The People Next Door (7 page)

She guessed that he was around her own age. He didn’t appear to have much of a sense of humour, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and put it down to shyness.

He was always at work before her in the mornings and he was usually there when she left at five. She had no idea where he lived or whether he had any friends or family in Ireland, and he knew as little about her. Theirs was a purely professional relationship, which suited both of them perfectly.

At five to two, Yvonne and Dolores walked the short distance back to the clinic.

‘So what did you get up to at the weekend, then?’ Dolores slid a look at Yvonne. ‘Bet you had a lot more excitement than boring old married me.’

Another recurring theme: Yvonne’s eventful social life. Dolores was somehow convinced that her colleague spent every weekend painting Belford, and possibly the surrounding towns, bright red. She refused to believe that Yvonne ever sat in on a Saturday night eating mashed bananas on toast and watching whatever film was on offer. No, Yvonne was free and single so she had to be living it up with every available male for miles around.

‘I’m afraid Clara’s the one who has all the excitement in our house. She went to a concert in Galway with her boyfriend yesterday.’ Yvonne rummaged in her bag for the clinic keys, wishing she had more to report. Who wanted to admit that her weekends were that uneventful? ‘I cooked dinner for my father-in-law on Saturday night – I told you he comes once a month.’ Which, on an excitement scale of one to ten, would probably fall somewhere between two and three. Then she thought of something else. ‘Oh, and I’m going out to dinner this evening with a friend.’ There, that should keep Dolores happy for a while.

‘What – a man friend?’

‘Yes.’ Yvonne felt a tiny bit mean, making it sound like a date.

‘Who is he? Where did you meet him?’

She had to come clean. ‘Well, he’s a kind of a relation, really. I’ve known him for years.’

‘A cousin?’

‘Well, no … at least, he’s not my cousin – he was my husband’s.’ She was sorry she’d mentioned Greg.

Dolores frowned. ‘So he’s not related to you.’

‘No, but—’

‘Where’s he taking you? Or is that a surprise?’

‘Oh, nowhere fancy, probably the little Italian place on Curtin Street.’

Dolores walked up the clinic steps behind Yvonne. ‘You must tell me about it tomorrow. Boring old married women need all the juicy gossip they can get. I’ll try not to be too jealous.’

Yvonne had never met Dolores’s husband or any of her three children. They lived on the outskirts of a small village about ten miles outside Belford, in the house where Martin had grown up. Dolores had told Yvonne that he worked as an accountant in Charleton, a town another twenty or so miles beyond that, where the children attended various schools.

Yvonne turned her key in the door and slipped the snib to keep it open. They walked through the lobby together. No sign of Pawel – probably eating lunch in his surgery, as usual. Yvonne dropped her bag by her desk and opened the appointments book, running her finger down the list of names. Looking busy, hoping that the hint would be taken.

Dolores glanced at the closed surgery door. ‘Pity he wouldn’t ask you out.’ She made no attempt to lower her voice. ‘He’d be a good catch.’

Yvonne stared at her, appalled. What if Pawel heard her? ‘Ssh – don’t be ridiculous.’ Why did married women always feel the compulsion to marry off their single friends? She picked a file from the bundle on the shelf behind her and leafed through it, willing Dolores to go.

‘I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you. That’s all I’m saying.’ Dolores finally turned towards the stairs. ‘Well, enjoy your evening, if I don’t see you later.’

Yvonne watched her walking upstairs. That pleated skirt did nothing for her – if anything, it emphasised Dolores’s wide hips. If she even wore shoes with a bit of a heel sometimes, to give her some height, instead of those flat courts she always slopped around in. And her hair, like a bush around her face, just crying out for a good cut. She’d obviously let herself go since she’d pulled Martin.

Not that Yvonne was any great authority on style. Unremarkable brownish-reddish hair cut into the same short bob for the past twenty years. A collection of reliable, but she suspected terribly boring, skirts and trouser suits hanging in her wardrobe since the year dot. No variation for ages in her shade of pink lipstick, despite the samples Clara kept bringing home from the make-up department at work.

