People We Love

by Jenny Harper

  He picked up his car at the airport, but rather than going straight to the gallery, he decided to head home to shower and shave. He nosed his car into the drive at The Gables and was about to go upstairs when he heard voices in the living room. Puzzled, he hovered by the door. It was not Mrs Mackie’s day and Cora usually enjoyed the peace of the annexe. One of the voices, however, definitely was Cora’s, but he didn’t recognise the other.

  He threw open the door.

  Niamh Mulgrew was tall and slender, and still as beautiful at thirty-nine as she had been at seventeen. On this overcast day her eyes were pale gunmetal, the exact shade of the sky. Her hair showed the odd hint of grey, but was still for the most part black, perhaps a little less lustrous than it had once been, but enviable nonetheless. Her skin had taken the worst hit from the passage of time – the translucent softness of her youth had coarsened and a spray of fine lines criss-crossed the smoothness round the eyes. But it was the lips that Patrick noticed first. Niamh’s mouth had grown thinner, as though years of unhappiness had caused them to tighten and harden. Fine wrinkles marred the upper lip and her lipstick was too dark, he thought, for her colouring.

  ‘Hello Patrick,’ Niamh said, rising to greet him.

  Her accent was still Irish. He grappled with this fact through the shock. Of course it was – she had lived in Ireland all the years they had been apart. The encounter was like taking a step back in time; he had moved on, changed his life, become urbane and cosmopolitan, while she had moved back to Dublin, to the environment she’d grown up in, to live with Aidan.

  And what had she been doing all this time? Patrick realised he knew nothing of the two of them. Over the years he had done the metaphorical equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and singing ‘la, la, la’ any time either of their names has been mentioned, so he had no idea whether she worked, or if they had children – whether they had married, even. When he’d parted with Niamh, he’d sworn that he would never speak to her again. Yet here she was, standing in his house, greeting him with a look of such obvious apprehension that he could not find it in himself to turn his back and sweep out. The grand gesture would seem merely juvenile.

  ‘Hello, Niamh.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he spied Cora’s relief that there was not to be a fight. Not yet, at any rate, not a simple childish throwing of toys out of the pram.

  ‘I’ll leave you two together,’ she murmured, ‘Time I was at work anyway.’

  She touched his shoulder as she slid past and he was grateful for the small show of support. Once she had gone, and the door had swung closed, he turned to face his ex-wife.

  A small smile played on Niamh’s face and he tried to read it. He was disturbed by its familiarity because while the shell was similar, the substance had changed. Once she had been all innocence and vivacity, now there was something wary about her expression and the gusto had turned to a slightly distressing air of defeat.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what brings you here? Something happened to my dear brother? Nothing good, I hope,’ he couldn’t help adding with a childish flare of spite.

  ‘You’re looking terrific, Patrick,’ Niamh’s voice was muted. ‘I thought you might have aged more. Actually, I thought you’d be married again, but Cora tells me you’re still single.’

  When Patrick said nothing, she went on, ‘Might I beg a coffee? I’m very—’ her voice limped to a halt, but she drew a deep breath and carried on, ‘—tired. You must be too. I hear you’re just back from London.’

  Manners kicked in. What harm could it do to offer her coffee?

  ‘Of course. Why don’t you come into the kitchen? We can talk there.’

  He could see Niamh eying the luxury beechwood cabinets, the cream marble counter tops and the opalescent pendent lights. Was she weighing the differences in their lives? Yet for all he knew, she might live in a palace.

  ‘This is lovely.’

  He grunted and filled the cafetière from the instant hot water tap.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Not really, no. Thanks.’

  She sipped coffee and continued to stare around.

  ‘You’ve done well, Patrick. I always knew you would. Remember the little flat we had in Dublin when we first got married? We could hardly walk round the bed and the two-ring stove was tucked into a corner behind the sofa.’

  Patrick’s defences sprang into action. He wasn’t about to get drawn into a game of ‘do you remember?’ because that could be a precursor to the reawakening of all sorts of emotions he needed to keep firmly in check.

