Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
I throw a cushion at the floor. Feck it, why am I only realising
all this now?
And then I know. It’s because of Nathaniel. Because I was closed, too, just like Diarmuid; but Nathaniel has somehow opened me up, made me see the bigger picture.
I try to cheer myself up. There are plenty of advantages to being
single again, of course. I can spend more time in the country. I could develop a rugged, outdoorsy side, like Fiona. That would sound good at Marie’s family gathering. ‘I cycled round Ireland
last week. No, I didn’t mind the rain; I had waterproof clothing.
Yes, I know I’ve lost weight. I haven’t eaten a biscuit for a month…’ I need to relax. I’m all antsy and itchy and worried. I
wish Erika were here to loosen me up with one of her massages.
I close my eyes and think of a beach with white sand and a hammock slung between two palm trees. I imagine a dusky-
skinned waiter asking me if I’d like a piña colada. Palm trees and
piña coladas, the soft swish of waves on white sand… that’s what
I want. I want to get brown and swim with dolphins… Then the waiter turns into Nathaniel, bending down to kiss me. He’s touching my naked skin. He’s dipping his finger into the piña colada and dripping it onto my breasts. He’s…
The phone rings when he’s expertly prising off my bikini
bottoms. For a crazy moment I think it might be Eloise, telling me
not to have imaginary sex with her boyfriend.
It’s Erika, and she sounds very agitated. ‘Oh, Sally, I’ve been
such a fool!’
She says this a lot, and my job is to say that she hasn’t been, and that whatever she’s done is perfectly understandable in the circumstances. ‘What happened?’
‘I told him to get undressed.’
‘Who?’
‘The guy who came round here just now for a massage. I’d booked him in, and I was all prepared and excited. He was my
first real client.’ She sounds like she might cry. ‘I didn’t mention him when we were at Fiona’s because I know you don’t approve
of me massaging strange men in my flat.’
I don’t comment.
‘Of course I didn’t tell him to get undressed immediately. I
brought him up to my bedroom, only you wouldn’t know it’s my
bedroom because the bed is covered in cushions and I’ve got a screen in front of it…’
‘And?’ I’m getting rather worried.
‘Then I showed him where the bathroom was, in case he
needed… you know…’
‘Naturally.’
‘And then he started asking me whether there was a washing machine, which seemed a bit odd.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He also wanted to know if the area was noisy and if there was
central heating. I thought he was just getting bashful, like Lionel, so I told him we could discuss that later. I said that once he’d got
h
is clothes off and I started to work on him, he’d feel much more
relaxed.’
‘What happened?’
‘He ran down the stairs like greased lightning, shouting that he
wasn’t the kind of man who visited prostitutes. He wasn’t the
massage client at all. He was a guy who rang me weeks ago about
sharing the flat. I put up a notice in the newsagent’s, in case Alex
suddenly wants me to run off with him in a camper van.’
‘Oh, dear.’ I hope Erika can’t hear my smile.
‘He’d taken the address and said he’d call round sometime. I thought he’d forgotten. I shouted after him that it had been a misunderstanding, but I don’t think he believed me.’
‘Poor Erika,’ I say. ‘But I can see how it happened. It was… it
was quite understandable in the circumstances.’
‘Oh, bugger, the doorbell’s going. It’s probably the other guy.
Bye.’ The phone clatters down, and I wonder if I should march
around and supervise Erika’s massage; but then I’d miss
Diarmuid, if he even bothers to show up.
The phone rings again almost immediately. It must be
Diarmuid. He just couldn’t face me. He wants to say whatever it
is from a safe distance.
But it isn’t Diarmuid; it’s Greta, and she’s sounding very determined.
‘Sally!’ she gushes. ‘I need a favour from you.’
Oh, shit. She wants me to say those awful table-mats that look
like matted dog hair are must-buys.
‘Sorry it’s so last-minute, dear, but the tickets are booked, all you need is your passport.’
Passport?
‘The flight is tomorrow at 10.30 a.m. – a very civilised hour. Of course, you’ll need to be there about two hours beforehand.’
‘Greta,’ I say, wondering if she wants me to pop over to
Birmingham to discuss rattan storage units. ‘Where do you want
me to go?’
‘New York, dear, didn’t I say that?’
I clutch the phone tightly.
‘New York?’
‘Yes. Can you go? It’s only for a few days.’
‘Mmm….’ I don’t want to sound too available. I wait for three
whole seconds before saying, ‘Yes… yes, I think so. I could probably rearrange some meetings.’
