Ruth pulled her key out of the door. ‘Hello?’
Her mother’s head poked out from the kitchen. ‘In here, love – he’s been as good as gold.’
Ruth smiled – her mother always said that, even if Gerard had yelled his head off from the minute she left. She followed her mother into the kitchen, headed straight over to the baby carrier on the table. Her son looked up at her, sucking intently on his blue soother, arms flapping as he recognised her. He has his father’s eyes, she thought, as she bent her head to nuzzle against his chest. Gorgeous green eyes, just like Andrew.
‘What kind of a day had you?’
‘Grand – the usual.’ Ruth wriggled a finger into her son’s tiny fist, felt his strong grip. ‘Two body waves, two highlights, a few cuts. Mrs O’Carroll was in; her nephew won five thousand Euro with a scratch card last week, imagine.’ She tickled Gerard under his chin, and he gurgled and grabbed her hand.
‘You’re joking; I didn’t think anyone won those. I hope he treated her to the hairdo.’
Ruth laughed. ‘If he did, she didn’t mention it.’ She disentangled her hand and lifted Gerard’s bag from the chair, marvelling again that babies needed so much luggage when they went anywhere. Then she turned back to her mother. ‘What about you – what did you two get up to?’
‘We made a cake, didn’t we, lovie?’ Her mother smiled down at her grandson and he gurgled at her, soother slipping sideways. ‘He was a very good helper. And here –’ she lifted a tinfoil-wrapped package from the table ‘– before big Gerard eats it all.’
‘Poor Dad – all his cakes come in halves now.’ Ruth took the bundle and tucked it into her bag. ‘Thanks, Mam.’ She slung the bag over her shoulder, lifted the baby carrier with the other arm. ‘Well, we’d better get going, give this little man his dinner.’ She put her free hand on her mother’s shoulder, kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Thanks again, Mam. See you Thursday.’
‘Mind yourself, love.’
Driving back to the apartment – she still couldn’t think of it as home, although her tiny garden was just beginning to bloom; that would help – Ruth thought beans on toast. That would do her fine: such a relief not to have to worry about cooking for someone else any more. Gerard was easy – just open a jar of Heinz. She wondered idly what Cecily was cooking for Andrew tonight. Something wonderful, as usual. With wine and silverware and cut crystal. She shuddered, remembering her terror when she’d done the washing-up in her mother-in-law’s house; such a long time ago, it seemed now. Thank God she’d never broken anything.
In the seat beside her, Gerard crowed happily. Ruth glanced across at him. ‘Yes, darling. I’m happy too.’ And miraculously, she was. She never thought she would be again, when everything had come suddenly, terrifyingly crumbling down around her last May. When Andrew had walked in from work one day – hardly a week after she’d told him she was pregnant – and announced that he’d been having an affair.
With Breffni.
Even now, almost a year later, Ruth felt slightly sick whenever she allowed herself to think about that horrendous day. Standing there, face rigid with horror, listening to her husband taking her dreams and squeezing the life out of them – she’d felt her world shattering, had had to reach out and grab on to a chair, to touch something solid and hang on to it.
And Breffni. Of course it had been Breffni, with her shiny hair and her perfect face and her lip gloss that stayed in place all evening. Breffni, who’d lent them bedclothes and towels, and who’d given Ruth an eye pencil, to help her make the best of herself. Knowing that if Ruth was worked on from top to toe by the greatest make-up artist in the world, she’d never hold a candle to Breffni.
It was a miracle she hadn’t lost Gerard. How had he survived it all? That horrible scene, Andrew’s look of disbelief, his hands going up to protect himself as his wife, his docile, eager-to-please wife had screamed and scratched and thumped, wanting him to hurt too. And after that was over, after she’d shouted herself hoarse, after she’d demanded that he leave, not caring where he went, or what anyone would think – what did any of that matter now? What did it matter if he was telling the truth when he said the affair was over? – the great outpouring of her grief that began, the tears that just wouldn’t stop, as she lay alone in their double bed.
And in the morning, when she’d found the strength to drag herself out of the bed, exhausted, she’d pulled her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and started putting clothes into it. She’d been sitting on the train when she realised that she hadn’t called Helen to tell her she wouldn’t be in to work; halfway to Dublin before she remembered it was Wednesday, her day off.
And then the months when Dad and Mam had taken over. Settling her back into her old room, answering the phone so they could tell Andrew that she was out. Getting a cushion for her back, an antacid for her heartburn. Tissues for her tears. And finally, one day, she’d stood up and answered the phone herself when it rang.
