by Celia Hayes
“I think we should take a little break to reflect.”
I bang my forehead on the table in a moment of total despair.
“Shall I make some more tea?”
“No, I think I’m fine for now,” I say, resurfacing from my close range contemplation of the table top. “At this point, I’m going home. I don’t think you’re prepared to co-operate and I’ve just exhausted my daily dose of patience. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. And if you don’t, please forget my name, my phone number, my existence,” and I hold my hand out, hoping to sneak out as soon as possible.
She doesn’t seem to appreciate my manners, nor my honesty. In a rage, she tightens her jaw and sinks into the most despotic of silences.
Can I be honest? I just don’t care!
I don’t know how to deal with her any more. Since I arrived here this morning, I’ve been trying to please her in every possible way, but there isn’t a proposal that she likes, nothing that will appease her thirst for revenge towards all of mankind. She can sit there and sulk all she wants, I’m not staying here looking at her for a second longer.
Without waiting for a farewell which I’m already certain will never come, I withdraw my hand and set off towards the door.
Only then does she finally realize that I’m not bluffing, and decide to react.
“How dare you leave without my permission?” she snaps, rising to her feet. “Are you aware that you are being very rude?”
“Yes,” I say, turning towards her with open arms. “Yes, I suppose I am – but I don’t care! I’ve wasted the whole day trying to find a solution to your thousand and one fixations without reaching any result – and do you know why?”
“Of course, because you’re absolutely useless at your job.”
“No! I’m actually very good at my job. I’m the only person in this dump full of weirdos who knows what she’s talking about. The real problem is that you don’t actually want to sign that document and don’t understand that it’s your last opportunity to prevent your dotage being an endless string of Sunday canasta games in a shabby nursing home in the middle of nowhere where no one will ever come to visit you until the day you die.”
Good Lord, what did I just say?
Oh God, I swear I didn’t mean…
Shocked by my own words, I cover my mouth, and then try to conceal how upset I am with a shrug and head off again towards the door. What’s done is done! And anyway, it’s true and she’s too intelligent not to know it. I could have been a little more tactful, but she forced me to say it by spending all day ripping my nerves to shreds with her incessant ‘no’s.
I go out of the room and slam the door.
When I reach the porch, I realize that it’s pouring with rain. The car is down the drive, behind a line of trees next to a wooden gazebo. Needless to say, I have no umbrella with me.
Still shaken, I stand there under the dripping veranda with my arms folded, peering into the clouds and frowning. I don’t want to stay here and I don’t want to leave. All in all, this is right where I deserve to be – between the lions’ den and the wastes of the Tartars. Everyone chooses their own destiny, right? Well, at least you can’t say that I haven’t been working hard to destroy mine.
“I thought you’d left,” she whispers, appearing quietly from behind me.
“It’s raining,” I point out.
She doesn’t reply. She approaches under the veranda and rests her elbows on the railing. She, like me, watches the rain flood the garden without commenting, until I hear her say, “It wasn’t always like this. When Daniel was alive we were a family. They respected him… or maybe they were just in awe of him.”
Her voice is tired, but for once, is free of the bitterness that’s usually there.
“What’s this? A request for a truce?”
“Oh, think what the hell you like!” she snaps. “I’m just trying to…”
“To?”
“To make you understand that it’s not as simple as you think,” she spits, losing control for a moment. But only for a moment. Suppressing another angry explosion, she resumes staring at the garden, her back to me. I promise myself I will not give an inch, standing there with my nose in the air and convinced that I’m in the right until, gradually overpowered by guilt, I sigh and give in.
I walk over slowly and, like her, rest my elbows on the railing. I imagine I ought to keep my nose out, but I can’t help asking, “How long has it been since you spoke to them?”
“The last time I saw them was a few years ago, at my husband’s funeral,” she replies without hesitation.
“And haven’t you tried to contact them?”
“Yes, of course I have. Especially to speak to my grandchildren. But then all the excuses started: work, commitments… And I gave up.” She scratches the back of her hand idly, while observing the sky. “Heed my warning, don’t ever get old,” she says, and there is no emotion in her voice. “One day, you’re their rock, the next you’re just a burden.”
I don’t think I run that risk. If I look at my past life and try to see into the future, at best I’ll probably end up living surrounded by cats in the suburbs and dying without anyone noticing for days.
What a horrible thought.
“Can you explain one thing – why did you decide to marry that boy?” I ask, no longer able to restrain my curiosity. Ever since I started following her story, I’ve been wondering how such a woman could end up in the hands of a profiteer not yet in his thirties.
“That, if you’ll allow me, is none of your business!” she snaps, completely unwilling to give me an explanation.
I burst out laughing.
“And you’re surprised that they don’t bother with you? You don’t have a particularly accommodating attitude,” I respond without any malice, simply pointing out something that is obvious to everyone.
“Look who’s talking! I don’t think you’re much better,” she retorts, certain that she’s hit home.
“I—” I start to protest indignantly, but when our eyes meet, I desist.
