Touchy Subjects (2 page)

Did she detect a touch of irony? Surely not. "And the lads?" she asked.

"Doing great," he told her. "Fiachra's in the senior school this year."

Sarah nodded enthusiastically. "I brought them some stuff..." Her voice trailed off as she nodded at the heap of presents on the sideboard. She didn't mean to play the rich Yank, buying herself a welcome.

"Ah, you're very good." Padraic was craning over his chair to see the presents.

Then a silence flickered in the air between them.

"D'you ever see anything of Eamonn these days?" His tone was ostentatiously light.

"Not really," said Sarah. "He's in Boston."

"Mmm. I just thought—"

"That's nearly as far from Seattle as from Dublin."

"Right."

Padraic was looking as if he wished he hadn't mentioned Eamonn's name. She hadn't sounded touchy, had she? She hadn't meant to, if she had. It was just the general twitchiness of the occasion. Padraic just sat there, looking around at the furnishings. And then, thank Christ and all his saints, a knock on the door.

The boy in stripes brought in the champagne on a tray. Was that a hint of a smirk on his face? Sarah squirmed, but just a little. In her twenty years away from Ireland she had taught herself not to give a shit what anybody thought.

Five minutes later, Padraic's hands were still straining at the wire around the cork. Sarah thought for an awful moment that she'd have to ring down and ask for the boy to be sent back up.

"Excellent!" she said, when the pop came, very loud in the quiet room. The foam dripped onto the table. "Ooh, doesn't it make a mess!"

And then she realized she sounded just like that nurse in the Carry On films, and the laughter started in her throat, deep and uncouth.

Padraic looked at her, owl-eyed, then started laughing, too. His face was red. He filled both glasses to the brim.

"I swear, I didn't mean—," she began.

"I know you didn't."

"It was just—"

"It was," he said, knocking back half the glass and wiping one eye.

Sarah felt a bit better after that little icebreaker. She offered to refill his glass.

"Better not," said Padraic, all business now. "You know what Shakespeare said."

She tried to think of all the things Shakespeare ever said.

"'Drink,'" he explained. "'It makes a man and then mars him ... provokes the desire, but takes away the performance.'"

"Really?"

Padraic added, "It's the only quote I ever remember."

Sarah nodded. Privately she was sure Shakespeare had never said any such thing; it sounded more like Morecambe and Wise. It was time she took charge of this conversation. "Listen," she began in the voice she used at meetings. Was she imagining it, or did Padraic sit up straighter? "Listen," she tried again, more gently, "are you sure you're OK about this?"

"Absolutely," said Padraic.

"No, but really, you've only to say." She let the pause stretch. "It's a lot to ask."

"No bother."

Typical bloody Irishmen, can't handle any conversation more intimate than buying a paper.
Sarah pressed her fingertips together hard and tried again. Her voice was beginning to shake. "I hope you know I wouldn't be here if there was any other way."

"I know that, sure."

"I can't tell you how grateful I'll be—I mean, I am, already." She stumbled on. "The only thing is, I get the feeling Carmel kind of talked you into this?"

"Nonsense," he said, too heartily. "I'm more than happy. Glad to be of use."

She winced at the word.

"Well now." Padraic got up and straightened the sleeves of the shirt he wore beneath that ridiculous striped jersey. "I suppose I should get down to business." From his jacket pocket he produced a small emptyjar that said
H
E
I
N
Z
P
E
A
S
&
C
A
R
R
O
T
S
F
O
R
B
A
B
Y
.

Sarah stared at it. "How suitable." Her throat was dry.

He peered at the ripped label. "Would you look at that! I grabbed the first clean jar I could find that wasn't too big," he added a little sheepishly.

Compassion swept over her like water. "It's perfect."

They stood around as if waiting for divine intervention. Then Sarah took a few light steps towards the bathroom. "Why don't I wait—"

"Not at all," he said, walking past her. "You stay in here and have a bit of a nap."

She heard the key turn in the bathroom door.

