Life Drawing for Beginners (27 page)

D
essert?”

The mechanic’s wife shook her head. “I might have some Ben and Jerry’s at home.”

He raised his hand for the bill. “Must drop into the gym again tomorrow afternoon.” He patted his stomach. “Work some of this off.”

“Ah, not Sunday, it’s our only day together.”

“I’ll be a couple of hours, that’s all. We’ll get a DVD on the way home that you can watch while I’m gone.” He entered his PIN in the credit card machine and took the receipt from the waiter. “Come on, don’t you want me to be fit?”

“Okay—two hours, not a minute more.” She stood up. “I have to use the loo—I’ll follow you out.”

He took his jacket from the chair and walked towards the exit.

He was standing by the door as they approached the restaurant. Irene could have pretended not to know him, but then she thought,
Why not say hello to the man who repaired your car?

“Hi there,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.” She turned to Martin. “This is the man who did the panel beating on my car.”

Martin shook his hand. “Martin Dillon. Nice job, thanks.”

“No worries.” The mechanic looked down. “And who’s this?”

“This is Emily,” Irene replied. He hadn’t given his name to Martin, because it wasn’t Ger, like he’d told her.

“Hey.” He waggled his fingers at Emily, who stuck her thumb into her mouth and moved closer to Martin.

“Well, take care,” Irene said, pulling the door open—and a woman coming out walked straight into her path.

“Oh—sorry,” the woman said, drawing back. “Oh,” she said again, smiling, “hello there”—and Irene recognized Fiona from the life drawing class.

Fiona, whose hand curled around the mechanic’s arm. Fiona, who was married to the mechanic. Fiona, who was pregnant.

“One of my satisfied customers,” the mechanic said, indicating Irene with a tilt of his head. Not seeming to have noticed the fact that his wife seemed to know Irene. Not seeing the danger, not knowing what Irene had told his wife on Tuesday night.

Right now I’m having sex with the man who repaired my car. Not as well polished as I’m used to, but very enthusiastic
.

And Fiona was remembering too, the smile fading from her face as the mechanic turned and led her away.

Jesus, she would have to be his wife. And now she knew what he had done, because Irene had told her. Irene had told her that her husband had been unfaithful.

And Fiona was pregnant, and had been delighted about it.

“She seemed to know you,” Martin said.

“She used to come to the gym,” Irene replied, walking ahead of him into the restaurant.

Michael dialed his daughter’s number and listened to the soft double
brr
of her phone ringing. Over a week since she’d called to the shop and found Barry there, and no word from her since. He suddenly couldn’t let it go any longer.

He had nothing ready to say when she answered, nothing new to tell her. He simply wanted to make contact, to feel that he was connected to her in some way, even if it was only by the sound of her voice traveling to him through the earpiece of his phone.

The rings stopped and her answering machine clicked on. Michael looked at the ceiling and listened.

Sorry I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

“It’s Dad,” he said. “I’d really like to talk to you; please let’s not fall out. Ring me anytime, or drop into the shop if you’re passing.” He paused. “And thanks for the birthday card, it was thoughtful of you.”

He hung up. He shouldn’t have said drop into the shop, she might think he was trying to keep her away from the house. But he couldn’t imagine a meeting between the two women, couldn’t picture how that would go. He walked back to the kitchen, where Carmel was washing up and Barry was flicking through the pages of Mr. Bump.

“If you want to watch television, come into the sitting room when you’ve finished,” he said.

It was Saturday night, and he didn’t feel like sitting on his own in there.

“How’s your meal?” Martin asked.

Irene took another forkful of the Thai green curry she didn’t want. “It’s very nice.”

He’d been willing to meet another woman in a hotel when his wife was pregnant with his first child—which meant that in all likelihood he’d done it before, probably with other women who’d brought their damaged cars to him.

Martin refilled her wineglass and she watched the pale cream liquid flowing in. She brought it to her lips and drank, feeling the icy sharpness of it running down into her.

When Irene had been unfaithful in the past, she’d been well aware that some of the men she’d been with had had wives at home; of course they had. But Ger, or whatever his name was, had a pregnant wife, and Irene knew her. And she saw their little encounter in the garage for the horribly sleazy act that it had been.

She watched Martin pouring more water into Emily’s glass. She saw her daughter eating noodles with her fingers, slurping them into her mouth, laughing with her father at the noise it made.

Fiona wasn’t a pretty woman. She was nondescript, with a personality to match. Irene recalled the couple of conversations they’d had at the break times, Fiona all eager puppy, blurting out inanities. She must have been delighted when a good-looking man like him had shown an interest in her.

