‘Alice!’ he said.
‘Eamon!’ I replied. He put down his bags and put his big strong arms around me. It felt nice. Comforting. I was glad that he was home. We went to have a drink and I told him I’d decided to accept his proposal.
‘Oh, Alice, I’m so glad,’ he beamed and then he ordered a bottle of champagne. It went ‘pop’ just like it’s supposed to. It fizzed into our glasses – its bubbles dancing.
‘Yes, yes, this is right,’ I thought. ‘This is what you do when you become engaged. I’ve become engaged. Me. Alice Evans!’ I snuggled against Eamon’s shoulder contentedly. I’ve watched so many of my friends getting engaged, and married. I’ve been to their babies’ christenings. I’ve been the onlooker at these occasions so often that I began to suspect that was my role. And now Eamon wanted me. A kind, decent man had chosen me to share his life. I gazed at him gratefully. He looked particularly handsome that evening. He had a tan and sunstreaks in his hair. His expensive linen suit was perfectly tailored. When people glanced at us they gave a little smile. Any reservations I might have had evaporated as he refilled my glass. The champagne came from a particularly good vineyard apparently. He’d specifically asked for it.
‘We should have this champagne at our wedding,’ he said and I agreed with him. ‘Shall we have the reception in Cassidy’s Hotel?’ he then enquired.
‘Yes, that sounds nice,’ I replied. I didn’t mention that I had considered holding the reception in the California Café. Eamon likes to do things with a certain style and it would have been too informal for him.
‘I know the chef at Cassidy’s,’ he said. ‘He does the most marvellous seafood.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave the menu to you. You know more about four-star cuisine than I do.’
Eamon took my hand and pressed it warmly. ‘When would you like to get married, Alice?’ he asked. ‘We’ll need to book the church and hotel and musicians in good time.’
‘The musicians?’ I frowned.
‘Yes – I thought it might be nice to have a string quartet playing while we are eating. Though if you don’t want them that’s fine.’
‘Oh, why not,’ I said. ‘I like Vivaldi. Maybe they could play something from The Four Seasons.’
‘I’ll request that they do so.’ Eamon got out his Blackberry and keyed in a note. ‘So, Alice,’ he continued. ‘What date should we set for our wedding?’
‘Sometime soon,’ I answered. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’ As soon as I said that sentence I realized it hadn’t sounded right. I’d obviously drunk too much champagne. Eamon frowned. ‘I mean, we’ve known each other quite a long time,’ I added hastily. ‘There’s no call for a long engagement, is there?’
‘Indeed,’ Eamon said. ‘Have you a particular florist you’d like me to contact?’
The more we talked, the more obvious it became that Eamon had given this wedding a good deal of thought. His methodical nature required that we discuss every aspect of the occasion at some length. I must say I didn’t feel like talking about it all just then, but it was also rather reassuring to know he was prepared to look after most of the details.
‘Oh, I haven’t shown you your present,’ Eamon suddenly announced, as we were about to leave. He opened his perfectly packed suitcase and removed a paper bag.
‘It’s lovely!’ I exclaimed as he revealed a brown hand-knitted sweater. The minute I saw it I knew it was a size too small, but of course I didn’t mention this.
‘Llama wool,’ Eamon said happily. ‘Feel the texture.’
‘Mmmm – super,’ I smiled. ‘Most unusual.’
I am now sitting at Eamon’s kitchen table wearing my new llama wool sweater. It hasn’t stretched yet and is, frankly, rather uncomfortable. There seems to be some dried foliage woven into it – it was probably knitted outdoors. It also smells of something, llama probably. I haven’t said any of this to Eamon. We’re having breakfast. I’d forgotten how quiet Eamon is at breakfast. When we marry I think I may start wearing a Walkman. I’m currently reading the special offer on the back of a cereal pack. I could get a transistor radio if I get into muesli in a really huge way before the end of the month.
Eamon is reading the sports page of his newspaper as he munches his toast. Any small exclamations he makes tend to be prompted by a golfer called Nick Faldo. He’s probably reading a report of the game we watched last night on television.