A nap? Did he seriously think she could sleep through what might turn out to be the hinge of her whole life?

Padraic knew he was being paranoid, but just in case. Sarah might think of some further instructions and burst in on him in that scary suit with the pointed lapels. Anyway, he'd never been able to relax in a bathroom without locking the door.

The jar looked harmless, standing beside the miniature elder-flower soap. He tried perching on the edge of the bath, but it was too low; he feared he might fall backwards and damage his back.
Dublin Businessman Found Committing Lewd Act in Luxury Hotel.
All right for the likes of George Michael, maybe, but not recommended for a career in middle management. And his cousin Maire would never forgive him for the publicity.

He tried sitting on the toilet—with the lid down, so it would feel less squalid, more like a chair. He leaned back, a knob poked him between the shoulderblades, and the flush started up like Niagara. He stood up till the sound died down. Sarah would think he was wasting time. Sarah would think him a complete moron, but then, he'd always suspected she thought that anyway.

Now, these weren't the sort of thoughts to be having, were they? Relaxing thoughts were what were needed; warm thoughts, sexy thoughts. Beaches and open fires and hammocks and ... no, not babies. Would it look like him, he wondered for the first time, this hypothetical West Coast child?

He hadn't been letting himself think that far ahead. All week he'd been determined to do this thing, as a favour to Carmel, really, though Carmel thought he was doing it for her best friend. He'd been rather flattered to be asked, especially by someone as high-powered as Sarah Lord. He couldn't think of any reason to refuse. It wasn't your everyday procedure, and he wasn't planning to mention it to his mother, but really, where was the harm? As Carmel put it the other night, "It's not like you're short of the stuff, sweetie."

Still, he preferred not to dwell on the long-term consequences. The thought of his brief pleasure being the direct cause of a baby was still somehow appalling to Padraic, even though he had three sons and loved them so much it made his chest feel tight. He still remembered that day in Third Year when the priest drew a diagram on the blackboard. The Lone Ranger sperm; the engulfing egg. He didn't quite believe it. It sounded like one of those stories adults made up when they couldn't be bothered to explain the complicated truth.

Padraic sat up straighter on the glossy toilet seat. He did ten complete body breaths. It was all he remembered from that stress training his company had shelled out for last year. Three hundred euro a head, and the office was still full of squabbles and cold coffee.

He unzipped his trousers to start getting in the mood. Nothing stirring yet. All Very Quiet on the Western Front. Well, Sarah couldn't expect some sort of McDonald's-style service, could she?
Ready in Five Minutes or Your Money Back.
She wasn't paying for this, Padraic reminded himself. He was doing her a great big favour. At least, he was trying to.

He zipped up his trousers again; he didn't like feeling watched. If he could only relax there would be no problem. There never was any problem. Well, never usually. Hardly ever. No more than the next man. And Carmel had such a knack . ..

He wouldn't think about Carmel. It was too weird. She was his wife, and here he was sitting on a very expensive toilet preparing to hand her best friend ajar of his semen. At the sheer perversity of the thought, he felt a little spark of life.
Good, good, keep it up, man. You're about to have a wank,
he told himself salaciously,
in the all-new, design-award-winning Finbar's Hotel. This is very postmodern altogether. That woman out there has flown halfway round the world for the Holy Grail of your little jarful. Think what the pope would say to that!

This last taboo was almost too much for Padraic; he felt his confidence begin to drain away at the thought of the pontiff peering in the bathroom window.

Dirty, think honest-to-god dirty thoughts.
Suddenly he couldn't remember any. What did he used to think about when he was seventeen? It seemed an aeon ago.

He knew he should have come armed. An hour ago he was standing at the Easons magazine counter, where the cashier had looked about twelve, and he'd lost his nerve and handed her an
Irish Independent
instead. Much good the
Irish Independent
would be to him in this hour of need. He'd flicked through it already and the most titillating thing in it was a picture of the president signing a memorial.

This was ridiculous.
You're not some Neanderthal; you were born in 1961.
Surely he didn't need some airbrushed airhead to slaver over? Surely he could rely on the power of imagination?

