Putting Out the Stars

by Roisin Meaney

  ‘Grand – never better.’ And he did look good. The cuts had healed, and the plaster cast was finally off – which meant that he could cycle again, and cook again.

  And Laura was happier, which was all that mattered. The haunted look he’d tried not to see was gone from her eyes. She was eating properly again, and working again. And they were OK again.

  He still felt like a failure, and a fraud. Still hated that it was his fault she’d had to go through so much – and that she would never discover the whole truth. Hated that he could never tell her, never. Whatever happened in the future, whatever joy, or fresh sorrow, lay ahead of them, she could never know.

  It was something he’d have to live with; and he would live with it. He’d managed to bury it deep, years ago, and he could shove it way down again now, and never think about it any more. He’d survive.

  And this time next year, incredibly, he might be looking forward to becoming a father. After he’d accepted, years ago, that it could never happen to him. How lucky was he?

  ‘Right; time I started earning my keep around here.’ He grabbed his apron from the hook and followed Paul over to the stoves.

  And Ruth, on the train to Dublin, suddenly looked up from her magazine and said ‘oh’, and stayed staring straight in front of her, mouth slightly open, eyes unblinking, for a long time after that.

  Frank placed his knife and fork side by side on his plate, empty except for a sprig of dill. ‘Well, I’m glad you persuaded me to try the fish; it certainly was delicious.’

  ‘You should listen to me, Frank; I’m always telling you.’ Cecily smiled across at him, and Frank thought again how attractive she was when she forgot to keep what he privately called her ‘correct’ face on.

  ‘And how was your lamb?’

  ‘Lovely.’ She put down her cutlery and dabbed at her lips. ‘Very tender.’

  She hadn’t mentioned seeing him in town the other day; he might wonder why she hadn’t made her presence known. She’d left the place herself as soon as she could after that, making some excuse to Emily about expecting Andrew to call around. Imagine being so snobby – not our type, indeed. What gave Emily the right to pass judgement on such a kind, caring man? Cecily wondered what she had ever seen in Emily, with her notions of grandeur.

  She glanced around the room as Frank looked at the dessert menu – such a sweet tooth he had; thank goodness he’d long since given up trying to persuade her to have something too. She’d never had much of a taste for sweet things, even as a child. The only –

  Her thoughts came to a sudden halt as a man walked into the dining room. He was immediately approached by a waiter, who exchanged a few words with him before leading him to a table by the window, on the far side of the restaurant from where Cecily and Frank were seated.

  Andrew. What on earth was Andrew doing out on a Wednesday night? Hadn’t they told her at dinner the evening before that Ruth was going to Dublin today? Maybe he was meeting someone from work, grabbing the chance while he was free – but what had brought him out to this hotel, half an hour from the city? She saw him glance casually around and lowered her head quickly, took up her water glass and sipped.

  ‘Would you like anything else, dear?’ Frank, attentive as ever.

  She shook her head, keeping it turned as much away from the front of the room as possible. ‘No, thank you.’

  As Frank looked down at the menu again, she dared a quick glance over. Andrew was looking out the window, chin on hand, elbow on the table. A menu sat unopened in front of him. Waiting for someone, surely.

  And as Cecily watched, Laura’s friend came in and walked straight over to his table. And in front of the entire restaurant he stood and kissed her deeply, hands cradling her head, before helping her off with her coat.

  And Cecily, dumbfounded, thought, so that problem wasn’t solved, after all.

  ‘Laur? Glass of red?’ Donal’s voice floated in, on top of a spicy smell that was making her mouth water. He was doing his own take on a creamy mushroom stroganoff, full of spinach and paprika and toasted flaked almonds, and chunks of strong red onions. She loved when he ignored the cookbooks and went with his instincts – so far, they hadn’t failed him.

  She dropped her brush into the pot of green-grey water and picked up a rag. She thought she’d heard the sound of a bottle popping open a while ago; and a glass of full-bodied red would go down a treat right now. ‘Mmm, yes please.’ Just one more day should finish it; thank goodness she’d made this last deadline – she knew she wouldn’t have got any more time. It had meant working all hours, bringing stuff home to do in the evenings, which she usually tried to avoid, but it would be worth it.

