. Let his wife rest in peace. He’ll tell you about her when he’s ready.’
* * *
‘You’re very quiet.’ Nicholas is attuned to the shift in her mood. ‘Did I do something to upset you?’
‘Of course not.’ Elena sighs, remembering Susie’s words. ‘Everything’s perfect.’
‘You’re thinking of him again.’ An indent between his eyebrows deepens. Is Nicholas jealous? Has she been too frank in answering his questions about Zac?
‘How can you ask me that?’ She leans over the table to hold his hand. ‘You’ve well and truly exorcised Zac from my life.’
‘So, what’s wrong, then? You’re miles away.’
‘Why do you never talk to me about Amelia?’ She presses her lips together and waits for his reply.
His fingers stiffen into a claw-like arch under her hand. He sits back in his chair, his expression daring her to continue.
‘You never mention her name or refer to what happened to her. It’s as if she never existed. I want to help you—’
‘Help me? How do you propose to do that?’
‘By talking about Amelia. You’ve helped me through such a difficult time. Why can’t I do the same for you?’ Her words sound hollow, childish. They remind her of a woman who phoned after Isabelle’s funeral to apologise for missing it. She sounded like an authority on life after death as she informed Elena that her mother was free from pain and at peace. Elena had gritted her teeth, resenting the woman’s blithe belief that a few trivial platitudes would ease her loss. Is that what Nicholas believes she is doing?
He cuts into his steak, medium rare, and studies the bloodied centre before bringing it to his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows, dabs carefully at his lips with a napkin. His silence adds to her nervousness.
‘So, what exactly are you asking me, Elena? Do you want to compare experiences? Weigh up my pain against yours and see who comes out with the highest score.’
‘That’s so unfair.’ She sounds defensive, unsure of herself. ‘You know that’s not true. I’ve been honest with you about my past. What have you told me about yourself? Nothing.’ Why on earth did she start this conversation? ‘How can you expect me to ignore the fact that your wife died tragically? It must have had a horrendous impact on you. I’m not trying to pry―’
‘What would you call it?’
‘Concern.’ When her hands begin to shake, she presses them into her lap. It’s too late to back down from the conversation now. ‘I want you to trust me enough to talk about her. As it is, she’s creating a wedge between us―’
‘A wedge?’ His nostrils compress as if the air around him is tainted. ‘Why not call it an incident? That’s how it was described in the media. An incident on Mason’s Pier.’
‘Oh, Nicholas, I’m sorry―’
‘What do you want, Elena?’ He interrupts her apology. ‘Tears? Do you really believe they’d lessen the wedge between us?’
‘All I’m asking―’
‘You’re asking if I’m crazed with grief? Unable to sleep? Unable to focus? Unable to see you without wishing I was looking across this table at her? The answer is yes on all counts.’
His words, as forceful as bullets, leave her speechless. Two hours ago, she was in his arms. Now, he is pummelling her with his anger, his gaze shuttered. ‘How dare you assume you’ll be able to handle my grief?’ he continues. ‘Just because you feel the need to talk endlessly about yourself and your own problems, you’ve no right to demand the same from me.’
‘Stop it! I don’t talk…’ A feather-like current of air brushes past her cheek and she shivers, goose bumps lifting on her arms. She stands, unsteadily, unable to believe the direction their conversation has taken.
‘Where are you going?’ he demands.
‘Away from you.’ The weekend is ruined. All that has gone before wiped out by his anger. The man who loves her, or claims to love her, breathing the words into the back of her neck as they spooned together in bed, has become a stranger who wishes she was his dead wife every time they are together. How can they step back from such an admission?
Elena takes two fifty-euro notes from her wallet and flings them on the table. ‘The meal is on me,’ she snaps. ‘Payment for being my grief counsellor.’
‘Sit down, Elena.’ He leans over the table and grabs her arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
‘Watch me.’ She jerks free from his grip. ‘I’ve no intention of competing against your dead wife. Ever!’ Her heels click sharply as she walks from the restaurant. She has to find somewhere to stay tonight. She will catch a train back to Dublin in the morning. Why did she ignore Rosemary’s advice about putting the bungalow up for sale? So much time lost while she was chasing some half-formed dream. She will contact an estate agent first thing tomorrow and return to Australia as soon as the sale is c
ompleted.
