Something in Common (38 page)

‘She’s got such enthusiasm,’ he’d told Helen. ‘She’s like a child herself, not an ounce of guile in her, but she sure knows her way around a recipe.’

He’d been bemused to learn that the two women had never met. ‘I thought you knew her well.’

‘I do, on paper. We’ve been penpals for years. I know things about her that she doesn’t tell her own family.’

‘Crikey … In that case, maybe you should come along next time we meet, seeing as how you’re the one who brought us together.’

But Helen had
declined. Not the right occasion, a business meeting not the right setting. They’d know when the perfect opportunity arose, she was sure.

She
had
reviewed each book, though.

As the books had gained in popularity, Sarah’s publishers had been approached by journalists eager for information about the books’ mystery author –
S. Flannery
was barely visible on the covers, and no autobiographical details were contained within – but Sarah had been reluctant to go public.

Of course he was
OK with it – mystery only made someone more marketable. In the end they’d settled on one publicity photo being taken, which showed Sarah standing behind a kitchen table, head bent as she stirred a mixture in a bowl, with Martha and Stephen –
the real-life inspirations for Martina and Charlie
– facing her across the table, their backs to the camera. This single photo accompanied any piece that was written about the cookery books.

With the downward tilt of her head, Sarah’s features were impossible to make out. All Helen could see was the tip of her nose, the curve of her eyelash, the slant of her cheek. Since the photo was in black-and-white the colour of her hair, which looked to be cut in a short bob, remained uncertain, but it appeared to be a fairly nondescript light brown or dark blonde. She wore a full white apron, underneath which the short sleeves of a dark top emerged.

A woman she’d never met, but knew so much about. A caring, conservative, generous, self-deprecating, gullible, shy, emotional, sentimental woman. Helen knew Sarah almost as well as she knew Alice – better in some ways.

She turned the pages of the cookery book and found the dedication:
For Helen, who’s always been there when I needed her.
And beneath, handwritten,
Sarah xx

She looked at the page for several seconds before closing the book.

‘Fifty injured at that match last night,’ Frank said.

She turned. ‘What?’

‘That Ireland-England soccer match in Lansdowne Road. Fifty injured. Bloody hooligans.’

Helen continued to regard him. His hair, as usual, was in need of a cut: it seemed to grow at twice the rate of everyone else’s. His reading glasses were perched halfway down his nose as he frowned at the newspaper, lips pursed. His pyjama top was frayed at the collar and faded from washing, but he refused to throw it out.

He didn’t give a damn that she was a menopausal cow. He looked after her mother better than she did, and he was lovely with Alice. He’d cycle to the moon if Helen asked him. He’d never once criticised her.

He was always there when she needed him.

‘Alright then,’ she said. ‘I will.’

He looked up. ‘You will what?’

She smiled.

His eyes widened. He
dropped the newspaper and opened his arms.

***

Things weren’t the same between them – they would probably never be the same. Something had been destroyed on that day in November more than four years ago when he’d sat across the table from her and crushed her heart, and she’d responded by smashing her fist into his face.

She didn’t know if she could ever completely trust him again. But she was moving on, giving him a second chance, because she still wanted him in her life. They were a couple again, and eventually everyone had accepted it, even Christine.

They had inched their way back together. After the Christmas dinner – which had passed off more smoothly than Sarah had hoped, everyone being terribly polite – she and Neil had continued to meet just once a week, when he came to collect or return Martha and Stephen. They’d talk for a few minutes at the car, usually about the children, and then Sarah would say goodbye and that would be it.

In February she’d met Paul from the publishers, and there had been all the excitement of signing the deal, and more meetings, and making changes to the book – and inevitably, the children had told Neil.

‘Congratulations,’ he’d said, with as much warmth as she could have asked for. ‘That’s great news. You must be over the moon.’

‘I am, it’s all very exciting.’

And that night she’d lain in bed and imagined how it would have been if they were still married. The four of them would have gone out for a meal to celebrate, or maybe they’d have got a babysitter and gone on their own. Neil might have got her a little gift, a piece of jewellery maybe. She’d have shared each step of the journey with him.

And then at the end of April, he’d dropped the children back as usual one Sunday afternoon, and he and Sarah had exchanged the pleasantries they always did. She’d enquired after his mother’s back, he’d commented on the new sitting-room curtains. She’d updated him on the book’s progress.

And as she’d turned
to go back into the house, he’d said, ‘Sarah’ – and her name on his lips, and the different tone of his voice, had caused a flush to creep into her face.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to come with us to the cinema next weekend. Just if you wanted to.’

She hadn’t known what to say. A family outing, like they’d had so many times before, only now they weren’t a family any more.

But maybe they could be, if she had the courage to try.

‘Yes,’ she’d found herself saying, ‘I’d like that.’

And a fortnight after the cinema – the children sitting between them in the dark, some cartoon on the screen she hadn’t paid the slightest attention to – he’d suggested a trip to the wax museum, and shortly after that Stephen had wanted to go to the zoo. And with each outing, Sarah sitting beside him in the car like she’d done so many times before, it became easier to be together.

And then, when he was dropping them off one Sunday in June, Martha had said, ‘Dad, why don’t you stay to dinner?’ She’d turned to Sarah. ‘That’s OK, Mum, isn’t it?’ And what could Sarah say, except yes?

And just like that, their reconciliation was nudged on. Neil had come in and played trains with Stephen until the chicken curry had been reheated. And during dinner he’d looked out of the window and remarked that some of the shrubs could do with pruning, and he could drop by if Sarah wanted, whenever it suited her.

And finally, as they drank tea on the garden seat one balmy August evening, after an afternoon at the cinema and a lasagne dinner, she’d told him that the publication date was September the fifteenth, and he’d told her that he still loved her, and he’d asked if there was any chance that they could try again.

And that had been nearly three years ago.

It was different; it might never be the same. It was more fragile; she felt more fragile. But he was still her husband and they were together again – and at the age of forty-four, she’d begun another baby with him.

‘Congratulations,’ the
doctor said, sliding the box of tissues across his desk to her.