She hadn’t a clue how to apply eye make-up – anytime she tried, she ended up looking like some kind of demented banshee. Clara had attempted to teach her once or twice, but had quickly lost patience: ‘You’re useless, Mum, you don’t even try to do it properly.’ And she was right. Yvonne couldn’t summon up enough interest in eye shadow and mascara to make a real effort.

Not that Greg ever minded what she looked like. There was never any pressure with him to be remotely attractive. He was just Greg, her late husband’s first cousin, whom she’d known for more than twenty years.
He was like the brother she’d never had. Despite Dolores’s wishful thinking, this evening’s dinner with Greg couldn’t be further from a date.

But at some stage, she was going to have to learn how to use make-up properly, like it or not. Because the next time she sat opposite a man in a restaurant, hopefully not too far into the future, she was determined to look as good as she could. First impressions counted for a lot, she knew that.

She wondered how long it would take Peter to suggest a meeting. Of course they’d only been emailing for two weeks, it was early days. But he seemed nice, if a little serious, and Yvonne was curious to see if he lived up to his own description: blond hair, blue eyes, six feet tall, slim build. He sounded very interesting indeed. Pity he hadn’t posted his photo on the site – some members did – but then, Yvonne hadn’t put hers up either. Imagine if someone she knew saw it.

She tried to picture Dolores’s face if she ever found out that Yvonne had joined an internet dating site. That would be worth seeing. Not that Yvonne had the remotest notion of telling her.

Mind you, if someone had told Yvonne herself just three weeks ago that she’d be considering a date with a man who’d made contact with her over the internet, she’d have been just as surprised. But recently, after vowing for years that she’d never dream of going near those websites, she’d wondered if they’d be worth a try. What had she to lose? She could be totally anonymous, put up no photo, use a made-up name until she felt confident enough to reveal her real one.

So she’d taken the plunge one evening when Clara was out with Barry. She’d entered her details, called herself Deirdre (her second name, so not completely made up), paid her three-month subscription (much cheaper than she’d been expecting) and sat back nervously to see what would happen.

Nothing had, for the first few days. She felt a bit put out when she logged on, entered her password and saw ‘no new messages’ coming up on the screen. Was she expected to make the first move? No, that was definitely beyond her – she’d die rather than send an email to a complete stranger and risk him ignoring it. If anyone was expecting her to take the initiative, he’d have a long wait.

And then, four days after she’d joined, she got her first message. It was from Easyrider, and it came right to the point.

‘I like doing older women.’

She checked his profile and discovered he was twenty-two – a year younger than Clara. She deleted his message and wondered if she’d get her money back if she contacted the site management.

But the next night there was a message from Peter39.

‘Hello there. I read your profile and I was wondering if you’d like to chat.’

According to his information, he was a year younger than her. He put ‘professional’ as his occupation. He enjoyed good wine and old films. He had no children, had never been married. He lived in the country. For his ideal first date, he had written:
I would like the lady to choose so that she would be relaxed.

Yvonne’s reply took her twenty minutes.

‘Hello, Peter. Nice to hear from you. Yes, I’d enjoy a chat. Tell me a little more about yourself.’

Not too eager. Friendly and casual. Giving him the opportunity to talk about himself – weren’t men supposed to like that?

He replied the following night. He told her he was from abroad and that he’d come to Ireland a few years ago to pursue a personal relationship that hadn’t worked out, but had stayed on afterwards because he liked the Irish way of life.

Yvonne told him she was widowed with one daughter. She said she was sorry his relationship had failed and felt slightly guilty for the lie.

He sympathised with her about her husband’s death. He told her he regretted not having children. He said he enjoyed being with his nieces and nephew whenever he got a chance to see them, which wasn’t often. He added that he was interested in hill walking and sailing.

She told him she’d done some hill walking a few years ago, but hadn’t found it very enjoyable because of the bad weather. She didn’t add that she’d joined the hill walking club in the hope of meeting new men and had left when it became clear that all the remotely interesting ones were married.

He told her he was a Capricorn.

She told him she was a Pisces.

He told her he couldn’t cook, but that he liked spicy food.

She sent him a very simple recipe for stir-fried beef with ginger.

He said—

‘Yvonne?’

She whirled around, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl. Pawel stood in his doorway. ‘Just to let you know that Mr Doherty called while you were out to cancel his Thursday appointment. He’ll ring again to reschedule.’

