She turned her head towards him. ‘Do you want to come in for coffee?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want coffee.’ He reached across and ran a finger down her cheek. His touch sent a lightning bolt through her.
They barely made it into the house. When she woke in the morning, he was gone. She spent the day in Alice’s dressing-gown with her head in her hands.
Breen. What had possessed her? And then she’d remember what he’d done to her, and what she’d done to him, and her face would scald with the memory.
In the evening she stood under the shower, trying to wash away the images that wouldn’t leave her head. She remembered her car, still hopefully sitting in the restaurant car park. Tomorrow she’d deal with it. She wrapped her hair in a towel and put on a clean T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She went downstairs and made custard. As she was about to spoon it into a bowl, the doorbell rang.
‘I have no idea what happened,’ Breen said. ‘It’s all very confusing.’
He stood unsmiling on her doorstep. At the sight of him, warmth flooded outwards to the tips of her fingers, shot down to her toes, spiralled up into her towel-wrapped head.
‘You want some custard?’ she asked.
He looked suspiciously at her. ‘Is that a trick question? Is custard a euphemism for something else?’
A euphemism. She smiled at him. ‘Yes, it is.’
She held the door open and he walked in. She took his hand and led him into the sitting room and pulled him down onto the floor, and afterwards they ate cold custard out of the saucepan with two spoons. And that had been a month ago.
And over the past four weeks she had told him about Cormac.
And he had told her about his wife.
And she had told him about Frank.
And he had told her about his daughter.
And she had told him about her parents, and Sarah.
There would never be enough time for them to say all that there was to be said between them.
Breen, it would appear, was the second big love of her life.
Breen, for crying out loud.
Sarah
She heard the car pulling up at the gate. When she opened the front door, Martha and Stephen were dragging their rucksacks up the path. ‘Hello there – did you have a good time?’
‘Yeah,’ Stephen said, dropping his rucksack to return her hug. ‘We went to Flubber.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Yeah, it was really funny.’
‘How’s Grandpa?’ Martha asked.
‘He’s fine, lovey, having a lie-down.’
She’d told her father that the children knew nothing about the break-ins. ‘I didn’t want to worry them,’ she explained. To Martha and Stephen she’d simply said that her father’s memory was getting bad, and it was better if he stayed with them for a while. ‘He might forget to turn off the cooker in his house, and it could cause a fire. He’ll be safer here, with us to look after him.’
If they suspected the truth they didn’t say – were they still a little young, at ten and twelve, to realise the full significance? – but in the month that he’d been living with them, Sarah had witnessed his continuing decline with great sadness, and she knew it had to be only a matter of time before the real reason for his presence became clear to both of them.
The children disappeared into the house. Sarah walked to the gate. Neil was standing by the open car door.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
He’d got his hair cut since last weekend, shorter than usual. Over the past few months she’d noticed that his waist was thickening, and for the first time she saw the beginning of a double chin. If he was still living with her she’d be cutting down on the cakes, serving up more salads and fish, making porridge for his breakfast.
‘How’s your father?’ he asked.
‘Much the same … but he’s in good enough form. What about Nuala?’
‘She’s fine.’
Her mother-in-law had been devastated, of course, when Neil had walked out to be with Noreen. Sarah had forced herself to lift the phone and call her, about a week after it had happened.
‘I’m so glad you rang,’ Nuala had wept. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d want to talk to me. I can’t believe he’s done this to you. I’m so sorry, Sarah, I had no idea about any of it – you must believe me.’
‘Of course I believe you.’
And their relationship had remained intact, if temporarily shaken. Nuala had returned joyfully to Sarah’s Christmas dinner table after the year she and Neil had been absent; and no one had been more pleased at the news that Sarah and Neil were to reunite.
‘I prayed for this,’ she’d told Sarah. ‘I hoped so much you’d be able to forgive and forget. You’ve made me very happy.’
Hardly surprising then that the eventual dissolution of her son’s marriage at Sarah’s hand hadn’t gone down well.
‘I don’t know why you’re doing this to him,’ she’d told Sarah stiffly. ‘To hurt him like this, straight after what’s just happened … why would you do that?’ – and in the weeks and months that followed, while she continued to see her grandchildren, her manner towards her daughter-in-law remained polite but distant. What could Sarah do but accept with great sadness that their once-warm friendship was over?
She waited for Neil to get back in the car, but he remained where he was. Over the past few weeks she’d sensed a change in his attitude towards her, a small softening of the bitterness her rejection of him had caused. He asked about the new book project, enquired after her father, commented on the primroses in her window box.
For the children’s sake she was glad of it, happy for them not to sense any rancour between their parents. She decided it could do no harm to let him share the occasional meal with them. Might be good for her father too, to have another male at the dinner table now and again. The two of them had always got on well, before all the upheaval. She opened her mouth to suggest it.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there’s something I wanted to tell you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve met someone,’ he said lightly. ‘Well, I’ve actually known her a while, but we’ve recently … got close.’
Close. ‘Oh,’ Sarah said again. ‘Well, that’s good. I’m pleased for you.’
