Always You (12 page)

‘And number three,’ went on Adele. ‘You should make sure you have all the facts before jumping down my throat.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he tell you that Rory’s parents are away for the night?’

A flush crept across Cahal’s face. The crucial fact changed everything. ‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Well, then. What have you got to say now?’

He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Adele.’

‘I should think so too. And, for your information, Brady’s doing a good job with the boys. He gets on really well with them but he respects the fact that me – and you – are their parents, not him.’

He ran a hand through his hair, jealousy nibbling at his stomach like acid. Was that supposed to make him feel better? Did the boys like big, easy-going Brady more than him, especially as he was exonerated from the onerous duties of discipline and boundary-setting? He sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘You’re an arse sometimes, do you know that?’ said Adele, but her tone was soft and affectionate.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, running his hand down his face. ‘Sorry. I guess you’d better put Jed on again.’

When he finally came off the phone, Jody looked up from her computer screen and said, ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ he said stonily, ‘if managing to alienate your son and piss off your ex-wife before half past nine in the morning can be qualified a success.’

Jody laughed as if he’d cracked a joke. ‘I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll blow over.’

How he wished it would. But Brady wasn’t going anywhere. Since she’d married him, Adele had never seemed happier. He’d no reason to dislike Brady, yet he couldn’t warm to the sports teacher, a huge beer-swilling, ex-professional Aussie-rules footballer. They had absolutely nothing in common. He stood up and jangled the coins in his trouser pocket. ‘Catch you later. I’m going to get a coffee.’

He took the stairs down eight flights, thoroughly dejected both by the phone call and by being stood up on Friday night.

Walking into the canteen, he caught sight of Sarah and stopped dead in his tracks.

Bent slightly at the waist, with eyebrows knitted together in concentration, she held a plastic cup underneath the spout of the water cooler. Her pert bum was silhouetted by a tight, black skirt and she wore a crisp white fitted shirt that highlighted her small waist and cupped her rounded breasts. Desire stirred in him – along with simmering anger.

He started to perspire, beads of sweat on his upper lip. And, as the growing anger slowly displaced the desire, his resolve strengthened. She’d a bloody cheek standing him up. He gritted his teeth and walked towards her. ‘I wondered when I’d bump into you.’

She made a little startled sound and straightened up with a full cup of water in each hand. Her eyes met his and her face went bright red. ‘I … er … I was going to come and find you today.’ She glanced at the door, as if searching for a means of escape, then held up the cups. ‘The water cooler on our floor ran out.’

Her nails were painted apricot, as pale and delicate as the inside of a shell. He pulled his gaze away from her nails and fixed her with a fierce gaze. ‘I’m not interested in the bloody water cooler,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘I want to know why you stood me up the other night.’

‘I … I didn’t mean to,’ she said feebly. ‘I was there, outside Carnegie’s. I saw you through the window but …’ Her voice trailed off and her hands shook. Water slopped out of the overfilled cups onto the floor between them. She was no longer blushing. Her face was pale as death.

‘But what?’ he said gently, her obvious distress immediately diluting his anger.

‘I couldn’t go in.’

‘What do you mean, “You couldn’t go in?”’

She shook her head slowly, her lips slightly parted, as if confounded by the question. At last she said, ‘I did want to meet you … I planned to.’

‘So what stopped you?’

She looked at the floor and an overwhelming sadness enveloped him.

‘Do you hate me?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said emphatically, looked away and added abruptly, ‘I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.’ And with that she brushed past him and disappeared out the door.

He spent the rest of the morning cooped up in a meeting room with the senior management team, and was glad when they finally broke for lunch at one o’clock.

‘Fancy going down to the canteen?’ said Jody, as they walked into the office together.

He threw a pile of papers on the desk and glanced out the window. The dark cloud he’d spotted earlier had miraculously passed overhead without disgorging its contents on the city. Now the sun peeked out from behind a scattering of pale grey clouds stretched out across the sky.

‘I think I need a bit of fresh air.’

Jody peered out the window. ‘What a good idea. I think I might join you.’