  Donal was being brilliant; insisted on doing all the cooking so she could concentrate on the illustrations. Washed up too, wouldn’t hear of her lending a hand. She thought again of how close they’d come to disaster, and shuddered. Never again. Whatever happened, she’d never again jeopardise what they had together.

  Her period was due any day now. She smiled at the thought that she was actually looking forward to it, instead of hoping against hope that it wouldn’t arrive. But this time was different; the sooner it started, the sooner they could start calculating, and working towards her first treatment.

  ‘Half an hour to dinner; hope you’re hungry.’ Donal put a glass of wine on her desk, well away from the paraphernalia, and looked at the almost-completed illustration in front of her. ‘That’s great.’

  She dug him gently in the ribs. ‘You always say that.’

  He caught her hand and pulled it around his waist. ‘That’s because it’s always great.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Half an hour, I said.’

  ‘It smells fantastic.’ She pulled her hand back and reached for the glass, sipped at the wine. ‘Mmm, that’s nice.’ Then she took the brush out of the water, picked up a tube of yellow paint.

  ‘That’s thirty minutes we have to wait.’ He was still standing beside her. ‘Everything’s cooking away, no need to keep an eye on it.’

  Keeping her eyes on her page, she began to smile slowly. ‘OK, fine.’ She squeezed half an inch of yellow onto her saucer, dipped the brush in, swirled it around.

  He began to massage the back of her neck gently with one hand. ‘Yessir, thirty whole minutes. Nothing to do but wait.’ His voice was slow, almost a murmur. He placed his own glass next to hers and began kneading the sides of her neck with both hands. They felt warm and strong; she turned her head slightly to accommodate his touch. ‘Just wait, that’s all.’ He started to whistle along under his breath to the Coldplay CD on the stereo.

  She laughed softly, dabbing yellow into the little girl’s dress. ‘Donal O’Connor, I’m busy here.’ But she didn’t want him to stop – she could feel her muscles relaxing deliciously.

  ‘I know.’ He stroked out towards her shoulders now, thumbs circling steadily. ‘You just carry on; don’t mind me.’ Lazy circles, all around her shoulder blades. She breathed deeply, relishing the sensation.

  ‘I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.’ She arched her back slightly, allowing him to knead more deeply. ‘You’re not going to distract me.’ She added yellow dots carefully to the ribbon in the girl’s hair.

  ‘Me? Distract you? I’ve no intention of it.’ He brought his hands back to the base of her skull and began kneading deeply up under her hairline. Slow, lazy circles.

  She took another deep breath, dipped her brush back into the water. ‘Stop it.’ But she was still smiling, her head dropping slightly as he pressed up under her hair in a slow steady rhythm.

  ‘Stop what?’ He pushed her hair to one side, then bent and put his mouth to the top of her neck, one hand still massaging her skull. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She felt his tongue lightly on her skin; his free hand dropped down, crept around her waist, began to inch up under her top. His breath was hot on her neck. ‘You just carry on – don’t let me disturb you.’

  She dropped the rag she was holding. ‘Oh God
, OK, OK, I give up.’ She stood and turned around to him, laughing. ‘You’re insatiable.’

  ‘And you’re so easy.’ He pulled her after him, towards the couch. ‘Now, we’ve got twenty-five minutes left; let’s see what we can do.’

  ‘I’m home.’

  Polly looked up, dropped her Lego with a clatter, and slid off her chair. ‘Mama.’ She toddled rapidly towards the kitchen door as Breffni came in and scooped her up.

  ‘Hi Pollywolly. I missed you.’ She buried her face in the blond curls, and Polly giggled, squirming. ‘Tickle.’

  ‘Down you go; make me something nice with your Lego.’ Breffni deposited her back on a chair. ‘Hi, Mary – everything go OK?’

  ‘Fine; but you look tired. Sit down and I’ll get us a cuppa.’ Mary filled the kettle and lit the gas under it.

