“Okay,” she said. “I’ll come.”
“Thank you.”
“How posh is this place we’re going to?”
“You know Mum. She likes them posh.”
“Can I wear my jeans?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can wear whatever you want. But I suppose if you had a dress . . .”
When Matt and Maeve arrived at l’Ecrivain, Hilary and Walter Geary were in the bar, already well into their first drink. Hilary, a petite, stylish woman in a pale-pink tailored dress and a perfectly matched lipstick, was wittering away to Walter, a large, taciturn man in a yellow golfing sweater. Hilary was on the gin and Walter on the neat whiskey, Matt noted with a heavy heart.
“Happy birthday, Mum. Sorry we’re late,” Matt said. Maeve had had to try on everything she owned before she found a dress she felt comfortable in.
Hilary sprang up to administer fragrant hugs. “You’re not late!” she scoffed. “We’re early.”
“They’re late,” Walter said, into his drink. “But not as late as his brother.”
“Ignore him.” Hilary enfolded Maeve in a perfumed embrace. “Lovely to see you, Maeve.”
“We were beginning to think Matt had done away with you,” Walter said, then threw back the last of his drink.
“Shush!” Hilary gave Walter a playful cuff with the back of her hand. “Don’t mind him. We know Maeve is busy. And no one can help getting sick. We all get sick from time to time.”
Walter raised his glass at the barman. “Another of these.”
“Here’s Alex and Jenna,” Hilary said.
A good-looking pair: Alex was a taller, leaner, slightly older version of Matt, and Jenna was summery and fresh, with long, shiny blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Tonight she wore an eye-catching coral sun-dress and sexy slingbacks.
“You got the dress!” Hilary exclaimed, pointing at Jenna.
Jenna shook her head ruefully. “I should have listened to you, Hilary. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and in the end I went back.”
“I told you!” Hilary laughed. “If I know anything, I know clothes, and that dress was made for you.”
“I’ll know the next time.”
“Where’s my hug?” Walter groused.
“I’m not hugging you.” Jenna laughed. “You’re too cranky.” Then she relented and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
“Hi, Matt.” Jenna gave him a quick peck and moved on to Maeve.
Matt didn’t miss the lightning-quick once-over that Jenna gave Maeve, taking in Maeve’s rumpled, roomy dress, her Birkenstocks and her tangled curls. Not a bitchy look, Jenna wasn’t bitchy; the expression on her face was more like . . . well . . . pity.
“Now that you’re all finally here, can we go to the table?” Walter said. “I want my dinner”
“But what about Hilary’s birthday presents?” Jenna was carrying an elaborately wrapped polka-dotted box, with ribbons and stars hanging from it.
“After we’ve ordered,” Walter said, lumbering toward the tables.
“Long time no see,” Alex said pointedly to Matt.
Matt forced a bark of laughter. “You know how it is, work and all that.”
“Still busy?”
“Great!” No way would Matt mention that two members of his team had been made redundant in the last month. Alex was his older brother and trying to impress him was as automatic as breathing.
“Even in the CEC?”
“What—Oh the Current Economic Climate? Yeah, we’re doing okay.” A big sale would be nice, but they were holding their own.
“I heard they let two of your people go.”
Shit. How did Alex know? That was the thing about Ireland, everyone knew everything.
“Yeah, but the rest of us are fine.” Paradoxically, the jobs of his remaining four staff felt safer since the redundancies. The worst time had been waiting to see who’d be shown the door.
“No chance you could be made to walk the long walk?”
Matt shook his head. “I’m Head of Sales so without me they’ve no sales force. How’re things with you? Busy?”
“Never better. Credit crunch, my arse.” Alex was a rep for a medical-supplies company. “Sickness is recession-proof. Better, if anything. Everyone on antidepressants.”
“Any new updates on the wedding plans?” Hilary asked Jenna. Alex and Jenna were getting married in October.
“No change since I saw you, Hilary.”
