At a Time Like This (35 page)

‘“I wonder by my troth, what thou and I / Did, till we loved?”’ Robbie was lying on his side, one hand on my thigh.

I had been about to say that now I
must
go, I really must. I couldn’t delay any longer.

‘“Were we not wean’d till then?”’ he said, and kissed me.

I looked at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth are you doing quoting John Donne?’

Then he grinned. ‘Too much of a peasant, am I? No place for the arts and the architect to meet?’ I tried to protest, but he silenced me. ‘I’ve done my homework. My mother
said you were a metaphysical poetry nut. You see, I’m prepared to go to any lengths to snare you. Aren’t you impressed?’

I don’t think impressed was the word I was searching for. I pulled him to me again, feeling the first forty years of my life sheer away from me for ever.

And so we have been, for all of three years now.

Am I selfish and irresponsible, shedding a proper, orderly existence for one that offers nothing but delight and danger? Absolutely. Insane? Probably. And yet it feels nothing like insanity
should. Instead, it’s all the old cliches of Maggie’s songs. Soulmates, other halves. I’ve never found that sort of concept easy to understand before.

Robbie is a torrent of speech. I remember Claire telling me once, recently, that Ray had managed to seduce her with kindness. It struck me then, although of course I didn’t tell Claire,
that Robbie had seduced me with talk. Even in the most ordinary situations, he created intimacy where before I had only experienced proximity.

The first time he came to see me in Volterra, I was anxious. With nobody to hide from, with none of the thrill of imminent discovery to heighten our senses, how would we fare together? We
talked, we walked. He saw Volterra with a different eye from mine. A trained eye. Where I was taken with the general, he was enthused by the specific. We spent the time quietly.

One night, we were in my kitchen together. He had cooked for us, while I read to him about the Madonna of Montenero at Livorno. We were due to visit the town the following day. He poured the
last of the wine into our glasses.

‘You going to ask her blessing on this accident of ours, or what?’ His expression was serious, but his tone was gentle, mocking.

‘Why not?’ I said. Sitting there, across the table from him, I was conscious of the fragility of things in a way that the young cannot fathom.

‘To continued happiness,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘To happiness,’ I answered, hoping I could hold on to it for a little longer.

Because no matter what, I am a realist. Am I heading for disaster in ten years’ time when I am fifty-four? Robbie will then, most likely, be an even more handsome thirty-four-year-old man
in his prime. He teases me about this, says that as the years go on, I will no longer be almost twice his age. He performed some mathematical conundrum that showed the gap between us narrowing as
we get older. Sleight of hand, I told him. You don’t convince me. So, yes, disaster is probably where I’ll take up residence in a decade or so, picking up the pieces of several
lives.

But that’s the future. I’m not worried about the future. It was the present I worried about as it galloped away from me, through one unchanging day after another. I am here. This is
now, and I await his arrival. Full of expectation and with no regrets.

Tomorrow, I shall make my way into Volterra again. I like wandering through the shady, medieval streets, stopping for a coffee under the umbrellas of the piazza. I like the
silence here at this time of year, before the tourists come. San Gimignano looms in the distance, towering out of the morning mist like a child’s fairy-tale castle. I might wander into the
workshops of the
artisani
again and watch the forms they have imagined begin to emerge as the alabaster is chipped away. I have always liked that idea: that in art as well as life the shape
of something beautiful already exists and all you have to do is take away the excess. Discarding that which is no longer important.

My favourite part of Volterra, though, apart from the majesty of the Etruscan gates, is Le Balze. The first time I saw the way these cliffs had fallen away, clay crumbling under the pressure of
sandstone, I was assaulted by vertigo. Their collapse left churches, monasteries and homes vulnerable to plunging into nothingness. Now, I feel instead a sense of companionship, of familiarity in
the starkness of their presence. Robbie says it is because I, too, have discovered the joys of life on the edge. That what I have becomes more precious precisely because it can, at any time, slide
away from me into the abyss.

Perhaps. All I know is it makes me feel exhilarated and present in the now.

The day after tomorrow, I’ll drive to Florence to pick him up. He has solved the dilemma of Megan’s arrival, he tells me. She will come and spend some time with him in Florence
instead. Nora is less than pleased.

I couldn’t help smiling when he told me, but I made no comment. There may be a time in the future when Nora is even less pleased than she is at present – but I’m not going to
worry about that, not now.

Robbie will arrive and we’ll live our idyll for a few weeks, a few months, and after that, we’ll see. Whatever happens, we’ll share the moment.

After all, it’s the only one we have.

Acknowledgements

The author gratefully acknowledges the travel and mobility grant awarded by An Chomhairle Ealaíon, the Arts Council. Such practical support made possible the acceptance
of a residency in an artists’ retreat in the village of Mojácar, Almería, Spain.

Sincere thanks, too, to the Paul Beckett foundation - Fundación Valparaíso - in Mojácar. The kindness of Beatrice Beckett and the staff and residents at Valparaíso
meant that parts of this novel were written in the most memorable and magical of circumstances.

To the members of Novelshop, without whom this book would never have been written in the first place: Lia Mills, Celia de Fréine, Mary Rose Callaghan and Ivy Bannister. For the careful
reading of many drafts, for critical insight and practical support and, above all, for friendship. Thank you all.

To my friends, Antonio Gomis Noguera and Beatriz Gómez Ygual - heartfelt thanks for providing a place of light and space and peace in which to work. Happy memories are anchored beneath
the blue skies and purple shadows of the mighty Ifach.

To all the team at Macmillan: Imogen Taylor, Trisha Jackson, Emma Grey, and the unbeatable duo of Davy Adamson and Cormac Kinsella. Many thanks for that special combination of professionalism
and enthusiasm that both cheers and sustains.

Thanks to Shirley Stewart, Literary Agent, for just about everything.

And finally, to my father, whose support remains constant and unwavering throughout all.

C
ATHERINE DUNNE
is the author of five previous novels
(In the Beginning, A Name for Himself The Walled Garden, Another Kind of Life
and
Something Like Love).
She has also written about Irish immigration in
An Unconsidered People.
All of her work has been published to both critical and popular acclaim. The novels have
struck a chord in several countries and have now been translated into many languages and optioned for film. Catherine Dunne lives in Dublin.

A wonderful and utterly convincing evocation of friendship over the years’

Irish Examiner

Irish Times

She

Irish Independent

Bookseller

Irish Post

A
LSO BY
C
ATHERINE
D
UNNE

A Name for Himself

An Unconsidered People

Something Like Love

First published 2007 by Macmillan

This edition published 2008 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-0-330-53961-6 EPUB

Copyright © Catherine Dunne 2007

The right of Catherine Dunne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
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liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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