My breath caught. This thing? Had I taken leave of my senses? Was I honestly contemplating a relationship with Donnagh Flood? Did I actually think we had a future together?
I looked back to where he was sitting, my heart skipping a beat. He was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.
‘Eve, why do you keep staring at me?’
I nearly jumped out of my skin. ‘I’m not staring. I’m …’ I could feel myself blushing furiously.
‘Can’t believe what a handsome devil you’ve wound up with, is it?’ He’d curled his mouth into a grin, showing perfect white teeth.
‘Something like that,’ I said, then turned my attention back to my takeaway.
It was hard to believe a leopard could change his spots. Did that ever happen? And, most importantly, did I even want to find out?
51.
The next day Donnagh declared he was all mine.
That was what I’d been afraid of. I’d hoped he would be working as usual, but when I asked him he shook his head. ‘Nope. Man needs a break occasionally. I’m taking today off.’
My stomach heaved. The thought of seeing Mick and Gemma again was too much to bear.
‘Why don’t we go for a drive?’ he suggested.
‘Um, sorry, I have an article to finish,’ I lied.
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’ll take me several hours.’
Donnagh’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, why don’t you get up and finish it now? I was going to ravish you, but if you insist on working …’
I looked at him, at the grin on his face, and realized there was no point in arguing. He was going to bring me on a drive and that was the end of it. Might as well accept the inevitable.
An hour later, he popped his head into my ‘study’, which was Janet’s old room. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Fine,’ I said, not making eye contact. I’d spent the last sixty minutes looking at the Daily Mail website, and watching videos of cats on YouTube.
‘Will you be ready to go soon?’
I couldn’t spend another hour fecking around, pretending to work. Plus I felt jangly – there had been no drugs or drink that weekend – as if I was going to burst with anxiety. Maybe getting out was a good idea.
So off we went to Brighton. To walk the pier, and look at the sea and eat greasy fish and chips. As we walked, Donnagh held my hand. ‘Which of us should go first?’ he said, a half-smile playing on his face.
‘Go first with what?’
‘Talking about our childhood. I warn you, mine’s more Angela’s Ashes than The Cosby Show.’
‘Why do you want to know about mine?’
Donnagh shrugged. ‘Because it dawned on me we’ve been seeing each other for nearly seven weeks now, and I know next to nothing about you.’ He smiled. ‘Well, of course, some parts of you I know very well …’
I hit him with the side of my handbag.
‘Oh, come on, Eve. Give me something. Sometimes I think you work for MI5, you’re so secretive.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh, come on, you are.’
‘What do you want to know? I’ve already told you I’m from Clare and my parents were French.’
‘Are they still alive?’
‘No,’ I said quickly.
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘No,’ I replied again, guilt enveloping me. It felt wrong, denying Rachel like that. But then again, it wasn’t like I could tell him the truth.
Donnagh stopped walking. ‘It feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.’
I froze. Had he discovered something? I’d been so careful with my stuff, hiding it all away, but maybe I’d forgotten something: a note, a photo? Had he hacked into my email?
‘Jesus, Eve, don’t worry, I’m only joking.’
I looked up into his face, into his huge brown eyes, and couldn’t figure out what was happening. If he was taunting me, I was damned if I’d go down without a fight. ‘Donnagh, I –’
‘Look, we’ve all got things from our past. Things maybe we’re ashamed of or not ready to share. I get it. I didn’t mean to push you.’ He swept a tendril of hair away from my face. ‘God, you’re lovely, do you know that?’ He was gazing into my eyes now, holding me around the waist.
I didn’t know what to do.
‘I have plenty of my own skeletons,’ he said. ‘Some day maybe I’ll tell you about them.’
‘Why not today?’
‘Are you kidding?’ he said. ‘You want me to open up like I’m on Oprah but refuse to spill any beans yourself?’