Finally, I recognize an equal, I no longer feel the constant need to justify myself, and so I arch my lips into a reluctant smile and go back to staring peacefully at the drive which separates me from the car.
“I don’t like getting too familiar with strangers,” I admit.
“And why is that?” she asks in astonishment. “I’m old and sick of listening to nonsense, but you don’t have that excuse.” It almost sounds like an accusation.
“I found my boyfriend in bed with another woman. I know, no one’s to blame, but I’m still pretty pissed off every time I encounter another human being.”
I realize too late that I’ve let my foul mouthed side emerge, but, strangely, it doesn’t seem to bother her. No. She must be interested in the story itself, because she asks me “And where’s he now?”
“Since I told him that I cheated on him with a well-hung body builder he has decided to retreat with dignity,” I say, deciding it’s not necessary to go into further detail.
“Mmm…” she mumbles thoughtfully. “And is it true?”
“What?”
“That you cheated on him with Ethan?”
She gives me a sly look that I would gladly make her swallow, along with her dentures.
“What has Ethan got to do with it?” I say, immediately on the defensive.
“He’s spoken to me about a woman and, from the description, you seem to be the only possible candidate.”
And in fact, there aren’t many well-endowed bodybuilders locally, but couldn’t I have lied? Do I always have to be honest? But instead of protesting my innocence, I ask in a starstruck voice “He talked about me?”
What deplorable lack of style. And not content with that, I persist!
“And what did he say?” I ask her, trying to appear casual.
Anything but naive, she raises an eyebrow, puts a strand of hair in place and replies, “Oh, you know. Small talk. For example, I
know that he rented a couple of rooms to you.”
“Yes, for a few months,” I confirm, and wait for her to continue. But she just nods a couple of times and starts to discuss petunias.
“Then there, beside the fountain, we’ll have a lovely rose garden. I wouldn’t mind replanting one,” she says, forgetting the topic of conversation.
“I’m sure that would be lovely – and didn’t Ethan say anything else?” I press her. An answer, please – what would it cost you?
“Oh, yes, he said something else.”
“What?”
“That he finds you irritating and rude.”
I deserved that. I shouldn’t have insisted. Look at how pleased with herself she is!
“You were saying about the rose garden?”
“As you wish, as you wish,” she says, but after a few seconds of respite she sighs, turns her eyes to the heavens and continues, “Of course, he’s a very handsome boy.”
“Ha ha. Don’t try it. I’m not interested in what you’re selling,” I say, to avoid there being any doubt.
“And who ever said anything to the contrary?” she says, before changing tactics. “Besides, you’re not his type.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I react instantly.
“I’d have thought it was pretty obvious – you’re so terribly rigid, formal, skinny—”
“I’m not at all skinny. I’m normal!” I defend myself, smoothing my wisteria coloured dress.
“I didn’t say you weren’t – just that you don’t appear to have the assets to charm a young man like Ethan.”
“People like Ethan don’t need any special requirements. Just breathing is more than enough!” I comment scornfully.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Far from it! He has always been very selective about his friendships.”
“Oh, please!”
“You disagree?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then why you are getting worked up?”
“I’m not getting worked up.”
“It looks to me as though you are.”
“I just don’t like that kind of person,” I explain.
“And I was just pointing out that the feeling could be mutual,” she re-iterates.
And who asked you?
“It just so happens that he doesn’t interest me in the least.”
“No, I’m sure. It’s absolutely evident,” she mutters sarcastically, looking at me so closely I feel uncomfortable.
“Can I ask why we are still talking about Ethan?”
“I don’t know, you started it.”
“But this is ridiculous! I didn’t start anything!” I say, gesticulating angrily, “It’s you who keeps mentioning him!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, be quiet! He’ll be here soon and I don’t want him to think I’m a nosy old gossip.”
“Here? Who?” I ask, flustered, looking around.
“Can’t you see him? He’s right over there,” she says, raising a hand. “Ethan, hurry up! Haven’t you noticed it’s raining?” She watches him as he hurries along the avenue.
But… But… Why is Ethan here?
I can’t help watching him myself. In one hand he’s holding a plastic bag and in the other he’s holding a crumpled newspaper against the rain.
“You silly boy, couldn’t you have brought an umbrella with you?” Mary scolds him, approaching the steps to meet him.
“I didn’t think there’d be such a storm!” he grumbles, joining us on the veranda.
What a mess. He looks like a pit-bull that’s come straight out of the bath. He bangs his feet on the ground, shakes his head sending water splattering everywhere, wipes his hands on his jeans and looks around, realizing that he’s flooded half the staircase and covered two-thirds of the wooden floor in mud.
What a genius!
“Sorry, Mary – I’ll come round tomorrow to clean it.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, short-tempered as usual. “Edwige can take care of it, so for once she can justify the sixty pounds a week she’s been stealing off me for the past fifteen years. One of these days I’ll fire her, the lazy good-for-nothing.”
