by Maeve Binchy
“No, we will notbe out.”
“I'll treat you to supper somewhere.”
“You'll pay for us to go out of our own home?”
“Try to help me on this.”
“Why should I? You never tried to help anyone anywhere along the line.”
“Why won't you do this small thing?”
“Because Mam has arranged to cook us a supper to celebrate taking a new job. Because it's long planned and I am not canceling it now. Sorry, Dad.”
“I'm coming over anyway.” He hung up.
Linda came dripping out of the bathroom wrapped in a damp towel. Adi looked at her without pleasure. Linda, who ate junk food, who smoked and drank, looked just beautiful, her long wet hair as good as anyone else's would look coming from a salon. There was no fairness in life.
“Who was on the phone?” Linda wanted to know.
“Dad. Like a bag of weasels.”
“What did he want?”
“To talk to Mam. He said he would pay us to go out tonight.”
Linda brightened. “Really? How much?”
“I said no. No way.”
“That was very high-handed of you.”
“You call him and renegotiate if you want to. I'm not going out.”
“I suppose it's the big D,” Linda said.
“Why should they bother to get divorced now? She didn't throw him out when she should have. Aren't they fine as they are? Him with the bimbo and Mam here with us?” Adi saw no reason to change things.
Linda was shruggy “Bet she's pregnant, the bimbo, bet you that's what he's coming to tell her.”
“God,” said Adi, “now I wish I had agreed to take his bribe if that's what it's all going to be about. I think I'll call him back.”
In the end she sent him a text: “House will be daughter-free from 7:30 tonight. We have gone to Quentins. Will send you the bill. Love, Adi.”
“Alan? Alan, the phone is a bit fuzzy. Can you hear me? It's Cinta.”
“I know it is, darling.”
“Have you told her?”
“I'm just on the way to her house, darling.”
“You won't bottle out like last week.”
“That's not exactly what happened …”
“Don't let it happen again, please, Alan.”
“No, darling, you can rely on me.”
“I'll need to, Alan. This time I need to.”
Clara let herself in. The house was suspiciously quiet. She would have expected both girls to be at home. There were wet towels on the bathroom floor. Linda had been home having a bath. There were leaflets about recycling plastic on the kitchen table, so Adi had been back too. But no sign of them now. Then she saw the note on the fridge.
Dad is coming round at 8 to talk to you; he sort of implied he wanted this to be a one to one. Without us being there. He implied rather heavily, as it happens. Actually, he offered to pay for a meal out for us, so we're going to Quentins.
Love from us both,
Adi
What could he want tonight of all nights? At the end of a long, tiring, disappointing day that had involved seeing the place without a soul that was going to be the center of her work for the next year?
At the end of hours of role-playing and attitude-taking about territory with a tiresome bureaucratic hospital official. After hunting through three different delicatessen sections to get pasta sauces for her picky daughters. And now they were both going out to a fancy restaurant and Clara had to face Alan and whatever cracked scheme he had worked out to take something back from their financial settlement.
Clara put the food away. There would be no sharing of anything with Alan. Not any longer. Those years were long over. She took two bottles of fizzy water out of the fridge. She put the two bottles of Australian Sauvignon Blanc at the very back of the fridge behind the yogurts and low-fat spreads. He would never find them there. And she might well need them badly after he had gone.
At Quentins restaurant Adi and Linda settled down happily.
“You could run a small country for a week on what they're paying at that table over there.” Adi was disapproving.
“Yeah, but not with any sense of fun,” Linda said.
“I wonder are we really blood sisters?” Adi asked.
“You've always wondered that.” Linda slowly sipped her tequila sunrise.
“What time do you think he'll go?”
“Who, the guy at the table?”
“No, Dad, you fool.”
“As soon as he gets what he wants. What makes him different from any other man?” Linda caught the waiter's eye. Another tequila sunrise and she would be ready to order.
Clara had intended to change into home clothes, but the phone never stopped ringing so there was no time. Her mother wanted to know what the new office was like.
“Do you have a carpet on the floor?” Her mother was down to basics.
“It's sort of modern flooring throughout the whole place.”
“You don't, then.” She could see her mother's mouth closing like a trap. The way it had when she had got engaged to Alan, got married to Alan and got separated from Alan. There had been many closed-trap moments.
Her friend Dervla had called to know what the mood of the place was like.
“Mushroom and magnolia,” Clara had told her.
“God, what on earth does that mean?”
“That's the colors it's painted in at the moment.”
“But you can change all that.”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“So it's not really just the color scheme that's upsetting you.”
“Who's upset?”
“I can't imagine. Did you meet any of the people you'll be working with?”
“Nope. It was tombstone city.”
“It's a question of nothing will please you? Am I right?”
“As always, you are right, Dervla.” Clara sighed.
“Listen, Philip is out at a meeting and he won't be baying for food. Would it help if I were to bring round a bottle of wine and a half kilo of sausages? Used to work in the old days.”
“Not tonight, Dervla. That Bastard Alan has paid the girls to go out to Quentins because he wants to tell me something, ask me something.”
