Deceptions (28 page)

Hobbs began to bark. Soon, Michael’s car would enter the lane. The hawthorn, stripped bare of leaf and blossom, would lash his wing mirror and he would drive cautiously over the rutted ground, knowing how easily the tyres would puncture over the sharp, jutting stones. Today on the hard-packed sand he had stamped his footsteps next to her own, the double imprint creating an intimate pattern as it wove from the half-moon curve towards the stile. Soon they would sit opposite each other in O’Callaghan’s restaurant and exchange tit-bits of information, reveal tantalising aspects of their lives. They both had a history, she was sure of it. These days it was difficult to mark the end of one’s thirties without carrying some degree of baggage into the next decade. But maybe she was simply projecting her own misfortune onto him – Emily hurled the “projection” accusation at her often enough. Yet Michael Carmody carried grief like a scar in his eyes and she was curious to know why.

He braked his car outside. She sprayed perfume on her wrists and listened to the creak of the gate as it swung open. Once again she lifted the lid on the jewellery box. A mother-of-pearl bracelet that Donna had brought back as a holiday present from Italy lay among the chains and necklaces. She plucked it free and slipped it over her hand. The bell rang once. She turned from the mirror and walked to the front door. Night and the promise it contained settled stealthily around her.

“I’ve a vague recollection of coming here once with my aunt.” He pulled out her chair and eased it under her. “Church benches for chairs? Back breakers, if I remember rightly.”

“There used to be a fire burning over by that wine rack.” Lorraine pointed towards the well-stocked wine cellar. “The musicians sat in the area that’s now the kitchen.”

“You appear to have total recall.”

“Total. I loved Trabawn. I first began to paint here … and when I needed to begin my life again it offered me refuge.”

“Refuge.” He raised his eyebrows, regarded her, unsmiling. “What a strange word to use.”

“Solace, refuge, escape, take your choice.”

“Sounds like you were running away?”

“My mother called it the height of folly. My daughter still has to forgive me.”

He leaned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands. “And your husband?”

“He has no say in any decision I make. We’re separated.”

“When did you split up?”

“A while ago. I’d rather not discuss him, if you don’t mind.”

Angie, arriving with the menu and wine list, cast a speculative glance at Michael, no doubt remembering how she had photographed the family gathering on Emily’s birthday night. Before taking their order she asked Lorraine’s advice about a difficulty she was experiencing with one of her illustrations. After discussing it for a few minutes, she headed towards the kitchen.

“You run art classes?” he asked.

She smiled back at him. “I’m not sure how that came about. Careful manipulation, I suspect, but yes, I do.”

His gaze rested on the pendant. “What an intricate design. Very beautiful.”

“Thank you. A friend made it. He’s a wonderful designer.”

“It’s an original piece then?”

“Yes. We were friends in college. There’s no way I could afford his jewellery now.”

She flinched when his fingers touched her throat, remembering how he had faced her in the lane, the wheel brace in his hand, her instinctive fear that he would harm her.

He rested the pendant in the palm of his hand and studied it. “Is it a companion piece for a bracelet?”

“It is, actually. Do you know Karl Hyland’s work?”

“I’ve heard about it.” He laid the pendant against her throat and sat back in his chair, his fingers braced against the edge of the table. A group of diners walked towards the table next to them, Sophie and her husband Joe among them. The Sudanese woman winked across at Lorraine, her shimmering yellow thoub attracting attention, as her vivid costumes always did, and Lorraine thought about the night in the slatted shed, the bellowing cow and how Sophie’s t-shirt rode high up her back as she wrested the calf from its mother’s heaving belly. She told him the story, laughing as she recalled Emily’s delight when the new-born calf was named after her, a decision that triggered another round of texts to her friends in Dublin, and how her role as Cow Tail Handler changed in the telling to that of Calving Jack Manager. He joined in her laughter, an unexpected sound, and his face relaxed for the first time since his appearance on the beach. Glancing over at Sophie he shook his head as he tried to juxtapose the glamorous woman reading the menu with Lorraine’s description of a farmer labouring to bring forth life in a cow shed.

