At a Time Like This (33 page)

So that when Nora started tugging at the cuff of my jacket on that occasion in Maggie’s, I was probably even more touchy than normal. ‘Thanks, Nora,’ I said, smoothing my
sleeves. ‘It’s one of a new line Maggie and I are developing. It’s the first time I’ve worn it.’

‘Really?’ she asked. Something in her voice made me look at her. Her expression was cunning, her tone full of false surprise. ‘I thought I saw one very like it last weekend.
And the woman looked awfully like you, too, from the back.’

I remember feeling bored already by the conversation. Nora always had that effect on me, ever since I was eighteen. ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, or something like it. ‘Where was
that?’

‘In Castleknock.’ And she kept looking at me.

I have to say that I was caught off guard. And particularly coming from Nora, I was unprepared. I put my hand up. After all, this is the time for honesty. Nevertheless, I think I was convincing.
Either way, neither Maggie nor Claire picked up on what she was saying, so the situation never developed. It took a moment, but I regained my composure and smiled at Nora, shaking my head.

‘Don’t think I’ve ever been to Castleknock in my life,’ I lied. ‘Must have been somebody else.’

And that was that. But I felt her gaze throughout the meal that night. The irony of it is, it was she who had insisted, months beforehand, that we all foregather at her house for champagne and
canapés to celebrate Robbie’s twenty-first. Strictly a ‘six in the evening till eight’ invitation. I felt I could manage that, as long as Maggie and Claire and I arrived
together and left together. It was a pre-party party and we did all that was appropriate. We brought flowers for Nora, a bottle of wine for Frank – the same vintage as his firstborn –
and a respectable amount of money from the three of us as a gift for Robbie. We all shook hands and kissed him and wished him happy birthday. I was designated to slip the envelope to him, away from
Nora’s and Frank’s eager parental eye. Just this once, we felt, he ought to be permitted to be reckless.

There were all the usual stories to be shared – about how the four of us had, shortly after he was born, made a pact that we would keep on meeting, about how we had watched him grow, about
how the years fly. You know the kind of thing. Nora was in her element and I was on my best behaviour, duly warned by
both
Maggie and Claire. And then it was photograph time.

‘Let’s have one of the four of us with Robbie,’ Nora fussed, shooing us all towards the profusion of plants in the conservatory. ‘Robbie, you stand there, in the
middle.’ I didn’t like to tell her that the resulting photo would be sure to show a fig-tree growing out of the top of her eldest son’s head. ‘Claire, you go here, Georgie,
you stand there. That’s right, Maggie. Frank! Oh, Frank! Come and take our photo!’ Robbie grinned good-naturedly. He raised one eyebrow slightly as we gathered ourselves for the
photograph. I think he shared the joke. I ended up on one side of him, his mother on the other. That was not what Nora had wished – but Frank’s word held sway. The composition of the
photo would be far better that way, he kept insisting, much more
balanced.

A little closer,’ Frank called. A little closer still.’

Robbie pulled his mother towards him. Then, he tightened his grip around my waist. His hand was warm, insistent through the fine silk of my dress. I cursed Frank for fiddling with light meters
and lenses and flashes. Why couldn’t he use a digital camera like everyone else, for God’s sake? The pressure of Robbie’s arm was making me uncomfortable. He was too close,
intruding into my personal space. I could see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow, smell the subtle undertone of his aftershave. It wasn’t that his presence was unpleasant: rather
that there was far too much of it. Finally, Frank declared the photograph perfect and we were released. I turned to Maggie.

‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I don’t want us to lose our table.’

She looked confused for an instant. There was no question of us losing our reservation. But she nodded. Given how I’ve always felt about Nora, she wouldn’t have been surprised that I
wanted to leave. But Claire had sensed something else, I know she had.

‘You okay, Georgie?’ she asked, as Maggie brought around the car. ‘You looked a bit ill-at-ease in there. Not like you.’

I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, I find it harder and harder these days to take Nora and Frank. She, in particular, makes me feel suffocated.’

Claire nodded. I don’t know whether she believed me, but she didn’t mention it again. The three of us went out to dinner together afterwards and reminisced. We also agreed how it
never ceased to amaze us that a dry old stick like Frank and our Nora had managed to produce three such drop-dead gorgeous sons. We also agreed that Robbie was by far the most handsome and engaging
of the three. And that was the end of that evening.

