Saturday

Dessert?”

The mechanic’s wife shook her head. “I might have some Ben and Jerry’s at home.”

He raised his hand for the bill. “Must drop into the gym again tomorrow afternoon.” He patted his stomach. “Work some of this off.”

“Ah, not Sunday, it’s our only day together.”

“I’ll be a couple of hours, that’s all. We’ll get a DVD on the way home that you can watch while I’m gone.” He entered his PIN in the credit card machine and took the receipt from the waiter. “Come on, don’t you want me to be fit?”

“Okay—two hours, not a minute more.” She stood up. “I have to use the loo—I’ll follow you out.”

He took his jacket from the chair and walked towards the exit.

—————

He was standing by the door as they approached the restaurant. Irene could have pretended not to know him, but then she thought, Why not say hello to the man who repaired your car?

“Hi there,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.” She turned to Martin. “This is the man who did the panel beating on my car.”

Martin shook his hand. “Martin Dillon. Nice job, thanks.”

“No worries.” The mechanic looked down. “And who’s this?”

“This is Emily,” Irene replied. He hadn’t given his name to Martin, because it wasn’t Ger, like he’d told her.

“Hey.” He waggled his fingers at Emily, who stuck her thumb into her mouth and moved closer to Martin.

“Well, take care,” Irene said, pulling the door open—and a woman coming out walked straight into her path.

“Oh—sorry,” the woman said, drawing back. “Oh,” she said again, smiling, “hello there”—and Irene recognized Fiona from the life drawing class.

Fiona, whose hand curled around the mechanic’s arm. Fiona, who was married to the mechanic. Fiona, who was pregnant.

“One of my satisfied customers,” the mechanic said, indicating Irene with a tilt of his head. Not seeming to have noticed the fact that his wife seemed to know Irene. Not seeing the danger, not knowing what Irene had told his wife on Tuesday night.

Right now I’m having sex with the man who repaired my car. Not as well polished as I’m used to, but very enthusiastic.

And Fiona was remembering too, the smile fading from her face as the mechanic turned and led her away.

Jesus, she would have to be his wife. And now she knew what he had done, because Irene had told her. Irene had told her that her husband had been unfaithful.

And Fiona was pregnant, and had been delighted about it.

“She seemed to know you,” Martin said.

“She used to come to the gym,” Irene replied, walking ahead of him into the restaurant.

—————

Michael dialed his daughter’s number and listened to the soft double brr of her phone ringing. Over a week since she’d called to the shop and found Barry there, and no word from her since. He suddenly couldn’t let it go any longer.

He had nothing ready to say when she answered, nothing new to tell her. He simply wanted to make contact, to feel that he was connected to her in some way, even if it was only by the sound of her voice traveling to him through the earpiece of his phone.

The rings stopped and her answering machine clicked on. Michael looked at the ceiling and listened.

Sorry I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

“It’s Dad,” he said. “I’d really like to talk to you; please let’s not fall out. Ring me anytime, or drop into the shop if you’re passing.” He paused. “And thanks for the birthday card, it was thoughtful of you.”

He hung up. He shouldn’t have said drop into the shop, she might think he was trying to keep her away from the house. But he couldn’t imagine a meeting between the two women, couldn’t picture how that would go. He walked back to the kitchen, where Carmel was washing up and Barry was flicking through the pages of Mr. Bump.

“If you want to watch television, come into the sitting room when you’ve finished,” he said.

It was Saturday night, and he didn’t feel like sitting on his own in there.

—————

“How’s your meal?” Martin asked.

Irene took another forkful of the Thai green curry she didn’t want. “It’s very nice.”

He’d been willing to meet another woman in a hotel when his wife was pregnant with his first child—which meant that in all likelihood he’d done it before, probably with other women who’d brought their damaged cars to him.

Martin refilled her wineglass and she watched the pale cream liquid flowing in. She brought it to her lips and drank, feeling the icy sharpness of it running down into her.

When Irene had been unfaithful in the past, she’d been well aware that some of the men she’d been with had had wives at home; of course they had. But Ger, or whatever his name was, had a pregnant wife, and Irene knew her. And she saw their little encounter in the garage for the horribly sleazy act that it had been.

She watched Martin pouring more water into Emily’s glass. She saw her daughter eating noodles with her fingers, slurping them into her mouth, laughing with her father at the noise it made.