‘It’s my right as a woman to be enigmatic.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Pleading the fifth, as usual, I see. Well, okay, if you really want me to spill my guts, shall we sit down?’ He pointed at the pebbles, gesturing for me to sit. He did likewise. ‘Okay. If you insist, I’ll tell you one secret. Just the one, mind. And you must promise to be very sympathetic.’
‘I promise.’
‘Okay,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘My secret is …’
I waited.
‘I used to be married.’
‘What?’ I was genuinely shocked.
‘Yes, back in the States. Her name was Maria and she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met in my life. Before you, of course.’
‘What happened?’
Donnagh shifted a little. ‘I caught her in bed with the gardener.’
‘Christ. That’s rough.’
‘Yeah, it wasn’t the best, all right. Especially since I was twenty-two, hot-headed and crazy in love with her.’
‘What did you do about it?’
Donnagh looked at me for a second. ‘It wasn’t pretty.’
‘I don’t imagine it was.’
‘I got into a huge fight with the guy. Got my nose broken. Then she moved in with him, taking most of our savings and my car. We got divorced, and later they married.’
‘Are they still together?’
‘I believe so,’ Donnagh said, his mouth drawn in a hard line. ‘Needless to say, we’re not exactly Facebook friends.’
We sat for a second, not saying anything. Then Donnagh faced me. ‘Okay, so, your turn.’
‘Donnagh, that wasn’t part of the deal.’
‘Oh, Eve. Give me something. I’ve bared my soul to you.’
He looked at me and I nearly opened my mouth to speak – but at the last moment I held back.
‘Okay, if you’re going to be like that, let me ask you something.’
I shrugged.
‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to but let me ask anyway.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
I gasped, shocked by the bluntness of his question. ‘Um, yes, I guess I have,’ I muttered. ‘Hasn’t everybody?’
‘Tell me about it. What happened?’
I thought of Artie, the beauty of what we’d shared. ‘It just didn’t work out,’ I said. ‘I moved to England. We broke up. That’s it. No big drama.’
‘Right,’ said Donnagh, nodding, deep in thought. ‘And do you think you could ever love someone again?’
I looked at the golden flecks shimmering in his eyes. I didn’t know what to say.
‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘after my wife left me, it made me hard, you know.’ He was swirling patterns on my hand with his finger and I was letting him. ‘I didn’t think I could ever …’ He stopped. Looked at me. For a moment it was as if everything stood still. ‘It’s not easy to love again, is it? Once you’ve had it and lost it.’
‘No,’ I said, and for once I agreed with him.
‘But lately, I don’t know …’ He brushed his hand against my face.
A hard gust came in from the sea, buffeting us. ‘Here, take this.’ He removed his coat and wrapped it round me.
I found myself encased in the smell of his aftershave, a musky, heady scent. ‘Donnagh, I …’ But I didn’t finish the sentence. In fact, I didn’t even know wh
at I was going to say.
He kissed my nose. ‘We should get back.’
‘We should.’
He laced his hand through mine and squeezed it.
We didn’t say much on the return journey, didn’t need to. It was only later that I realized I’d been smiling the whole way.
Life went on. Donnagh continued to share the apartment with me and I decided that having him around wasn’t so bad after all. He’d changed at least two light bulbs, and even unblocked the shower.
One Thursday evening I came home to find that he had cooked a meal for me. ‘Hmm, smells nice,’ I said. ‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘Oh, you know,’ Donnagh said, kissing me lightly on the forehead. ‘Just treating my girlfriend to some home-cooked supper.’
‘Supper? You’re Irish, for God’s sake. Would you ever cop on to yourself!’ I scolded, but inwardly all I could think about was that he had just called me his girlfriend. And that I didn’t necessarily hate the moniker.
Afterwards we lay on the couch and he stroked my hair. ‘Did you enjoy the food?’ he said, and I nodded. Even though I’d only had a glass and a half of wine I was in a strangely relaxed mood. At the beginning I’d been so stressed out about Donnagh moving in, about the big lie I was hiding, but as time had gone on things had got better. He was neat, he was easy to live with, and maybe it was my imagination but he seemed to have softened. These days, there was less swagger and he was kinder. Gentler, even.