‘No,’ he said and she looked at him sharply, though the smile was back on her face almost instantaneously.

‘No offence but I could do with a bit of space to clear my head.’

‘No offence taken,’ she said breezily. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Outside the late March sun had surprising warmth in it and the breeze was gentle on his face. He headed for the Lagan River, the source of the city’s historical maritime wealth and commerce, and now the heart of the city’s tourist industry. Clutching a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, he marched purposefully north along the riverbank pathway, his heart pounding in his chest. On his left, traffic rumbled by on Donegall Quay; on his right lay the deep blue waters of the Lagan, its still surface patterned by little whorls and eddies. He was angry with Jed for attempting to manipulate him and more angry with himself for not being there. As for Sarah, his feelings towards her were utterly confused.

He was frustrated with her, no doubt about that. But her reaction in the canteen also gave him hope, even though her words made no sense. She’d been there, right outside Carnegie’s, watching him. She’d planned to join him. He needed to know what had stopped her.

By the time he reached Lagan Weir, the anger had given way to despondency and his goose march had slowed to an amble. The adrenaline-fuelled energy that had propelled him the half mile or so from Laganside Tower, had all but dissipated. His shoulders sagged, the muscles across the centre of his back ached, and his legs felt incredibly tired.

Just beyond the weir, on a slightly elevated platform, he came across a startling sight – an enormous sculpture of a blue fish, taller than a man and at least ten metres in length. Bewildered, he sat down heavily on one of the black benches and stared out across the river.

‘I see you have the same idea as me,’ said a woman’s voice. He looked up and the eyes that met his were still and grey, like the Lagan at the turn of the tide on a dull Belfast day.

He stood up. ‘Sarah,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper and further words failed him. Against her black funereal coat, which buttoned up to the neck, her face was as white and flawless as porcelain.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Her face coloured and he saw at once how much it had cost her to make this approach.

‘Sure,’ he said casually and sat down, his heart beating so loud he could hear it.

She sat down beside him and placed a paper bag on her lap. ‘Must be near low tide.’

‘Huh?’

She pointed and moistened her lips. ‘Look at the difference in height between the river on this side of the weir and the other side.’ They both stared at the water bubbling at the base of the weir and then she went on, ‘It was built to stop the mudflats further upstream being exposed at low tide. Apparently they used to stink to high heaven, especially in the summer. It’s the key to the whole Laganside regeneration.’ She paused. ‘It’s kind of beautiful in a way.’

‘Sarah.’ He sighed and shook his head and stared downstream. The yellow cranes of Harland and Wolfe loomed over the docks that had built the most famous ship in the world, RMS
Titanic
.

‘I’m sorry for standing you up,’ she said. His head snapped round and she stared him straight in the eye, her face both beautiful and sad. Then her gaze slid down to her lap. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

He waited. A lone seagull circled overhead, screeching and cawing, then flew off across the river towards Queen’s Quay.

‘I shouldn’t have agreed to meet you in the first place.’

‘Why not? We were once as close as two people can be,’ he said carefully. ‘Surely that counts for something?’

She squinted, as if focusing on some particular thing on the opposite side of the river. ‘That’s true. That’s what makes what happened to us so unbearable. Even now.’

His mouth went dry. He licked his lips. ‘I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable in some way. I didn’t mean to pressurise you into anything.’

She scratched the side of her nose. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Then I don’t understand.’

She looked at him then, her eyes wide open, her eyebrows raised. ‘I do … I did want to see you. But I’m not sure if remembering … if going over the past is a good idea.’

‘We can’t just pretend we never happened, Sarah. Being with you was the happiest time of my life.’

She looked away.

His chest tightened. Even though he had so much just cause, he tried not to be angry with her. Why was she so distant with him? ‘Do you dislike me, Sarah?’

‘Of course not.’

She looked out over the water once more and they sat in silence. The sun warmed his thighs and the busy sound of traffic filled his ears. Beside him, Sarah shifted on the bench, crossed and uncrossed her ankles, the paper bag on her lap rustling. ‘Well then,’ he said at last, ‘let’s not talk about the past. Let’s pretend we’re two people meeting for the first time.’

