This Charming Man (33 page)

He didn’t answer.

‘Why, Jeremy?’

‘You know why.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You wanted it.’

She had. And now that he’d said it, she admitted that all the impetus had come from her. She’d wanted to get married, she always had, it was what you did, it was normal behaviour. And it had been such a joyous change to meet a man who would do what she wanted; before Jeremy, she hadn’t been able to get a man to commit to even ringing her. But with Jeremy, she’d been able to come right out and say jokey things like, ‘How much are you spending on my engagement ring?’ and ‘Where are we going on our honeymoon?’

‘Well, thanks a bunch,’ she said. ‘Very decent of you. But seeing as you’re gay and all, you needn’t have bothered.’

‘Alicia, why did you marry me?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’

‘Right,’ he said, looking her dead in the eye.

He knew, she realized. Maybe he didn’t know that the man was Paddy, but he knew there was someone. Complicity flashed between them, a moment when their respective dishonesties were highlighted and bare.

They’d both been liars, she as much as Jeremy. They’d both gone into this marriage for the wrong reasons – she’d married Jeremy because if she couldn’t have Paddy, Jeremy would do – and the extent of her cynicism left her more ashamed and depressed than she had ever felt in her life.

‘Don’t go tonight,’ Jeremy said. ‘Sleep on it, wait until morning. Come on,’ and he held out his arms, offering comfort. She let him hold her because, in her way, she loved him.

In the morning, he persuaded her to stay for the rest of the honeymoon. And when they returned to Dublin and moved into their marital home, she was too embarrassed to leave immediately. The mortification of splitting up with her husband on their honeymoon was just too much. She decided to give it a year, just to save face. And somewhere in that year, she forgave him.

They never slept together again – in fact, their marriage was never consummated – but they’d been friends, great friends.

‘Why not just be openly gay?’ she sometimes asked him. ‘Ireland has changed. It’s okay now.’

‘I’m from a different generation to you.’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘stop reminding me you’re ancient.’

‘Do you want everyone to know that your husband takes it up the arse from nineteen-year-old rent boys?’

‘Do you?’ She was fascinated.

‘Yes.’

No, she didn’t want anyone knowing that.

But she wondered if Paddy knew.

She met him from time to time – not properly, not by appointment, but at big social events, like charity balls, where conversation was brief and jokey. The first time he met Jeremy and Alicia after they’d got engaged, he X-rayed them with an impolite gaze that made her uncomfortable with its intensity. She remembered watching him, watching them – scanning, assimilating, filing – and wondering what it was that he saw.

Her sister Camilla knew too – because she told her. She had to tell someone, but then she was sorry because Camilla said the worst possible thing. ‘Why are you selling yourself so short? Why don’t you leave him and hold out for true love?’

‘Because I’ve met the only one I’ll ever love. I know who he is.’

Such certainty was a type of comfort. It wasn’t her fault she was hopelessly in love with a man she couldn’t have. In olden times she’d have entered a nunnery and that would have been the end of everything. At least with Jeremy she was living a fullish life, going skiing, shopping, having fun.

I have a lizard-skin Kelly bag, she reminded herself.

I have met Tiger Woods.

I have flown in a private plane.

But sometimes in the bleak predawn hours, the truth woke her and she couldn’t avoid wondering what was wrong with her. Why did she think so little of herself, that she remained married to a gay man? Why had she settled for a skewed half-life?

But it’s fine, she told herself. We’re happy.

She had read a feature in
Marie Claire
about relationships where the couples no longer had sex. Apparently they were much more widespread than anyone knew, or admitted to. I am actually normal, she whispered to herself in the pearly grey light. It’s the ones who have lots of sex who are abnormal.

She knew it all came back to Paddy. He’d ruined her for anyone else.

‘Maybe you should see someone,’ her sister suggested. ‘A shrink of some sort.’

‘A shrink won’t help me find a man as good as Paddy.’

Her sister didn’t push the point. She fancied Paddy too.

