“Grania, this is Mr. Matt Connelly. He’s just bought your swan.”
“Hello, Mr. Connelly,” she said with a smile, and her cute nose had wrinkled in pleasure. “I’m happy you have. Sure, I can be eating now for the next few weeks!”
Looking back, perhaps it was that soft Irish accent, so much pleasanter on the ear, and sexier, than the harsh tones of New Yorkers.
Whatever it was, fifteen minutes later Matt found himself asking Grania if he could take her out to dinner. She’d declined, saying she’d already arranged to go out with the gallery owner and the other artists exhibiting that night. But he had been able to inveigle her cell phone number, using the excuse of wanting to view other pieces of work she had in her studio.
Matt, so handsome, friendly and attractive, had never before had a problem getting a girl to go out on a date with him. Grania Ryan proved to be different. He’d called her up next day and left a message on her voice mail, but did not receive a call in return. He’d tried her again a few days later, and this time she’d answered, but it seemed she was busy most nights.
The more she seemed to avoid him, the more Matt was determined to gain an audience. Eventually, she’d agreed to meet him for a drink in a bar she knew in SoHo. Matt had duly turned up dressed in his blazer, chinos and brogues, to find himself in a bohemian establishment where he was the odd one out. Grania seemed to have put little thought into what she was going to wear for the occasion—still in the same pair of jeans, but this time in an old blue shirt. She’d asked for a half pint of Guinness and drank it down thirstily.
“I can’t stay long, I’m afraid.”
She’d offered no explanation as to why.
Matt, having finally got her in captivity, had struggled manfully to make conversation. Grania had seemed completely uninterested in most things he had to say, her attention elsewhere. Eventually she’d stood up, apologized and said she had to leave.
“Can I see you again?” Matt had asked as he’d hurriedly paid the bill and followed her out of the bar.
She’d turned to him on the sidewalk outside, and asked, “Why?”
“I want to. Is that a good enough reason?”
“Speaking honestly now, Matt, I saw all your smart friends come into the gallery the other night. I don’t think I’m your type, and you’re not mine.”
Matt was taken aback. As she turned on her heel, he followed her. “Hey, what do you think my ‘type’ is, Grania?”
“Oh, you know . . . born in Connecticut, some smart private school, then Harvard to finish you off, before you go and make your bucks on Wall Street.”
“Yeah, well, some of that is true.” Matt had reddened. “But I sure have no intention of following my pop into his investment business. As a matter of fact, I’m studying for my Ph.D. in psychology at Columbia. Once I’ve completed that, I hope to become a lecturer.”
At that, Grania had stopped and turned around, a flicker of interest in her eyes. “Really?” She’d folded her arms. “I’m surprised. You don’t give the impression of being a poor student, do you now?” She’d swept her hands up and down his body. “So, what’s with the uniform?”
“Uniform?”
“The whole preppy look,” she’d giggled. “You look as though you’ve walked straight out of an advert for Ralph Lauren.”
“Well, hey, some girls seem to like it, Grania.”
“Well, some girls aren’t me. I’m sorry, Matt. I’m just not one to be played with by some rich kid that thinks he can buy his way into people’s affections.”
Matt’s emotions had veered between anger, laughter and fascination. This pint-sized, feisty Irish girl who, on the outside, resembled Alice in Wonderland, but obviously had a core of steel and a tongue that could whip the hide of the toughest customer, enthralled him.
“Whoa there!” he’d shouted at her as she proceeded along the sidewalk. “That sculpture I bought of yours? I spent every penny of a legacy from my aunt to buy it. I’ve been looking real hard for months for something that appealed to me. It was stipulated in my aunt’s will that I buy something of beauty with the money.” Matt had realized he was shouting at the petite figure fifty yards from him, and people were staring. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care. “I bought your swan because I thought it was beautiful. And, for the record, my parents are pissed with me because I’m not following in Daddy’s footsteps! And the ‘uptown prince’ has no penthouse on Park Avenue, ma’am. He lives in student accommodation on campus, which comprises a studio, shared kitchen and restroom!”