She looked at him guardedly.

‘I could use a friend round here,’ he said.

A cautious smile played on her lips. ‘Why do you say that?’

The tightness in his chest eased and he returned her smile. ‘Everyone seems to see us as the enemy. The management team are less than enthusiastic about the change programme.’

‘It’s not personal, Cahal. It’s just that they’re worried that your team is going to come up with recommendations that might hurt them. Like redundancies.’

‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said glumly, looking out across the water.

Desperate to restore her good humour, he indicated the sculpture behind them with a nod of his head. ‘So what’s with Moby Dick back there?’

She threw her head back and laughed, the same deep and throaty sound he remembered, then twisted round on the bench to look at the enormous sculpture of the fish. ‘It’s not a whale, you eijet! It’s a fish. An Atlantic salmon, actually. It’s titled Salmon of Knowledge but everybody calls it The Big Fish.’

‘What’s it doing here?’ he said, raising one eyebrow in mock derision. He loved to make her animated and happy. ‘Got stranded on its way upstream, did it?’

She tutted, though there was a twinkle in her eye, and proceeded to explain, ‘It’s part of the regeneration. There are three art trails with sculptures that go all the way from the Stranmillis Embankment at Governor’s Bridge, right down to this weir.’

‘So why a fish?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Since the river’s been cleaned up, fish have started to return. It’s symbolic in loads of other ways too.’

He raised his right eyebrow even further.

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ And she jumped up with the paper bag in her hand and led the way up the steps to the sculpture.

‘Look,’ she said, walking around the head of the fish, with its downturned mouth and copper-coloured eye, as big and shiny as a wheel hub. ‘The scales are made from ceramic tiles printed with images of Belfast, or something to do with Belfast, dating right back to Tudor times.’

He tucked the water bottle under his arm and touched the cold, glazed surface of a tile. Under his hand, an advert for defunct Cowan’s Celebrated Whiskies feted the city’s long-lost distillery. ‘Interesting,’ he said, studying the images – an extract from some old piece of legislation headed up The Summary Jurisdiction Act; a young girl staring out of a grainy photograph, a child’s drawing of the
Titanic
; another of a soldier; a photograph of The Dub tea room. ‘It’s like a visual potted history of Belfast.’

She came up beside him, so close he could smell her perfume, and said, ‘That’s exactly what it is.’ Then she looked out across the Lagan and squinted into the sun. ‘Years ago, tourists wouldn’t have come anywhere near Belfast, or the Lagan, but that’s all changed.’

He laughed. ‘Yeah, I read about a new
Titanic
centre that’s opening somewhere round here.’

She pointed downstream, across the river. ‘It’s over there in Queen’s Quay.’

‘That’s Irish isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘Celebrating what is arguably the greatest maritime disaster in peacetime with a visitor centre.’ Sarah laughed, tiny crinkles appearing at the corners of her grey eyes. Encouraged, he went on, ‘I mean, if you’d built the
Titanic
would you want to crow about it?’

She giggled. ‘Now, to be fair, the flaw wasn’t in the construction, it was in the design. And there were a whole lot of other factors at play too in the sinking. But I bet people will flock to see it.’

They were silent then for a few moments while he contemplated his next move. He’d made her laugh. He wanted to hold this fragile moment, and the sound of her laughter, forever. ‘Are you going to carry that sandwich round with you all lunchtime or are you going to eat it?’

She smiled. ‘Let’s find somewhere a bit quieter to eat.’

‘So you’ll break bread with me then?’

She paused for a second. ‘Yes.’

They crossed the river and walked the short distance to the Odyssey Complex where they sat on a bench seat built into the concrete embankment and ate sandwiches, overlooking the Lagan. A massive white Stenaline passenger ferry inched slowly into dock on the opposite shore.

‘So tell me about your wife,’ she said, and took a bite of her sandwich.

Her arm pressed lightly against his, the faint smell of her perfume carried on the gentle breeze.

‘Adele. We got divorced two years ago.’