Only We Know (11 page)

‘You’re home, then,’ I
say, trying to keep my voice level, hoping it doesn’t betray any of the myriad
emotions that are pulsing through me right now because it’s strange hearing his
voice after all this time, its soft timbre, the low, gravelled tones – pebbles under
water.

‘Yes. We got in earlier
today.’

‘Right. I heard you’re married.
Congratulations.’ The word comes out flat and I rest my forehead on the steering
wheel, sick of myself and the tone of sarcasm that leaks into my conversation no matter
what.

‘Listen,’ he goes on, like I
haven’t mentioned anything, the same old Nick, always turning a blind eye.
‘I think we should have a talk. Can you meet me?’

‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Where?’

‘Grogan’s. I can be there in
half an hour.’

The arrangement made, I hang up, throwing my
phone onto the passenger seat. In the fading light of the day, I breathe deeply, trying
to collect my thoughts. Beyond the strand the headland of Shellybanks seems crushed by
the weight of industry – cranes and chimneys and stacks of shipping containers all cast
in a pinkish glow from the dying sunset. I watch the last of the evening walkers along
the promenade and realize I’m looking for Luke among them, hopeful of catching a
glimpse of him even though I
know he’s
not there. And when I think of his expression on the day we met, the word that comes to
mind is ‘fearful’. That thought blots out any memory of the kiss, leaving a
chill at the back of my neck as I start the engine and move my car away.

The taxi pulls up outside our hotel and we
are greeted by a liveried doorman, with a top hat, then ushered inside the revolving
doors. Inside it’s all marble floors and mirrored walls, chandeliers suspended
high above us. As we walk to Reception, I can see a drawing room to the right, soft
carpeting, aproned staff, armfuls of flowers in oversize vases, the room populated with
elegantly dressed women sipping tea. My wife is wearing flip-flops and torn jeans, the
rucksack on her back her only luggage, and it hits home how conspicuous we are, like
fish out of water.

In the lift, we stand side by side. The air
between us is prickly, and it’s only when I close the door of our bedroom behind
us and Lauren dumps her bag on the floor that she breaks the silence.

‘Say it,’ she says, in a voice
that is soft but challenging. ‘Go on. Say it, Nick.’

‘What?’

‘This hotel. You hate it. You think I
shouldn’t have booked it.’

I feign ignorance, but we both know
she’s hit the nail on the head. To me the hotel is too upmarket for what
we’re doing, but I don’t want to say so to her. The last thing I want, right
now, is to get into a fight. I move past her, put my bag on the low bench at the foot of
the bed, and stroll
to the window which opens
onto the public park that is St Stephen’s Green.

‘You’d rather I’d booked
something cheap and out of the way, right? Some hostel for backpackers where we could
bunk in a dorm with half a dozen others? I mean, it’s supposed to be our fucking
honeymoon!’

‘Lauren –’

She sweeps past me, having worked herself up
into a rage, goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. I collapse into an
armchair and drop my head into my hands. From the bathroom comes the sound of water
running, the hum and hiss of the shower. After a minute or two, I get up and find the
mini-bar, pour myself a gin and tonic, and by the time it’s finished, my nerves
have calmed and my irritation has died away. When my wife emerges from the bathroom
wrapped in a white robe, she is flushed and sheepish.

‘Feel better?’ I ask gently.

‘Yeah. You?’

I hold up my empty glass.
‘Much.’

We smile at each other then, a kind of
shyness between us, and not for the first time, I wonder how much there is that we still
have to learn about one another, about how we behave together, the rhythm of our
marriage having yet to establish itself.

‘Fix me one?’ she says, sitting
on the bed, one leg drawn up underneath her, towel-drying her damp hair. ‘We can
find somewhere else tomorrow,’ she says, in a conciliatory tone, taking her glass,
but I put my hand to her chin, tipping her face up gently so we are eye to eye.

‘Lauren, this place is
great.’

She smiles and I lean
in and kiss her, feeling a crackle of electricity in my lips as our mouths meet. Then I
lie down on the bed beside her, clasping my hands behind my head and watch as she
continues drying her hair, pausing to take occasional sips of her gin and tonic.

‘Do you think we should have stayed
with her? Julia, I mean,’ she says.