Angie served their starters, smoked salmon for him, a fan of melon and avocado for Lorraine. He filled her glass again and ordered a second bottle. The rich red Chianti Classico reminded her of Tuscan holidays, vineyards on hillsides, avenues lined with statuesque cypress trees. She was aware that her cheeks were becoming hot from too much wine drunk too quickly yet she drained her glass, allowed him to fill it again.

When the plates had been removed, she rummaged under the chair for her shoulder bag, a shabby leather satchel, useful for carrying a myriad items. She removed a cardboard cylinder and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

He weighed it in his hand, his expression puzzled as he removed the lid and drew out a canvas. Unable to hide his surprise he spread it across the table and studied the painting.

“You left one of Killian’s photos behind,” she explained. “I know it’s not the portrait you want me to paint – he’s much too young in it. But it was such a dramatic scene, the ferry stealing away between the lighthouses and the little boy on the pier, I couldn’t resist painting him. Look upon it as a thank you for dinner.”

His face flushed so violently she thought he was going to refuse to accept the painting. As the canvas slowly coiled back in on itself, he made no attempt to open it again. She had stepped over something, an invisible line he had placed between them, and his expression was once again charged with tension. When he finally spoke she could barely hear him.

“He seems so utterly alone.”

She nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid it didn’t turn out the way I intended. Killian is happy in the photograph yet the mood of the painting developed a life of its own once I started working on it. It’s the first thing I’ve painted in a long time that gave me any satisfaction. I didn’t mean to offend you but that appears to be what I’ve done.”

He attempted to smile. The effort it took only increased her embarrassment.

“You surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting –” He rolled the painting up and pushed it back into the cylinder. “Thank you. It was a thoughtful gesture. Killian will appreciate it.” His words were mechanical. They gave her no pleasure. The cylinder lying between them on the table irritated her. She wanted to sweep it out of sight and he too seemed disturbed by its presence, his gaze constantly flicking towards it and away again.

“It’s a very assured painting,” he said. “You’re obviously familiar with the location.”

The main courses had arrived but Lorraine had no appetite for the pasta and chicken dish she had chosen. She twirled tagliatelle on her fork but made no attempt to eat it. “My daughter flew a kite there once. A dog savaged it when it landed. Such hysterics. Poor little Emily.”

“And afterwards?” He squeezed lemon over baked sole, twisted the sea-salt container until the particles fell like splinters of ice on his plate. “Did you ever go back?”

“No. We went there just the once. I had a feeling about the place … I didn’t like it. Perhaps that’s what influenced me when I was painting it. My daughter regularly accuses me of projecting my moods onto her. Perhaps I did the same with your photograph.” She realised she was talking too fast, a vulnerable voice starved of attention, giddy from wine and nervous energy, but she seemed unable to stop, just as he seemed unable to hear her.

“You never went back?” The hint of steel in his voice when he repeated the question surprised her.

Puzzled, she laid down her fork, shook her head. “I prefer Howth or Dun Laoghaire if I want to walk the piers. Why do you ask?”

“I used to go there all the time when my son was younger.”

“Why do you always sound as if you’re hurting when you mention his name?”

He frowned, taken aback by her frankness. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes. Does he live with you?”

“He never lived with me, at least, not in the sense you mean. I had visiting rights.”

“Was it difficult being a single father?”

“We made it difficult, Jean and I. We treated him like a possession, not a child. He used to say he felt like a football being kicked from one end of the pitch to the other.”

“What a terrible thing to hear. I’m still trying to adjust to being a single mother. Every time Emily mentions her father’s name I hear myself snapping back. Sometimes, I don’t recognise my own voice. Sometimes I don’t even recognise myself. How do you get along with Killian now?”

“It’s difficult.”

“And his mother?”

He tipped the wine bottle towards her. Throughout the meal he had slowly sipped his wine yet insisted on topping up her glass as soon as the level dropped. “My track record is fairly dismal when it comes to relationships.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Never.”