“I suppose it was only a couple of days ago.” Hilary was disappointed.
“But the stag night,” Alex said, “now that’s coming along very nicely. Has Russ been on to you?”
Russ was Alex’s best friend and joint best man with Matt.
“No.”
“No? He said he was going to email you. Anyway, it’s all set up. We’re going to Vegas.”
“Vegas! What happened to Amsterdam?”
“Everyone goes to Amsterdam.”
“We’ll never do Vegas in a weekend.”
“That’s right, my man. That’s why we’re going for a week.”
A week? Matt and Maeve exchanged a look.
“Last week in August,” Alex said. “Make sure you’ve got the time off work.”
“Look . . . Alex . . . I’m your best man. I’m in charge of your stag night. Not you.”
“You’re my joint best man. You couldn’t make the last two meets to organize stuff, so we went ahead without you and organized Vegas. Which suits the rest of us down to the ground.”
“But what would we do in Vegas for a week?”
“I can think of plenty,” Walter said.
“Are you coming?” Matt asked his father.
“Of course I’m coming! It’s my oldest son’s stag night, stag week, whatever you want to call it. I believe there’s great golfing in Vegas, that’ll keep us all occupied.”
“I don’t play golf,” Matt said.
“So take it up,” Alex said. “You’ve a couple of months before we go. Anyway, about time you started, it’s one of the few things yourself and Maeve haven’t tried. Horse-riding, skiing, mountain-biking, hillwalking . . .? Speaking of which, how’s your hillwalking going?”
“Great. Great.”
“Were you out today? A perfect day for it.”
“No, we thought the place would be overrun with schoolkids and we needed to be back in time for tonight.”
“And last weekend?”
“I think we were out last weekend? Were we, Maeve?”
“I think we were,” Maeve said.
Alex gave them a look: he knew they were lying.
Suddenly, Hilary clapped her hand over her mouth and said to Maeve, “God above, I’ve just remembered. We forgot your anniversary.”
“. . . Anniversary?” Maeve asked.
“Your wedding anniversary? Two weeks ago. I’m so sorry, but in all the excitement with Jenna and Alex . . . Are you okay, Maeve? You’ve gone a bit pale.”
“I’m grand.”
Hilary studied Maeve’s face. “You are pale.” Realization moved behind Hilary’s eyes. “Oh my God! Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
“What?”
“Special news for us?” Hilary’s face was radiant with hope and gin.
“Muu-uum.” Matt buried his head in his hands. This was what happened when Hilary didn’t stick to the wine. “Maeve isn’t pregnant. If and when it happens, we’ll tell you. You don’t have to keep asking.”
“But I can’t help it!” Hilary was slightly slurring her words. “You’ve been married for more than three years and I’m the only woman in the tennis club without a grandchild. It’s embarrassing!”
“Sorry, Mum,” Matt said quietly.
Maeve gazed at her thighs, her face burning.
“Because there are things you can do,” Hilary said. “If you’re having ‘difficulties.’ ”
“God,” Alex groaned. “Who let her at the gin?”
“Tests and things. They’
d start with you, Matt. You’d have to go into a little cubicle—”
“Stop! Stop right now!” Alex said.
“No son of mine is going into any little cubicles,” Walter rumbled. “No son of mine is firing blanks.”
“A week in Vegas?” Maeve said, in the taxi home.
“I’m not going.”
“He’s your brother, you’re his best man, you have to go.”
Day 56 . . .
Less than thirty yards from l’Ecrivain, Katie was in another restaurant, celebrating her fortieth birthday with five other women.
“Poor Katie.” Dawn sighed drunkenly. “You never got to have children.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“As good as,” Dawn said. “There’s no hope for you now. This Conall, he doesn’t want kids, does he?”
Katie looked at Naomi, who had obviously been spilling the beans. “How do you know he doesn’t want kids?”
Naomi flushed. “I just said he wasn’t domesticated.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t put your mirror up.”
“It’s up.”
