Just Between Us (60 page)

‘I thought of e-mailing you but I was too much of a coward,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to face it if you’d replied and told me you didn’t want to see me ever again.’

They talked long into the night. Finn sat with his fingers interlaced with Tara’s, wanting her to understand but still scared at telling her his story.

‘You’d sit there with your one gin and tonic, and I used to long to be like you. One was enough for you, you didn’t care if you didn’t have another one. But me…’ Finn’s face was suffused with sorrow. ‘One wasn’t enough. Or two. I wanted every drink in the bar. None of it would be enough, I wanted to blot everything out and not think.’

‘Not think about
what
?’ Tara desperately needed to understand.

‘Me, what I felt about me, how much I hated me. It’s hard to explain.’

She squeezed his fingers even more tightly. ‘Do your best,’ she said softly.

‘I wasn’t good enough, there was this hole inside me, this emptiness and I had to hide it.’ Finn closed his eyes, as if he could see what he was talking about and only then could he describe it. ‘You’re a good person, Tara, and you don’t understand what it’s like not to be one.’

‘Don’t be silly, you’re a wonderful person…’

‘No, let me explain. That’s what I see inside me: this gaping hole, this nothingness. And when I drink, that goes away a little bit. Or I can’t feel it so much. I can like myself when I drink. The self-hatred goes woozy with that first hit of vodka. I feel that nice warmth and it’s good, and that’s the problem, I think that if I drink more, I’ll feel more of that nice warmth. But it doesn’t work like that, so I keep drinking to try and regain that first feeling and then, I get scared that the nice feeling will go away altogether and I have this compulsion to drink more. Even when I was drunk, I had to have more, just in case. I used to keep vodka in a tonic bottle in the kitchen.’

Tara nodded. ‘I know, I found it.’

Finn opened his eyes and looked ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I do love you, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know. Why didn’t you tell me any of this? I could have helped.’

‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?’ he said wryly. ‘No alcoholic wants to tell anyone because then, other people will know. It won’t be a fear in your head any more, it will be real and you’ll have to face it. And stop drinking.’

‘And now?’

‘Now it’s over. I can’t drink again, ever. A drink will never be just a drink for me, Tara. It’ll be a drug, an anaesthetic. I can’t drink any more. Not a glass of champagne on special occasions or the odd half bottle of wine with a meal. I’d love to be able to, I’d love to be able to control it but I can’t. I’m an addict.’

‘You’re supposed to give up the people you drank with,’ Tara said.

‘Like Derry? I’m fired anyhow.’

‘Good. What about a new start in a new country?’

‘Do they have AA meetings there?’

Tara grinned. ‘They have fabulous weather, glorious beaches, a fantastic standard of living and we’ve got a condo off Melrose.’

‘A condo, huh?’ said Finn. He pulled her onto his lap so that they were sitting curled round each other. ‘That sounds fabulous. Let’s do it, but do you know what I’d like to do first?’

She shook her head.

‘Get into bed with you, curl close and sleep. I missed you so much, especially at night. I’d lie there and think of holding you close, sleeping with your body right beside mine, of waking up and feeling your back wedged against me, your skin naked next to mine. That’s what I want to do now: sleep.’

Nothing had ever sounded better to Tara. They got to their feet, switched off the light, and walked hand in hand to the bedroom.

Their lovemaking was gentle and tender, as if the tenderness could make up for the pain of their separation. Afterwards, Finn curled up close to his wife and fell asleep. But Tara knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep yet. There was so much to think about. She lay in the dark and thought about the future with Finn.

There were no happy endings in real life, she knew, no walking off into the sunset with violins playing a mystical gypsy tune. Their life together would be real, crude and perhaps painful: hard-edged reality instead of a sepia-tinted world as the credits rolled.

Finn wouldn’t be able to sit at languorous dinner parties and trail his long, skilful fingers round the top of his wine glass any more. Tara used to love watching him do that, it was like a private prelude to sex, the implication that those
fingers would soon be exploring Tara’s body with the same subtlety of touch. His eyes would light up as they met hers, teasing her and sending that shiver of liquid excitement rushing through her.

No, their life would mean avoiding those sort of parties, of going home when everybody else was going out. They’d both smile tautly at grand occasions when people were hoovering up champagne, and there’d be a lifetime of people who didn’t understand, innocently saying ‘oh but you must have one glass. One won’t hurt.’

Would Finn be able to cope with that? Would she? Could she be the gatekeeper of his sobriety, always watching, rewarding
good
behaviour like a mother with a naughty child? Tara didn’t want to be anyone’s keeper. She moved gently in the bed, and watched Finn as he slept. Still the same long lashes and the serene, unworried curve to his cheeks. In sleep, Finn looked as if nothing but good luck had ever touched his life.

She reached out and touched a strand of his golden hair. He looked golden still and he was there, with her. Tara closed her eyes for a minute to gauge how she felt. There it was: that little oasis of comfort in her heart, spreading its heat out into her whole body. She opened her eyes. It was still there. It was there because she was with Finn. He was the person who made her feel this way. They were in this together.

She rearranged her pillow until she’d squashed it into the desired shape, then she wriggled down the bed until her body was lying skin-to-skin with Finn’s. In his sleep, he groaned and moved, edging closer to her, with one arm snaking around her. Tara arched herself closer and closed her eyes. There was only one option: they had to try. Now that she’d made her decision, she knew she’d sleep like a baby.