“What kind of man
never
falls in love?”

“What kind of woman risks everything for love?” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Your paintings suggest great passion.”

“
Painting Dreams
was a farce.”

“Surely not. You were painting a dream of love.”

“Yes, an illusion. That’s why I came here. To kill the illusion.” She excused herself and walked quickly towards the Ladies. She held her wrists under the cold-water tap. Her reflection stared back at her, bright-eyed, her flushed face, her hair tumbling over her forehead.

A woman glanced curiously at her before entering one of the cubicles. Lorraine was still standing in the same position when she emerged. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Her colour was beginning to recede. She combed her hair, searched in her bag for an elastic band and tied it back. Her hand shook slightly when she applied lipstick.

“You’re the new art teacher.” The woman washed her hands, held them under the dryer. “Noeleen Donaldson was telling me about the class. Are there any vacancies?”

“I’ll take your number and ring you tomorrow.” She scribbled the woman’s number on the back of a cheque book and returned to the table.

He watched her anxiously as she approached. “You were gone so long. I was beginning to worry.”

“Sorry. I met someone.” She slung her bag across her shoulder. “Do you mind if I skip dessert, Michael? I’ve a busy day tomorrow and I’d like to go home now. You finish the bottle and relax. I’ll call a taxi.”

“Please don’t go yet,” he said. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to do with you. I’m just exhausted.”

Angie, approaching their table with the dessert menus, looked surprised when Lorraine asked for her coat.

“Lovers’ tiff?” she whispered, returning with it over her arm.

“Nothing that can’t be sorted out with a good night’s sleep.” Lorraine slung the coat over her shoulders and walked quickly towards the exit. Taxis were occasionally parked outside the pub but tonight the road was empty. An elderly man in a luminous yellow jacket patrolled the car-park. He bade her goodnight, called her “Lorraine”. She was becoming a recognisable figure in the village.

“I’m driving you home.” Michael had followed her from the restaurant. When she tried to call a taxi he placed his hand over her mobile phone. Without another word she walked with him to his car.

A love song played on the radio. They listened in silence. Small talk seemed irrelevant. He concentrated on the road, headlights beaming into the turn at the top of the lane. Their silence became more abrasive as he drove slowly over the uneven surface. Drifting mist winged past the windows and the air was clammy when she stepped out of the car. She moved from the headlights into an inky space and would have stumbled on a tuft of grass if he had not steadied her.

At the front door she searched for her keys, unable to locate them in the jumble at the bottom of her bag. Impatiently, she pulled the zip down too far and the front panel fell open, spilling the contents across the path. The tinkle of a small cosmetic mirror breaking, the jangle of keys, loose coins falling. The sounds cut through the night like discordant music and she was reminded of Adrian’s briefcase, the same hapless spewing of everything changing, changing forever. She cried out with annoyance and bent down to fumble in the dark.

“I’ve a torch in the car,” he said.

The porch light automatically switched on before he could move.

“Leave it.” Lorraine’s hand closed over the keys. “I’ll pick up the rest in the morning.” Any poise, dignity, privacy seemed stripped from her, spread as randomly before him as the items littering the path.

He reached down and helped her to her feet. “You’re trembling,” he said. He made it sound like an accusation. “Tell me what I’ve done to displease you.”

“Nothing. As I said already, I’m tired. If you want to discuss the portrait, phone me and we’ll come to some arrangement. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Before he could reply she opened the door and closed it firmly behind her. She leaned against it, listened to his footsteps on the path. His car door slammed. She waited for him to drive away. The minutes passed. She could call him back. Her heart shook with reckless yearnings. I want his hands on my body, his lips against my mouth, she thought, and bit down hard on the words, shocked by the response he had aroused in her. She could call him back and he would come. She knew it as surely as the night tide was flowing over sand, eroding footprints and leaving in their place the undulating possibilities of new beginnings. The dog howled, a demented werewolf howl, as if he sensed the turbulence of her thoughts. Finally, the headlights switched on. The engine gave a low growl. The dog continued to howl.