  Breffni stayed standing, watching Polly’s attempts to build a Lego tower. ‘We had a late night – I stayed talking with Mam till all hours.’

  ‘How’s your Dad?’

  ‘Fine, really. I was glad to find him as good as I did; the way Mam was talking, I thought he’d be worse. But he was up out of bed when I arrived, talking away.’

  Mary smiled. ‘That’s great; he’s on the mend so.’

  Breffni nodded. ‘Yeah. He had a fine tea as well, so the appetite is coming back.’

  ‘Good.’

  Breffni turned towards the hall. ‘I’d better just give Cian a call, tell him I’m back.’

  When the door had closed behind her, Mary put two cups and a jug of milk on the table, then opened the press where the biscuits were kept. Breffni was looking a lot more contented this morning; maybe all she’d needed was a good chat with her Mam. She should go and see her more often, if it cheered her up.

  Breffni came back in from the hall and beamed at her. ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ She sat beside Polly and picked up a Lego piece. ‘Now, let’s see what we can make here.’

  When the phone on his desk rang, he knew it was her. His heart leapt.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Andrew, I’ve got your wife on the line.’ Disappointment flooded his body. As he waited for Ruth’s voice, his grip tightened on the receiver. Pull yourself together.

  ‘Andrew?’

  He made a supreme effort to sound cheery. ‘Hi, darling – you’re back then.’

  ‘Yeah; I just got in the door.’

  ‘Well, did you enjoy it?’

  Her voice was enthusiastic. ‘It was great; and the others loved it too. Thanks so much, darling.’ There was a pause, then she asked, ‘What time are you going to be home?’

  An image of Breffni lying naked beside him the night before flashed into his head. Tonight he would be making small talk with Ruth. ‘Not sure . . . about six, I’d say.’

  ‘OK – I’ll aim for dinner at seven then. Will you bring a bottle of wine?’

  Funny – she didn’t usually look for wine in the middle of the week. ‘If you like, yeah. Red or white?’

  ‘Red, please. That nice South African one we had at your mother’s the other day, if you can get it.’

  ‘OK . . . see you later then.’

  After he hung up, he dropped his head into his hands and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eye sockets. If anyone saw him, they’d assume he was taking a break from the screen; they all did that every now and again.

  And she was there in the darkness, smiling at him. Bewitching him. All his senses responded; he could smell her, taste her. Stroke her perfect skin. His own skin rose with goose pimples at the memory of the night. At the sound, still echoing in his head, of her whispering ‘I love you’ for the very first time.

  And at his grateful promise, in response, to leave Ruth for her.

  How long had Cecily been standing there? If anyone saw her, gazing through the window, they’d probably assume that she was thinking about the garden, maybe searching for the first petunia bud in the window box. Or wondering if she should prune the shrubs now, or leave them alone till later. No one would guess that she didn’t even see the garden – wasn’t remotely interested in what was happening out there. It could have shrivelled up and died for all she cared.

  She wondered if Frank had noticed anything. He’d probably been slightly surprised when she told him, after he’d practically finished his slice of lemon cheesecake, that she’d changed her mind – she would like a glass of wine, after all. It must have sounded a little peculiar to him: she never had wine on their nights out – it wouldn’t have felt right, with Frank not taking a drink – and ordering a glass of wine when she’d already finished her meal was certainly not the done thing. But it was the only thing she could think of that would delay their leaving. Frank knew she never had tea or coffee that late at night, except for herbal tea, which the hotel didn’t provide. And at all costs they mustn’t leave the table; she couldn’t face them, not until she had decided how to cope with this shocking discovery.

  So she and Frank sat on, presumably having some kind of conversation, although if her life depended on it now, she wouldn’t be able to recall a single word. While she had attempted – she must have attempted – to behave with a semblance of normality, her thoughts were racing: questions were whirling around in her head. When did it begin again? Am I the only one who knows about it? And what in heaven’s name can I do about it this time?