The door opened abruptly. Sarah, who had turned her armchair to face the window so as not to seem to be hovering in a predatory way, grinned over her shoulder. "That was quick!"

Then she cursed herself for speaking too soon because Padraic was shaking his head as if he had something stuck in his ear. "Actually," he muttered, "I'm just going to stretch my legs. Won't be a minute."

"Sure, sure, take your time."

His legs? Sarah sat there in the empty room and wondered what his legs had to do with anything. Blood flow to the pelvis? Or was it a euphemism for a panic attack? She peered into the bathroom; the jar was still on the sink, bone-dry.

Five minutes later, it occurred to her that he had run home to Carmel.

The phone rang eight times before her friend picked it up. "Sarah, my love! What country are you in?"

"This one."

"Is my worser half with you?"

"Well, he was. But he's gone out."

"Out where?"

Curled up on the duvet, Sarah shrugged off her heels. "I don't know. Listen, if he turns up at home—"

"Padraic wouldn't do that to you."

There was a little silence. In the background, she could hear the
Holby City
theme on the television, and one of the boys chanting something, over and over. "Listen, Carmel, how did he seem this morning?"

Her friend let out a short laugh. "How he always seems."

"No, but was he nervous? I mean, I'm nervous, and it's worse for him."

"Maybe he was a bit," said Carmel consideringly. "But, I mean, how hard can it be?"

Who started giggling first? "Today is just one long double entendre," said Sarah eventually.

"How long?"

"Long enough!"

And then they were serious again. "Did you bully him into it, though, Carmel, really?"

"Am I the kind of woman who bullies anyone?"

This wasn't the time for that discussion. "All I mean is, I know you want to help."

"We both do. Me and Padraic both."

"But you most of all, you've been through the whole thing with me, you know what it's been like, with the clinic .. . And I swear I wouldn't have asked if I had anyone else." Sarah was all at once on the brink of tears. She stopped and tried to open her throat.

"Of course." After a minute, Carmel went on more professionally. "How's your mucus?"

"Sticky as maple syrup."

"Good stuff. It's going to happen, you know."

"Is it?" Sarah knew she sounded like a child.

"It is."

All at once she couldn't believe what she was planning. To wake up pregnant one day and somehow find the nerve to go on with it, that was one thing, but to do it deliberately...
For cold-blooded and selfish reasons,
as the tabloids always put it. In fantastical hope, as Sarah thought of it. In fear and trembling.

"Are you sure you can't come over for a little visit?" asked Carmel.

"I really can't. I've a meeting in Brussels tomorrow morning, before I head back to the States."

"Ah well. Next time."

Padraic was leaning on the senior porter's desk, which was more like a lectern. He spoke in a murmur, as if at confession.

"Our library on the third floor has all the papers as well as a range of contemporary Irish literature, sir," muttered the slightly stooped porter, as if reading from a script.

"No, but magazines," said Padraic meaningfully.

"We stock
Private Eye, Magill, Time...
"

"Not that kind." Padraic's words sounded sticky. "Men's magazines."

The old man screwed up his eyes. "I think they might have one on cars..."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said under his breath.

Then, at his elbow, just the woman he could do without. "Are you all right there, Padraic?"

"Máire." He gave her a wild look. She was just trying to catch him out at this stage. Was she following him all over the hotel to examine the state of his trousers? Just as well he didn't have the bloody erection he'd spent the last fifteen minutes trying to achieve. She'd probably photograph it for her files.

"This gentleman—," began the porter in his wavering voice.

"I'm grand, actually." And Padraic walked off without another word.

What did it matter if they thought he was rude? Máire had clearly made up her mind that he was cheating on Carmel with his wife's best friend. When the fact was he would never, never, never. He wasn't that type of guy. He had his faults, Padraic admitted to himself as he punched at the lift button, but not that one. He was a very ordinary man who loved his family. There was nothing experimental about him; he didn't even wear coloured shirts.