‘Ruth, God . . . I’m so sorry –’
She hardly recognised his voice; it was like listening to someone you knew you’d heard somewhere before, but couldn’t for the life of you remember where. For the first time ever, Ruth interrupted, ready with the words she’d been practising for days.
‘Save your apologies; I’m not interested. In a few days you’ll get a letter giving details of my new bank account, and the name and address of my solicitor.’ Her palm was pressed against the bulk of her stomach; she was bigger than him now, in every way. ‘You will sell the house and pay half of whatever is left into my account. When the baby is born, my solicitor will contact you to work out access. I have nothing more to say to you.’
He was speaking as she hung up; cutting him off, silencing him, was deeply satisfying – and the flood of tears that followed soon after seemed, for the first time, to be more healing than sorrowing.
Over the next few days, she wondered where this new strength was coming from. Was it the thought of the child inside her, was he giving her the courage to stand up for them both? Or was it the image of Breffni and Andrew together, was that finally turning her grief to rage, making her powerful with it? Determining that They would never again make life miserable for Ruth Tobin? Not Ruth O’Neill any more – she was changing it back to Tobin. And her baby was going to be Tobin too: another small triumph.
Not that she was over it – far from it. Her parents would lie sleepless for many nights to come, listening sadly in the next room to the sobs that were still too harsh to be hidden. But the healing process had started; she was going to survive. She and her baby would survive.
And as the months went on, Ruth began to wonder what she’d ever seen in Andrew. Was it just his good looks – could she really have been that shallow? Because now she realised that that’s all there was to him – just a pretty face. God, she’d been so naïve. So taken in by a handsome man’s attention that she’d never looked beyond it. So grateful that he’d wanted to marry her, so sure that no one would ever want her in that way. What a pathetic creature she’d been, the old Ruth Tobin.
Gerard had been born two days late, on the twenty-ninth of December. And looking at his screwed-up pink face, stroking his impossibly tiny fingers, touching his spike of thick black hair – no wonder she’d had such bad heartburn – Ruth had felt something so much stronger than she’d ever felt for Andrew. She’d cradled her child in her arms, oblivious to her sweat- and tear-stained face, deaf to her mother’s excitement, hardly seeing the flash of her sister’s camera, and thought wonderingly so this is love.
Two months after Gerard was born, Ruth dropped in to see Sheila in the old salon – Mam had told her that Ruth was back – and asked if there was any part-time work going, and Sheila had taken her on immediately, three days a week. Mam minded Gerard while Ruth was at work, and Maura and Claire, Ruth’s old flatmates, called around often to the apartment, and Ruth’s younger sister Irene doted on her little nephew, begged to take him out on walks.
Occasionally Ruth found herself wondering what had happened between Donal and Frank. At least she’d done her bit to help them find each other again, even if an anonymous letter was the best way she could come up with. She hoped things had worked out all right – Laura had always been good to her. But Ruth never asked Andrew about her; never asked about any of his family when they met. It was better to cut all those ties now.
She stopped at a red light, looked over at Gerard again. Everything was fine; they were happy now. And she’d always have Gerard – he’d always be hers.
‘Only me.’
‘In here.’ Breffni stretched her arms over her head, yawned hugely, struggled to her feet. Cian came in as she was combing through her hair with her fingers. There seemed to be so much more of it when she was pregnant; something about it not falling out as much. Maybe she should think about getting it cut, although Cian loved it.
‘How’re you feeling?’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
She made a face. ‘Like an elephant who’s been bingeing for about seven months.’
He grinned. ‘Poor you. Not long to go now.’
‘Thank God. The sooner he’s out, the better.’ They’d asked and been told that it was a boy.
‘Right, I’m off for Poll. D’you need anything when I’m out?’ There was a little Spar near Mary’s house.
Breffni shook her head. ‘No, we’re OK till tomorrow.’ Cian had been doing the weekly shop on his way home from work for the past month or so, since Breffni had become too exhausted to consider it.
As she heard the front door slam behind him – why could he never close a door quietly? – Breffni thrust her feet into her slippers and padded slowly towards the kitchen, wincing slightly as she felt an enthusiastic kick. Steady, buster.
She turned the oven up a little, started to lay the table for their dinner. No wine – Cian had assured her that he wasn’t pushed whether they had some or not, and she couldn’t face even one glass these days.