Grania had stopped again and turned around, silently raising an eyebrow.
“You wanna see it? None of my uptown buddies will come there. It’s on the wrong side of town.”
At that, Grania had smiled.
“And”—Matt knew he was letting rip, but somehow it was imperative this girl knew who he really was—“there’s every chance I’m not in line to inherit a penny from my rich folks unless I do as they ask. So if you’re looking for that kind of guy, yeah, I suggest we call it quits.”
They’d stared at each other for a good twenty seconds. As had the onlookers, enthralled by the street drama.
Then it was Matt’s turn to walk away. He’d walked fast, not understanding his unusual outburst of a few seconds ago. A minute later, Grania was keeping pace with him.
“Did you really use your legacy to buy my swan?” she’d asked quietly.
“Sure I did. My aunt was a great collector of art. She told me only to buy stuff which gave me a gut feeling. And that’s what your sculpture did.”
They’d walked on in silence for a while, neither of them knowing where they were heading. Finally, Grania had spoken. “I’m sorry. I judged you and I shouldn’t have done.”
“Hey, that’s OK, but what’s the big deal anyway, about where I came from and how I dress?” He’d looked at her. “I’d say that’s as much your issue as it is mine.”
“Don’t pull that psychology malarkey on me, Mr. Connelly. I might still be thinking you’re trying to impress me.”
“And I might be thinking you’d had a rough ride with one of my type in the past.”
Grania had reddened. “I’m thinking you might be right.” She’d stopped walking suddenly, turned and looked up at him. “How did you know?”
“Hey, Grania”—Matt had shrugged—“no one can be that set against Ralph Lauren. He makes some real nice stuff.”
“Fair play. Yep, my guy was an eejit to end all eejits. So, there we are.” Grania had seemed suddenly unsure of herself. “Well, I suppose . . .”
“Listen, instead of having this conversation on the move, why don’t we go someplace and eat?” Matt had winked at her. “And I swear there’ll be no blazers in sight!”
• • •
That night, and the few weeks afterward, Matt remembered as some of the best times in his life. Grania had blown him away with her lack of guile, freshness and honesty. Used to the uptight, uptown women who hid their true thoughts and feelings behind a veil of sophistication, which meant that a guy had to use guesswork to know where he stood, Grania was a breath of fresh air. If she was happy, he’d know about it, and if she was angry, or frustrated over her current sculpture, then he’d know about that too. She’d also treated his future career, and the work he put in to gain it, with respect. Did not assume, like so many of his friends, that this was a game for him, a little time-out until he capitulated and followed his father into the world to which he’d been born.
Although not educated to the same level as Matt, Grania’s mind was bright and inquiring, and she’d soaked up information like a sponge. Then leaked it out again, using her instinctive wisdom to make sense of what she’d heard. The only fly in the ointment was that he’d had to tell Charley their relationship was over. For him, it had been a casual fling that couldn’t lead to anything permanent. She’d taken it well, or had at least seemed to, and as the months passed, Matt had seen less of her and his old friends anyway. Mat
t had understood where Grania was coming from and, through her eyes, had seen further how shallow some of the people who inhabited his world were. But the point was, it was his world and even though he had cast off his friends, his family was not so easy.
He’d taken her home to meet his folks one weekend. Grania had spent the few days before trying on numerous possible outfits, until, with hours to go, she’d burst into tears of frustration. Matt had hugged her. “Listen, honey, what you wear is unimportant. They’ll love you because you’re you.”
“Hmph,” had been the answer. “I doubt it. I just don’t want to let you down or embarrass you, Matt.”
“You won’t, I swear.”
The weekend had passed as well as it could have done, Matt had thought. Yes, his mom, Elaine, could be overpowering at times, but anything she did or said was usually out of best intentions for her son. His father was less approachable. Bob Connelly had been brought up in a generation where men were men and were not expected to intrude in either domestic affairs or the emotional dilemmas of their women. Grania had done her best, but his dad was not a man with whom one could have an open heart-to-heart on anything.