‘Hey, Eve. I just wanted to say thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘For taking me in, for making me feel so at home.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Anyone would have done the same.’
‘No, they wouldn’t. Most people aren’t as nice as you.’
I tutted. ‘I’m not nice. I’m just Irish. You should know that as a race we’re incapable of saying no.’
He laughed. ‘Suppose that’s true, all right.’
We lay there for a little longer, Donnagh kissing my neck, then slowly moving his hands downwards until they were caressing my breasts. Normally when Donnagh and I had sex I was high or drunk or extremely hung-over. Almost-sober sex was a new experience.
I waited for the fear to swoop in – that sense of danger and disconnection I usually felt, not just with Donnagh but with all men. But the funny thing was, this time I didn’t. Donnagh was taking his time, kissing me slowly, lingering over everything. And instead of fear I was beginning to feel desire – genuine, honest-to-God passion. It had been so long since I’d felt anything remotely like it. Years. True, I’d been no stranger to promiscuity since I’d arrived in London but I had felt no desire for any of those men. I’d slept with them so that I wouldn’t feel.
‘Will we move to the bedroom?’ Donnagh said quietly, kissing my cheek.
‘Okay,’ I said, feeling a flood of nerves going through me. But it was the good sort of nerves. The first-datey kind.
Afterwards I lay looking at the ceiling, counting the shadows, listening to Donnagh beside me. I’d had sex with him lots of times, of course. But never like that. Never so … What was the word for it? It had been slow and sensual and I had come. For the first time in six years I’d had an orgasm.
Intimate. That was how I would describe it. Like we really knew each other.
Of course we did know each other. From all those years back. But this was different. As if we now shared a kindred experience.
I shook my head. It was so crazy. Donnagh Flood. My nemesis. My enemy. Except now it didn’t feel like that. It was as if he was on my side. The truth was, he’d made me feel loved.
52.
Rachel: day twenty-one, 9.30 a.m.
I didn’t know what else to do. Who else to turn to. Desperately clutching at straws, I researched alternative treatments for coma patients – mad shit involving Reiki and electromagnetic currents. I stayed up late, printing out reams of ‘articles’ by dodgy quacks claiming to have restored the comatose to consciousness. Red-eyed and unwashed, I shoved the sheaves of paper into Dr Bartlett’s hands as she was doing her morning rounds, demanding that she take a look.
She sighed, then guided me into her office, gesturing for me to take a seat. ‘Rachel, I’m so sorry, but the research you’ve done, well, I’m afraid it’s all pretty pointless.’
‘What?’
‘First, there’s no hard evidence that any of the therapies you’ve looked up actually works. Most of them are carried out by charlatans trying to make a fast buck.’
‘Yes, but what if we struck lucky with one? Wouldn’t it be worth it?’
Dr Bartlett sighed. ‘You’re more than welcome to try with the simpler ones – Reiki and aromatherapy and the like. But see this one here, the one that involves transferral to some clinic in Switzerland.’ She was tapping one of the pages with her fingernail. ‘It’s out of the question. Your sister could die in transit. I really mean that. She could die.’
I stared at Dr Bartlett, at her fine features, and promptly burst into tears. Then, before either of us could comment further, I jumped off my seat and ran out of the room.
After a few moments, rather sheepishly, I tapped on her office door again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I overreacted.’
‘No problem,’ she said, walking towards the coat-stand and grabbing her jacket. ‘Come on, let’s get a coffee from the Costa place across the road. We can talk things through there.’
A little later, Dr Bartlett was sprinkling sugar into her flat white. Then she touched my hand gently. ‘Rachel, I promise you, everything that can be done for your sister is being done.’
I already knew that. The alternative-treatments thing had been no more than a distraction.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ she continued, ‘you’re very pale.’
‘Mmm,’ I muttered. I hadn’t slept properly since Jacob had left. Actually, I hadn’t slept at all.
‘Plus you’ve lost a lot of weight. Have you been eating?’