“Look at that for a mucky face,” Irene heard Martin say, his voice full of tenderness. It had been his idea to go out for dinner. “We need to cheer up Emily,” he’d said, and it seemed to be working. Anyone looking at them would take them for a normal happy family out on a Saturday night.

Irene ate some more of her curry, and drank more wine. As she set down her glass she felt a prickling sensation behind her eyes, an obstruction in her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said, getting up and walking towards the bathroom, where she pressed a cold, wet tissue to her eyes until the impulse had passed.

No crying. Tears didn’t solve anything.

“She told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she had sex with you.” Hating the words, forcing them out because she had to see his reaction.

“What?” He looked shocked, but it was easy to look shocked if you’d just been found out.

“She didn’t know you were my husband, she was just showing off.” She kept watching his face. “She said you were…very enthusiastic.” Her voice broke on the last word. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

He looked at her in disbelief. “Hang on—let me get this right. That woman told you she had sex with some man, and you assume it’s me. She doesn’t even know my name.”

“You fixed her car. She said it was the man who fixed her car. Why would she make it up? She didn’t know I knew you.”

“Because she’s a bloody liar, I don’t know. Maybe she fancies me—I can’t help that, can I?”

But Fiona heard Irene’s voice in her head. Irene, who could have any man she wanted. Irene, who only had to bat her eyelashes for them to come running, wives forgotten.

“Look,” he said, “nothing happened. Yes I repaired her car, and yes she offered me the free trial in the gym, but—”

“The gym?” Fiona frowned. “What’s she got to do with—” She broke off, the awful realization dawning. “Oh God,” she breathed, remembering Irene telling her about the husband who owned a gym, her own response that he must be loaded. “Oh
God
—”

The last hope that it wasn’t him fell away. It was all true, the pieces sliding into place, the full ugly picture sitting there in front of her. She covered her face with her hands.

“Fiona,” he said, “you’re only upsetting yourself. I told you she offered me a trial when she collected her car, I told you all that.” He reached for her shoulder but at his touch she twisted away from him, lowering her hands.

“You didn’t tell me that. You said they were offering free workouts, you didn’t mention Irene.” Her hands clammy, her face cold. “You never said someone offered you a workout for fixing their car, that’s news to me.”

“What does it matter who offered it to me?” he said. “All I did was get a workout. That’s not a crime, is it?”

She put it together again in her head. Maybe, after all, she’d added it up wrong. Irene had brought her car to him, he’d repaired it, and she’d suggested a workout. He’d gone to the gym, a week or so ago.

“But you’ve been back,” she said.

“No,” he said, “I haven’t, I—” He stopped. “At least, I have been back, but she wasn’t there.”

She remembered the night he’d mentioned the gym for the first time. He’d nearly torn the nightdress off her, so turned on he’d been that night. Hard as a rock before she’d touched him.

And the evening he’d come home from the workout, how he’d gotten her into the bath with him. Insatiable again, mad for her the minute she’d stepped in. Had he been thinking of Irene then, was that the effect she’d had on him?

She felt too full, the pizza she’d eaten sitting uncomfortably in her stomach. “So,” she said, hating where they were going, but unable to stop bringing him there, “where’s your card?”

“What card?”

“You must have some kind of membership card for the gym, something to show when you go there.”

“There’s no card, just my name on file. I just sign in when I get there.” He pushed a hand through his hair impatiently. “Jesus, what’s with the third degree?”

Fiona said nothing.

“
Jesus
,” he repeated angrily, “I love the way you believe me. Great that you have such trust in me. Thanks a lot.”

But Fiona thought of Irene, who’d had no reason to lie, who wouldn’t need to lie about men, looking like she did. And he didn’t have a membership card, and he’d never been remotely interested in gyms before.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

On Monday she’d walk home from school by the gym. She’d go in and ask about a membership that allowed you to pay for ten sessions. And if they said she couldn’t do that, if they told her they didn’t offer that kind of membership, she’d know for sure.

But she knew already, didn’t she? She was sure already.

I
t was a very different day from the previous Sunday. It wasn’t, in fact, a day for the park at all, with a chilly breeze blowing pink into Eoin’s cheeks, and the threat of rain present since morning.

“I’m cold,” he said, burrowing into the new jacket that Jackie had bought him. He was suddenly growing so fast, everything too short or too tight.

“We won’t stay long,” she said. “Charlie would be disappointed if we didn’t show up.” Her insides were fluttering, her face warm despite the chill.

And there they were, James sitting on a bench behind the swings, Charlie hanging off the nearby roundabout. There were only four or five other children dotted around the playground, and a couple of huddled mothers in the far corner.