‘I thought I should mention it.’
‘Yes, of course … Thank you.’
‘I’d like the children to meet her. Would that be OK?’
‘Of course, yes, that’s fine. That would be fine.’ The words coming out in terribly polite little bursts. ‘Of course it is. Absolutely.’
‘Alright then. Maybe next weekend.’
He nodded and got into the car, and she stood there with what she hoped was a perfectly normal smile on her face until he’d driven off. And then she stood there some more.
They’d been apart for almost three years. She’d told him she didn’t love him, that she didn’t want to be married to him any more. She’d sent him away. They were living separate lives, they’d both moved on. And now he’d met someone else, and he wanted the children to meet her, which meant, which had to mean, that it was serious, or becoming serious.
It was perfectly natural for Sarah to feel a little put out. It was human nature, wasn’t it? Wanting to be wanted, even by the person you’d spurned. Wanting that door to remain ajar, to feel that there was still an infinitesimal chance that some day—
No. She turned abruptly and went back in through the gate, banging it behind her.
Helen
‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, two months after their first night together, ‘you’d like to marry me.’
Helen stopped typing and looked across the kitchen table at him. He was eyeing her over his reading glasses, the newspaper spread open in front of him. It was the middle of the afternoon.
Although he hadn’t officially moved in, he was spending most nights with her. His two inherited cats, which had taken up residence when Helen hadn’t b
een looking, sat on the windowsill, purring out at the pathetic April sun.
‘Pardon?’
He took off his glasses and laid them on the paper. ‘We just seem to be heading in that direction.’
Helen smiled.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he said, reaching for his glasses again. ‘Make the arrangements and let me know.’
She continued to watch him for a minute. When he turned a page, she got to her feet and walked around the table and stood beside his chair.
‘Get up.’
He got up.
She looked into his eyes, their faces inches apart. ‘Call that a proposal?’
His face took on a pained expression. ‘O’Dowd,’ he said, ‘I’m no good at this. I’m good at being insensitive and blunt and sarcastic, and you would have me believe I’m rather good in bed. But I can’t do sweet talk, you know that.’
‘Just tell me how you feel about me. Tell me how you feel when you look at me.’
He sighed. He took off his glasses again and moved his hands up to cradle her face. ‘I look at you and I feel happy. I think about you and I feel happy. I talk to you and it makes me happy. It’s not a feeling I’ve had very often in my life, and I’d like to hang on to it. Will you please marry me, even though I can’t imagine why the hell you’d want to, so I can stay feeling happy for the rest of my life?’
She tilted her head. ‘Better. But you forgot the bit about love.’
Jesus, he said.
She waited.
He ran a finger along her cheek, like he’d done the first evening. ‘I love you, O’Dowd, a hell of a lot more than I love myself. I have no idea how it happened, but I’m pretty sure it’s entirely your fault – and frankly, it terrifies the daylights out of me. Good enough?’
She touched her lips to his. ‘Yes. Yes it is, and yes I will. But we’ll both make the arrangements.’
The following day she phoned Alice and told her she’d like to visit Edinburgh for a couple of days. A week later she travelled alone to Scotland, booked in to the B&B that had been arranged for her, and took Alice and Lara out to dinner. The next day she met Alice at Wonderland Design and the two of them went to lunch at a café around the corner.
‘I have news,’ Helen said, as soon as their food had been served.
Alice was precisely as dumbfounded as she’d expected.
‘You’re getting married? But who is he? How long have you even known him?’ Her face changed. ‘It’s not Frank, is it?’
‘It’s not Frank,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve known him forever. It’s just taken us a while to get to where we are.’ She paused. ‘It’s Breen, my old boss.’
Alice’s mouth dropped open a little wider – and then she smiled. ‘Nice one, Mum. You got me. I totally believed you.’
‘I’m not joking. We met up the day of Granny’s funeral—’
‘Granny’s funeral? That’s only a few weeks ago.’
‘Actually, it’s over two months.’ Helen looked down at her spaghetti Bolognese. ‘I know it seems sudden, and it took us both by surprise. After your father, I never thought I’d feel like this again. Frank was wonderful, and I tried really hard, but it just didn’t happen.’
‘But your old boss – you always hated him. I remember how mad you’d be after he’d been on the phone.’
‘I know. We had a … volatile working relationship.’ Helen smiled. ‘But I don’t hate him now.’
Alice poked at her baked potato. ‘And you’re not going to do another runner?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Well, you’ll never cease to amaze me,’ Alice said, reaching for the salt. ‘Sometimes – most times – I feel like I’m the mother.’
Helen laughed. So happy he’d made her, so unbelievably happy. ‘Sorry about that.’
Alice didn’t laugh back. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing, Mum. Really.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Oh, she did.
When she got back to Ireland, she wrote to Sarah.
Are you sitting down? If not, sit down. I’ll wait.
I’m in love. I’m truly, madly, deeply, laughably, ludicrously in love. (You see? It needed a chair.) What’s more, I’m getting married. And here’s the killer – it’s Breen. Remember Breen, my main editor for years? Yes, you do remember him, because when you wrote your prissy first few letters to me you sent them care of him.