“He took his time about it.”
“It’s up now.”
“He’d better be back from Helsinki for Jason’s wedding,” Naomi blustered.
“He’ll be back.”
“And if he isn’t?”
And if he isn’t . . .?
“He’s very fond of his niece, Bronagh.” Katie shouldn’t have to defend Conall to Dawn. “She’s his god-daughter and they get on great. And she’s a kid, she’s only seven.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“But you’ve never even met him!”
“Here come the martinis!” Sinead said desperately. “Lovely strong drinks. Just what we all need!”
It was turning out to be a very strained night. Normally, they all got along great, despite their different circumstances: Naomi, married with two kids; MaryRose, a single mother; Sinead, single and childless; Tania, married with two kids; Katie, girlfriend of Conall and therefore in some twilight no-man’s-land where she wasn’t exactly single but she definitely wasn’t locked into something secure and permanent.
It was Dawn. Dawn was the source of the trouble and she wasn’t even Katie’s friend; she’d only been allowed to come out of kindness.
“I bet you haven’t met his parents,” Dawn said.
“Who? Conall’s? I have.”
“Did they hate you? Did they think you were after his money?”
“. . . Ah, no.” She’d met Ivor and Ita a few times and they’d been friendly—but not creepy. They didn’t treat Katie as the savior, the woman that might finally force their oldest son to settle down. “And I’ve met his brother and his kids tons of times.” Well, maybe tons of times was stretching things a little. “I was at Bronagh’s First Communion last month.”
Dawn took a gulp of her pomegranate martini. “How will you cope when he dumps you?”
Tension froze the table. Dawn was simply articulating what everyone else thought, but all of a sudden it was starting to annoy Katie.
“Dawn . . .” Naomi said anxiously.
“You’ll end up in the nuthouse,” Dawn decided.
“That’s enough,” Katie said sharply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But I—” Dawn looked horrified. Katie was normally so . . . nice, pleasant.
Katie felt as appalled as Dawn looked. This was the second sharp exchange she’d had in the last few days. The first was with her mum about her hair color, and now this. God. It was true what Naomi had said: now that she was forty she was suddenly going to be super-touchy and she’d have no choice about it. She’d make enemies everywhere.
“Dawn, look, I’m sorry.” She couldn’t hold it against Dawn. Dawn had a young baby, she hadn’t had a night out in seven months, and she’d lost both her social skills and her tolerance for strong liquor.
“I haven’t had sex in two years!” Sinead declared, diplomatically trying to plow a new conversational furrow. “Last time was Katie’s thirty-eighth birthday. That was a great night. Remember the crowd of Slovakian fact-finders we met—”
“I haven’t had sex in eleven months,” Naomi said.
“But you’re married! I’d give anything for regular sex,” Sinead said.
Naomi tisked. “I wouldn’t care if I never did it again.”
Katie sighed inwardly. She knew where this was going. The chocolate conversation. All the women present who had long-term partners (Naomi, Dawn and Tania) were about to start complaining about how their men were always badgering them for sex but how they’d happily do without it for the rest of their lives if they could have a bar of chocolate every evening instead.
Sure enough, they went into a big long love-in about which chocolate they’d like: Mars Bars; Twirls; Twixes (unpopular); Bounties.
“Sex with Ralph once a month or a Twix every night?” Tania challenged Naomi.
“The Twix, the Twix! And I don’t even like Twixes!”
“Neither do I. Why is it?”
“The shortbread,” Naomi said knowledgeably.
“You’re right! It is the shortbread.”
Then Dawn mentioned Green & Black’s and the discussion became so high-pitched that one of the waiters had to ask them to quiet down.
Day 55
Andrei was in bed, crying softly. The combination of homesickness, the comedown from the weekend of heavy drinking and it being Sunday evening, the worst night of the week, was just all too much.