We all went home, duty done, and I decided to forget about it.

Some days later, I was walking down Grafton Street. I was heading for the Westbury for a meeting. As I was parking, I’d got a call on my mobile to say that Roberto, my
Italian supplier, was running about half an hour late, having fallen victim to Dublin’s traffic chaos. I didn’t mind. It was one of those early June days when the city shows itself in
its kindest light. I was reminded, bizarrely, of Noel Purcell singing about Dublin’s being heaven, having coffee at eleven and all the delights of Stephen’s Green. Talk about a blast
from the past. But it was, as Claire was wont to say, a ‘pet day’.

I decided to meander down the street, leaving behind the air of purpose that seemed to define everything I did in those days. How can I describe it? Apart from the glorious sunshine, it was one
of those mornings when everything seemed right with the world. A good hair day. Warmth, cheerful shoppers and an unexpected half-hour’s leisure to boot. Strangely, the combination of so many
good things made me feel restless, as though something about myself and my life had now become hollow. I’d been conscious of that feeling for a while. A dissatisfaction that I couldn’t
pin down, no matter how hard I tried. It was as though something had started to unravel – a stitch at a time, but nevertheless.

Hadn’t I everything I needed? A husband, a family, a career, friends, lots of money? What could possibly be missing? Such a sense of dissatisfaction had become, however, a nagging,
insistent sense of loss – sometimes vague, sometimes heart-stopping. I can see that clearly now. But then, I never paused long enough to consider it. My response was to keep busy, busier. I
think I might have been afraid to step off the moving staircase.

And so, when I stopped to look in the window of Richard Alan’s that morning, it was as much for professional appraisal as for the pleasure of a momentary distraction. I was so intent on
enjoying the dresses on display that I saw nothing of a figure hovering nearby. It was only when I broke my concentration by looking at my watch that I realized somebody was standing behind me and
had been for some time.

Instinctively, I clutched my bag, pressing it closer to my side, and wheeled around to confront my stalker, shadow, mugger: whatever he was.

‘Georgie? Georgie White?’

I whipped off my sunglasses, the flood of relief now beginning to make me feel angry. At least it was someone I knew. I wasn’t in any danger. All this in the space of a second, before I
recognized him. More accurately, I recognized the fact that I
knew
the man, but for the moment, his name eluded me. Context is all.

‘It’s me, Robbie. Robbie Fitzsimons.’

I stared at him blankly for another second.

‘Nora and Frank’s son?’

‘Of
course,’
I said, feeling foolish. How could I not have known?

‘This is a really strange coincidence,’ he said. ‘I was just going to call you to thank you for your very generous birthday present.’ He hesitated. ‘I know that
“thank you” cards are more traditional, and I have written to you all as well, but . . .’ and he shrugged. ‘Well, your gift was nothing short of astonishing, and
that’s not something I felt I could put in writing.’ He grinned. ‘The folks might have come over all sensible, if they’d found out.’

I smiled. But I still felt put out. It was as though I had lost my sure-footedness and stumbled into the unexpected. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us. I hope you can find
something completely impractical to do with the money’ I settled my bag more firmly on my shoulder and felt the ground become stable beneath my feet again. ‘Get yourself something
beautiful to remember your coming of age.’

He nodded, considering this. ‘I already have something special in mind.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he said. ‘I was pretty sure it
was you, even from the back. But when you didn’t turn around, I thought I must have been mistaken.’

I can smile now, at how his words were almost echoed by his mother, some three years later. But on that day, in the blue heat of Grafton Street, how could I possibly have known what lay
ahead?

‘Are you in a rush?’ he asked. ‘I mean, can I buy you coffee?’

I looked at my watch. ‘I’ve probably got twenty minutes.’ He didn’t hesitate.

‘Good. I know just the place,’ he said. We turned right on to one of Grafton Street’s many tributaries and sat outside one of the new cafés, its round metal tables
gleaming in the sunshine.

‘What would you like?’ he asked.

‘Espresso, please.’ I waited to see how he would respond to this bit of sophistication, until I realized that for him, it was probably no sophistication at all. He had grown up with
Dublin’s café society, accepted it as normal.