  ‘Are you just passing by, Niamh? Visiting Edinburgh? You’re lucky to catch me here, I’m away a lot.’

  She flashed a shrewd look at him – whatever else she might be, Niamh had never been stupid.

  ‘Okay. Straight down the middle, I see. You never were one for finesse, were you?’

  She set down the fine porcelain cup Patrick had passed to her and drew a breath.

  ‘Aidan is dying. He has a lymphoma that started in the neck and has spread through his body.’

  She waited. Patrick sipped his coffee and watched her carefully, but he said nothing. Inwardly he was cursing his spiteful remark of earlier – what must she have thought of him? – but he couldn’t unsay it now.

  ‘He would never ask you, but I know how much it would mean to him if you’d come and see him before he dies.’

  Patrick set his cup down.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear he’s ill.’

  ‘Are you, Patrick?’ Her grey eyes filled with scepticism. ‘You sound so cold. You never used to be cold, you were funny and spirited.’

  ‘It’s just conceivable that things happened to change that.’

  Niamh bit her lip.

  ‘Do you ever think about me, Patrick? I’ve often wondered about that. I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about you.’

  ‘Niamh—’

  He stood up and lifted his coffee cup into the sink.

  ‘I phoned and wrote I don’t know how many times. Did you ever read my letters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  ‘What good would it have done? Hey?’

  He rounded on her, suddenly aggressive.

  ‘Saying sorry couldn’t undo what happened.’

  ‘If you knew how much I regretted what happened … I hoped that perhaps you could find it in your heart to forgive me.’

  He stared her down and under his gaze she became defiant.

  ‘I was bored. You were out all the time. I didn’t want to be in London, I hated it, but your damn ambition was so enormous you didn’t even notice. And when Aidan came along, with his bloody Mulgrew charm, it was all too easy to—’

  Her voice tailed off.

  ‘It didn’t mean much. I never meant for you to find out. Aidan would have been gone in another week and we’d have got back to normal—’

  Patrick’s voice was sharp as the blade of a razor, the cut just as smooth.

  ‘And if I’d never found out, it would all have been all right? Is that what you thought? Or perhaps you would have thought that after fucking my brother, further adulterous adventures would be less heinous, maybe more easily forgiven? Is that it, Niamh?’

  ‘You’re as stubborn as ever. I hoped we could—’

  ‘Could what? You didn’t come here hoping we could be friends, surely?’

  There was a long silence. He was vaguely aware of Cora walking from the annexe down the path at the side of the house. Somewhere further away, the siren of an ambulance blared. Whatever he said to her, Patrick was finding Niamh’s nearness unsettling. He didn’t need to play games to recollect what she had once meant to him, or feel again the unbridled passion of first love and remember the unwavering belief that its flames could never be extinguished. He recalled the wonder of exploration and the discovery of sweet, secret places that sprang to life as his touch gave pleasure. It was heady and dangerous. For a precarious moment he teetered on the verge. For yea
rs he had suppressed the need to be loved and now it was treacherously near the surface.

  Niamh said quietly, ‘It was a mistake. One horrible, stupid, youthful mistake, that’s all. Can you not accept that? Can you not recognise your own part in it all?’

  ‘My part?’

  Niamh stood and walked across to the doors to the patio. The rain had started and heavy drops rolled down the panes, gathering pace and momentum on the way. She raised her hands and pressed them flat against the cold glass, then leaned forward until her forehead rested on it. Patrick’s heart twisted. She never used to be still. Her shoulders never drooped like that, she’d been the one with all the energy.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  The question came from nowhere.

  She turned.

  ‘Children? No. Our relationship was never like that. It never—’ she stopped and pursed her lips as if unsure whether to say anything. ‘I never felt right with Aidan. We didn’t get together until after the divorce, you know. In my heart I hoped you would take me back.’

  She looked away. Her cheekbones were still prominent, and if the lips were thinner than they once had been, this didn’t affect her beauty.