“I was at a meeting yesterday and one of the items on the agenda said TBA. I actually thought it meant That Bastard Alan, because you never call him anything else.”
Clara laughed. “What didit mean?”
“I don't know. To Be Agreed, To Be Arranged, something like that.” Dervla wasn't certain.
“No one would ever know you had a brain, Dervla. You always put on this vague fluffy act.”
“For all the good it does me.”
“I wish I had your know-how. I don't know what he wants, but whatever it is I don't want to give it to him.”
“If it doesn't matter to you, then give it to him. Make a big deal out of it, of course, but if you don't care, then give it and walk away.”
“But what can it be? He can't have the house. He doesn't want the girls—they're big enough anyway to go wherever they want and they hardly go near him.”
“Maybe he has a touch of angina and wants an examination.”
“No, I never treated him. I always made sure from the start that he went to Sean Murray.”
“Maybe he wants to marry the young one, and needs a divorce.”
“No, he's running headlong from marrying her.”
“How do you know?”
“The girls tell me. He even tries to tell me when he thinks I might listen to him.”
“And will you listen to him?”
“Not much. I know you all think I should have finished this totally ages ago. Who knows? I might. I might not.”
“Good luck, Clara.”
“I wish we were having those sausages and wine.”
“Another night, Clara.”
Then there was an e-mail from the paint shop saying that she could pick up a color chart the next morn
ing; a text from her cousin in Northern Ireland to say that there was going to be a Ladies’ Club Outing to Dublin and could Clara suggest somewhere good value where they could park a bus and lunch, buy souvenirs and a bit of country air at a reasonable price; a neighbor came in to ask for support about banning a pop concert that would deafen them in three months’ time. And then it was eight o'clock and Alan was on the doorstep.
He looked well. Annoyingly well. Much younger than his forty-eight years. Under a dark jacket he had an open-necked, lemon-colored shirt. Easy care, Clara noted. No careful ironing of collars and cuffs for the bimbo. He was carrying a bottle of wine.
“More civilized, I thought,” he said.
“More civilized than what exactly?” Clara asked.
“Than sitting glaring at each other. God, you look well. That's a lovely color. Is it heather? Or mauve?”
“I'm not sure.”
“Oh, yes, you are, you were always great with color. Perhaps it's violet or lilac or—”
“Perhaps it is, Alan. Will you come in?”
“Girls out?”
“Yes. You paid for them to go to Quentins, remember?”
“I said I'd stand them a bite of supper. I didn't know they'd go upmarket. Still, that's youth today”
“Yes, well, you'd know all about it, Alan. Come in and sit down since you're here.”
“Thank you. Shall I get the opener?”
“This is my house. I will get my opener and my glasses when I am ready.”
“Hey, hey, Clara, I brought you a pipe of peace, well, a wine bottle of peace. Where's all the aggravation coming from?”
“I can't think. I really can't. Could it have anything to do with your cheating on me for years, lying to me, promising things were over when they weren't, leaving me, fighting me through all the lawyers in the land?”
“You got the house.” To Alan it was simple.
“Yes, I got the house I paid for. I didn't get anything else.”
“We have been through all this, Clara. People change.”
“I didn't.”
“But you did, Clara, we all did. You just didn't face it.”
She suddenly felt very tired. “What do you want, Alan? What do you actually want?”
“A divorce,” he said.
“A what?”
“A divorce.”
“But we are divorced, separated for four years, for God's sake.”
“Not divorced, though.”
“But you said you didn't want to remarry. That you and Cinta didn't need any bonds like that.”
“Nor do we. But you see, she's gone and got pregnant and so, well, you see?”
“I don't see.”
“You do see, Clara. You just won't admit it. It's over. It's been over for a long time. Why don't we just draw a line in the sand?”
“Get out, Alan.”
“What?”
“Get out, Alan, and take your wine of peace with you. Open it at home. You really picked the wrong night.”
“But it will happen anyway. Why can't you just be gracious, decent, I wonder?”
“Yes, Alan, I wonder too,” Clara said, standing up and sliding his unopened bottle back across the table to him.
She wished she felt a sense of closure about it all. It was unsatisfactory leaving it up in the air like this, but Clara was not going to play along, doing things according to his timetable. Was it possible she thought it wasn't entirely over? So even if it was unfinished that's what she wanted just now. She stood there long enough for him to realize that he really did have to go. And so he went.
“Cinta? Darling?”
“That you, Alan?”
“How many other men call you Cinta and address you as darling?” His laugh was tinny. “What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“She must have said something.”
“No, she didn't.”
“You didn't go.”
“I did go.” He was stung by the injustice of it. “She can't have said nothing.”
“She said, ‘Get out.’”
“And you did?”
“Love, it doesn't make any difference.”
“It does to me,” Cinta said.
Clara had always been a great believer in putting worries out of your mind. Years back they had a wonderful professor of general medicine who had managed to inspire them all. He was Dr. Morrissey, her friend Dervla's father.
“Never underestimate the curative powers of being busy,” he had advised them. He said that most of their patients would benefit from having more rather than less to do. He had achieved a near legendary reputation for curing insomnia simply by advising people to get up and sort out their tape collection or iron their table napkins. What would he say now? Kind Dr. Morrissey who had been more of a father to Clara than her own remote, withdrawn father ever had been.