Grania had been quiet on the way home, and Matt spent plenty of time in the week afterward reassuring her how much his folks had liked her. Perhaps, he’d thought, if he could give her the security she needed, show Grania this wasn’t some mere dalliance for him, it might help her. Six months later, on a holiday to Florence, after they had made love in the shuttered room not far from the Duomo, Matt had asked Grania to be his wife. She had looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Marry you? Matt, are you serious?”
Matt had tickled her. “No, I thought I’d say it for a joke. Grania, of course I’m serious!”
“I see . . .” she’d breathed. “Well now, that’s a shocker, to be sure.”
“Why the hell is it so shocking?” Matt had raised an eyebrow. “We’re way past the age of consent; I love you, and I think you love me. It’s a natural progression, isn’t it? What normal human beings do, under these circumstances?”
Grania’s eyes had darkened, and she’d seemed close to tears. It was not the reaction Matt had either expected or wanted.
“Honey, I didn’t mean to upset you. What have I done wrong?”
“Nothing,” she’d whispered. “It’s just, that I can’t . . . no, I can’t ever marry you, Matt.”
“I see. Can I ask you why?”
Grania had buried her face in her pillow and had shaken her head. “It’s not that I don’t love you, because I do,” she’d said in a muffled voice. “But I can’t play at being Mrs. Matthew Connelly. Your parents and friends would be horrified, Matt, whatever you think. I know they would. And I’d spend the rest of my life feeling guilty, with everyone looking at me as though I was some kind of gold-digger. Besides, I’d lose my own identity.”
“Grania, honey,” Matt had sighed, “I don’t get why you care so much about what other people think! This isn’t about them, it’s about us! And what makes us happy. And it would make me real happy if you would say yes to being my wife. Unless, of course, all this is just an excuse to try and hide the fact you don’t love me.”
“Don’t be an eejit, Matt! You know it’s not that.” Grania had sat up and swept a hand through her tangled hair. “It’s my pride, Matt. It’s big in me and it always has been. I couldn’t bear for even one person to look at me and think I was marrying you for the wrong reasons.”
“And that’s more important than doing the right thing for us?”
“You know me, sweetheart, when I’ve got one on me; nothing can shift me. Listen”—Grania had reached for his hands and held them—“if you’re saying you want to spend the rest of your life with me, and live with me, then yes. It’s what I’d be wanting too. Can’t we do that bit, Matt? Without the ring and the surname and everything?”
“You mean, live together?”
“Yes.” Grania had smiled at Matt’s shocked expression. “People do these days, you know. Besides, I don’t know the legalities here, but after a few years I’d probably be regarded as your common-law wife anyway. Matt.” She’d squeezed his hands and looked at him earnestly. “Do you think we really need a piece of paper to show the world we love each other? Wouldn’t it say more about us if we were together and we didn’t need it?”
Despite Matt’s serious efforts to turn the conventions of his upbringing on their head to be with the woman he loved, this had been a tough one for him. He’d never considered the possibility of living with someone, always assumed he’d follow his parents and his friends into a traditional marriage.
“I . . .” He shook his head. “I need to figure it out for a while.”
“I understand.” Grania lowered her eyes. “I mean, I’d be happy to wear your ring if you wanted to buy me one, that is. Or we could go to Tiffany’s, like Audrey Hepburn does in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and get them to inscribe a can-pull!”
“And what about when the kids come along?” he asked nervously.
“Jaysus!” Grania smiled. “We’ve just begun to think about merging our few sticks of furniture. I don’t think I can look that far ahead.”
“Yeah, sure. But if I’m even gonna consider this, Grania, I’d have to know that it would be something we talked about when the time came. I’m doing my best here, honey, but the thought of my kids being technically illegitimate and not even legally taking my name is one too far for me just now.”
“Well now, I’m up for a compromise. If you’re prepared to live in sin with me to begin with, then I’m prepared to talk about marriage if and when the babies come along.”
Matt was silent for a moment, then he chuckled and kissed her nose affectionately. “Lady, you are a romantic poet’s dream! OK, if that’s the way you want it, we have a deal. And no”—he eyed her—“I’m not shaking on it. I know a far better way to seal it than that.”