‘No.’

‘I feel bad for her, knocking around
inside that massive house, all alone.’

‘They have lots of friends. If
she’s on her own, it’s because she must want to be.’

She swirls the drink in her glass, then
asks: ‘How come they don’t have kids?’

‘Lots of people don’t have kids,
Lauren.’

‘True. But how long are they
married?’

‘I dunno. Six, maybe seven years.
Why?’

‘You’d think they’d have
kids, that’s all. So what’s the deal? Can they not have them? Is that
it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not
the kind of thing you can ask.’

‘He’s your brother.’

How to explain to her that there are many
things Luke and I can’t discuss? ‘I just don’t think Luke was ever
really interested in children of his own.’

‘What about you?’ Lauren asks.
She has stopped drying her hair, and is sitting very still. ‘Do you want
kids?’

Outside, the light has faded. From my place
on the bed, I can see purple clouds drawing in, the night sky coming on. I hear noises
from the streets beyond and try to tune into them, the music the city makes, its own
distinctive beat, but there is something wrong with my hearing – as if
a bubble of air has caught inside my inner ear from the
flight. The room has grown dim around us, making it hard to see her expression. But I
can sense its concentrated intensity.

‘Not yet,’ I say softly, my
heart beating slowly.

The words hang between us. If she senses my
evasion, she doesn’t comment on it. There is so much that we haven’t talked
about yet. I think of the commitment we have made to each other and feel a tingle of
fear along my spine. The alcohol has gone straight to my head. I hadn’t expected
such a confusion of emotions. Lauren leans closer to me. Her towel lies to one side,
discarded, along with her empty glass. I feel her gaze dwelling on me, and a small smile
drifts onto her face. I need to focus, I tell myself. I need to find out what has
happened to my brother. She moves closer, lifting her body, and I can feel her breath on
my neck, the glance and brush of her hair against my face.

After we make love, she falls asleep. I feel
the weight of her head resting on my arm, but I can’t close my eyes. Thoughts
whirr in my head, words echoing along the corridors of my mind. I think of Luke’s
study, the box of photographs and remember what Julia asked me: what did happen back
then … in Kenya?

Gently, so as not to wake her, I slip my arm
out from under Lauren’s head and dress quietly in the dark. In the corridor
outside, I make the call. Katie’s voice sounds strange – there’s a rasp to
it that I don’t remember, as if she’s been chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes
since we last met.

‘Can you meet me?’ I ask, and
she says sure, although there’s frost in her voice.

‘Where?’

‘Grogan’s,’ I tell her.
‘Half an hour.’

I’m there before her, squeezing into
a corner beneath a wall crowded with dubious artwork. The place is heaving with people
and I feel lucky to have snatched a small space on a bench, hooking a stool with my foot
for Katie. Despite the smoking ban, Grogan’s reeks of cigarettes and stale
alcohol, as if it’s seeped into the upholstery and is trapped there for ever. The
bartender’s hair falls long and limp down her back, past her hips. I’m kind
of entranced by it, so much so that I don’t even notice Katie until she’s
standing right in front of me.

‘Hello, you,’ she says, a smile
pulling at the corners of her mouth.

‘Hey,’ I say, getting to my
feet. We lean towards each other, kissing on the cheek, then draw apart, the air between
us awkward and stiff.

‘I’ll get us a drink,’ she
says, dumping her jacket on the stool. As she walks to the bar it’s as if the
years have fallen away and we’re students again.

At first glance she seems hardly to have
changed. She wears jeans and a tight T-shirt, her hair falling loosely to her shoulders
– girlish, studenty, not the professional image I’d imagined she’d have
cultivated. She holds herself with the same composure, the same self-possession, and it
is only when she turns back to me, a pint in each hand, that I observe the dark shadows
around her eyes, a tightness about her mouth.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the
pint, and waiting as she settles onto her stool, flicking her hair.

‘I suppose we
should toast your marriage,’ she says, a smile on her face, ‘or is that
inappropriate under the circumstances?’

At first, I’m too stunned to reply.
I’m so tired I’m not sure I can trust what I might say, but at the same time
there seems to be an edge to her words, a hidden barb, that throws me.

‘Your health,’ I say.