“You’re squeezing my hand too tight,” Eoin said crossly, and Jackie released him and walked towards the bench while he went to join Charlie.

“Hardly cone weather,” James said as she approached. He wore an army green woolly hat with a fat black stripe, and a black hooded parka. He rubbed his hands together. “We must be mad.”

Jackie laughed. “I think we must.” She sat beside him and stuck her hands into her pockets. “The sacrifices we make for our children.”

“They grow up that fast,” he said, his eyes on Charlie and Eoin, who were swinging side by side now.

“Sure do.” And right then she felt the first spatter on her cheek. “Damn, there’s the rain.”

“Come on,” he said, getting up and signaling to the others. “Let’s find someplace that sells the opposite of ice cream, whatever that is.”

“Hot chocolate?” Pulling up Eoin’s hood and tying it under his chin.

“Exactly.”

The four of them hurried from the park as the rain began in earnest. It occurred to Jackie that to a casual observer they probably looked like the perfect family grouping: father, mother, son, daughter.

The thought was delightful.

Audrey wondered if she should do anything to mark the end of the life drawing course. Never having taught an evening class before, she wasn’t sure of the protocol. Was she supposed to take them all out for a drink on the last night? She didn’t think she’d fancy that much. She wasn’t a big fan of pubs herself—and maybe they were all rushing home anyway, to babysitters or neglected spouses.

She could invite them here though. She could have a little thing in the house. Oh, not a party, nothing fancy like that. She couldn’t imagine organizing a whole party. But she could serve finger food, couldn’t you buy boxes of frozen nibbly party things that you just heated up in the oven? And she could get a few bottles of wine, and some juice in case there were some who didn’t drink.

The more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. Saturday night maybe, from six to seven. No, six was dinnertime for families, she’d make it from eight to nine.

Just a little get-together
, she’d say,
at my house. Nothing fancy, just an hour before you go out
. That would make it clear she wasn’t asking them to come for the whole night. It would be like a cocktail party, somewhere to go before you went off and had your normal Saturday night out. The warm-up act, she could be.

Yes, she’d invite them on Tuesday for the following Saturday night. She took a page from her notebook and began to jot down what she’d need, feeling quite excited, now that she’d decided, at the thought of being a hostess.

A
  brief return to warm weather for tomorrow and Wednesday, with highs of twenty-two degrees in places, and the west of the country getting the best of the sunshine.
”

Weather forecasters always sounded relieved to Irene when they predicted fine weather, as if they were being held personally accountable when the rain came—which they probably were by some.

“That’s good,” Martin said, folding his newspaper and getting up, “a bit of sunshine for my little Miss Sunshine.” Tickling Emily under the chin, making her squirm away from him, giggling.

Irene crossed to the percolator and refilled her coffee cup.

“You busy today?” Martin asked.

“Not terribly. I can collect her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That would be good.”

Since Pilar’s departure Martin was dropping Emily at playschool every morning and collecting her again at lunchtime any day he could manage it. Since Pilar’s departure Emily had grown increasingly quiet, particularly around her mother. Since Pilar’s departure Emily spent more time at her grandparents’ house.

Since Pilar’s departure the distance between Emily’s parents had grown. Now Martin only spoke to Irene when he had to.

After they’d left Irene cut a pineapple into slices and cut the slices into chunks. Her hand shook slightly as she transferred them from the chopping board into a bowl. For the second night in a row she’d woken before five and been unable to get back to sleep.

When she’d eaten half a dozen chunks she pushed the bowl away and went upstairs and brushed her teeth and made up her face. Then she phoned the employment agency again.

“It’s Irene Dillon,” she said. “I called you last week looking for an au pair. Haven’t you got anyone yet?”

“I’m sorry.” The voice on the other end held little regret. “Nothing at the moment, it’s a busy time. As soon as anyone becomes available we’ll let you know.”

Irene hung up and put her phone into her bag as she walked out to the car. The bookstore this morning, she’d almost finished her thriller. The dry cleaners to collect her red suit. The off-license for gin and wine. The deli for prosciutto, and a jar of those feta-stuffed olives that Martin liked. The health store for rose water and bulgur wheat. Bananas, yogurt, mayonnaise in the supermarket on the way to the playschool to pick up Emily at half past twelve.

The whole endless afternoon trying to keep Emily amused until Martin got home, because Irene’s mother had a golf game at two.