  Her revelation unbalanced him. For ten years he had imagined a grand passion: Niamh and Aidan, Aidan and Niamh, the names almost merged into a new word inside his bruised mind. Only passion could justify such a betrayal, wasn’t that right?

  ‘He was never quite the same man after … Aidan once glittered and shone, much as you did, although he never had your depth. Anyway,’ she closed her eyes briefly, ‘I was left with the lesser of the Mulgrew brothers.’

  ‘You stayed with him.’

  ‘Stayed? Yes. I stayed. I saw it as a kind of punishment. Penance, if you like.’

  ‘You haven’t been happy?’

  Astonishment pumped through his veins.

  Niamh spread her hands, palms upwards, and her shoulders rose an inch or two.

  It was not what he had thought. At another time, the revelation would have given him profound satisfaction, but now he just saw three lives wasted.

  ‘I imagined you crowing, the pair of you. Giggling together about how you had deceived me. I thought Aidan … he was always a competitive little sod.’

  ‘It was never like that. But tell me about yourself, Patrick. You’ve never remarried?’

  For ten years he had swallowed handfuls of anger and hurt to sustain his bitterness. Now Niamh was puncturing the pride that had been his only salve. What would he have left? He shook his head.

  ‘But there’s someone special?’

  A procession of beautiful women paraded in front of Patrick’s eyes: all the Dianas and Arabellas and Josephines of the world of culture and wealth who had made themselves willingly available to him. He was about to deny it, wanting her to understand how deep her injury had gone, when Lexie’s crimson crop shoved its way into his head. He couldn’t betray Lexie by denying her.

  ‘There was someone,’ he admitted, ‘but I lost her.’

  Niamh was exhausted. She had been nursing Aidan at home, but her mother had come for a few days. Shaken by everything she’d said, Patrick persuaded her to stay for a couple of days.

  ‘You need rest,’ he told her.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for rest.’

  ‘How long has he got?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘A month? A few months? It’s impossible to say. Will you visit him?’

  The habit of years was impossible to shed in hours.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly.

  ‘If I stay a couple of days, will you give me your answer then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  While she slept or sat in the sunshine, strolled in the Memorial Park or visited Cora at The Maker’s Mark, he kept himself busy, still unable to process his emotions. He checked over everything that had happened in his absence. He approved the invitation list to the next opening and initialled the proofs for the catalogue, which was due to go off to print. He finalised an agreement with Lord Whitmuir about staged payments for the Colourist painting. He lunched with Diana, who was so gracious about their separation that he almost regretted parting with her.

  It was easy keeping busy at work, but sleep eluded him. On the second night, after hours of restlessness, he abandoned the attempt and went downstairs to make tea. It was three o’clock and to his surprise he saw a thread of light under the living room door. He pushed it open.

  Niamh was sitting on the sofa, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head sunk onto them. He watched her for a moment. In the stillness of the night, she looked again like the girl he’d once loved.

  ‘Niamh? Are you all right?’

  Startled, she raised her head. Her eyes were sunk in great hollows, her face pinched and drawn.

  ‘I have to get back to him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Patrick perched himself on the end of the sofa and on impulse reached for her hand. It lay in his, cold at first, then growing warmer in his grasp.

  ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  The tentative smile was back, as if she wasn’t sure about what he was going to say.

  ‘When it happened—’ Self-awareness came at a price. Patrick took a deep breath. ‘—I couldn’t see beyond my pride. I felt deeply betrayed, but more than anything, I felt a failure. No—’ he stopped Niamh, ‘—don’t say anything, let me finish. I couldn’t stomach the thought of Aidan getting something that was so utterly precious to me. There was no possibility of compromise. The betrayal was final. If I’d been able to step back from it all, just for a time, before I closed all the doors to reconciliation, I guess our lives might have been very different. I’m sorry, Niamh.’

  There. He’d said the words he’d never thought he would utter.