Dr. Morrissey would say, “Tackle something that will absorb you. Something that will put That Bastard Alan and his divorce and his infantile girlfriend way out of mind.” Clara poured a glass of wine and went upstairs. She would fill every corner of her mind with this bloody center that she had signed on to run.
In Quentins Adi was watching her sister with disapproval. Linda was twining her long blond hair around her fingers and smiling at a man across the room.
“Stop it, Linda,” Adi hissed.
“Stop what?” Linda's eyes were big, blue and innocent.
“Stop attracting his attention.”
“He smiled. I smiled back. Is this now a hanging offense?”
“It could end up being complicated. Will you stop smiling, Linda!”
“All right, prune face. Whatever happened to being pleasant?” Linda asked sulkily.
At that moment a waiter bristling with disapproval came to their table. “Mr. Young's compliments and would the young ladies like to choose a digestif with his compliments.”
“Can you please tell Mr. Young no, thank you very much,” Adi said.
“Please tell Mr. Young that I'd love an Irish coffee,” Linda said.
The waiter looked helplessly from one to the other. Mr. Young, from across the room, had seen the situation and materialized at their table. A tall man in his late forties, in a well-cut suit and with the appearance of being a person who could manage most situations.
“I was just thinking about how life is so short and how sad it is to have to spend it talking business with men in suits,” he said, a practiced smile on his suntanned face.
“Oh, I do agree,” Linda simpered.
“So do I,” Adi said. “But we are the wrong people to waste the rest of your life on. Mr. Young, my sister here is a twenty-one-year-old student and I am a twenty-three-year-old teacher. We're probably not much older than your own children. Our father has paid for us to have a nice dinner here while he tells our mother that he wants a divorce. So you see it's a fraught time. And really you would probably find it more fun with the suits.”
“Such passion and strength in one so young and beautiful.” Mr. Young looked at the elder girl with admiration.
Linda didn't like that at all.
“Adi's right, we do have to go home,” she said and the waiter's shoulders relaxed. Problems didn't always sort themselves out so easily.
“And you just actually got out because she said ‘Get out’?” Cinta was disbelieving.
“God, Cinta, what did you expect me to do? Take her by the throat?”
“You said you'd ask her for the divorce.”
“And I did … I did. We'll get it eventually. It's the law.”
“But not before the baby is born.”
“Does it matter when we get it? We'll both be here for the baby. Isn't that what counts?”
“So no wedding?”
“Not yet. You can have the biggest, best wedding in the world later.”
“Okay, later, then.”
“What?”
“I said all right, it's hard for you. I'm not going to nag you. Why don't you
get that wine you were going to give her and bring it home.”
“I left it there.”
“You gave her the wine and left without the divorce? What kind of clown are you, Alan?”
“I really don't know,” Alan Casey said truthfully.
Clara had met Alan when she was a first-year medical student and he had been working for his first year in a bank.
Clara's mother said that there were very few people in the world who did not make money while working for a bank. Alan Casey however, was one of them. He placed rather too much faith in the more speculative and wilder aspects of investment. They never had much material comfort. Alan was always being pipped at the post for some house or some really great property. Clara just saved steadily from her salary. She closed her ears to the unasked-for advice from her mother and her friends. This was her life and her decision.
Alan had always been the ambitious one: enough was never enough and there had to be more. That came to include women as well. For a time, Clara pretended it wasn't happening. But then it became too hard and she faced it.
When Clara and Alan had split up officially, Clara made sure that each of the three bedrooms should be furnished with shelves and desks. This way she and the girls could all work in their own space without interfering with each other. Downstairs was meant to be a more general area. Claras room was cool and elegant. On one side of the room were her bed, dressing table and a large fitted wardrobe. The other half was a workstation with filing cabinets, but it looked like quality furniture rather than cheap office supplies. She had a comfortable leather chair and a good light. She opened a drawer and took out a large box file called CENTER. For three weeks she had been avoiding looking at it. It brought home the realization of all she had lost and the small consolation that had been offered in return. But this was the night she would attack it. Maybe after she watched the nine o'clock news.
When there had been a special offer on television sets in the huge warehouse, Clara had bought three of them. The girls said she was behaving like some mad exhibitionist millionaire, but Clara thought it well worth the investment. It meant that Adi could watch programs about the planet being in decline, Linda could see pop shows and she, Clara, could relax with costume drama.
She reached around for the remote control, but then she remembered that Dr. Morrissey had always said that we found excuses to put off doing something that would take our minds off our worries. It was as if we didn't want to lose the luxury of worrying. So she opened the large box and looked with some small degree of pleasure at her neat filing system. There was the documentation about the whole nature of the heart clinic, what it was meant to do, how it would be funded, her own role as its first director. There were her own reports of educational visits to four heart clinics in Ireland and three in Britain and one in Germany. Tiring visits all of them, wearying hours touring facilities that would not be appropriate or relevant to her own center. Note taking, head nodding, murmuring approval here, asking questions there.