As she drove, Irene thought about the coincidence of Pilar sharing a flat with Zarek. She wondered what Pilar’s reaction had been when Zarek told her he’d passed on her number to someone who was looking for an au pair. Had Pilar put two and two together and realized who Irene from his art class must be? If she hadn’t, she must be wondering why she’d gotten no call.

But Pilar had probably guessed—she might be lazy, but she wasn’t stupid. She must have hit the roof: the woman she’d walked out on a week earlier being offered Pilar’s number by poor, ignorant Zarek.

Imagine ringing her old au pair, imagine the groveling Irene would have to do to get her to come back. Or maybe she wouldn’t have to grovel at all, maybe Pilar would jump at the chance to return to her darling Emily.

Martin probably still had her number. Not that Irene had any intention of asking him for it.

She reached the end of her road and turned left for the town center.

Michael opened the back door of the shop and walked in, pressing the alarm code as Barry pulled off his jacket and let it drop to the floor.

“Jacket,” Michael said, and Barry picked it up and set it on top of a box of cat litter. They walked through to the shop. Michael unlocked the front door and bent to pick up the post, which lay scattered on the floor.

He found the usual mix. Menus from fast-food restaurants, two bills, a bank statement, and an invitation to subscribe to
National Geographic
for just 35 euro for the entire year. He bundled them all together and brought them back to the counter. He handed the menus and the
National Geographic
mailing to Barry.

“Put those in the bin, would you?” he asked, and Barry dropped them into the wastepaper basket in the corner.

Michael laid the rest of the post on the shelf under the counter. He’d deal with it at lunchtime. He turned back to Barry.

“Want to feed the fish?”

Barry nodded, like he did every morning now. Michael opened the tub of flakes and allowed him to take out a pinch and scatter it into the tank.

“Want to feed the birds?”

Another nod.

When the various creatures had been tended to, Michael walked to the end of the counter and back again. He crossed the shop floor and opened the front door and looked out. He closed it and came back and paced the length of the counter again, and then stood drumming his fingers on the countertop.

Eventually he turned to regard Barry, who’d taken his usual seat and was looking expectantly at Michael.

“Yes,” Michael said. “A story, yes. Just give me a minute.”

He turned away from the boy and reached inside his jacket and drew out the plain brown envelope that had been sitting on the hall floor this morning, waiting for him when he’d come downstairs. More than an hour ago now since he’d bent and picked it up.

He turned it over in his hands. He tapped it against his palm. His name and home address were typed; no other information on it apart from the postmark. A minute oval stain—grease?—just beneath the flap on the reverse.
Open it
, he commanded himself.
Just open the damn thing
.

He took his penknife from his pocket and pulled out the blade. He slipped it under the flap and drew it slowly along the edge. He folded back the blade and returned the knife to his trouser pocket. He pressed apart the sides of the envelope and pulled out the sheet inside and unfolded it with hands that were suddenly unsteady.

Positive
.

The word, sitting in the middle of a sentence, jumped out at him. He leaned heavily against the counter and worked his way back to the start of the paragraph, forcing himself to read slowly.

Following a DNA test having been carried out on the samples we received on Friday October 12, a positive result has been recorded in terms of the male bloodline. A definite DNA link has been established between Michael Browne and Barry Ryan, and paternity of Barry Ryan has been confirmed within this bloodline.

A definite DNA link has been established.

He was a grandfather.

His son had fathered a child.

Michael rubbed a hand across his face. He needed to sit down.

The door opened and a woman he knew slightly walked in and smiled hello. Michael dropped the letter under the counter and braced trembling hands on the counter, and made a sterling effort to smile back.

“Are you all right?” she asked, approaching the counter. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” Michael said. “Never better.”

“Glad to hear it.” She took two tins of cat food from the shelf and brought them to the counter. Barry caught her eye.

“Oh hello,” she said, smiling. “Who’s this now?”

“That’s my grandson,” Michael said. “His name is Barry.”

“What are you doing?”

Audrey swung around, almost toppling off her stepladder. Kevin, appearing out of nowhere as usual.

“I’m taking down my hanging basket for the winter,” she explained. “I’m going to empty it and put it into the shed until next year.”

“We’re going to the lake tomorrow,” he said, “if it’s hot.”

Audrey scanned the early-evening sky, which was striped with pink. “I think you might be in luck. See those red bits in the sky? That means it’ll probably be nice tomorrow.”

“We have pink lemonade and chicken wings and apples, but not the green ones, the red ones.”

“Mmm, sounds yummy. I love chicken wings.”

“I’m going swimming,” he said, his eyes on Dolly, who was attempting to scrabble her way through the hedge, “if the water isn’t too cold.”

