Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
I stand behind a large potted palm tree and watch him like a d
etective. He’s just as I remember him from that party long ago.
He is tall and lanky, and the top two buttons of his white cotton
shirt are open; as far as I can tell, he is not troubled by excessive
body hair. His fringe flops boyishly over his high, solemn
forehead. He is steady and sure, and he’s talking to a young
woman with a purple fringe. The rest of her hair is dark and shiny
and tied back in a chignon. She’s called Eloise. I know this because I interviewed her some months ago about her cabinets.
She just
loves
her cabinets. And that passion makes her eyes glow;
that passion transforms her. I need a passion like that, something I really love doing. It would change everything; I know it would. How is it that some people find their passion so easily and others
don’t even have one?
I want to be Eloise. I want to be standing opposite Nathaniel
chatting away casually. I don’t want to feel this shy, this
vulnerable.
I’m married. And Nathaniel is married too. Why do I keep forgetting that?
I feel
I’m radiating so much lust that everyone must notice it. That’s all
it is – plain lust. I think longingly of Diarmuid and the restful hours we’ve spent discussing whether we should build a conser
vatory. Diarmuid knows the real Sally. He married her. I must find
her again, for him and for myself.
And they’ve put on
Riverdance.
We’re all supposed to love
Riverdance –
it’s part of that jolly, hoppy, raring-to-go Irish thing
– but I need something more relaxing and enigmatic, a
saxophone, a flute. Sometimes I get tired of how fascinated we are
by what it means to be Irish. I think I’ll scream if we have another
r
eferendum. The world is a big place. DeeDee knew that – I don’t
know how I know this, but I do. And I somehow know she’d
understand what I’m feeling right now. That sound in the
distance, that lure to another life that always seems better than the one you’ve got.
I grab a glass of wine. I don’t care, I must have one, even if I am the cheapest drunk in Ireland. Maybe I’m on something. Maybe someone has slipped love mushrooms into the sushi.
And Nathaniel has seen me. He’s looking at me just like he did last time, dragging me far out to sea with his deep blue stare. He’s
the man I should hit over the head with a loofah, not poor
innocent sofa-obsessed Tobias. It’s rude to stare. I should march up to Nathaniel and tell him that. He’s a married man; he should
know better. Maybe he does this all the time.
Greta introduces me to a man called Larry, who is apparently
one of the evening’s most important guests, because he buys bundles of stuff from young Irish designers and has some very important connections. I mumble something. Nathaniel is still talking to Eloise. She has one of those small, bright faces that
virtually glow, and her big brown eyes belong to some innocent,
adorable creature, a deer or a puppy. She practically pinned me to
the wall at another reception because she wanted to tell me about
her cabinets. I could never grab someone like that and demand that they listen to me, but Eloise is incredibly ambitious; she knows what she wants, and she just goes for it and doesn’t care
who gets in her way. Maybe I should be more like Eloise. Maybe
that’s what’s wrong with my life.
This is unbearable. Every time I look at Nathaniel, he looks at
me and doesn’t even smile. Eloise looks over at me too, and
glowers. She looks as if she’d like to bite me. This is clearly some
kind of test, sent to make me realise how much I want to be married to Diarmuid. I must try to phone Diarmuid as soon as Larry is off helping himself to another plate of Irish stew.
Larry has large breasts. I know I shouldn’t be dwelling on this sort of detail, but the fact is, he does. Maybe it’s something to do
with the contraceptive hormones that get into the water supply. I
bet Diarmuid would have an interesting opinion on Larry’s
breasts, now that he’s studying biology. Maybe I should mention
it to him when I phone him. The wine has clearly gone to my head.
Larry is Irish-American. He’s fat and balding, and he made his
millions from feminine hygiene – I haven’t been able to bring
myself to ask him the details. He ‘just loves’ Ireland, the golf and
the food and the sunsets and the sweet Irish air… What he means
is that he loves the rich Ireland, the insulated one where every
body is nice because you are paying them such big bucks. There
is a greedy, acquisitive glint in his eyes. He is the male equivalent
of Eloise, though of course not nearly so attractive. They even have the same high, pert breasts.
Greta is watching us carefully and smiling. She’s obviously
pleased that I’m being so polite to her VIP guest. She darted over
and gave me another press release a moment ago. I haven’t even
looked at it. It’s probably about those disgusting table-mats she’s
been raving about. They look like matted sheep droppings.
Larry wants to take me out to dinner tonight. He says I have a
lovely accent and remind him of some French actress.
‘Larry, I’d… I’d love to, but I’m married,’ I say.
‘Oh, Sally, I’m not suggesting anything… you know…’ He
waves a bulky arm vaguely. ‘I don’t have any friends in Dublin,
except Greta. I just want a bit of company and an early night.’ I almost believe him.
Larry starts telling me how glad he is that Greta introduced us, b
ecause it can be really lonely being on your own in a foreign city,
even though Dublin doesn’t really feel foreign, Dublin always
feels like home… Oh, feck it; it’s beginning to look like I’ll have to have this meal with him. Greta has done me so many favours,
and she is looking at us so hopefully.