Fiona wasn’t a pretty woman. She was nondescript, with a personality to match. Irene recalled the couple of conversations they’d had at the break times, Fiona all eager puppy, blurting out inanities. She must have been delighted when a good-looking man like him had shown an interest in her.

“Look at that for a mucky face,” Irene heard Martin say, his voice full of tenderness. It had been his idea to go out for dinner. “We need to cheer up Emily,” he’d said, and it seemed to be working. Anyone looking at them would take them for a normal happy family out on a Saturday night.

Irene ate some more of her curry, and drank more wine. As she set down her glass she felt a prickling sensation behind her eyes, an obstruction in her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said, getting up and walking towards the bathroom, where she pressed a cold, wet tissue to her eyes until the impulse had passed.

No crying. Tears didn’t solve anything.

—————

“She told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she had sex with you.” Hating the words, forcing them out because she had to see his reaction.

“What?” He looked shocked, but it was easy to look shocked if you’d just been found out.

“She didn’t know you were my husband, she was just showing off.” She kept watching his face. “She said you were…very enthusiastic.” Her voice broke on the last word. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

He looked at her in disbelief. “Hang on—let me get this right. That woman told you she had sex with some man, and you assume it’s me. She doesn’t even know my name.”

“You fixed her car. She said it was the man who fixed her car. Why would she make it up? She didn’t know I knew you.”

“Because she’s a bloody liar, I don’t know. Maybe she fancies me—I can’t help that, can I?”

But Fiona heard Irene’s voice in her head. Irene, who could have any man she wanted. Irene, who only had to bat her eyelashes for them to come running, wives forgotten.

“Look,” he said, “nothing happened. Yes I repaired her car, and yes she offered me the free trial in the gym, but—”

“The gym?” Fiona frowned. “What’s she got to do with—” She broke off, the awful realization dawning. “Oh God,” she breathed, remembering Irene telling her about the husband who owned a gym, her own response that he must be loaded. “Oh God—”

The last hope that it wasn’t him fell away. It was all true, the pieces sliding into place, the full ugly picture sitting there in front of her. She covered her face with her hands.

“Fiona,” he said, “you’re only upsetting yourself. I told you she offered me a trial when she collected her car, I told you all that.” He reached for her shoulder but at his touch she twisted away from him, lowering her hands.

“You didn’t tell me that. You said they were offering free workouts, you didn’t mention Irene.” Her hands clammy, her face cold. “You never said someone offered you a workout for fixing their car, that’s news to me.”

“What does it matter who offered it to me?” he said. “All I did was get a workout. That’s not a crime, is it?”

She put it together again in her head. Maybe, after all, she’d added it up wrong. Irene had brought her car to him, he’d repaired it, and she’d suggested a workout. He’d gone to the gym, a week or so ago.

“But you’ve been back,” she said.

“No,” he said, “I haven’t, I—” He stopped. “At least, I have been back, but she wasn’t there.”

She remembered the night he’d mentioned the gym for the first time. He’d nearly torn the nightdress off her, so turned on he’d been that night. Hard as a rock before she’d touched him.

And the evening he’d come home from the workout, how he’d gotten her into the bath with him. Insatiable again, mad for her the minute she’d stepped in. Had he been thinking of Irene then, was that the effect she’d had on him?

She felt too full, the pizza she’d eaten sitting uncomfortably in her stomach. “So,” she said, hating where they were going, but unable to stop bringing him there, “where’s your card?”

“What card?”

“You must have some kind of membership card for the gym, something to show when you go there.”

“There’s no card, just my name on file. I just sign in when I get there.” He pushed a hand through his hair impatiently. “Jesus, what’s with the third degree?”

Fiona said nothing.

“Jesus,” he repeated angrily, “I love the way you believe me. Great that you have such trust in me. Thanks a lot.”

But Fiona thought of Irene, who’d had no reason to lie, who wouldn’t need to lie about men, looking like she did. And he didn’t have a membership card, and he’d never been remotely interested in gyms before.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

On Monday she’d walk home from school by the gym. She’d go in and ask about a membership that allowed you to pay for ten sessions. And if they said she couldn’t do that, if they told her they didn’t offer that kind of membership, she’d know for sure.

But she knew already, didn’t she? She was sure already.