Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
It’s in the family genes, I’m sure of it. DeeDee definitely has the
same tendency, and so has my mother – after all, she almost went
AWOL out in California. It definitely affects April, too. She
couldn’t wait to leave Ireland. She whooshed off as soon as she’d
got her American passport – because she was born there, she
didn’t have to plead for a Green Card. And then, of course, there
was Aggie’s recent bid for freedom. Even at Marie’s family
gatherings, my cousins talk ardently about weekend yachting and
hiking and windsurfing, as though they can’t stand to spend protracted periods in their own houses.
I lean on Diarmuid’s sturdy chest and listen to his heart. This
feels so snug, so cosy. That’s what I missed most when he was so
taken up with the mice – that snug feeling we have when we nestle
like this.
‘I’m giving the mice back to the laboratory,’ he says, as if he’s
read my thoughts. ‘The research is over. They can just grow fat and old now and eat what they like. I think they’ll be used for
breeding… they might enjoy that.’ He gives me a naughty smile.
‘I’m sorry I got so obsessed with them. It’s just that I didn’t know
what to say to you. You seemed so disappointed.’
I peer at him. ‘Disappointed?’
‘Yes. I could see it on your face. You were disappointed in me.
I thought I bored you. All your friends are so much more… sophisticated, I suppose. I’m pretty basic.’ He smiles at me ruefully. ‘I have no hidden depths. I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you have hidden depths,’ I protest. ‘You’re a lovely
man. And you’re kind, too.’
He deepens his head on the pillow. It is ten o’clock at night and
still light outside. We can hear the sound of the ocean through the open window, the soft swish of the wind through the leaves of the
mimosa tree in the garden.
‘I really did try to phone, that day Aggie went missing,’ I say.
‘I longed for you. I knew you’d be able to comfort me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He runs the back of his hand lightly over my cheek.
‘It’s all right. You’re here now,’ I say. ‘I’d even begun to think
you were back with Becky.’
‘She’s in Galway with her boyfriend.’
‘Yes.’ I smile at him. ‘I believe that now, but I didn’t before. And,
even if you were with her, I thought I had no right to be angry.’
‘
Why?’
‘Because I was a bolting bride – that’s what my Uncle Bob calls me. I really did think you might never forgive me. Especially when
you saw me with Nathaniel… even though he really is just a
friend.’ I kiss his forehead. ‘You’re a much better person than I am.’
Diarmuid seems to stiffen slightly.
‘What is it?’ I glance at him worriedly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ He suddenly sits up and gets out of bed. Then he starts
hunting on the floor for his boxer shorts.
‘Are you going?’ I stare at him disbelievingly.
‘Yes.’
‘
Why?’
He pulls on his jeans and navy sweatshirt, finds his socks and
ties the laces of his runners. Any minute he is going to march out
of the room.
I leap up and race to the bedroom door to block his exit. I
stand there like someone in a film, panting, almost hissing. ‘I can’t
do this, Diarmuid. I can’t be with you if you clam up every time
we need to talk about something.’
Diarmuid suddenly slumps onto the bed and puts his face in his
hands.
‘What on earth is it?’ I sit down beside him.
‘Oh, Sally…’ He looks at me bleakly. ‘I haven’t forgiven you.
I’ve been furious. I’ve… I’ve felt so humiliated.’ He runs his hands
agitatedly through his thick black hair. ‘I keep thinking of the wedding – those grand declarations in front of everyone, the presents, the photographs. I don’t know what to do with the photographs, whether to keep them in an album or throw them away.’
‘Oh, Diarmuid.’ I lean forward. Our noses are almost
touching. ‘You’re so faithful and kind and sweet. I really wish you’d married someone nicer.’
‘Stop
saying
that!’ He is suddenly shouting. ‘It’s not true. I’m not those things.’
‘You are! Look how you behaved this evening, coming round
w
ith the beautiful music box, bringing the wine… and seducing m
e so expertly.’ I trace a finger tenderly along his arm.
He pulls away sharply. ‘I did it because I felt guilty.’
‘Why?’ I gaze at him. ‘Because you weren’t there when I phoned, when Aggie went missing?’
He shakes his head numbly. His eyes look dull and miserable. ‘No. Because I got so insanely jealous when I saw you with…’
‘
Nathaniel?’
‘Yes. I know you said you were just friends… but you looked so
close. So right together, somehow. I couldn’t stand it.’
‘But you looked so calm – almost as if you didn’t care.’
‘I can hide my feelings; surely you know that. I can do it
well… too well, probably.’
‘OK, so you felt jealous,’ I say soothingly. ‘That’s understand
able. But he really does have a girlfriend who makes cabinets. I wasn’t lying.’