‘Chin-chin,’ she replies.

For a moment, neither of us says a word. I
can’t think of how to begin this conversation. It’s been so long and I feel
the gulf between us; perhaps she feels it too. She drums her fingers against her glass
and jiggles a knee, casting glances at the door. It’s strange to see her again –
awkward yet something of a relief: as if all our lives we have been revolving around
each other, only now and then coming together before being propelled away again.

‘This is weird,’ she says at
last.

I can see the twitching of muscles in her
jaw and the effort this is costing her. ‘I know.’

‘I can’t believe you got hitched
… Where is she – your wife?’

‘She’s asleep at the hotel. Her
name’s Lauren.’

‘Lauren,’ she says, smiling.

I don’t know if there is a hint of
jealousy in her smile, or a tinge of bitterness, as if she thinks my marriage is absurd.
‘She’s tired. It’s been a long day,’ I say.

‘When did you get home?’

‘This morning. We went straight out to
see Julia.’

‘Julia …’ Her eyes widen.

‘I heard
you’d been to visit.’ I let a silence drift around that, a silence that
prickles with disapproval.

She picks up on it straight away. Rolling
her eyes, she lets out a sigh. ‘I was just trying to help.’

‘Help who?’

‘Look,’ she says, the hardness
creeping back into her tone, ‘I saw Luke the night before he went missing. He and
I had met up a few times recently. You know my editor wanted me to do a feature on him –
Luke Yates, mover and shaker? So I sought him out.’

‘You sought him out?’

‘Nick, I didn’t ask to do a
piece on your brother. I was told to.’

‘And you always do as you’re
told?’

‘So, we met up,’ she says,
ignoring my antagonism. ‘And we talked about his success and his luck at escaping
unscathed from the crash when many of his peers had not.’

‘Lucky Luke.’

‘So, when I called over to see Julia,
yes, I was doing my job. I was there in a professional capacity. But I was concerned
too, Nick. I wanted to help.’

I listen but it’s a blur because all I
can think about is her and Luke, meeting up, talking, spending time alone.

She sips her pint, and into the pause, I
say: ‘Were you having an affair with him?’

The look she gives me: it’s like
she’s been slapped. I can’t quite believe I’ve spoken those words
aloud. When she answers, her voice is icy. ‘No, Nick. I wasn’t.’

Shame comes over me, like a wave of nausea.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Things are just so fucked up right now.’

I hold my head in my
hands, staring hard at the manky carpet, blood pounding at my temples. Then I feel her
hand touch my knee. ‘Can we start again?’ she asks, and I nod.

She puts her glass down and gets to her
feet. I do, too, and we lean in towards each other. She wraps her arms around my neck
and I fold her into my embrace and we stand there holding each other like the old
friends we are, and even though I can feel people staring at us, I don’t give a
fuck, because I know that this is what I’ve needed.

‘It’s so good to see you,
Nick,’ she says, against my cheek. I feel the conviction in her words. All malice
between us has vaporised.

‘It’s good to see you too,
Kay,’ I say softly. She pulls away and I see something move behind her face, some
push of emotion, of recognition. Kay – my old name for her.

It’s easier now. The air between us is
clear. We can talk freely, and for a while we do – discussing Luke, his recent
behaviour, what she has learned of his business dealings, what Julia has told me.

‘What about the photograph?’
Katie asks. ‘The one on Luke’s desk – of the three of us.’

‘I don’t know, Katie,’ I
say. ‘I don’t know why he’d be looking at photos from so long
ago.’

She thinks about that for a minute, biting
her lower lip in a way that is painfully familiar to me. ‘I wasn’t being
completely honest with you, when you asked about me and Luke.’

I wait for her to explain.

‘It
wasn’t an affair – nothing like that. It was more a flirtation. A light-hearted
thing. Can you imagine that?’

I can’t help but notice the dark
circles, like bruising, around her eyes, the taut pull of the muscles in her face, as if
something angry and pained is lurking at the back of her expression. ‘Kay, I
can’t imagine you doing anything light-hearted right now.’

It’s honest – maybe too honest – and
instantly I regret saying those words. But they can’t be taken back.

She fiddles with a ring on her middle
finger, turning it like a worry-bead.