‘Right – I’ll make a note.’ Yvonne pulled the appointments book towards her. The surgery door closed behind her with a soft click. Pawel didn’t believe in making unnecessary noise. Just as well he didn’t believe in reading minds either.

The front door of the clinic was pushed open as she was rubbing out Mr Doherty’s name and Yvonne looked up with a bright smile on her face for Mrs Nugent.

The hat was home. It hung, as usual, on the left handlebar of Kieran’s dark blue bicycle, which leaned against the wall in the hall. Dan pulled his front door key out of the lock and listened. From the kitchen he heard the soft murmur of music – Lyric FM, when Kieran had any say – and the subdued little rustling that meant someone was moving around. He smelled fish and frying onions. Was there ever a more appetising smell than frying onions?

His mouth watered as he draped his jacket over the bicycle’s saddle and rested his umbrella on the carrier. Handy, having someplace to put everything.

He’d meant, ever since he and Ali had moved in, to attach a row of hooks to the wall, something to take the jackets and keys, but typically he’d never got around to it, had been happy to drape his jacket over the banisters, to drop his keys on the bottom stair, much to Ali’s annoyance. But now there was the bicycle, which Kieran used much more than his car, and it did the job perfectly. Dan tried to imagine Ali’s face if she saw a slightly battered (but still perfectly
serviceable) bike propped against the wall in her hall.

Not her hall now, of course. He opened the kitchen door.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Kieran’s face was lightly flushed. He wore a yellow and blue striped apron over his usual corduroys and rumpled T-shirt. His hair was rumpled too – he got considerably more dishevelled when he cooked. Picasso lifted his head and eyed Dan from the kitchen chair. Dan eyed him back. A truce, he supposed you’d call it, what he and Picasso had now. Dan turned a blind eye to the cat in the kitchen and Picasso didn’t venture any further into the house – at least, not while Dan was around.

‘It’ll be fifteen minutes.’ Kieran adjusted the oven temperature. The kitchen was filled with the most appetising aromas and the sink was piled high with saucepans, wooden spoons of various sizes, and bowls.

‘Grand.’ Dan considered tackling the saucepans, then decided they could wait. ‘I’ll have a shower so.’

Nothing had been agreed between them. No official arrangement had been made or even suggested, but almost three weeks into his tenancy, Kieran was most definitely the cook, and Dan had no objection.

He’d never eaten so well. He couldn’t cook to save his life and Ali hadn’t been much better. Between them, they’d lived off a combination of frozen meals and takeaways, with the occasional leathery chicken or charred steak if one of them had taken a notion to attempt a meal.

Since Ali’s disappearance, Dan had avoided the takeaways where they were both so well known, and
had lost his appetite for the frozen pizzas and chicken kormas. His evening meals had settled into a pattern, usually involving something out of a tin and either eggs or sausages. Nothing that had to be peeled or chopped, nothing that took more than five minutes to cook. A small saucepan and a frying pan were all he needed.

On his first evening in the house, Kieran had poached a salmon steak, boiled new potatoes and steamed spinach; he had whisked flour, milk and dill into melted butter to make a creamy sauce that he drizzled over his fish. In fifteen minutes he had produced a meal that would have taken Dan forever and probably still would not have been edible.

Dan had wrapped a slice of white bread around two sausages. ‘That looks good.’ He tried not to stare at the plate opposite him. He loved salmon, hadn’t had it in ages.

Kieran cut into the pale orange flesh. ‘I like to cook, always have.’ He loaded his fork with spinach. ‘Just taught myself as I went along, really.’ He dipped the fork into a puddle of sauce.

Dan’s sausage sandwich could have done with some of that sauce. ‘I don’t go in much for cooking.’

‘No?’ Kieran speared a little potato. ‘It’s not for everyone, I suppose.’

Dan unrolled his bread, slathered ketchup in and took another bite. It tasted slightly better. ‘Good skill to have, though.’

‘It is.’ Kieran cut another chunk of fish. ‘It’s handy alright.’

Dan chewed and swallowed. Against such competition, his sausages had completely lost their appeal. Maybe they should eat dinner at different times. Maybe they could set up a rota for the kitchen so Dan wouldn’t be tormented.