‘That meal sounds… lovely,’ I say to Larry. ‘But I’d better go to
the toilet – I mean restroom – first.’
‘Fine. Take as long as you want,’ Larry says, as if I somehow
need his permission. I decide that if he tries any hanky-panky I’ll
squirt him in the face with my aerosol deodorant.
I head grimly to the ladies’. As I push my way through gor
geous, happening top young designers and their acolytes, I don’t
look for Nathaniel. I haven’t even thought about him for ten
whole minutes. The whole effect seems to have worn off; it was
like the brief high one gets from eating too much sugar. He’s not
standing by the rosewood drinks table any more. He must have left, and I’ll probably never see him again. Oh, the relief of it!
I don’t touch up my make-up in the ladies’. I just have a pee
and dial Diarmuid’s number. I’m going to tell him I want to cook
him steak and chips and hand-feed him Turkish Delight
tomorrow. That should cheer up his studying. But, when I dial, a
recorded voice says Diarmuid’s phone is out of range. How can that be? Where is he? Maybe he’s giving Charlene a driving lesson. I’ll try to ring him again in an hour.
I stuff my press releases into my bag and set my face into a
grim, determined expression. Then I sweep out of the ladies’ into
the low-lit corridor.
‘Let’s go.’ He darts from behind a column and whispers the
words in my ear. Goodness, Larry is getting a bit too enthusiastic. There are people I should thank and say goodbye to, and I need to
ask that woman who makes those mosaic lampshades to email me
some photos. I don’t even glance at him. I look straight
ahead. ‘Look, Larry, there are a few things I need to do before –’
‘I’m not Larry.’
‘What?’ I turn on my heel, astonished.
‘I’m Nathaniel.’
I can’t speak. I’m just staring at him. It can’t be, but it is.
Chapter
Ten
‘
Where?’ I say to
Nathaniel. ‘Where do you want us to go?’
I’m behaving as if this happens to me all the time.
‘Let’s just get out of here.’
It’s a dream; it must be. They definitely put something in the sushi. I gulp and lean against the wall.
‘Are you all right?’
I don’t answer. I want to run away and hide somewhere.
Things like this don’t happen to me. They might have happened to the Sally who wanted a mountain bike, but not to the Sally I am now. Nothing has prepared me for this situation.
‘You’re trembling.’ Nathaniel touches my arm; his hand feels
warm and strong. I flinch. ‘Relax.’ He smiles. ‘You don’t have to
have dinner with Larry. I’ve come to rescue you.’
This is when I should say that I don’t want to be rescued, that I
want
to have dinner with Larry because it will please Greta. But
I don’t say anything.
‘If we don’t move fast, Larry will come out here and find you,’ he
grins. He’s acting as if this is all a laugh, but it’s actually dreadfully
serious. I don’t just leave important Irish-Americans in the lurch
after I’ve promised to have dinner with them. I keep my promises… I think of my marriage; well, not all my promises, perhaps, but most
of them. My sense of duty is widely known and appreciated.
‘You’re looking very worried, Sally.’ His eyes are bright and teasing.
‘How do you know my name?’ I demand indignantly. This is
good. This is more like the old Sally. She would tell Nathaniel, very c
almly and politely, that she is a married woman and her husband
doesn’t like her running away from receptions with total strangers.
Dear God,
I think, as I clasp my handbag to my chest.
Maybe
this is what happened to DeeDee.
Maybe she was living a
perfectly ordinary decent life until some stranger said, ‘Let’s go,’
and she went and never came back. Maybe she was
abducted.
Nathaniel doesn’t tell me how he knows my name, and I decide
not to press the issue. ‘I don’t do this kind of thing,’ I tell him
primly. ‘I’m sorry. You clearly think I’m another sort of woman.’
‘We don’t have time to discuss that.’ He grabs my arm.
I grab it back. ‘How do you know I agreed to have dinner with
Larry, anyway?’
‘He just told me in the men’s toilet. He said he’d found himself
a lovely Irish colleen. He was dousing himself with aftershave. He
said you’d gone to “pretty yourself up”; that’s how I knew I’d find you here.’
‘We’re just going to dinner,’ I say. ‘He says he wants an early
night.’
‘And you believed him?’ Nathaniel is studying me with amusement.
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s just as well I turned up when I did.’
I glare furiously into his bright-blue eyes. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m implying that your dinner with Larry might not be quite as innocent as you think.’
‘That’s for me to find out, isn’t it?’ I snap. ‘I don’t need your
interference. I… I could spray him in the face with my deodorant
if I needed to.’
‘I think you should welcome my interference.’ Nathaniel leans
languidly against the wall. ‘After all, it may save you the bother of spending the evening spanking Larry’s rather large bottom in
some five-star hotel.’
I almost fall over with outrage. ‘I would
never
spank Larry’s
bottom!’ I shout. Tobias the sofa designer happens to be passing
by just as I declare this, and he gives me a rather lecherous smile.
‘Why would you even suggest that?’ I splutter. ‘Do I
look
like the
kind of woman who goes around doing that kind of thing?’