  She watched them finally leave the table – mercifully, they hadn’t lingered – and she watched Andrew’s hand reach out and pull Breffni close to him as they walked from the restaurant. When Cecily and Frank left some time later – she’d drawn her glass of wine out as long as she possibly could – there was no sign of Andrew and . . . that creature.

  Cecily’s mouth curled now at the thought of Breffni. Her daughter’s best friend from the time they could walk, playing in each other’s gardens, going off to school – and later town – together, disappearing upstairs when they were older, to laugh at Cecily behind her back, you could be sure. Cecily had never trusted that lady, all innocent smiles and flicking her hair back and ‘Yes, Mrs O’Neill’ when you met her, but Cecily had seen her, giggling with Laura at the carefully planned birthday parties, ridiculing her neat little sandwiches, mimicking Cecily’s polite way of eating when they thought she wasn’t looking. Oh yes, Cecily had known girls like that when she was young – smart madams who thought they were entitled to whatever they wanted. Hussies who could charm the birds off the trees with a bat of their eyelashes, who imagined the rest of the world existed for their amusement.

  Oh yes, Cecily knew the type.

  And then, when Laura and her smart-alec friend began to go to the tennis club hops – what rows that had caused between Cecily and Brian – it wasn’t long before a string of young fellows started turning up, sniffing around Laura’s friend like cats in heat, walking her home at some ungodly hour. Cecily had seen her passing the house, wrapped around some spotty boy, giggling like an imbecile, allowing him to grope her when they stopped at the gate – disgusting. Laura, of course, would have been home at a reasonable hour – Cecily had managed to ensure that, at least – but there seemed to be no such curfew in the other house.

  The business with Andrew had been inevitable, of course; Cecily had seen it coming a mile off. He was so handsome, so charming – she knew it was just a matter of time before that hussy tried to get her claws into him. The way she’d sidle up to him, put a hand on his arm, brush her hair off her face, or twirl it around her finger as she spoke to him – in a way, it was almost a relief when he finally brought her home to dinner, their so-called ‘relationship’ made official.

  Cecily didn’t hold it against Andrew in the least – what was he do to in the face of such blatant temptation? Mind you, it had taken a lot of persuasion on Cecily’s part – far more than she’d needed in the past – to convince him that that girl was all wrong for him. Andrew had resisted his mother’s arguments for once, insisting that Cecily didn’t really know Breffni, that once she got to know her, she’d see . .
. Cecily had almost laughed in his face at the thought of their ever being friends. But she hadn’t laughed; she was too frightened at the notion of losing him, of having him turned against his mother by that sly missy.

  So she’d kept up her arguments, being careful not to let her aversion to that creature show – she must seem to be quite impartial, at all costs – and in the end, thank heavens, he’d seen reason and finished with her. When Breffni had gone back to the States, Cecily had felt relieved; now Andrew would get over her – he’d really been quite smitten, silly boy. And then, before he’d met someone suitable, she’d returned, unmarried and pregnant – another scenario Cecily had seen coming a mile off. But the father seemed to be standing by her – probably thrilled with himself, poor fool – and they settled far enough away for it not to be a worry. And then Ruth had come along, and she’d been perfect for Andrew, and Cecily had made sure that she stayed.

  And now, when everything should have been safe, that woman had somehow managed to bewitch Andrew all over again; turn his head with her whorish ways. Probably bored with her own wimp of a partner. Cecily had met Cian once at Laura and Donal’s house – he hadn’t had a lot to say for himself. Nothing much to look at either. And she seemed to remember a bit of a weight problem; obviously didn’t bother looking after himself. So the little tramp had decided to spice things up a bit, go after Andrew again – never mind that he was married now, or that she was a mother. No, none of that would have bothered her. She’d batted her eyelashes at Andrew, used her vulgar prettiness to flirt like mad with him probably, when poor Ruth wasn’t looking. What man, let alone a healthy young man like Andrew, could be expected to resist temptation like that? Everyone knew that men were weak, for goodness’ sake. It was up to the woman to be strong, to show moral courage if she was attracted to a married man. Of course, that was assuming that the woman in question had any morals to begin with.