Ethan seems accustomed to her little rants. Calmly, he walks over to her and prints a kiss on her forehead. Being her, she obviously refuses to give him the satisfaction of being grateful, so she reacts by shaking him off as though he was infected with the plague.
Who does she think she’s fooling? You can see a kilometre away that her suspenders are melting! And then they talk about the menopause…
“Oh… You’re here too,” he says, finally noticing me. I’m leaning against a column, discreetly enjoying the show.
“Hello, Ethan,” I reply with detachment.
“Is that any way to greet a lady?” reproaches Mary, who has obviously noticed how cold we are with one another.
We’re not usually so detached, but after Cookie, I get a twinge like an ulcer as soon as I see him. He doesn’t seem to be doing any better either, so by tacit mutual agreement we decided to avoid each other.
“Do you want a kiss, too?” he asks sarcastically.
Mrs Cox’s eyes are looking at me, clearly interested in my reaction, but I decide not to give her any satisfaction and respond with just a formal smile.
“I’ll settle for the thought,” I say, dodging the issue. “Wow, it’s really late!” I exclaim suddenly, looking at my watch. “I’d better go. I’ll leave you in capable hands. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”
“Don’t be stupid! Can’t you see how bad the weather is?” she cuts me off, taking the bag from Ethan. “Did you get the onions?” She peers inside at the contents.
“Yes, but I couldn’t get the Tabasco. He told me he’ll have it in tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she nods. She’s about to add something, but as soon as she looks up, something much juicier than a tin of tomatoes from the local grocery store presents itself: me counting the cobwebs on the ceiling and pretending not to have noticed that he’s staring at me insistently.
I grew up with two sisters, if he thinks he can beat me that easily…
The problem is that it’s two against one, one of them with at least fifty years of experience and an insane, unmotivated need to complicate my life. In practice, I’m doomed to failure because of numbers.
“Now, go away,” she says to him. “Stop hanging around unnecessarily and accompany Miss Watts home. You don’t want her to venture off across the countryside in that jalopy, do you?” she asks, as if she was really interested in my safety.
Of course! She just wants to see how I manage once cornered. I can already imagine her satisfied expression while she’s sipping her bloody tea!
“My ‘jalopy’ goes like a dream,” I say.
“It will go even better if you leave it here until the roads are clear. They tell me you’ve become a regular at the garage.”
For someone who is always alone, where does she get all this information?
“I’m glad to learn you are so well informed as to my misadventures, but I really can’t afford to leave the car here. Something unexpected might happen and it would mean that I’d be stranded. We can’t say that Turriff is famed for its public transport system.”
“Oh, come on, what are you worried about?” she says, raising her eyebrows as if she didn’t have any idea of the reason for my reticence to accept a lift. “You have to come back here tomorrow to pick up the signed contract, right? Nothing’s going to happen in one evening, and I’m sure that Ethan will be happy to run to your rescue if needed.”
You dirty blackmailer.
“Okay,” I say, trying to look friendly. My only hope now is Ethan.
Come on, Cookie, this is the time to speak up. Tell her you’re busy. Come on! Reel off a few excuses.
“Right, come on then!” he exclaims instead, taking my arm. “I’ve got a jeep, not a speedboat.”
Contrary to my hopes, he’s a bit of a masochist.
Not wanti
ng to waste any more time, he forces me to follow him in the rain without even giving me the chance to say goodbye to Mrs Cox. In hindsight it was better that way, because when I managed to turn round I saw her standing outside the front door laughing. I really don’t know if I’d have managed not to strangle her, if I’d had the opportunity to approach her one last time.
Chapter 29
Time Out!
“Of all the women in the world,
why did I have to fall for you?”
“Would you rather it were someone else?”
“Replace ‘someone’ with ‘anyone’ and you’re getting warm.”
“Shall I take you home?”
It’s the only question he’s addressed to me since we got in the car.
He spent the trip silently biting his lip with a grim expression on his face – apart from when he started swearing at those poor people who had done nothing wrong except use the road.
Could he be angry at me?
Why does that seem so probable?
I decide to reduce my contribution to the absolute minimum, determined not to give him an excuse to pick a fight, but when we reach the gate I have to speak to him, because I see him driving straight towards the garage, regardless of the fact that I have to walk round the house to get to my door. It’s not that far away, but in this weather…
“Ethan, stop here. I’ll get out,” I say, when we’re at the end of the path. He pays no attention whatsoever, and goes straight on, pulling into the garage.
“Forget it,” I mutter, resigned. “Okay, thanks for the lift,” I say uncomfortably and go towards the door, pulling my peach-coloured cardigan around me.
I haven’t taken three steps when I feel myself seized by a pair of arms and two minutes later I am pushed through the door that connects the garage to his kitchen entangled in the most furious argument I’ve ever had.
“Would you mind telling me what your problem is?”
He is wearing a wet grey T-shirt that gives a high-definition image of his chest muscles. I flop against the sink between the dishwasher and his looming presence,
“Me? What my problem is?” he yells, a murderous expression on his face.