by Maeve Binchy
“Can't have been all that much wrong with his heart if he could score and bring someone back to his bed by eleven-thirty!” Peter said.
“Yes, well, we don't know whether it did him any good or not. He took offense that we were so cross with him and he hasn't been back!”
“What will you do?”
“Declan is the diplomat. He'll find a ruse one way or another to get him back, believe me.”
They talked about their daughters. Amy off learning about bondage garments in London, Adi hugging trees and Linda sulking and mutinous. It wasn't what either of them had expected when they had first become parents.
“Will you come to the theater with me during the week? There's a new play at the Abbey,” Peter asked suddenly.
“That would be great. I was just reading about it this morning,” she said.
Dervla rang her that night. “Has he gone?” she whispered.
“Oh, hours ago,” Clara said.
“I forgot he was Mr. Early-to-bed,” Dervla said.
“Well, it was lunch I invited him to.”
“Right, right—now the third date, has it been mentioned?”
“The Abbey Theatre, Wednesday,” Clara said.
Dervla gave a yelp of pleasure. “So it's more than a whirl then?”
“I don't know.” Clara was cautious.
“And a fling? It's not really a fling.” Dervla was searching for a definition.
“I'm a bit old for a fling,” Clara said.
“Right—will we call it a thing? Clara is having a thing with Peter …”
“Really, Dervla, you are an idiot!” Clara said, but she laughed.
“It's a thing,” Dervla cried. “It has now been officially designated a thing…”
• • •
Amy came in from the airport exhausted.
“Were they interesting, the clothes you saw?” her father asked. He and Clara had decided they must assume some kind of enthusiasm for their daughters’ lives or they would lose them altogether.
“Oh, Dad, please.” Amy seemed to think he was pathetic.
But he plowed on. “You're my daughter, Amy. You've taken up a new career. Is it so bad that I be interested?”
Amy was still suspicious. “You're only going to say what a waste, how I threw away my opportunities and all that.”
“Well, no, I wasn't going to say that. I was just wondering did you see things you might import? But if it annoys you, let's just leave it.” His voice was different somehow.
Amy spoke slowly. “It was interesting, yes, but I think it might be risky spending big money on some of the things they have—a lot of leather, restraints, dominatrix gear, if you know what I mean.”
“I know.” Peter nodded gravely.
“It's not that there isn't a call for it. There is, but most of our customers almost prefer to go to London, to be anonymous. That's what I think, anyway. I may be wrong.”
“That's intelligent, to notice that. So it wasn't a wasted trip?”
“No, not at all. And I met a lovely guy on the plane coming back tonight. We're going out tomorrow.”
“Is he in the same line of business?”
“Ben? Oh, no. Ben is an embalmer.”
“I'm sorry?”
“An embalmer, Dad. Even you must have heard of them. You know, when someone dies, formaldehyde and all that…”
“Oh, yes, of course—that kind of an embalmer.”
“As if there were any other kinds.” Amy got herself a glass of milk and a biscuit. The hostility seemed to be over.
Clara was sitting reading when Linda came in.
“Your friend gone, then?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, long ago. We had a nice lunch. There's some steak and kidney pie left if you'd like to heat it up.”
“I thought I wasn't to be fed, some kind of new law.” Linda was obviously bruised by the injustice.
“Oh, I meant that you weren't automatically to expect you would be fed. I can always offer you something, can't I?” Clara didn't have to offer twice. Linda had the dish in the microwave already.
“Who was she, anyway?” Linda asked.
“Who?”
“The woman who came to lunch.”
“It was a man, Peter Barry. He's a pharmacist.”
“Oh, really. And what did Mrs. Barry have to say about that?”
“Very little. She's been dead for twelve years.”
“A widower? Huh.”
“That's it.”
“A date, no less.”
“Not really.”
“Are you seeing him again, Mam?”
“Yes, on Wednesday. We're going to the theater.”
“Don't you think you should let Adi and I meet him first?” Linda was wagging her finger and doing an imitation of the way Clara spoke.
“Finish that pie and wash the dish before the vegans come home and get upset.”
When Clara came in to the clinic the following morning, she saw Hilary already there, busy getting through the paperwork. She remembered their onetime jokey agreement that they were going to contrive a meeting between Clara's Linda and Hilary's Nick. The perfect marriage would result from it—but they would have to do that part on their own.
No point in talking to Hilary about anything like that now. She would look totally uncomprehending. Since her mother's death she had been like a stone, offering no conversation and responding as briefly as possible. Hilary still blamed herself entirely for her mother's death and the injury of an innocent driver. No amount of decisions and verdicts at the inquest satisfied her. She worked longer hours even than Clara did, but her soul wasn't in it. It was as if she was working to stop herself from having to think about the enormity of what had happened.
Still, maybe she might remember the name of that hairdresser she had been to way back. The woman had taken years off her.
Clara would like to look young on Wednesday night.
Kiki looked at Clara's hair with interest. “It's very thick and shiny for your age,” she said eventually.