So, in order to safeguard his relationship with his fiercely proud, independent, frustrating yet exhilarating, and always surprising love, Matt had compromised all his principles and moved in with Grania. He’d bought her a ring from Tiffany’s, as requested, and she’d worn it proudly. When they saw the ring, his parents had only one question. And that was when the two of them would name the day.
That day had never come.
• • •
Now, here Matt was, eight years on, with nothing more on paper than he’d had that day in Florence. He’d found himself almost wishing for the pain of a messy divorce; at least it would give credence to the magnitude of what was ending. The two of them had never even shared a bank account. There was almost nothing to separate. All that had held the two of them together had been a mutual wish to be so. Matt went to the window and stared out. Perhaps he should just accept what Grania had made so very clear to him and move on. However, not knowing exactly what it was he’d done made that difficult. But if she wasn’t prepared to tell him, or even discuss it, what could he do?
“Hi, hon, good day?” Charley closed the door behind her, walked over and gave him a hug from behind.
“Hey, you know . . .” Matt shrugged.
“Feeling blue? Oh, Matty, it’s been weeks now, and it’s real hard to see you put yourself through this.”
“Yeah, well, just the way things are, I guess.” He moved out of her embrace and went to the kitchen to find himself a beer. “You’ll be shot of me tomorrow. I’m off to California to lecture for a couple of weeks. Drink?”
“Why not?” Charley flopped on to the sofa. “I’m bushed.”
“Hard day at the office?” Matt asked conversationally as he pulled the cap off his beer and poured her a glass of chardonnay.
“Yeah.” She smiled. “This girl could sure use a party.” Charley took a sip of her wine. “Hey, Matty, why don’t we do just that and go out and get ourselves one! I could call round some of the old gang—they’d all be real pleased to see you. What about it?”
“Thinking abou
t it, I don’t know whether I’m in a party mood tonight.” Matt shrugged. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”
“Well, no harm in finding out, is there?” Charley had whipped her cell phone out and was already calling. “If you can’t do it for you, do it for your flatmate, whose ears you’ve chewed off with your misery for the past few weeks. Hey, Al!” she said into the phone. “Got any plans for tonight?”
An hour and a half later, Matt was sitting in a smart bar uptown, which he hadn’t frequented for years, with a bunch of his old friends. Charley had bullied him into pulling out his blazer and chinos. His life with Grania was spent in jeans and a T-shirt, and an old tweed jacket Grania had found him at a flea market, which she’d said made him look “professor-like,” for work.
Champagne was ordered and Matt was gratified that the guys seemed so pleased to see him. As he sipped the champagne, Matt realized he hadn’t been out on his own with them for eight years. None of them had so far settled down, and their lives as glossy, successful people had remained unchanged. As he set to on his second glass of champagne, he felt as though he was in a time warp, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one. Grania’s presence in his life had forced him to back away, and he’d been happy to do so because of his love for her. But Grania was no longer here . . .
After three bottles of champagne, the six of them went on to a newly opened Japanese restaurant and had an uproarious dinner, consuming far more wine than they should and talking of times past. After the solitariness and misery of the last few weeks, Matt felt light-headed with alcohol and the pleasure of being with old friends he had known since childhood.
It was two in the morning before they left the restaurant. Unsteadily, Matt hailed a cab to take him and Charley home.
“Great to see you, old pal.” Al slapped him on the back. “Guess we might be seeing more of you in the future.”
“Maybe,” acknowledged Matt, following Charley into the back of the cab.
“Come up to Nantucket for a few days at Easter. Mom and Pop would love to see ya, kiddo.”
“Sure, Al. You take care of yourself real well,” Matt slurred happily. As the cab pulled off from the sidewalk, he closed his eyes. His head was doing that thing it used to do in sophomore year; spinning like a plate on a stick inside his skull. He lolled it to one side to see if it might feel better and found it on Charley’s shoulder. He felt fingers brush against his hair, threading it gently. The space felt familiar and comforting.
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