‘Two, please,’ he said to the young waiter, who retreated, giving his tray a flamboyant twirl.

I remember that we talked about his birthday party, then his architecture studies, then his plans for the future. I was impressed. He was a single-minded young man, determined to succeed. Our
conversation grew more serious, more intimate, until I realized that thirty-five minutes had passed. My mobile shrilled, making me jump. ‘On my way’ I said to Roberto, ‘with you
in three minutes.’ And I stood up to leave. I held out my hand to Robbie. Another Robert calling,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’

He shook hands. ‘Lovely to meet you again,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’

‘Me too,’ I told him. And the best of luck for the future.’

He nodded, but there was something in his expression that made feel unsure of myself again. I left him and headed off towards the Westbury, conscious all the while of eyes burning into the small
of my back.

Three, maybe four days later, just after the weekend, he called me.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I won’t waste your time. But I’d like to speak to you. I
must
speak to you.’

I was intrigued. There was an urgency to his tone that I couldn’t ignore. Was he in some kind of trouble? Had something happened that he couldn’t tell his parents about? God knows, I
am not the maternal type, but there was a need in his voice that compelled me to see him. That, and curiosity, I have to say. What could possibly be wrong in his life? Handsome, clever, articulate.
Mature beyond his years. We’d all heard Nora’s boasts over and over again.

We agreed a time and place for the following day. We met at a small café in Donnybrook, one of those local, hidden-away gems off the main street. He was waiting for me when I arrived,
already drinking an espresso. I couldn’t help it, I was amused.

‘Hello, Robbie,’ I said, as he stood up to greet me. We shook hands.

‘What would you like?’ he asked as we sat.

‘Green tea,’ I said. ‘I’ve already had my ration of coffee. I’ll be speeding for the rest of the day if I have any more.’

He ordered and we sat in silence for a moment. Then he turned to face me. Somehow, at that moment, I knew what was coming. My breath-catch was audible, I’m sure of it. I don’t know
where the knowledge came from, but it assaulted me, made me feel vulnerable in some inexplicable way. It was how I’d felt in Grafton Street the day he had appeared behind me; how I’d
felt on the evening his father took our photograph. He passed a small box across the table after the waitress brought my tea. Gift-wrapped; gold-ribboned; full of hidden possibilities.

‘This is for you,’ he said. His expression was unmistakable.

The forty-one-year-old me said get up, go home now, no harm done. Be firm, no-nonsense. You are the adult woman, this is a love-struck boy. You can see it in his eyes, see it by the way
he’s looking at you. You know you can. He looks like Danny. Stand up and leave. Now.

But I didn’t. It would be more accurate and more honest to say that I couldn’t. My heart was racing and my mouth had gone dry.

‘Open it.’

There was a knowingness to his tone, a wisdom in his eyes that made me think, ‘He is all that you’ve said, Nora, and more besides. What a time to find out that you were right.’
I wanted to laugh, I wanted to leave, but above all, I wanted to stay.

It took a moment but then I came to my senses, or thought I did. ‘Robbie, this is complete madness. What on earth can you be thinking—’

‘Open it, please.’

I shook my head and pushed the gift-wrapped box back to his side of the table. ‘No. I don’t know what you’re feeling, but whatever it is, it’s impossible. I’m
leaving now.’ And I stood – somewhat uncertainly, it has to be said, but I stood nevertheless and felt proud of myself. Behaving as an adult should. Sensibly, responsibly, firmly. But
it didn’t throw him.

‘I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,’ he said, as though announcing the weather forecast. I was conscious of other people in the café turning their heads. But it was
a vague consciousness. They were local colour of some indeterminate shade, background noise to the main event. ‘I know I’d met you before, over the years, but I didn’t really
notice you. Not in the way I saw you on the night of my birthday. Don’t you want to know why?’

What woman could resist that? I should have, but I didn’t. I sat, more heavily than I normally would, my knees having ceased to bend properly. I couldn’t help it – I was
watching myself from the outside, alarmed at how I displayed all the characteristics of a Victorian heroine. Shortness of breath, racing heart, perspiring palms. I even had to control the urge to
faint. I rested my forehead in my hands, not looking at him. This, I told myself, is not happening. This is madness. Get a grip. It cannot be happening, not to
me.
I won’t let it. I am
used to being in control.