When he heard the key in the door, he was surprised because he wasn’t expecting Jan back from Limerick until the following morning. But he wasn’t expecting the evil little pixie either. She always spent Sunday nights with Poor Fucker. But it was definitely her, he could hear her, moving lightly around, spreading her unique brand of vileness throughout the flat.
He buried his face in his pillow, trying to stifle his sobs. The pixie must not hear him.
Lydia wasn’t exactly in top form either. Drained and depressed by the weekend, she was facing a five-thirty start in the morning followed by a seventy-hour week. And from the grumpiness that pervaded the air, at least one of the Poles was home. Andrei probably.
Gilbert would fix her. She’d missed him this weekend. She rummaged for her phone, hit redial and irritation rose as she got his voice mail—again. He’d blanked her since Friday, obviously pissed off by her abrupt disappearance. Weekends were their time together. They both worked Friday and Saturday nights, usually into the early hours, finished up around 3 a.m., then spent Saturday and Sunday together, luxuriating in Gilbert’s big bed.
“Stop sulking, you big baby,” she said. “I’m home and I want to see you.”
For a moment she wondered, really wondered where exactly Gilbert was right now, and what he’d spent his weekend at. There was no evidence that he was off with other girls but she was surprised by a queasy wash of some sort of emotion. Not nice, not nice at all.
She should eat something. Or maybe get some sleep.
Poppy was always saying that Gilbert probably had a wife and six children stashed away, back home in Lagos. It was a running joke among Lydia’s friends, this thing about Gilbert’s other life. Lydia always scoffed at it. A person supporting seven other people wouldn’t spend as much money on clothes as Gilbert did.
But he might, she acknowledged. It wasn’t impossible.
Gilbert was secretive.
Dishonest, if you prefer.
When they’d met he told her he was thirty, but a few weeks later he’d let slip that he was only twenty-seven. There were things she knew about him—for example, that he owned a share in a small restaurant in North Great Georges Street—that she’d learned from Odenigbo. Gilbert had never mentioned it to her. Then again, why should he? She didn’t own him and there was plenty he didn’t know about her.
But she had to admit that some of Gilbert’s claims seemed bafflingly gratuitous. He’d told
her he was allergic to eggs. Insisted on it. A morsel of meringue could kill him, he said. However, she’d seen him happily eat an omelette and he hadn’t swelled up to seven times his normal size and rolled around on the floor, gasping for air and wheezing for an adrenaline injection.
She understood that he lied to muddy the waters, to keep her from knowing exactly who he was. Gilbert was his own man and he needed to keep part of himself entirely for him. This was who he was and better, in her opinion, than a sap who insisted on giving her full and frank disclosure and then insisted that she return the favor.
All the same, tonight she wished her boyfriend was a little less mysterious. It was a bright summer evening and she was going mad at the thought of being trapped in this flat. Desperately, she fired off a few texts but no one would come out to play. Shoane was still in bed, nursing last night’s hangover, and Sissy was on a date! Some man she’d met in the ticket queue at BusAras. Poppy was sitting before a spreadsheet, trying to do a seating plan for her wedding. Apparently, it was complicated, with various members of the family not speaking to other members and having to be kept well apart from each other.
“Let them sort it out themselves,” Lydia advised.
“I can’t.” After a pause, Poppy said tearily, “But sometimes I feel like just running away from it all.”
Lydia fully understood. If she was having to get married at the age of twenty-six, she’d be frantic with fear. She couldn’t understand why Poppy was signing up for it. She was so young, there were so many years left in her life and she’d have to spend every single one of them with Bryan, who was nice enough but could Poppy sustain an interest in him for the next fifty years? The thought of having to do it herself made her insides go cold with terror.
“Come on out tonight. A few drinks will relax you.”
“Lids, I can’t.” There was an edge of hysteria to Poppy’s voice.
“I could come and help you with your plan.”
“But you wouldn’t help me. You’d put thoughts in my head, that I’m a madzer to be getting married at twenty-six, and telling me that Bryan is boring—”
“I never said Bryan is boring—”