He was so thoughtful really. Even after everything, still so attentive to her, so considerate. Listening, not interrupting, as she’d told him about Andrew – almost as if he’d been expecting it. And after, not a word of reproach. Asking her what she wanted to do. What she wanted to do.
She’d looked at him, the tears drying on her face. ‘Well, I . . . I assumed that you’d want me to leave.’ Suddenly realising that that was the last thing she wanted. Hardly believing when he replied that he’d really prefer if she stayed – if she wanted to stay with him. If it really was over between Andrew and herself. And she’d wept again as she’d promised that it was.
And then, Cian answering every phone call until Andrew tried again, and the low conversation in the hall that seemed to go on for a long time, but that probably hadn’t. He’d never told her what had been said, and she’d never asked, and Andrew hadn’t phoned again.
And after a few months had gone by, and she was still struggling with her guilt, and still discovering what she’d so nearly thrown away, she’d nervously suggested that they have another baby.
Of course she’d lost Laura. That was the worst of all. She’d been afraid to ring her for the longest time, and then one day she’d plucked up her courage and called her mobile, and Laura had listened without comment to Breffni’s stuttered apologies, and declined politely when Breffni had suggested that they meet, saying sorry, that she was extremely busy with work. And when Breffni had taken a deep breath and asked how the fertility treatment was going, Laura had paused before answering, ‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business’, and hanging up.
And Breffni had thought how like Cecily she sounded.
She was still grieving for Laura when her mother told her about Andrew’s move back to his mother’s house.
‘Of course I didn’t hear it from Cecily – that woman would hardly give you the time of day. But his car is there all the time, and there’s no sign of the wife. So sad; that marriage lasted no time. I’m sure Cecily is pleased to have Andrew back though – they were always very close. Didn’t you two have a thing for a while when you were teenagers?’
Breffni heard the front door again, and Polly’s quick patter towards the kitchen. ‘Mum?’
‘Hi there.’ She stooped carefully towards her daughter and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. ‘How’s Granny Mary?’
Polly pulled off her summer jacket and handed it to Cian, who hung it on the back of the door. ‘Fine. We made scones, an’ I had two.’
And Cian sat at the table and propped his chin in his hand and watched the light of his life as she chattered with Breffni, and didn’t think beyond the fact that she was still with him now.
‘More coffee, darling?’ Cecily stood with the cafetière poised.
Andrew shook his head briefly. ‘No thanks.’ She knows I never have more than one cup, and every night she still asks if I want another. He rustled his newspaper, hoping she’d take the hint and go back to her book.
‘Don’t forget, Laura’s at eight, if you want to change.’
Right, so she doesn’t consider what I’m wearing suitable. Hear you loud and clear, Mother. ‘Mm-hmm.’ He thought again about seeing Breffni on the street last month. As beautiful as ever, blooming with pregnancy. Holding Polly by the hand, looking in the window of a toy shop. Pointing to something in the window, turning to Polly with a smile.
He wondered if she was having a boy or a girl.
‘You’re going to see Gerard next week, aren’t you?’
He sighed loudly, lowered the paper just enough to look over it at her. ‘Yes, as usual.’ She knew he went once a month, for God’s sake.
Cecily lowered the cafetière carefully onto its stand, picked up her book, settled herself back down into her armchair again. ‘I was wondering if I might go with you this time.’ She smiled brightly at him.
Lord, that was all he needed. As if his visits weren’t hard enough. He folded the paper slowly. ‘I’m not sure that that would be a good idea, Mother – not right now. Ruth is still . . .’ What? Ruth was still what? Still the sweet little creature he’d married? Not a bit of it. ‘Look, leave it another while; I’ll talk to Ruth. She might let me bring him down here for a night when he’s a bit older. At the moment she’s still . . . a bit mixed up about everything.’
He saw the quick disappointment, the way she managed to replace it just as rapidly with the same bright smile. She’d just have to wait, that was all; the last thing he needed was Cecily witnessing his treatment at the hands of Ruth. So cold, so aloof when they met, not even a cup of tea offered, or a drink, in that cramped little flat. No pleasant conversation, no how are you, how’s life in Limerick.
Which was a bit much, when you thought about it. He’d offered to stand by her and Gerard, after all. Do the decent thing – wasn’t that what it was called? – that awful night when he’d been so honest with her and come clean about everything.
And it wasn’t as if Ruth knew about the unpleasant phone conversation with Cian the night before, threatening all sorts if Andrew ever tried to make contact with Breffni again. As far as Ruth was concerned, her husband was confessing his crime and attempting to make amends, end of story.