  Her hand curled round his and he felt a gentle squeeze.

  ‘My temper,’ he said, ‘seems to be my downfall.’

  ‘It was understandable. The provocation was great.’

  ‘I should have learned from it. I didn’t allow myself to learn.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Last year, I met someone I thought I could love. We argued, and I said some unforgiveable things.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s no surprise. We haven’t been able to talk since. I know I must apologise, but she’s with someone else now and I think it’s too late.’

  ‘You’ll never know unless you try.’

  Patrick looked at the woman he used to love. She was not the monster he had imagined all these years and for the first time he recognised that it had been his neglect that had driven her to his brother. However deep her betrayal, the outcome need not have been so catastrophic. The passage of time had softened everything. He had moved on, and now he must finally learn the lesson he’d refused to study.

  ‘Will you come to Dublin, Patrick? Say goodbye to Aidan?’

  He gathered her in his arms. She felt thin and vulnerable.

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Catalogue number 33: Hand-made English shoes, donor Elizabeth Garrett, Aberdeen. ‘My husband loved expensive shoes and, when he died, I wished I could find someone to share this liking – not easy, as many charity shops won’t stock shoes. Then Olivia Giles suggested a solution. Her charity 500 Miles changes people’s lives in Malawi and Zambia by providing artificial limbs and limb supports, including legs and feet. People often can’t afford to buy solid enough footwear to protect the plastic feet and so 500 Miles frequently provides shoes along with the orthopedic devices. Edwin’s shoes were perfect!’

  The BBC made a film about 500 Miles and Elizabeth was thrilled when she identified on screen one pair of Edwin’s shoes, proudly worn by a middle-aged man to whom they had given new life. ‘He probably appreciated the shoes more than my husband ever did,’ Elizabeth says.

  So now Lexie knew the truth about why Cameron had fled from Hailesba
nk six years ago. The knowledge drove her emotions along a scale from shock, through disbelief, to a certainty in her own mind that he was seeing Carlotta.

  Carlotta – with her Spanish sultriness and thick dark hair her cielo mio’s and her easy acceptance of poor Jonas’s adoration as some kind of birthright! And he hadn’t just been having a torrid affair with her six years ago, when he’d been, self-confessedly, ‘immature’ – but now as well. Now! When he had made his smoothly muscled body hers once more and declared admiration and adoration at every turn. As for Carlotta, with her little gifts of food for Martha and Tom and her apparent concern for Lexie…

  Lexie turned over again and closed her eyes. But sleep didn’t come, how could it when her mind was so full? Her eyes snapped open and although they felt dry and itchy, they refused to close for refreshment.

  When the morning finally arrived Lexie rose and made coffee. She considered calling Jonas and asking to meet, because she fancied some kind of mutual grouching session across the red stilettos, which were sitting right now on the kitchen table.

  She wouldn’t call him, of course. He had enough to think about, like his future and the fate of his marriage. He’d have to decide whether to forgive Carlotta’s infidelity – because it wasn’t the act that caused the hurt, but the thought of whispered intimacies. And it was about the acceptance of one’s own failings, because surely there must be shortcomings or else why turn to someone else?

  It was impossible to paint, so she walked instead. She pulled on a pair of comfortable old boots and set off along the path by the river. It was September and the air was distinctly cool. After fifteen minutes, the path disappeared into a copse, and the thin light was filtered through the dying leaves so that it was like walking in twilight. This shadowy, murmuring place smelled of dampness and decay. Rotted-down leaves from last year still lay heaped in ditches and holes, a kick from a toe sprayed the paper-dry covering of leaves left and right to reveal the sodden mulch below. And now the rot was starting all over again.

  Deep in one of her pockets, Lexie’s mobile buzzed. She felt its vibration rather than heard its tone, and extricated it with difficulty. The screen said ‘Cameron’. She pressed the divert button. She didn’t want to talk to Cameron. She’d had enough of excuses, she needed to think about what she had lost – or (she tried to make herself think positively) what she had gained.