“Thank you,” Clara said coldly.
“I mean, you were the one who wanted a younger style. I'm only saying that it's young enough.” She was obviously speaking the truth.
Clara smiled. “Yes, but it's Office Hair. I want Evening Out Hair.”
“Are you going to a do?” Kiki brightened up.
“I'm going to the theater,” Clara said.
“Are you going to be on the stage?”
“No, I'm going to be in the audience, but I would like to look younger. Is that possible?” Clara knew there was an edge to her voice.
“You've got good ears,” Kiki said. “Have you nice earrings?”
“Yes, I do, as it happens.”
“Right, we'll make it short over the ears, change the shape a bit. That's all you're looking for, isn't it? A change?”
“I suppose that's right. Okay, go ahead, change me.”
Kiki shrugged. Older people were really quite mad these days. There was a time when they had a perm twice a year and that did them. Nowadays they wanted new images, makeovers, the lot. And as her boss always said, just as well for business that they did.
“I'll have you shampooed, madam,” Kiki said.
Later she brought a mirror so that Clara could examine the new style from every angle. It looked very good.
“Thank you, Kiki. And what exactly do you mean I have good ears?”
“They're neat and small and stick to your head,” Kiki explained.
“But aren't most people's stuck to their head?” Clara lowered her voice nervously.
“Oh ho, madam, you're so wrong. Some of them who come in here have ears that look as if they're revving up for flight. Be proud of your ears, madam, show them off!”
“Thank you, Kiki.” Clara wondered why nobody had ever told her about her ears before. People were so unobservant.
Peter said she looked wonderful. “Something different?” he asked.
“I g
ot my hair cut.” Clara made it seem simple.
“What beautiful ears you have,” he said admiringly.
She had been about to make a joke, but she saw the genuine admiration in his face.
“Thank you, Peter,” she said simply and they went to their seats.
And so it went on for the next few weeks. Peter would ask her out twice a week and Clara would ask him out once a week She took him to the zoo one day, and he took her to a circus. Since the lunch at her place, they avoided asking each other home. Too many inquisitive young people around. It would destroy the restful nature of their meetings. Nothing was promised, committed or even planned. It was just a relationship that suited them both very well.
The matter of sex would soon have to be sorted out. The goodnight kisses were longer and more clinging. They were too old for this nonsense. They were both free agents. But neither wanted to be the first to suggest it, lest everything change. And then Amy announced that she and Ben were going to a conference.
“An embalmers’ conference?” Peter said.
“No, of course not.”
“A fetish conference?”
“We do have another life outside work, Dad. We're going to a creative writing weekend, if you must know.”
“That's great. And you'll be gone for the whole weekend?” He hoped she didn't hear the delight in his voice. This could be it. The weekend he invited Clara to stay.
“I won't be home on Saturday night,” Clara told her daughters.
“Ooh—is it the widower?” Adi asked.
“Is this the night?” Linda wanted to know.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Clara snapped. “I am doing you the courtesy of telling you my plans. Next time I won't bother.”
“I've got good news too, Mam,” Linda said. “I've got a job, so you get rent from next week.”
“That's great, Linda. Well done.”
“It's selling CDs and DVDs. It's not full-time work or anything.”
“No, of course not. Will you like that?”
“Well, it mightn't be too bad,” Linda said grudgingly.
“It's not actually using your qualifications,” Adi said primly.
“Yeah, a B.A. degree is meant to be a qualification. You wouldn't have a job if you hadn't added a teaching diploma to your qualifications.”
“At least I went out to work and contributed to this household,” Adi snapped.
“And I am now, so shut up.”
Clara thought it would be a great relief to get out of this place and be with quiet, undemanding Peter. She hoped that it would all work out all right. It had been so long since she had made love to anyone. They said you never forgot how to do it, and it all came back to you like riding a bicycle. But, hell, she had never made love with anyone except That Bastard Alan. She wished that she had accepted some of the offers that had been suggested over the past few years. It could have been a kind of rehearsal…
She packed a very expensive black lace slip instead of a nightdress. It was ridiculous to be so nervous at her age. But that's the way it was.
Peter had gone to great trouble with the flat. He had polished all the surfaces, and there were two vases of flowers on small tables. For dinner he had prepared smoked salmon and a chicken tarragon. He had tried the chicken dish three times until he thought he had it right. He would serve wild rice and a salad. Fresh fruit and cheese to follow.
He looked around, pleased with what he saw.
When Clara arrived she left her overnight bag in the hall and came in full of compliments.
“What an ideal place to live, in the center of everything,” she said.
He poured her a sherry, ice cold from the fridge. Clara could see how much trouble he had gone to. It was touching.
“Oh, I'm glad you like the sherry—it was half price at the supermarket, but it tastes really good,” he said.
