Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘All I know is that she liked marble cake and hats and Rio de Janeiro.’
‘Sounds like my kind of woman.’
I smile; then, as I glance across at the other side of the road, I
stiffen.
Is that
Diarmuid?
It looks like his car, and it certainly looks
like him… It
is
Diarmuid! And he might look over at any moment.
I duck my head so that it’s almost crammed against the gearbox.
Prickles of fear dart around me like fireflies.
‘What are you doing, Sally?’ Nathaniel enquires. ‘Have you lost something?’
‘My husband,’ is all I can manage to mutter. ‘In the car across
the road.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Ford Fiesta. Oh, God, do you think he saw me?’
‘
Would it matter if he had?’
‘Of course it would!’ I splutter. ‘He’d jump to conclusions.’
‘And you could explain that this was entirely innocent,’
Nathaniel says calmly. ‘Which it is.’ Somehow I can’t entirely agree.
I raise my head and peer through the bottom of the passenger
window. If only the lights would change. Diarmuid is frowning,
glancing at his watch. He looks preoccupied; he doesn’t look like
a man who thinks he has just seen his wife with her lover. Maybe
he hasn’t seen me. Of course he hasn’t. But… but what is he doing
on this side of Dublin?
The lights change, and the car grunts and lurches forwards. Nathaniel pats my arm. ‘He’s gone.’
I straighten cautiously and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I should go home.’
‘But we haven’t eaten.’
‘I can eat at home.’
‘But it wouldn’t be as nice.’
‘Seeing Diarmuid like that… it’s frightened me. The coinci-dence
of it.’
‘Dublin is a small place.’
‘Not that small.’ I fidget agitatedly with my wedding ring.
Maybe Becky lives on this side of Dublin. Maybe… no. I mustn’t
think about Becky. He could have just been visiting his parents. They live out in the countryside past Howth.
‘Are you all right?’ Nathaniel glances at me keenly.
I nod.
‘We’re nearly at the restaurant. It’s on this road… Oh, buggery
bollocks
feck!’
‘What?’
‘The restaurant isn’t open.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think that “Closed” sign on the door is meant to be a hint.’ We both peer at what seems to be a shabby, forgotten hut wedged between a grocery store and a garage.
‘This is terrible,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I don’t think I can bear the disappointment.’
We both sit there glumly.
‘I know!’ Nathaniel suddenly exclaims. ‘We’ll go to Bull Island
instead. We’ll get takeaway spring rolls and stuff, and look at the birds and the sunset.’
He must sense my alarm, because he adds, ‘Don’t worry – I won’t even try to kiss you.’
‘OK,’ I say, because I am extremely hungry. ‘But I want chips too.’
‘Fine, you can have chips… chips and chocolate.’ He reaches
for the chocolate on the dashboard. It’s almost solid now; he
breaks off a slab and hands it to me. I munch it. We sit for some
time without speaking.
‘I suppose we’d better go, then, hadn’t we?’ I say eventually.
‘Are there any Chinese takeaways around here?’
‘Of course there are. There are Chinese takeaways everywhere.
They probably even have them on the moon.’
‘We should ask someone where the nearest one is.’
Nathaniel looks at me reluctantly.
‘Oh, no – you’re not that sort of man, are you?’ I sigh.
‘What sort of man?’
‘The sort who can’t bear to ask people for directions.’
‘Not any more!’ He jumps out of the car and stops the first
pedestrian he sees, an elderly woman with a poodle and a
Harrods shopping bag. ‘Since you are clearly a woman of taste,’
he says to her, ‘I was wondering if you could tell me where to find
a Chinese takeway. The best one in the area.’
The poodle is smelling his brown loafers. It looks like it might
cock its leg and pee on them at any minute. ‘Stop that, Binky!’ the
woman says commandingly.
‘Nice Binky,’ Nathaniel says. ‘Good Binky.’ Binky snarls and
bares his teeth, and Nathaniel backs away from him cautiously.
‘A Chinese takeaway…’ The woman frowns. ‘It could be at the
end of the road, to the right, take the next left and then go past the roundabout. Or maybe that’s a beauty salon now.’ She stops and peers into the distance.
‘Thanks.’ Nathaniel smiles.
‘It could have moved.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘
It has a big sign over it.’
‘That’s great. Bye, Binky.’ He jumps into the car as Binky lunges towards his leg.
The woman peers into the car. ‘You could ask at the erotic lingerie shop down there. They stay open past eight.’
‘Great. We really appreciate your assistance.’ Nathaniel starts
up the engine and waves at her. ‘Dear God,’ he says, as we drive
off. We are speeding past the erotic lingerie shop when he adds, ‘I
can’t remember any of her directions, can you?’
‘There was a roundabout.’
‘Yes, I remember the roundabout, and something about left
and right – but I don’t think I’ve got them in the proper sequence.’
