A Week in Winter (38 page)

‘Lovely place, as I would have expected,’ he said, and he kissed her on each cheek and got back into the taxi.

Freda climbed the stairs and went into her little flat, which looked as if it had been ransacked by burglars but was actually just the way she’d left it. She sat on the side of her bed, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t come in.

When she had been telling him about the library, he had listened to every word as if she was the only person in the room. But what if he was that way with everyone? Did he really like her? Of course not, how could he? She was just a librarian; he was so smart and had travelled everywhere.

She felt suddenly lonely here tonight. She might get a cat to talk to.

Eva had advised her against it; she said that cats were the natural enemy of birds, and anyway, if you became fond of them it stopped you from travelling. Still, if she had a cat it might purr at her, be some kind of presence in this empty place, perched at the top of a big house.

She fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed over and over that she was trying to get on to a ferry but it kept leaving the shore before she could get on board.

‘Come on, Freda, we don’t
do
vague,’ Lane said over coffee in the little theatre the next morning.

‘I’m not being vague, I’m telling you every single detail of the menu down to the chocolate shaped like a Q at the end.’ Freda was indignant.

‘But what about
him
? Did you like him? Was he easy to talk to?’

‘He was fine, very smooth, very charming. He’s in what they call the “leisure industry . . .”’

Lane snorted in derision.

‘. . . and he’s here to discuss investing in Holly’s. They want to do a major expansion.’

‘Holly’s doesn’t need expanding. It’s fine as it is. Did you . . .?’

‘No.’

‘And did he want to . . .?’

‘Again, no. So now, does that answer every interrogation on the sexual front?’ Freda wondered.

Lane looked hurt. ‘We always tell, that’s why I asked.’

‘Well, I
have
told. Nothing, nada, zilch.’

‘Ah yes, but will you tell when there
is
something to tell?’ Lane speculated.

‘We’ll never know, will we?’ Freda sounded more lighthearted than she felt.

‘Suppose I were to warn you off this guy Mark,’ Lane looked serious. She couldn’t put a finger on what it was, but there was something about him that worried her. ‘Suppose I said I didn’t trust him. Suppose I said you don’t know anything about him, that he’s just spinning you a line. If I were to do that, would I lose you as a friend?’

‘Nothing to warn me off – one bunch of roses which went to Miss Duffy, one dinner . . . hardly an affair.’

‘Early days,’ Lane said darkly. ‘He’ll be back. I feel sure of it.’

Joe Duggan, a man Freda had last met in college five years ago, rang to ask her to a party that night. Freda had no intention of going to a group of strangers with a fellow she barely remembered, but polite as always, she asked him what he was doing these days.

‘Lecturing in technology, mainly to dummies,’ he said. ‘You know, people who are afraid of gadgets and who don’t want to miss out. I’m not too bad at it, actually; I tell them machines are stupid and that calms them down.’

‘Joe, I may have a great job for you. Can you come and see me in the library on Friday,’ Freda said. This could be the next Friends meeting settled.

Perfect.

Miss Duffy had a face that would stop a clock.

‘When you have quite finished organising your social life, Miss O’Donovan, I wonder can I ask you to help with the Library Fines? And there are several people waiting for your attention at the counter.’

The first in line at the counter was Mark Malone. He said nothing, just looked at her.

‘Do you have any work to go to?’ she asked him to keep the conversation light and to break his stare.

‘I work very hard,’ he said. ‘Way into the night often, but I made time this morning to come and see you.’

‘Thank you so much for dinner,’ Freda said. ‘I was going to write you a little note, in fact, to say how much I enjoyed it.’

‘What would you have said?’

‘That it was a very warm and generous evening and to thank you.’ She kept an air of finality to the way she spoke, as if she thought it was a one-off and that she was just being grateful without regrets.

‘You said you have a day off tomorrow,’ he said.