She reaches the harbour and leans over the wall. Laughter reaches her from the deck of a nearby yacht. A passing dog pauses and raises its leg. Her eyes brim. What had Nicholas heard when she confided in him? A frivolous recounting of a love that had failed? Two hearts no longer beating, hers broken? And he dared to call that tittle-tattle.
He comes up from behind before she is aware of him and wraps his arms round her.
‘I’m sorry… so very sorry.’ His voice is hoarse, his breathing heavy. ‘You have to forgive me, Elena. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve no idea why I reacted like that… said those hurtful things. I didn’t mean them, honestly. You touched a nerve and I reacted. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about Amelia. I can’t… can’t…’ He turns her round and holds her close to him.
Held close against him, she’s unable to move. He tells her about nights when he was afraid to sleep because of the nightmares, mornings when he stood with a razor blade in his hand and wondered how long it would take for all the blood to leave his body. But it’s different now. Thanks to Elena, he is beginning to imagine a future where he can find happiness again. He curses himself for jeopardising that possibility and begs her for forgiveness. His eyes, no longer shuttered, embrace her, sweep her back into his orbit. His lips are hungry for her and that night, back in their hotel bedroom, he calls her name over and over, as if he is drowning under the weight of desire.
All the love flowing from her, she is frightened by her feelings. Nicholas is inside her, pushing deep, and she locks him to her with a ferocity that seems to overpower love and force her to search for another meaning. Is this obsession, she wonders? This momentum that hurtles her through each day as she waits for him to ring and wills the hours to fly by until she can be with him again.
Their first row is over, already fading into insignificance as he reassures her of his love, whispering into her ear, against her throat, breathless endearments making it possible to forget the other words that he had uttered with such bitterness.
Afterwards, his voice muted, as if he fears that the mention of Amelia’s name will disturb the barricades he has erected around his anguish, he says, ‘She was the love of my life. I never thought I could recover from her loss. Then I met you. Do you remember that glance we exchanged as your mother was laid to rest? That’s when my heart began to beat again. You must have known. How could you not feel that shift? Don’t ever leave me, Elena. I love you… love you. I believed my life was spent when Amelia died. I don’t ever want to feel so lost again.’
Finally, he is able to confide in her. She understands why they argued. In order for him to emerge from his crevasse of grief, it had been necessary to punish Elena for forcing him to confront his loss.
She listens, hungrily, when he speaks about his marriage. He refuses to discuss the accident, the memory still too painful, but he tells her about the three blissful years he shared with Amelia before she was snatched so savagely from him. Beautiful, intelligent, charming, kind, gifted: these are the terms he uses to describe her.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Isabelle used to say and add, warningly, ‘Granted wishes can often demand a premium price.’
As Elena listens to him, she wonders if the premium on Amelia Madison will be higher than she has anticipated. She tries to find the same tolerance Nicholas had shown when she discussed Zac, revealing more about their difficult relationship than she’d ever intended. In contrast, his marriage sounded like an oasis of tranquillity in their busy lives. This belief is confirmed when she visits his home for the first time.
Five
Woodbine is a two-storey period cottage with ivied walls and a long, rambling garden at the back. Wide lawns on either side of the driveway slope towards a high boundary wall. The sense of Amelia is everywhere. She had studied fine art before she switched to interior design and her paintings, a clash of flamboyant colours, hang in all the rooms. Photographs arranged on the antique mantlepiece, on sideboards and occasional tables, prove that Nicholas has not been exaggerating her beauty. Her mouth was slightly on the wide side, a flaw that only amplified her interesting face and gave her a radiance that time can never diminish. Nicholas is in many of the photographs, smiling, hugging, gazing confidently into her eyes. Why did he not remove those photographs before Elena arrived? Have they become part of the furnishings, no longer noticed? If so, how is that possible?
He takes white wine from the fridge and carries the glasses to the terrace. Spicy cooking smells waft from the open kitchen window. Pots of coriander, tarragon, mint and basil grow along the windowsill. He lists the spices he uses in cooking: sumac, saffron, grains of paradise, amchur powder, carom seeds, cardamom; most of the names are unknown to Elena.
‘I didn’t realise you were a cordon bleu.’ She tastes the wine, Italian, perfectly chilled. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Amelia was the cordon bleu,’ he says. ‘The tagine I’m making is her recipe. Moroccan.’
‘Sounds delicious.’
‘As long as I follow her instructions, it’ll taste delicious, too.’