He annoyed the hell out of me, I often ranted to you about him, and the feeling was mutual. He was so bossy and crotchety – never ONCE did he say anything positive, even when I submitted something that was so bloody good he couldn’t find anything to give out about. Probably annoyed him more. But we managed not to murder one another until he took early retirement, ten or eleven years ago.
And since then I’ve bumped into him now and again – I might have mentioned them – but I hadn’t seen him for a few years, and then I met him again, in the cemetery of all places, on the day of my mother’s funeral. And long story, but we ended up going out to dinner later in the week – and it just happened, it just came crashing into us, and it’s blissful. I’m fifty-six and I’m head over heels in love with the last sixty-eight-year-old in the world I thought I’d end up with. You have my permission to howl with laughter.
I told Alice, I’ve just got back from Edinburgh. She thought I was joking, which is perfectly understandable. I hope I haven’t traumatised the poor girl. I think she’ll be OK when she gets over the shock.
Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Blame my happy, distracted heart. Better still, blame Breen. He can take abuse, he gets plenty from me – he can still annoy the living daylights out of me. I know, it makes no sense, and I don’t care.
We haven’t made any wedding plans yet, but it’ll probably be soon, and small and quiet, and maybe not in Ireland. I’ll keep you posted.
Hope everything’s well. How’s your father doing? Catch me up when you get the chance. Oh, and I’m delighted to hear about your story-writing venture – I promise to offer no advice whatsoever, not that you’ll need it. I have a feeling that Martina and Charlie’s stories will flow out of you.
Must go – Breen is due in half an hour and my insides are melting in anticipation. If the old bitter and twisted Helen Fitzpatrick could hear me she’d slap my face.
H xx
PS Thank God I didn’t marry Frank. I would have had to leave him, which would probably have destroyed him even more than my running away from the wedding. Did I tell you that he came to the church for my mother’s funeral? Poor sweet doomed Frank.
PPS Breen calls me O’Dowd. Isn’t that too quaint for words?
PPPS Helen Breen. Swoon.
Sarah
Dear Helen
Very surprised at your news, but also very happy for you. It sounds wonderful, and congratulations. Yes, I remember you mentioning your old editor once or twice.
Neil has met someone new too. Her name is Maria. He told me two weeks ago, and the children met her for the first time last weekend. She gave Stephen one of those Game Boys, which I imagine was Neil’s suggestion, and which of course won Stephen over completely. I wasn’t altogether pleased – Neil is well aware that I’d much prefer to see Stephen out and about or playing the piano than hunched over a silly electronic game, but I can hardly send it back.
Martha got a nail-salon set, so she and her friends have been painting and primping since it arrived. It seems a little grown-up for twelve-year-olds – surely they’ll be using makeup long enough. But again, what can I say without sounding bitter and twisted?
Oh dear, I’ve just read over the last bit and that’s exactly how I sound. I suppose, if I’m honest, I’m a little jealous of Neil’s new woman, although that sounds like I’m sorry we split up, and I’m not. I think it’s just a case of wanting what I haven’t got.
And it doesn’t help that poor Dad is getting so forgetful. The other day he took all the photo albums from the press and piled them up on the garden seat. Thank goodness I discovered them before the
rain came. And he forgets to put socks on, and he doesn’t shave unless I remind him, and lots of other things. But at least he’s with me and I can look after him.
Work is fine, but it’s not like it was when I was there five days a week: now I almost feel like I’m trespassing when I go into the kitchen. I have to keep things as Josie likes, rather than the way I’d have them.
Sorry, just ignore me, I’m feeling a bit fed up. It seems like everyone else has someone except me. Feel free to tell me to pull myself together – I probably need it. But I am happy for you, really I am. It’s wonderful.
love Sarah xx
PS On a more positive note, I’ve sent in the first Martina and Charlie story to Paul and I’m waiting to hear his reaction. I enjoyed writing it, but I have no idea how good or bad it is. Time will tell.
The sitting-room door opened and Stephen walked in. ‘Mum, Grandpa did a number two and never flushed the toilet.’
‘Did you flush?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good boy. Where’s Grandpa now?’
‘He’s in the garden, but it’s raining and he has no coat on.’
She folded the pages of the letter and slipped them into the waiting envelope. ‘I’ll be right out.’
This was her life now.
Helen
‘I do,’ she said, becoming a wife for the second time.
It was the top of Scotland; it was the middle of October. Helen wore the same black dress she’d put on for their first dinner date eight months earlier, and a green velvet wrap borrowed from Alice, and horribly expensive flat silk pumps, to keep her an inch shorter than him. And the beautiful, beautiful necklace he’d given her the night before.
The church was tiny and ancient, ten knobbly wooden pews rubbed shiny by the elbows and rear ends of generations of mass-goers, an aisle running between them that had taken her fourteen bridal paces to cover. Its walls were thick enough to keep at bay the sharp wind that howled outside and the rain that pelted at the gorgeous little stained-glass windows, and its granite altar was slightly smaller than the average dining table.
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