Despite the absence of sex, Alicia’s life with Jeremy was a good one. He used humour, money, drink, food and travel to keep things from ever becoming too glum or serious. He loved her, she knew he did. He always treated her with great tenderness and affection.

And when he died, her grief was genuine.

At about ten-thirty most nights, Sidney dropped the following morning’s papers over to Paddy. Normally it was no big deal – Sidney handed him the bundle, then legged it and Paddy leafed through the pages at his leisure – but this particular night, Paddy brought such a wash of black energy with him when he returned to the living room that Alicia knew immediately that something was up.

‘It’s in,’ Paddy said. ‘The interview with Grace Gildee.’

Alicia’s stomach almost flipped out of her mouth. They hadn’t been expecting it for another week.

Paddy went straight to the article and was so intent on it that she had to read over his shoulder. It was a big piece, a double-page spread, the headline in big, bold, black print.

God. Alicia flicked a terrified glance at Paddy. He read on for a few sentences, then made an outraged squeak. ‘Why the hell did you offer her a glass of wine at eleven o’clock in the fucking morning?’

‘I thought…’ What had she thought? That she and Grace might get mildly drunk together and end up giggling over the old days?

Paddy read on avidly: boring details of her upbringing, schooling, work history. So far so safe – then disaster.

‘Did you say that?’ Paddy demanded.

‘… Some of it…’

‘And she said the rest and you agreed?’

‘… Yes…’ Too late she’d remembered that if you agree with any statement that a journalist makes, they can quote you on it.

‘I’m meant to represent modern fucking Ireland!’

‘Sorry, Paddy.’

‘Not some fucking Catholic throwback banana republic! Why the hell did we send you to media training if you can’t remember the fucking basics?’

‘Sorry, Paddy.’

‘Why wouldn’t you let Sidney sit in on it?’

But he knew why, they both did.

On she read.

Had she? Alicia hadn’t known that. She looked in surprise at Paddy, then looked away quickly. Now was not the time for eye contact.

Possibly the worst thing about the piece, Alicia realized, was that Grace was reporting it straight. There were no spiteful interpretations; instead she let Alicia’s quotes damn her all by themselves.

Alicia sounded like a submissive doormat and it was all her own fault.

When Paddy finished reading, he threw the paper aside with a sharp rustle and sat brooding in his chair. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he said.

Wake up. Look at alarm clock. Pleased. 11.07 – good time. Less of day to waste. Best waking-up time to date since arriving at Uncle Tom’s cabin was 12.47 but had been up very late night before watching
Apocalypse Now
. Intense emotional experience. Also very long. Make coffee and bowl Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, pull kitchen chair round to back of house and break my fast in full view of Atlantic Ocean. Has become my habit because every day, despite it being October, weather is beautiful.

Ireland strange, strange country. July – summer by my reckoning – weather can be embarrassingly cold and wet. All those poor American tourists doing Ring of Kerry in fogged-up coaches and the weather making show of us. But now look! Middle of October! Every day sunny and blustery, huge blue skies, overexcited sea, young men surfing. Massive sweep of beach, deserted during weekdays, apart from heartbroken women traipsing up and down, hoping to – I don’t know – walk right back to happiness? Still haven’t joined them. Will never join them. Matter of pride.

In leisurely fashion, pour milk over Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Breakfast in Knockavoy takes average of forty-three minutes – astonishing length of time. In Dublin, would spend nine seconds cramming slice of toast into mouth while simultaneously applying concealer, watching
Ireland AM
and looking for lost things.

Six or seven surfers out there this morning, sleek as seals in their wetsuits. Would love to surf. No, that is wrong. Would love to
be able
to surf. Different thing. Suspect would not enjoy surfing at all. Water up nose and in ears, and think of hair. But if told people – men, let’s be honest, men – that I was surfer, they would think I was sexy. All-over tan (despite wetsuit), ankle rope, body confidence. Yes, hair would be in absolute flitters, but people don’t seem hold it against you if you explain that you are surf girl. Suddenly tangled, broken
hair ceases being tangled, broken hair and becomes sexy, surfy hair. Is this right, I ask you?