Why did he have to tell her that it was half price? It was the same with the chicken—the recipe said fresh tarragon, but that was so expensive and most of it went to waste and the dried stuff was perfect and kept forever. And, again, the same about the cheese. You could pay a king's ransom for a runny French Brie, yet there was perfectly good Irish Brie and all you had to do was let it ripen.
She wished with all her heart that he wouldn't pass these money-saving tips on to her. But maybe that was his way. She would offer him one as well. She had actually paid a lot for her leather handbag, but she pretended it had been a bargain.
“I saw it in one of those Today's Reductions baskets,” she said to him.
His face lit up. He was genuinely pleased for her. He stroked the bag. “It's perfect,” he said. “Wasn't that wonderful of you to spot it? Well worth looking around for.”
Clara felt that she had earned brownie points for something trivial and unimportant. Yes, she told herself, that's exactly what it was: trivial and unimportant. She would not let it ruin their evening.
And the evening ended very well and naturally, as if they had been lovers for a long time. He told her she was beautiful, she told him he was exciting. He admired her beautiful black lace slip, she lay with her arm around his neck until they both fell asleep. In the morning she was surprised to find herself in the small bedroom in a bed that was neither a single nor a double but somewhere between the two. He brought her orange juice and coffee in bed and then they made love again.
They went to an open-air concert and brought a picnic. They walked around the railings of St. Stephen's Green, where the Sunday painters were exhibiting their work. Then they went back to Peter's apartment for yet another visit to the bedroom.
“I love you, Clara,” he said, as she left to go home on Sunday evening.
“And I love you too,” she said.
Did she mean it? She wondered as she drove back home in the sunny evening.
Probably, yes.
She had grown so used to not loving anyone after Alan that the term seemed unfamiliar. Peter was a good, warm man, he fancied her and admired her. He seemed to be happy to spend every moment, night and day with her. What was not to like about that?
She had better meet his daughter and he had better meet hers. And her friends. That's the way things happened. Yet there was a way that Clara felt it would be nice if they could keep it to themselves a little longer. A sort of escape, a restful place where the rest of the world didn't intrude at all.
When she got home, her two girls and the ever-present Gerry were sitting at the kitchen table.
“Did you have a nice time?” Adi asked.
“All loved up?” Linda wanted it confirmed.
“Yes, very nice time, thank you, and everyone here?”
“Dead interested in what you two got up to, Mam,” Linda said with a smile.
“Well, one sure thing I did not get up to, and that's pirating CDs like you seem to be doing.” Clara looked at the computer, where Linda had been busy copying disks for herself.
“I wasn't exactly…”
“Not only is it illegal, but it's sure to get you sacked,” Clara said crisply and took a small jug of milk from the fridge and made a mug of tea. She look it to her room and called Dervla.
“I can't wait to hear,” Dervla said. “Philip is furious with me. All day I've been miles away wondering how you were getting on.”
“Very well, in fact…”
“And did you …?” Dervla paused.
“Did I what?” Clara was going to make her say it.
“Did you and he … do the bold thing?”
“Oh, God, Dervla, and we criticize our children for being juvenile!”
“Did you, Clara Casey? Yes or no?”
“Yes, we did, three times. Happy now?”
“Very relieved, I tell you. I thought you were going to become a nun.”
“I can't believe we are having this conversation,” Clara said.
“Neither can I. When are we going to meet him?”
Clara met Amy first. Peter asked her to come in for a drink.
<
br /> Amy was surprised that her father had invited a woman in for a glass of wine. She wondered what the woman would be like. Serious, probably, gray-haired with glasses. She would talk about the importance of higher education. She would be shocked by Amy's job, horrified by Ben's work as an embalmer. Still, her dad had been good about Ben coming to the house even though he was nervous around him. Amy had better be polite to this woman.
She was astounded when she saw her. Elegant, groomed, well dressed. No gray hair and glasses. Instead shiny, well-cut hair, and very good makeup. This woman was going out with her father? Amy was totally confused.
She had prepared some cheese canapés, but wished she had done something a little more fancy. They looked what they were, a processed cheese slapped on a water biscuit. But Clara seemed delighted and ate several of them.
Clara was very interested in the shop where Amy worked. She said that she had a friend whose feet were very big—maybe she could get elegant shoes there. Dervla always complained that you could only get big shoes in the shape of a surgical boot.
Amy took it all seriously. “Yeah, we'd certainly have something to fit her, but warn her that they'll have these endless stiletto heels. You see, your cross-dressing folk don't want to look like a vicar's wife. They need huge glamour.”
Clara nodded and said it was wise to forewarn Dervla, who was already very tall and might well not be able to teeter round on stilettos.
Clara also spoke pleasantly to Ben, as if she had spent most of her time talking to embalmers. They talked about the necessity of removing pacemakers if it was going to be a cremation. Sometimes people forgot to tell you that the deceased had a pacemaker, but Ben said he was used to looking for the incision where it had gone in. He explained that the general public always thought your hair and nails went on growing after you were dead, but that wasn't so; it was just that the skin retracted and the nails looked longer.