Normally on her day off, Freda would do what she and Lane called the everyday business of living: she would bring her sheets and towels to the launderette, do some shopping at the supermarket, maybe persuade Lane to take a long lunch. Sometimes she went to an art exhibition or did window-shopping in the boutiques. She might tend her window boxes, filling them up with bulbs for the spring, and in the evening she might go to a wine bar with friends.

But not tomorrow. That would be a very different day.

Mark had wondered if Freda would like to go down to County Wicklow with him. He had to go to a meeting with Miss Holly, and maybe they could have lunch there. In the shower, Freda planned the day. They could go for a walk in the afternoon, then they would go home and she could get his supper ready. Maybe they would stay at Holly’s. In any case, he would say she looked very beautiful. He would take her in his arms.

‘We don’t have to wait any longer,’ he would say; or maybe, ‘I wouldn’t have been able to get through tonight without you.’ Something. Anything. It didn’t really matter.

She wondered what it would be like. She hoped she would be attractive enough for him. Please him properly. She wasn’t very experienced, and certainly no one recently.

The last time must have been nearly two years ago when she had had a holiday romance, a lovely guy called Andy from Scotland who had promised to stay in touch and said he would come to Ireland to see her. But he didn’t stay in touch and he hadn’t come to Ireland. It hadn’t been a big deal. Andy already had a life planned for himself: it involved banking, living near his parents and his married brothers, playing a lot of golf.

Freda didn’t know why she was even thinking about Andy now, except to worry that she might not have been any good at it, which was possibly why he might not have kept in touch. Perhaps as a lover she had been useless. She had quite enjoyed it all herself, that magical summer holiday, and thought that Andy had too. But then, you never really knew.

It would have been lovely to have had some reassurance about that side of things. Freda smiled to herself wryly at the thought of telephoning Andy at his bank, years after the fling, and asking for reassurance about her performance.

But then Mark wasn’t looking for some kind of sexual athlete. Was he? Women must have been throwing themselves at him since he was a teenager. She wished she knew more about him, and what he wanted.

And then, when she least expected it, Freda got one of her feelings. She saw as clearly as if it were an advertisement in an estate agent’s catalogue a book-lined apartment with a living room and kitchenette, two big bedrooms and a study with an overflowing desk. There was a view of the sea from the window. At the door was a small woman with short blonde hair, reading glasses around her neck on a chain and a vague, worried smile.

She was saying, ‘
There
you are, darling. Good to have you home!’ to whoever was coming in the door. But who was the woman? And who was she talking to? The breath left her body with a great rush, and she felt light-headed and as if her legs had turned to paper. Was it Mark?

It couldn’t be. It was wrong, the
feeling
must be wrong. She hadn’t seen a man, she hadn’t seen who it was arriving at the door. It couldn’t be Mark. It couldn’t be.

Shaking, she got dressed and, hands still trembling, applied mascara and lipstick. She put up her hair, found her good boots and she was ready. She felt a shiver. She felt very glad she had told nobody about this date.

The shrill bell of the intercom buzzed. He was on the doorstep.

‘I’ll come straight down,’ she said into the receiver.

He looked at her with great admiration as she came down the steps to the hall. ‘You look so beautiful,’ he said.

Freda still felt shaken. She wanted to make a jokey remark to take the intensity out of it all. She wasn’t used to saying thank you and accepting such praise as almost her right. She said the first positive thing that came into her head.

‘And you look very handsome, just terrific, actually.’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Aren’t you
so
kind to say that! Now, let’s stop admiring each other and get into the car, out of the cold.’ He held open the door of a dark green Mercedes.

The drive down to Wicklow passed in a blur. Freda could scarcely remember how they got there, what they talked about. All she could see was Mark’s face as he concentrated on driving, as he smiled at her from time to time.

While Mark went to have his meeting with Miss Holly and her senior staff, Freda sat in the lounge by the fire in a big chintz-covered chair, a magazine unread on her lap, a cup of coffee untouched on a little table beside her. Instead, she looked into the flames and thought about what had been happening; and as she did so, from nowhere the pictures started forming in Freda’s mind. She fought them back, closed her eyes and opened them but still the pictures were there. Mark was in a room with people who were shouting. Miss Holly was sitting in a corner, weeping. Mark was looking calm and dismissive; he was telling her something very unwelcome and frightening. Whatever it was, it was wrong, it was all wrong.