Ocean temporarily gone flat. Surfers lying stomach-down on boards, waiting. Surfing requires patience; lots of hanging around and could not pass time sending texts.

Ate slowly. Have taken to chewing every mouthful of food twenty times because of article I read. Alert! In Western world, we do not chew food enough. We are swallowing food almost whole. Bad business because intestines have no teeth. Chewing every mouthful twenty times good for digestion.

Also helps to pass the time.

Chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed and surveyed the surfers. Was I imagining it or was one of them looking in my direction? Jake the Love-God? Sudden flash of silver light – small but intense – seemed to leap from his direction and break over my head. Not mini-bolt of lightning but blink of his silvery eyes.

Was it just sunlight glinting on water? Surely not possible to see colour of his eyes, even if they are abnormally bright? He is some distance away (12 yards? Half a mile?). Narrowed eyes in attempt to see better (strange thing – why would you make eyes
smaller
when trying to see more?). Next thing, the surfer waved.

Must be Jake!

I – slightly self-consciously – waved back. Very faintly, heard call from him. ‘Hi, Loh-lah!’ Words floated on sea air, carried to me by many, many molecules of salt.

Called back, ‘Hi, Jake.’ But voice sounded thin and weak. Knew, for sure, salt molecules had not helped out, only person who heard me was me. Feel foolish.

Whenever bumped into Jake in Knockavoy, he gave me sexy smiles and long, meaningful eye-locks, then lounged away without issuing concrete invitation.

‘’E fancies you,’ Cecile says, whenever we meet, which is most days.

‘So you keep saying,’ I reply. ‘But he does nothing about it.’

‘’E is not used to making the running,’ Cecile said. ‘The girls always do it for ’im.’

‘This girl doesn’t,’ I said, as if I was full of self-esteem, dignity,
self-worth. Not the case. Truth of matter, Jake and his Love-God antics were mild diversion, but too destroyed by Paddy.

Wind quite blustery. Lifted a Crunchy Nut Cornflake from bowl and bounced it across fields to sea. Neck cold. Went inside to find scarf or something. Pink feather boa thrown on couch. That would do. Or would it…? Suddenly noticed was wearing pyjamas, wellingtons and pink feather boa. Danger of living alone. Must take care not to turn into eccentric. If sharp eye not kept on things, might end up asking Bridie to loan me her jockey jumper.

Did washing-up, bowl, cup, spoons. Daily routine. Wiped down sink, hung up tea towel and had tiny, tiny moment when wasn’t entirely sure what next move would be – mistake! It was enough for terror to barge in and squeeze me so tight I could hardly breathe.
What the hell am I doing here
?

Could set clock by arrival of terror. Every single day, as soon as hung up tea towel, got the twitch. Wanted to ring Nkechi, Bridie, anyone, and beg, ‘Please can I come back to Dublin? Can I come home yet?’

Had stopped actually making the calls because was pointless. No one would let me return to Dublin. But oh my job, my job, my lovely job…

Because have no husband, no children, no family, no great talent – e.g. ability to carve carrots into flower shapes, foxgloves, rhododendrons – without my job I am nothing.

Couldn’t stop thinking of Nkechi plotting and planning to steal business from under my nose, but then remembered appalling shambles had made of it last time had tried to work and acknowledged probably just as well was in Knockavoy. Self could destroy business faster than Nkechi.

Didn’t help that phone rang constantly. ‘Nkechi doing fabulous job!’ ‘Nkechi fabulized me for Chicken Pox Gala!’ ‘Thanks to Nkechi I dazzled them all at the Dysentry benefit!’ Message: Nkechi is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. You are worthless, worthless, worthless.

Bridie takes different view. ‘They are being nice –’

‘Nice? Those women don’t know how to be nice.’

‘– and Nkechi is keeping your business up and running while you’re away.’

‘They’ll all want to be her clients when she sets up on her own.’

‘They won’t. Law of averages, if nothing else.’

Only comfort: Abibi not popular.