‘Oh, I’m so relieved. It’s just a few interviews. I’m taking out a
large ad feature in
Irish-American
,
about top young Irish
designers based in the Big Apple. I can get quotes from some of
them on the phone, but I really want you to meet these three –
they’re
fabulous
.
We need a sense of the
buzz
around them. And
hammer home the fact that they’re Irish, of course; the magazine’s
readers are very loyal to the Old Country. I’ll send you an e-mail
right now with all the details. You can collect the tickets
at the airport.’
‘That sounds great,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic but not
overexcited. And I am enthusiastic.
New York!
Suddenly, instead
of being just a woman who has mislaid her marriage, I am a jet-setting cosmopolitan international journalist.
Greta hangs up just as the doorbell rings. I put down the receiver
and walk slowly towards the door. I know Diarmuid will be
looking solemn – solemn and sad, and a bit guilty about being late.
But he isn’t. He’s smiling broadly and carrying a big parcel. He
looks both shy and excited, and a little nervous.
‘You’ll understand why I’m late when you see this,’ he says,
marching over to the coffee table and putting the parcel down.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it and find out.’
It’s not my birthday; it’s not the anniversary of my engagement
or my wedding. I stare at the parcel dubiously.
Inside it is a music box shaped like a Swiss chalet. All the details are perfect. ‘When you wind it up,’ Diarmuid says, ‘it plays “Edelweiss”.’
Chapter
Twenty-Four
‘
I
’m so glad you
like it.’ Diarmuid smiles at me. We are lying
snuggled together in my double bed. The music box is on my bedside table. He knew I’d lost the one I loved, so he made me
another one. It’s gorgeous. Aggie will love it too. I burst into tears
of happiness when I saw it. When you open it up, there’s a small
figurine of a woman in a pink dress – she was an ornament for a
wedding cake, but he got his sister to give her a new outfit. She is
smiling with all the joy of a new bride. Diarmuid hunted around
for ages for ‘Edelweiss’; eventually he tracked it down on the
Internet. He made the box in the workshop in his parents’ house,
during study breaks (I was right about him studying at his
parents’ to get away from Barry’s CDs). That’s why his phone was
out of range so often: his parents live in a valley north of Dublin,
and Diarmuid has to climb a nearby hill if he wants his mobile to work.
Of course, I didn’t need to sleep with him just because he’d
made this lovely gift. In fact, it would have been more sensible not
to, because we have so much to talk about. But he’d also brought
a bottle of wine with him, and he insisted that we drink it with
the almond biscuits… It was the cheap-drunk thing all over again.
By this stage of the evening I thought we’d be discussing our divorce. I’m still somewhat dazed by the sudden resumption of our affections. Diarmuid really is an amazingly forgiving man. After all I’ve put him through, the last thing I thought he’d be doing was making something so special for me. I’ve been so wrong about him; I’ve jumped to all sorts of unfair conclusions.
He must have spent ages making the box. No wonder he didn’t
have time to meet me. I thought he didn’t care, but he does;
he must.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I ask. I seem to have sobered up
quite quickly. I’m hungry now; in fact, I feel a deep yearning for
some takeaway fish and chips.
‘No, let’s just stay here a bit longer.’ He nuzzles my shoulder. Diarmuid is a good nuzzler. He’s great in bed all round, in fact. I particularly like it when he massages my toes. And the fireworks
really get going when he kisses that special spot behind my ear.
He went straight for it as soon as the bottle of wine was opened.
Our lovemaking was very passionate. I just wish there weren’t
quite so many biscuit crumbs in the bed; all the bouncing around
must have dislodged them from inside the pillowcase or
something.
It feels strange, lying here and not talking. But maybe
Diarmuid is right; maybe all this talking stuff is overrated. He is
a wonderful lover, and he has made me this beautiful present. He
still wants me. Surely that says all I need to know about his feelings?
I am the Sally who married him again, and I’m going back to him. I can’t think of any good reason not to. We’ll make the
marriage Fiona talked about. We’ve got past the stupid part
where you want everything to be romantic and schmaltzy. This is
the cake, and it’s nice. It’s tasty. We can go to Marie’s family
gathering together, so I won’t even have to cycle round Ireland to
distract them from my divorce. Maybe we should start a family
immediately, before I change my mind again. And if I get
pregnant soon, that will stop Aggie talking about DeeDee; she’ll
completely forget about her in the excitement. I’m almost sad I used my diaphragm. I stare up at the ceiling and think of little Milly’s gurgles. Yes, a baby would get rid of this ridiculous restlessness that lunges at me out of the blue.