Food tasted like cardboard. I ate when I remembered, which wasn’t often.
It was my turn to ask her a question. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
‘What?’ said Dr Bartlett, and just for a second her unflappable demeanour seemed to fall away slightly.
‘From what I know, consultants aren’t generally known for their bedside manner. They certainly don’t bring their patients out for coffee. Is it because you’ve read my books?’
‘Your books?’ Dr Bartlett said, furrowing her brow. ‘Oh, yes, of course, you’re a writer, aren’t you? But, no, that’s not the reason I’m trying to be helpful.’
I was mortified to have presumed such a thing. ‘Why then?’
‘Because, first, despite what you’ve heard, I regard it as my job to support families going through a major trauma such as this.’
Her blue eyes, wide and sparkling, made me think, suddenly, of sky. ‘Yes, but you’ve gone above and beyond. You’ve been so kind to me.’
Dr Bartlett shrugged. ‘Aren’t doctors supposed to be kind?’
I laughed a little. ‘They’re not exactly renowned for it, no.’
She smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
For a few seconds we sat in silence, sipping our coffee.
‘Actually, you remind me of someone,’ she continued quietly.
I looked at her, waiting for her to fill in the gap.
‘My daughter, Annie,’ she continued, in the same soft voice. ‘She was so much like you.’
‘Was?’
‘She died three years ago, in a car crash.’ Though Dr Bartlett imparted this information in a clear, matter-of-fact manner, I knew it was a performance. It was the same way I talked about Mammy – quick and clipped. No eye contact. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She inclined her head a fraction. ‘It’s okay.’
I wanted to take it all back, my stupid portfolio of coma quacks. How I’d implied she wasn’t doing enough to help Evie. But when I tried to say so, Dr Bartlett stopped me.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for. You were just looking out for your sister. The thing you must remember, though, is that’s exactly what I’m trying to do too.’
As we made our way back to the hospital I forced myself to ask the question I could barely bring myself to voice. ‘Do you think Evie will ever wake up, Doctor?’
She looked at me straight on, her eyes less sparkly now than back in the coffee shop. ‘I don’t want to give you false hope, Rachel. All I can say is, don’t give up just yet.’
‘But it all seems so hopeless,’ I spluttered. ‘You already said those treatments I researched are useless. And it’s not as if she’s displayed any signs of improvement.’
‘I’m not talking about treatments, Rachel. I mean believing in here.’ She touched her heart. ‘Are you religious?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t think so. Neither am I particularly. But I did find, after Annie died, some solace in the notion of a higher power. Not God necessarily. Just something. Something outside logic …’ She stopped walking and looked at me. ‘Don’t tell any of my colleagues, though, will you? They’re quite big on the whole logic thing.’
I raised my eyes to meet hers, returned her sad smile.
‘I’d better head back in,’ she said, returning to the calm, efficient Dr Bartlett I knew so well. ‘Will you be okay on your own?’
I nodded. She touched me lightly on the shoulder and said something about ‘keeping strong’. As she walked off, I was reminded of the first day I had met her. How, as she’d walked away, I’d said, ‘Mammy,’ in her wake. How it had made me think of war, battlefields, France.
That’s what my mind was these days: a battlefield. Every day I went out armed with my weapons of logic and reason. And every day I came back battle-weary because those weapons hadn’t worked. Perhaps it was time to leave the battlefield. As Dr Bartlett had said, some things were ‘outside logic’.
Perhaps I could only fight with my heart now. Or perhaps it was bigger than that. Perhaps there was no point in fighting at all.
I spent the rest of the day by Evie’s bedside, holding her hand, thinking of what Dr Bartlett had said. I understood now what I’d been trying to do in playing detective and researching madcap health remedies. On some subconscious level I’d believed that if I could find something logical – the reason Evie had crashed; a revolutionary therapy that would cure her – it would unlock everything. Evie would wake up, like Sleeping Beauty, and we could start again.
Sisters and Lies Page 25