But Lord, that awful scene, flinging him out of the house, going running back to her parents the very next day, leaving Andrew looking like the big bad wolf. And then insisting that he sell the house – not that they hadn’t made a fair profit; house prices were still climbing steadily in Limerick. But by the time he’d paid off the mortgage, given Ruth her half, and sorted out child support – a surprisingly large amount, it seemed to him – there wasn’t a whole lot left over. Certainly not enough for him to consider buying someplace else, not just yet.
So he was back with Mother, for the time being. And of course it was fine – she’d always looked after him so well. And in time, he’d start looking at places in town – a small apartment maybe, on the river. But there was no hurry. For the moment he was fine where he was; almost as if he’d never left sometimes. Funny that Mother had never really questioned his abrupt return to the house; had accepted his tale of Ruth suddenly deciding that she couldn’t settle in Limerick, that she wasn’t happy with him.
Funny that Mother never seemed curious about his future either, never asked him what he planned to do. Which was just as well really, as he didn’t know himself. Play it by ear, that was the best thing. No hurry.
Would be nice to have a bit of time to himself though, now and again. Since she’d given up the book club, Mother rarely went out in the evenings. Maybe he’d suggest that she give that friend of hers a call – what was her name again? – and go to a play or a concert sometime.
Maybe he’d get two tickets and present them to her; she’d have to go then.
Cecily watched him over the top of her book. Such a handsome boy still, despite all that he’d had to go through this last year. Who could have possibly imagined that Ruth would turn out to be so headstrong, so demanding, so unforgiving? Surely a wife should be able to overlook her husband’s weaknesses, put that sort of thing behind her and soldier on? No one had ever said that marriage was a bed of roses, for goodness’ sake. Women these days didn’t know when they were well off – if Ruth had pulled herself together, instead of running back to Dublin like a hysterical ninny, she would have realised which side her bread was buttered on. How many women would give their eyeteeth to have Andrew? On reflection, Cecily decided that they were better off without her: silly creature.
But the yearning to see her grandson had taken her completely by surprise. Ruth had sent photos when he was born, and Cecily’s eyes had filled with tears as she looked down at the tiny creature. Her flesh and blood, Andrew’s son . . . she found herself thinking about him often in the months that followed, wondering what stage he was at, if he was sleeping through the night, whether he’d started teething. She’d sent a card to Ruth, which she’d known wouldn’t be acknowledged. And now Andrew seemed against the idea of her going with him to visit Gerard, which Cecily could half-understand, given Ruth’s ridiculous attitude, but still resented. What a tragedy that she, Cecily, the innocent party, was being denied the pleasure of seeing her only grandson grow up.
And as much as she loved her other grandchild, it didn’t make her loss of Gerard any less painful . . . Cecily thought about the evening ahead at Laura’s, about seeing Frank again. She’d been horrified to discover that he was Laura’s father-in-law; stunned when Laura had told her. Somehow, the whole business seemed sordid – humiliating in some way. So of course Cecily had cut ties with Frank: impossible for them to keep meeting like before.
And naturally Frank had respected her wishes, hadn’t tried to contact her again. They’d already met a few times at Laura and Donal’s, in fact, and Frank had behaved impeccably, chatting pleasantly as if he and Cecily were simply casual acquaintances. And if she felt a pang when she remembered their evenings out, those very pleasant dinners together, well, that would pass in time. And who knew? Maybe in the future they could . . . well, it would be perfectly acceptable for them to share an evening together now and again, wouldn’t it? Just as friends, of course. Perfectly respectable.
Especially now that she had given up the book club too – imagine Emily’s glee when she discovered that Andrew’s marriage had finished. Oh, she would have been all sympathy to Cecily’s face, but think of the whispers behind her back . . . No, it was entirely out of the question to put herself through that humiliation. This Thursday the club would be meeting – perhaps she and Andrew could go to see a film instead; he rarely went out these days. Yes, that might be a good idea.
‘Darling,’ she said.
He counted to three, slowly, before looking up.
And Frank, checking the clock on the kitchen wall, saw that he was due at Laura and Don’s – Donal’s – in less than an hour. And he hurried upstairs to change out of his gardening clothes and clean himself up, hoping to God that he’d remember to take the bottle of wine out of the fridge before he left.
Dying, as usual, to see the person who’d brought him back to life.
‘Remind me again why we’re putting ourselves through this.’ Donal’s voice floated out from the open bathroom door.