‘I know that now.’ Diarmuid looks down at the cheap, multicoloured Indian rug beside my bed. ‘I saw them together a couple of days later. They were in the newsagent’s together, returning a DVD. She was holding his hand.’
‘Sounds like Eloise, all right.’ I manage to say it without any trace of emotion.
‘I should have stayed with you that evening. You’d had a d
ifficult day, and you were worried about Aggie… But I didn’t. It
all seemed to get to me suddenly. I’m like that sometimes; I let
things build up.’ He glances at me apologetically. ‘I couldn’t face
revising that evening, so I decided to take Charlene up on her offer of dinner. She’s the colleague I’ve been –’
‘Teaching to drive.’ I complete the sentence for him. ‘Which is
very kind of you. I’m sure she’s very grateful. No wonder she wanted to cook you dinner.’
‘Barry was having another barbecue,’ Diarmuid continues. He
is speaking so softly I have to lean forward to hear him. ‘I didn’t
want to go home… to what was supposed to be our home.’ He pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘I wanted to be away from everything… everything that reminded me of you.’ His words sound hollow, as though he’s heaving them up reluctantly.
‘Was the meal nice?’ I ask, too brightly. I don’t like the way he’s
talking. I almost wish he’d shut up. I miss his silence now. It was
far more restful.
‘She’d had an argument with her boyfriend. It’s a very on-off
situation. He’s sort of volatile.’ Diarmuid sighs. ‘We drank far too
much wine. We were both lonely. We hardly knew what we were
doing.’
I sit completely still.
‘Oh, Sally, it’s such a mess. I can’t believe it.’
‘Just tell me, Diarmuid,’ I say. ‘Just tell me.’
‘I slept with her.’
I stare at the Indian rug. I feel numb and cold and strange, as
if I’m watching us talking. As if this isn’t happening to me at all.
‘I meant to go home, but I’d drunk too much to drive. She lives
in Glencree, in County Wicklow; there’s no way I could have faced the dual carriageway.’
‘Do you love her?’ I say, before Diarmuid starts to expound on
the importance of sobriety when one is in charge of a vehicle.
‘We were drunk, Sally!’
‘Do you love her?’
He places his elbows on his thighs and hunches over. He
appears to be intently studying the floorboards. ‘I think she loves
me. I didn’t know that before. My mind was full of you, but I
should have seen it.’ He turns towards me suddenly. ‘She wants
me, Sally. She wants me to live with her.’
I can’t meet his eyes. I feel fooled and angry. We have just made
love. He should have told me beforehand; then we wouldn’t have
done it. I feel the way Diarmuid must have felt when I bolted out
of the house and left him on his own with the photographs and
the presents and all the new bouncy furniture. I want to be angry
with him, but I don’t know if I have the right to be. I always knew
he might find someone else if I left him. I knew it might come
to this.
Even so, I wonder if I should pick up the music box and hit him
over the head with it. I could also demand that he leave the house
immediately. Or I could throw a jug of water at him. It wouldn’t
stain the carpet or the rug. It would just need to be mopped up with a paper towel.
‘You’re not even angry, are you?’ Diarmuid says. ‘Not really.
Not the way you should be.’
‘I am angry, but after the way I’ve treated
you, I suppose I’m just not that surprised.’
‘Are you in love with Nathaniel?’ He searches my face.
‘He’s in love with Eloise.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I know. You should have told me about Charlene earlier.’
‘I almost didn’t tell you about her at all, but I couldn’t stand
you putting yourself down like that and making me sound so… so
bloody virtuous.’
‘Were you planning to seduce me this evening?’
‘No, honestly… I just meant to give you the music box. But you
seemed so pleased and so fond of me again, and…’ He looks at me a bit bashfully. ‘The old chemistry came back for a while, didn’t it?’ I cannot dispute this.
He clenches his jaw. ‘Maybe, if I’m honest, I also told you about Charlene because I wanted to see how you’d react.’
‘Oh, Diarmuid.’ I sigh. ‘Maybe we’ve said enough about it all
for the moment.’
After a moment he murmurs, ‘Come back to me, Sally. Come
back to me and let’s try to forget this happened.’
I look numbly at a patchwork cushion. I can’t believe what he’s
suggesting.
‘What about Charlene?’ I whisper.
‘I can’t live with her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’re too different. She comes from an entirely different culture.’
‘County Wicklow?’ I peer at him like I might peer at a strange
creature in a zoo, a creature whose habits and predilections are still something of a mystery.
‘She’s from South Africa. And I don’t feel ready, anyway.’