‘We don’t have to watch this you know,’ he’d said. ‘I could record it. We could rent a DVD. You like the romantic stuff, don’t you?’
‘No, let’s watch the golf,’ I replied quickly. ‘This is more restful.’
It was quite relaxing actually, watching the crisp, purposeful men, striding over vast tracts of tailored grass. The announcer’s voice sounded almost sleepy, like a bee humming softly in a faraway blossom. We all have to find our sweetness somewhere, and sprawling quietly on Eamon’s firm, upholstered sofa, did have a muted contentment to it. A kind of calm.
We made love later in his big bright bedroom. The sheets smelt new. Magnolia I think the colour is. I just lay there and let him caress me. Eamon’s a gentle lover. Though it was very nice I felt detached somehow. Like I was a small island and he was one too. I found myself wondering if I should double-glaze the studio he’s promised to build me. In fact I got so preoccupied with this that the ‘hardness of Eamon’s manhood’, as they say in some women’s books, was almost inside me when I realized I hadn’t put my diaphragm in. I leapt out of bed.
‘What is it?’ Eamon asked, understandably peeved.
‘My diaphragm. It’s in my bag.’ He watched as I fetched the pert round plastic container. The sort of container that at another stage in a woman’s life might contain accessories for, say, ‘My Little Pony’. I put spermicide on to it and squeezed the springy rubber together, attempting insertion. It sprang from my hand and leapt across the room. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit out of practice with this,’ I said as I retrieved it and tried again. Eamon watched with mounting frustration. After the fourth attempt he said, ‘Do you really need it anyway? If we want a baby why not start now?’
I looked at him guardedly.
‘Come on, Alice.’ He reached forwards and touched between my legs in just the right spot. ‘Yes! Yes!’ my hormones screeched. ‘Go for it – come on!’ they shouted like American cheerleaders. I listened to them. I relented. Wantonly, excitedly, I tossed my diaphragm on to a chair and lay down beside him. There is something about attempted procreation that is extraordinarily seductive, if you’re in the mood for it. And I was.
Afterwards, when I was in the bathroom and some of his sperm was sliding slipperily down the inside of my thighs, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. I thought of the photographs in magazines I often stare at the pictures of serene women holding their newborns besottedly. I’d probably do that too – just not with the panache of, say, Angelina Jolie. ‘After all, Eamon and I are nearly man and wife,’ I told myself. ‘And he’d make such a good father.’
Then I picked up my diaphragm and blithely tossed it into the rubbish basket.
Chapter 29
I’ve decided to accept James Mitchel’s offer to have an exhibition in his studio. Matt phoned the other day and persuaded me. I was very cool with him at first, scarcely speaking, but he seemed so desperate to make amends that I found I didn’t want to hate him anymore. Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself in a way. Holding on to grievances takes away the lustre from one’s days. It can become a habit and, after all, falling in love with James Mitchel wasn’t Matt’s fault really. It just happened, the way these things do. And I’m no longer sure if James was my Mr Wonderful anyway. I think I must have had a fully formed infatuation that I ‘made earlier’ as they say on cookery programmes. One that was just waiting for somewhere to land. I know it sounds strange, but I think I may even have mixed James Mitchel up with Jesus. When I went into that church I so wanted to talk to him. Hold his hand. Gossip. Maybe even have a cup of coffee
. But Jesus was moving in ways that were too mysterious for me, so I worshipped James Mitchel instead.
Matt’s the one I miss now, not James. And at least that dinner party fiasco has led to this offer. I’m getting an exhibition out of it – some form of compensation. Since Eamon and I may well be starting a family soon the timing is just right. I wouldn’t have much time for my art with a baby in tow. I might as well take this opportunity while it’s there.
Preparing the paintings is an excellent distraction from my wedding – I am not a traditionally thrilled bride. I hate all the fuss and lists and discussions about who we should invite. Thank goodness Eamon is taking care of most of these details. He seems to enjoy that kind of thing. I already have quite a number of paintings that could be exhibited. During the past week I’ve been frenziedly getting on with some new ones. Liam says a friend of his will frame them for me at a discount.