“That’s nice, a swim would be lovely.
Dolly
,” Audrey added sharply, “stop that.”

“I got new togs,” Kevin said. “They’re blue.”

Audrey smiled. “They sound very smart. I was saying to your mum I must take Dolly to the lake sometime.”

He regarded the animal doubtfully. “Can he swim?”

“Oh, I’m sure she can—I think all dogs love the water. And even if she didn’t want to go in, we could still walk around it, couldn’t we?”

“You could come with us, but the dog would go in your car. And he couldn’t eat the chicken wings.”

Audrey smiled. “Thanks, Kevin, but I have to go to work tomorrow. We might take a trip out there over the weekend—and maybe you and your mum would like to come too.”

“Yeah. I have to go now.”

He turned abruptly and made for the back door. The curious gait he had, arms held rigidly at his sides as he walked. Audrey wondered, not for the first time, what would become of him if anything happened to Pauline. Who would take him in, who would want the responsibility of a fully grown man who was still a child? It must worry Pauline desperately.

She unhooked the hanging basket from its bracket and carried it carefully down the steps. She upended it onto the compost heap and broke up the earth with her rake. The weather was really gone crazy if tomorrow was going to be warm enough to go swimming. Nearly the end of October, almost winter really.

She put the empty basket on a shelf in the newly stained shed, next to half-full paint cans and old flower pots. She replaced the ladder, propping it against a wall in the shed, next to a growing bundle of newspapers she really must recycle soon.

And afterwards, try as she might, she couldn’t remember the last thing she’d said to Kevin.

Michael waited until they’d finished the fish pie, until she’d begun to stack the empty plates.

“Will you stop that for a minute?” he asked. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

She looked at him, the plates still in her arms. “What is it?”

“Just sit down for a minute.”

She perched on the edge of her chair. “Are you cross about somethin’?”

Michael shook his head. “It’s not—”

“Did Barry do somethin’ in the shop?”

“Stop interrupting me,” he said irritably. “It’s nothing like that.” He reached into his inside pocket and brought out the brown envelope. “The result came today. It’s positive.”

“
Oh
—”

She made a sound between a gasp and a moan, her face crumpling. She laid the plates down and sank her head into her hands and began to weep quietly, and Michael realized he’d been too abrupt. He should have led up to it, not blurted it out like that, but all he knew was how to be direct.

He glanced at Barry, who was regarding his mother anxiously, his own lower lip trembling.

“It’s okay,” Michael said quickly, “she’s fine, she just got a surprise, that’s all.” He put out a hand and patted Barry’s shoulder awkwardly. “She’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I
told
you it was Ethan,” she said brokenly, her voice muffled behind her hands. “You wouldn’t
listen
.”

“It’s all right,” Michael said, not sure now which of them he was addressing. “It’s all right.”

Carmel got up abruptly and crossed the floor and pulled a sheet off the roll of kitchen paper. She buried her face in it and blew her nose noisily.

“Mammy?” Barry said tremulously, and she went back to him and scooped him up. She sat and rocked him as she pressed the wadded paper to her eyes.

“Sorry,” Michael said quietly. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.” He felt awkward. His hands didn’t know what to do with themselves. “I suppose whatever way I’d told you, it would have been a—”

He stopped. Not a shock, because she’d known already. A reminder then, maybe, the past coming back to slap her in the face. Ethan’s ghost, here in the kitchen with them.

Ethan’s son. Michael looked at Barry, and the little boy looked back from the safety of his mother’s arms. They were Ethan’s eyes, of course—how had he not seen that before? Or had he seen, and chosen to ignore? Ethan’s son, sitting across the table from him. His grandson.

Valerie’s nephew.

“I must make a phone call,” he told Carmel. It would give her a chance to pull herself together if he left for a few minutes. In the hall he dialed Valerie’s mobile, but after half a dozen rings her voice mail clicked on. Michael hung up. This wasn’t something you could tell a machine.

Tomorrow he’d try again. She’d have to be told, even if she didn’t want to know. Even if she cut him off for good. He’d have to tell her she was an aunt.

He walked into the sitting room and put a match to the fire he’d set earlier. They’d have a bit to talk about this evening.

Happy Monday
, he typed. He was about to press
send
—and then he stopped.

What was he doing, flirting with a girl years younger than him? Where did he imagine it was going to go? There was nowhere it could possibly go, not while he was still in the no-man’s-land he’d been catapulted into two years ago.

They were parents of children who were friends. That was all they could be, he needed to remember that. When they met, it was for the children.

He deleted the message and laid his phone back on the arm of the couch, and reached for the TV remote control.