The late-September sunshine streams through stained-glass butterflies hanging from an apple tree. Honeysuckle twines around a trellis and misshapen but eye-catching animal sculptures, set among the shrubbery, are examples of the attempts Amelia made at sculpting in metal during her student days. What she has left behind, her creativity, her garden, her house with its distinctive décor, have an added poignancy when viewed against the abrupt ending to her life. Elena won’t be overwhelmed by her, yet she battles against each revelation Nicholas makes about their blissful years together.
The tagine is as tasty as he predicted. Amelia’s hands might as well have cooked this dish. He shows Elena the recipe in a cookbook, one of many, all neatly stacked on a kitchen shelf, spine out. This book is stained from Amelia’s floured hands. Old spills of liquid pucker the paper. Recipes that failed or needed an extra pinch of some obscure spice she must have picked up in an Asian market are annotated. Elena hands the book back to him and makes a non-committal comment. She chooses her words carefully, anxious to avoid another Amelia anecdote.
Amelia Madison, she thinks, is the ghost who will never be found out. She will never have to answer for bad decisions, develop irritating habits, have her heart broken or lose the allure of youth while those who remain behind wither into old age. How can Elena ever hope to compete with a woman who died before she reached the age of disillusion?
They take a bath together, soaking in hydro jets that pummel and soothe her. Did he and Amelia bathe together? Did she make love to him with the same wanton passion as bubbles frothed and the water whirled around them? The bathroom intrigues her. It’s ostentatious in this house of understated elegance and well-worn antiques. Blue lights on a wall panel that can be dimmed add to the contemporary design and cast his face in shadowy, unfamiliar grooves. She wonders if she looks equally unsettling to him but he shows no signs of restraint as he glides the sponge over the breasts and downwards over her stomach, so taut and flat once again. Later, she sleeps with him in one of the spare bedrooms. She can tell by its exactness, the pristine coordinated décor and empty wardrobes, that this room is seldom used.
* * *
He has already left for work when she awakens next morning. She opens the curtains to a view of the Sugar Loaf, its gentle hump rising beyond the trees at the end of the back garden. The glass butterflies shimmer in the morning sunlight and starlings ribbon the sky. She walks along the corridor and opens doors. Only one is locked. The bedroom he shared with Amelia. The handle clunks back into place when she releases it.
Last night, they left the dishes on the table and hurried upstairs, laughing and slightly drunk on wine and desire. He has cleared everything away before leaving for work. The dishwasher hums quietly and the kitchen window is open to clear the air.
‘He’ll exhaust himself and talk Amelia out of his system,’ Tara says when Elena phones her. ‘Just like you did with Zac.’
>
‘Not exactly,’ Elena replies. ‘Zac is alive and, therefore, fair game for being called a dickhead. Amelia Madison is beyond reproach. I’ll never measure up to his memories of her.’
‘Then don’t even think of trying. No one can outdo perfection so just be yourself.’
‘I don’t know what that is any more.’
‘Yes, you do. You just need time.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s a cliché, I know, but true, nonetheless,’ Tara insists. ‘Susie is afraid you’ve rushed into this relationship. She’s worried that it’s too soon after everything that’s happened to you.’
‘I’d be in a deep depression now if Nicholas hadn’t been there for me.’ She wants Tara to understand that he has drawn her back from the jaws of the black dog. Wasn’t that what someone once called depression, Churchill or some such warrior, who had heard the long howl? Nicholas’s reminiscences of Amelia are difficult to endure but Elena will cope with them for ever rather than return to that darkness.
He has left a note on the kitchen table. His parents are hoping to meet her and he has arranged for the introduction to take place on Saturday. If that is okay with Elena, he will collect her at five.
* * *
Nicholas pulls up outside high double gates with the word Stonyedge visible on the gatepost and escorts Elena up the driveway.
‘No need to be so nervous,’ he says. ‘My parents are going to love you.’
‘Welcome… welcome.’ Yvonne Madison greets her with a hug. She’s small and effusive, a talker, as Nicholas warned Elena on the drive to Stonyedge.
‘Nicholas has told me so many wonderful things about you.’ She draws Elena into the hall. ‘Come in and meet Henry. And this is Pedro. Don’t mind him barking at you. He’ll get used to you quickly enough. Oh, my golly, he’s licking your hand already. A good judge of character, is our Pedro. Down Pedro, down… down.’