Rose stood in the garden beside the musk roses and shaded her eyes against the evening sun. From inside the house, she
could hear the last few bars of the music at the start of the six o’clock news. Outside, the only sound was of the final lazy droning of bees exhausted after a day spent working amid the blossoms in Rose’s rambling garden. Rose felt tired too, but it was that pleasurable tiredness from an enjoyable day. She’d spent the morning with Minnie Wilson and it had been worth spilling her heart out to see Minnie’s dawning comprehension that she wasn’t the only person who’d ever battled depression before. Minnie had been so touchingly grateful for Rose’s help that Rose felt hideously guilty for not doing more sooner. She’d hidden behind the facade of her perfect life instead of being honest and trying to help Minnie. That would never happen again, she vowed. The golden Miller facade had been demolished. Rose wanted to live a real life, warts and all.

In the afternoon, she and Hugh had gone grocery shopping to buy food for the family dinner that was to be Tara and Finn’s going-away party.

Hugh had decided that it would be extra special if he cooked the meal and Rose had said why ever not? The old Rose would have had her doubts and hovered around to help, waiting for the moment when her expertise was required. The new Rose was happy to let other people take their turn and she’d come into the garden to cut flowers for the table.

Consequently, Hugh was labouring away inside, muttering every few moments about how the vegetable peeler must have something wrong with it because it wasn’t working properly.

Rose picked up her secateurs and had soon filled the old gardening trug with her favourite off-white old roses. She picked some sprigs of lavender too to add to the scent of her bouquet and was collecting a few more stalks of rosemary for Hugh’s ambitious leg of lamb when he walked out into the garden, wearing her old apron over his clothes. He still hadn’t put on the weight he’d lost after the heart attack. It made him look older and more vulnerable. He wasn’t the
golden boy any more, Rose knew. He was her husband and, though he tried to hide it, he was still affected by the brush with his own mortality.

‘Was I moaning?’ he asked as he sank onto the old wooden seat beside Rose’s prized rockery.

Rose pretended to think about it. ‘Just a teeny bit,’ she said. ‘It
is
a useless vegetable peeler, though.’

‘But you’ve managed with it for ages.’

‘I’m an expert,’ she reminded him, sitting beside him. ‘I picked some more rosemary for you.’

He took the wiry stalks and inhaled the scent. ‘It’s years since I cooked,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Despite moaning about the equipment,’ he added wryly.

‘What was that dish you used to make when we were first married? Something with baked beans and…’

‘Mushrooms with an egg in the middle. It wasn’t very successful, was it?’

Rose closed her eyes against the sun. It was lovely sitting there, relaxing, not rushing. Just being. It had taken her time in Nettle Cottage to appreciate that.

‘The calm before the storm,’ mused Hugh.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting Tom,’ remarked Rose. ‘I did say to Holly that we’d understand if he was a bit put off by meeting the whole Miller clan in one go, but she said he’d take it in his stride.’

‘As long as Adele doesn’t get the thumbscrews out and interrogate him,’ Hugh said.

They both groaned at the thought of Adele’s unsubtle probing of boyfriends she considered unsuitable. Adele had certainly softened up in the past weeks, but a person could only change so much. Hugh’s heart attack had instantly healed the rift between Adele and her darling brother. She’d been quietly thrilled that he and Rose were back together, although she’d never say as much.

‘Tom’s an architect, so Adele will love him,’ Rose decided. ‘I only hope she says nothing to poor Finn about the evils of drink. Will you have a word with her?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Hugh paused. ‘I am worried about Tara and Finn. It’s not going to be easy for them.’

Rose smiled. ‘Nothing is simple, Hugh. I worry about her too. I worry about all of them. And you. But we’ve got to let them take care of themselves. Tara and Finn love each other very deeply, that’s the best start. They’ve been honest with each other.’

Hugh’s fingers found their way into hers and Rose squeezed back tightly.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t always honest with you,’ Hugh said.

‘Hush,’ she replied. ‘That’s the past. We’re living in the future, remember?’

‘Rose,’ said a querulous voice from the kitchen door. ‘Something’s burning. The smell’s terrible and it’s giving me a headache.’

Husband and wife exchanged amused grins. ‘Just a minute, Adele,’ called Rose. ‘How about you see to Adele and I see to the fatted calf,’ she suggested.

Hugh’s lips brushed her cheek tenderly and his fingers touched the soft curve of her jaw. ‘Whatever you say, Rose.’

In the kitchen, Adele muttered to herself as she opened the oven door and peered in at whatever it was that Hugh had been cooking. Something smelled singed, that was for sure. She couldn’t see what, so she hoisted the roasting dish out. On the shelf underneath was a dish of blackened vegetables. Broccoli. Clearly, Hugh had cooked it then put it in the oven to keep it warm. Idiot. But she smiled. They’d nearly lost the idiot and Adele couldn’t have borne that.

Adele removed the offending vegetables and threw them in the bin. Really, she didn’t know what Rose was doing by letting Hugh get involved in the kitchen. With a big family dinner, you’d think Rose would do it herself. Hugh couldn’t boil an egg. Just as well she was here to help.

She washed some more broccoli and thought about the impending dinner. It would be interesting to meet Holly’s young man. An architect, no less. Adele was impressed.
Holly had done well for herself. And Stella had too. Adele approved of that nice Nick, even though he was divorced. Still, you couldn’t have everything. But as for Tara…That was another story. Adele would say nothing, of course. Nobody would accuse her of putting her oar in where it wasn’t wanted, that was for sure. But, it was as plain as the nose on her face that Tara was heading for trouble with that young Finn. Lovely lad he might have been, but he was trouble. She’d seen it herself from the start.

Still, she supposed that it would all work out in the end. Luck, that’s what it was. Wasn’t it better to be born lucky than rich, Adele reflected