I must say, Liam is turning out to be quite a nice neighbour. He’s encouraging. I no longer get encouragement mixed up with attraction and anyway he’s as much as told me that he’s mended his ways – that he’s no longer going to be unfaithful to Elsie. I discovered this the other day when he asked me why Mira was looking so sad. I told him, in strict confidence of course, that the man she loves had gone off with someone else, though I didn’t give him the background details.
‘Oh, poor Mira,’ he said. ‘Loyalty is so important. You can’t have a good relationship without trust.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, beaming at him. I feel much more comfortable about being with him since he said that. We’re almost friends now, though I wish he’d watch Neighbours on television and not me. I still see him watching me from his upstairs window sometimes. These days I usually smile back at him and wave. People can get into funny habits and that’s obviously one of his. I don’t think we’ll ever be that close. Strangely enough I haven’t even told him about Eamon. I’ve meant to, many times, but just as I’m about to say it we end up talking about something else. Anyway, he himself rarely mentions Elsie. We tend to talk about Mrs Peabody and gardening and my paintings. But I no longer feel the need to put up those net curtains. Especially now that I’ve learned he and Elsie are going to be husband and wife.
I discovered this when I was looking at wedding dresses in a shop the other day. As I browsed around I noticed Elsie looking at them too. ‘Hello!’ she said when she saw me. ‘Liam has been telling me about your exhibition. He’s very excited about it.’
‘Yes, he’s been very helpful,’ I smiled, then I added slyly, ‘They have quite a good range in here, don’t they? Are you choosing a wedding dress for yourself?’
‘Yes, I am, Alice,’ she said. ‘I find this stuff’s a bit formal. I don’t want to look like a meringue.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I sighed. ‘I wish we could just wear jeans and a jumper.’
‘I saw you looking at the bridesmaids’ dresses just now,’ she said. ‘Is a friend of yours getting married?’
‘No, I am,’ I said, slightly smugly. I wished I was wearing my engagement ring – it’s the solitaire I chose some time ago but I keep forgetting to put it on. ‘My housemate Mira is going to be my bridesmaid,’ I added. ‘I’d like to find her something nice.’
As I spoke I realized that Elsie was looking at me extremely oddly. She definitely seemed somewhat surprised. ‘The turquoise dresses over there are quite pretty,’ she commented, rather curtly it seemed to me. Then she made some desultory remarks about raw silk and slunk off towards the veils. I think she must be a rather moody person. I hope Liam has made the right choice.
I did choose a raw silk wedding dress actually. It’s cream with a slight tinge of blush pink. It has rosebuds round the bodice and is rather charming. Mira is very pleased with her dress too. It’s much the same as mine, only less flouncy. I’m rather relieved that the dress business is sorted out. I’m getting married in twelve days’ time…
Twelve days’ time… I must say I do sometimes feel a pang of panic about my forthcoming nuptials. Nearly every bride does, I think. It’s not uncommon. I think that’s why I threw away my diaphragm really – it was one way of making sure I didn’t chicken out. I’ve been avoiding Annie. She’s still trying to persuade me to wait for Mr Wonderful. ‘The dress is beautiful,’ she told me. ‘Keep it and find another man.’
‘Oh, shut up, Annie,’ I said to her. ‘You can just feck off if you’re going to keep saying that kind of thing.’ I was amazed at my own rudeness, and so was she. She left shortly afterwards.
I have been a bit irritable lately. There’s so much going on and I suppose I feel under a bit of pressure. I haven’t even been very nice to Eamon. When he rang to ask whether I wanted the ceremony videotaped I said, ‘Well, I doubt if I’ll want to watch it again – but you can if you want.’ I hurt him. I know I did. He went all silent and I didn’t even apologize.
‘What’s wrong, Alice?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said petulantly. Afterwards I flung paint at a canvas, not caring where it landed.
Actually, Eamon’s in the cottage now, and I’ve scarcely spoken to him. I’ve told him I’m busy preparing the list of invitations for the exhibition and he’s just remarked, rather pointedly, that he wishes I’d shown the same interest in our wedding guests.