‘
It could be a beauty parlour anyway.’
‘Indeed.’ We drive on, scanning the buildings.
‘I’ve been to Rio de Janeiro, like that great-aunt of yours,’
Nathaniel says, as we approach a takeaway of some sort. ‘I lived
there for a year. I taught English.’
The words land softly, almost inevitably. They sound sweet and
strange, and for some reason I am not at all surprised.
‘I can tell you about it while we eat our…’ He peers at the takeaway. ‘Our fish and chips – sorry, it doesn’t seem to be Chinese.’ He parks the car. ‘I can tell you what DeeDee would have seen – the sights, the smells, the colours. It’s an amazing
place.’ I am suddenly excited about the prospect of eating fish and
chips and talking about DeeDee’s home.
But my mobile rings just as we’re going into the takeaway. I g
lance at it. ‘Oh, feck – it’s Diarmuid.’
‘Sally…’ His voice squawks and hisses, and there are buzzing s
ounds. ‘Sally? Are you there?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. What is it, Diarmuid?’ I put on my lines-of-communication voice.
‘Sally, I need to see you. Now.’ He sounds very upset.
Chapter
Twelve
Diarmuid has seen me
with Nathaniel. He must have. Why
else would he be so insistent that we meet now? He must
have seen us when we were stopped at those traffic lights. Or –
oh, God – maybe he’s been following me! He’s been suspicious
that I’m seeing someone else, and now he’ll think he has the proof.
The rushed journey back to central
Dublin in Nathaniel’s car was far from comfortable; the car
jerked and spluttered, and the clanging noise got so loud I
thought some crucial part was about to fall off. We didn’t even
have time to get our fish and chips, but I’m not hungry any more.
When Nathaniel dropped me off at the top of Grafton Street, I had to repeat the whole business of sliding over the seats. And
when I got out I realised that a big blob of chocolate was
decorating the front of my fancy pink blouse.
Deep breaths. I must remember to take deep breaths. I’ve agreed to meet Diarmuid in a nearby pub, and it’s good that I have to walk there; it gives me a bit of time to think about what to tell him. Nathaniel said I should just tell the truth, but that’s clearly nonsense: the truth is sometimes too far-fetched to be believable, and Diarmuid would find the whole thing highly suspicious. I need some sensible excuse, something more in keeping with the Sally he knows and married.
I’m so busy thinking about excuses that I suddenly notice I am
not actually walking to the pub at all; I’m walking to the bus stop
at the bottom of Grafton Street, the one that takes me to my
c
ottage.
I could just get on the bus,
I think.
I could just get on the
bus and go home, and not meet Diarmuid at all.
What am I thinking? Of course I must meet Diarmuid. I take a
deep breath and set off back towards the pub. Why on earth am
I feeling so guilty? It’s not as if Diarmuid drove by and saw Nathaniel and me kissing…
Just for the briefest of moments, the image of Mum and her
lover in that car comes back to me. Why on earth am I behaving as though I’ve been having an affair too? I don’t complain when Diarmuid drives around with Charlene, so why should Diarmuid reprimand me if I decide to go for a meal with someone I met at
the reception?
That’s it – of course!
I’ll tell him Nathaniel is a gay sofa designer who’s heartbroken because his lover has left him for a
transvestite from Rio de Janeiro! That’s more like it. I feel more
cheerful as I approach the pub. I may even entertain him by
telling him about Nathaniel’s excess body hair and breasts.
The pub is packed. We agreed to meet upstairs, in the room with sofas and soft seats, and Diarmuid is already sitting in our favourite corner. He has a pint of Guinness in front of him, and
he looks lost and forlorn. I wasn’t expecting him to look so sad.
I thought he’d be angry. He doesn’t even see me looking at him.
I flee the room and dive into the ladies’. How could I have thought Diarmuid would believe my lie about Nathaniel being gay? He must have been watching us from across the road. He must have seen how easy we are in each other’s company – the
quick intense glances, the extraordinary familiarity. But I’ll have
to use that excuse anyway, because I haven’t time to come up with
another one. I take out my deodorant and squirt under my arms.
I splash some water on my face and dry it with toilet paper. Then
I spend at least three minutes trying to find my lipstick.
I prepare a bright smile as I re-enter the room.
‘Hello,
Diarmuid!’
He looks up slowly. His eyes are dull and doleful.
I lean forwards to kiss him on the cheek. ‘So how are you?’ I say brightly. ‘How’s the studying going?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘I’ve just been to a reception,’ I gabble ‘I… I met this
really weird gay sofa designer…’
Diarmuid reaches out and takes my hand. I’ve never seen him
like this before. He’s behaving as if he wants to break something
to me softly. Oh dear God, maybe he’s finally run out of patience.
I must have crisps. Immediately. ‘Do they have crisps here?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’ll get them now,’ Diarmuid mumbles. ‘What would you like to drink?’