Laura smiled into the mirror. ‘You know very well it’s our turn – Mother has had us twice in the past month. Although I must admit I’m having second thoughts myself – I look like a whale. Come out and do up the zip for me, and I’ll see if I can still breathe.’
He appeared in the mirror behind her. ‘A damn sexy whale, if I may say so. Here –’ He eased the zip of her dress up slowly, while Laura attempted to pull in her stomach.
‘Thanks – if I just pretend to eat I’ll be fine.’ She turned sideways, pressing her hand to her abdomen as she examined herself in the mirror. ‘Three months – and still a long way to go.’
Donal grinned. ‘I’m blue in the face from telling you you’re fine – what is it with women that they have to look like sticks? We men want something to grab on to, you know.’
Laura thumped his arm. ‘Shut up – I want to be a stick, OK? Doesn’t matter what you want. Don’t let me have dessert.’
He nodded, still smiling. ‘Fine. Now how long have we got before the hordes descend?’
‘Three people are hardly hordes. And about ten minutes; have you checked the dinner – and will you make sure the fire is OK?’
Before Donal could answer, a wail erupted from the corner. They met each other’s eyes before turning simultaneously towards the cot.
‘I’ll get her.’
‘No, you go down – it’s my turn.’
And Laura, bending over her daughter’s cross, red face, smiled a smile of such pure happiness that Catherine was charmed into silence. She snuffled up at Laura and grabbed one lilac-socked foot, pulling off the sock and bringing it towards her mouth.
‘Oh no you don’t, you little rogue.’ Laura lifted her into her arms and rescued the sock, turned to find Donal still standing by the door, arms folded, watching them.
She stood and looked back at him. ‘Want a go?’
He nodded, walked over and took his daughter from Laura. His daughter, his miracle child, conceived against all the odds. Sitting quietly in Laura’s womb as Laura heard how her husband had deceived her. Waiting to be discovered when Laura, full of hurt and fear and pain, had gone for help to Dr Goode – not noticing, in her anguish, that her period was now well over two weeks late.
And Catherine was a miracle – she’d saved them from falling apart. How could they not survive, now that they had started a baby between them? She was the glue that had kept them all together. And when she was born, the incredible joy that Frank especially had got from Catherine, named in memory of his beloved daughter . . . seeing that, how could Laura not forgive the past, and move on?
And incredibly, Catherine had brought Laura and her mother closer together. It wasn’t the cosy, easy relationship that Breffni had with her mother – it would never be that – but it was better between them, definitely. Cecily was warmer, doting on Catherine, bringing expensive toys and clothes whenever she called around, telling Laura about a new baby alarm she’d seen advertised. She’d even offered to babysit, the last time they’d been to her house for dinner, but so far they hadn’t taken her up on it – they couldn’t bear to leave Catherine yet.
‘Hon.’ Donal looked up from the baby.
‘Yeah?’
‘What about giving Breffni a ring? Just to catch up, bury the hatchet?’
She didn’t answer immediately, looked back into the mirror, concentrated on getting the dress to sit right. Smoothed down the front of it with her palms.
‘I don’t know.’ How could she contact her again, how could they ever be friends again, with all that had happened?
Something that Ruth had said once swam suddenly into Laura’s head – something about them being like spaghetti people, all tangled up together . . . and they had been, twining in and out of each other’s lives. She and Ruth, Donal and Cian, Andrew and Breffni . . . and she hated that Breffni had wrenched it all apart, destroyed Ruth’s marriage for the sake of a fling. It had to have been a fling, hadn’t it, when they hadn’t gone off together like Andrew had been planning? Laura had never spoken about it to him after that one time, had been glad when he’d never brought it up again, just acted his usual confident self.
Poor Ruth.
But still . . . Laura missed her friend badly sometimes, missed her so much it nearly hurt. When she’d found out she was pregnant, her first thought had been must phone Bref, before she remembered. And now Bref didn’t even know that she’d had Catherine, that she hadn’t had to have the treatment after all. And she knew nothing about Bref – had she left Cian? Was that relationship destroyed too? And if it was, who would Bref have had to turn to, without Laura?
Maybe she’d call her. Maybe in a while she’d call her.
She turned from the mirror. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road – they’ll be here any minute. Gimme –’ She stretched out her arms ‘– go and do your thing downstairs. I’ll give this one a clean nappy so she won’t disgrace us.’
As Donal handed over Catherine, Laura met his eyes. ‘You’re a good man.’
And with a pang, she saw the lightning flash of pain on his face before he turned to go downstairs.