‘Look, I wanted a simple ceremony. It’s you that’s turning it into a Cecil B. De Mille job,’ I bark at him. ‘And why have you invited your business associates to the reception? I thought it was just supposed to be for family and close friends.’
‘We discussed all this, Alice,’ he says wearily. ‘You didn’t seem to mind before.’
‘Well, I do now,’ I reply, unreasonably. Then I go into the bathroom, hoping that my periods have arrived. They’re due around now. In fact they’re a bit late. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t thrown away my diaphragm. I bought a box of condoms the other day and insisted that Eamon use them.
After I come out of the bathroom I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. As I sit there alone I hear Eamon and Mira talking very easily and comfortably together. Amazingly, she’s telling him about Frank. She rarely confides in people and he’s being very understanding. Very kind. When I return they look up at me almost reluctantly. I feel like an intruder. ‘Fancy a bit of Wensleydale?’ I ask, trying hard to be civil. ‘I bought some today at Superquinn.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely, Alice,’ Mira says. When I come back with the cheese I find them earnestly discussing motorbikes. Eamon wants to get a motorbike apparently. He never told me this. As we polish off a bottle of wine he also reveals that he’d wanted to be a musician when he left school. He was particularly ‘drawn to the cello’ apparently.
‘Ah yes, I’ve always loved the cello myself,’ Mira comments. I watch them talking. It’s amazing. Eamon is being so open. Why isn’t he like that with me? ‘Well, I’d better leave you two lovebirds to talk,’ Mira says eventually, getting up to go to her room. I wish she hadn’t used that description. It suddenly feels so entirely, so almost ridiculously untrue. In fact, at this precise moment the only birds I would liken Eamon and myself to are Cyril and Dora. My forthcoming marriage is beginning to seem like a cage suddenly. I am not prepared for the wave of dread that overcomes me. It’s as if I’m seeing the whole situation for the first time. I look at Eamon and I realize he is almost a stranger. A nice man, yes, but not someone who will ever understand me. And why should he? Because I don’t understand him. I’ve been so horrible to him lately. Is that the kind of wife I’ll be? Irritable, complaining, hard? It was starting already. How could I have fooled myself quite so completely? Persuaded myself that I was being ‘sensible’?
As Mira leaves the room I find myself thinking about a question I’ve been wanting to ask Eamon for some time. Since he’s in an open mood this evening, maybe he will answer it.
‘Eamon,’ I say, ‘a friend of yours told me you “disappeared” earlier this year. That you were gone for some days without telling anyon
e. Where were you?’
He looks at me stony-faced.
‘Were you with someone?’ I continue. ‘I need to know. Tell me.’
‘I was on my own, Alice,’ he replies slowly. ‘I just wanted to get away for a while.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ I persist. ‘It sounds so unlike you.’
‘That’s what happened,’ he sighs. ‘I’d been having some disagreements in the office. I thought “Fuck them – I’m going off to clear my head.” Haven’t you ever felt like that?’ He studies me sadly.
‘Frequently,’ I say. ‘But I never thought you would.’
‘Well, I did.’
‘Why was there mud on your clothes?’ I pester. ‘Why did you come back unwashed and unshaven? You even had a tent in your car.’ I almost add ‘you made love to her under the stars, admit it. You were with a woman you love truly, wildly, helplessly’– only I don’t. I want him to tell me this himself. For some perverse reason I dearly wish that it’s the truth.
‘What exactly are you implying, Alice?’ Eamon regards me icily. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
‘Because I think you were with someone,’ I say, angry now. ‘You were – go on – admit it.’
‘The fact is, Alice, that I went for a long hike up the mountains. It was wet out. I got muddy. I’m sorry if it’s not an exciting enough answer for you, but it’s the truth.’ Eamon is staring at me, crestfallen. I’ve never seen him look like that before.
I feel abjectly apologetic suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, Eamon,’ I whisper miserably. ‘I do believe you. Of course I do. It’s just…’
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