Shakily, she pushed the vision aside. It was nonsense; it didn’t mean anything. She’d just dozed off and had a silly dream. She sighed, and again tried to rid herself of the images. But she felt dizzier and more confused.

Soon he was back.

‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Don’t ask. I’ll tell you when we are well out of range. Let’s go. You and I are free agents, nobody waiting for us; we don’t have to be anywhere except where we want to be.’

‘I have to be back. I open the library tomorrow, and I have to be in before eight.’

He smiled back. ‘Right. We’ll go for a meal, and no talk about work for either of us – is that a deal?’

‘It’s a deal,’ Freda said.

In the car they were quiet; Freda studied his face but Mark looked relaxed and happy. Freda began to feel that it had just been a mad dream. As he helped her out of the car, he kissed her, and all through dinner she could think of nothing else.

That night, they made love for the first time.

The following night, they went to the cinema. Freda didn’t even remember the film afterwards, just the sensation of sitting with her shoulder touching his. Later they went back to her flat.

On Friday he asked her to go to a concert but she had set up the meeting with Joe Duggan, the computer expert, and she hesitated. Mark’s face clouded over and he looked so disappointed, she knew she had to do something.

She called Lane.

‘I will do anything for you for the rest of my life.
Anything
. Scrub floors in your theatre . . .’

‘Who do I have to kill?’ Lane asked.

‘No, it’s this guy, Joe Duggan, who’s going to give the talk next week. I can’t meet him tonight at the library. Could
you
do it, tell him everything?’

‘Freda. No.’

‘I’m begging you on my knees.’

‘I can’t, I run a theatre. You’re the librarian.’

‘It’s only an old talk; you know the kind of thing they want.’

There was a silence.

‘Lane?’

‘It’s not like you, and it’s
not
only an old talk. It’s something you set up, and a lot of people are depending on you.’

‘Never again, just this once! I’ll tell Joe that I’ll contact him on Monday morning.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’ There was a catch in Freda’s voice.

‘I think this is the shabbiest thing I have ever heard,’ Lane said.

‘But you’ll do it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Lane, from the bottom of my heart . . .’ Freda began.

‘Goodbye, Freda.’

Freda called Mark.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I’m free this evening,’ she said.

‘I was so hoping you might be,’ Mark said.

The concert was heaven and at dinner afterwards, he told her that there was no one like her. He said how much he admired her work, and even gave her some ideas for a Friends night; he wanted to spend all his time with her, and make up for lost time. She couldn’t help herself: he was so sweet and caring, and she melted at his touch.

It was too sudden, too quick, she told herself. But then everyone had to meet somewhere and somehow. Would it have been any different if they had met at a dance, a club, in a crowded bar? But still she was nervous about letting herself go with the tide. But whenever he called, or they were together, she forgot all about her misgivings.

The Friends of the Library welcome all those who don’t know a thing about computers but want to learn. Joe Duggan will be here on Friday night to help all ages who want to be part of the tech world
.

When Mark suggested they go away for a weekend, she hesitated once again. He couldn’t go away with her if he was married, it wouldn’t be possible. But the dreams kept coming. The face of the woman with the short blonde hair would not go away. She just knew it was Mark the woman was welcoming, and she could see the wedding ring in the dream.

If he were married, what would he be telling his wife as he headed off to the Dublin mountains with Freda? Freda was very confused. But she wasn’t about to give up the chance of such happiness.

When she called Lane to cover for her again with Joe, Lane didn’t have much to say. She listened to her friend and then agreed.

‘For Joe’s sake, not yours,’ she added icily.

Freda felt bad for her friend, but then thought about her weekend with Mark. Mark needed Freda on many levels, that was obvious. He wanted her for company, for friendship and for support as well as for sex. He loved her; he told her so. The marriage could only be one of convenience, she was so sure of that.