The Truth Club Page 10

  ‘No, you don’t. You look very sweet and lovely.’

  I get a strange fizzy feeling in my stomach.

  ‘But Larry always asks his dinner dates to spank him. His wife won’t do it, so he approaches nice understanding strangers at parties when he’s abroad. He tells them that being spanked is the only way he can obtain any kind of sexual relief. It’s amazing how many of them oblige, after a slap-up meal and four bottles of vintage wine.’

  I am blushing to the roots of my easi-meche highlights. ‘That’s not true. Larry isn’t like that,’ I protest, trying to salvage some meagre dignity. Anyway, Nathaniel looks just the type who might make this sort of nonsense up for a joke. I don’t know how I could have thought he was sweet and soulful.

  ‘I think I’m in a position to know more about Larry than you do,’ Nathaniel replies firmly.

  ‘Oh, you’ve spanked his bottom, have you?’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were speaking from first-hand experience.’

  Nathaniel blithely overlooks this remark. ‘Look, I lived in New York up until a few months ago. I know people Larry knows. He’s got quite a reputation.’

  Oh, God… maybe it’s true. Oh, the humiliation of it. How has my life become this odd? And why did Larry choose me? Do I look like the biggest sucker in the room? I lower my head miserably.

  Nathaniel touches my arm. This time I don’t flinch. ‘Look, he only chose you because you’re so pretty. But we’ve got to go. He really will come out and start looking for you soon.’

  ‘Where’s the gents’ toilet? That’s where you last saw him, isn’t it?’ I’m starting to panic. It’s as if I expect Larry to appear with a big stick and demand that I spank him right there and then.

  ‘Yes. It’s to the right and through the…’

  ‘I don’t want directions to it, I just want to know if it’s near here,’ I gabble. ‘You’re right: I’d better go. Bye.’ I dash away from Nathaniel down the dimly lit corridor, yank open a door and find myself in a cleaning cupboard, surrounded by mops.

  ‘It’s the other way.’ Nathaniel is standing behind me.

  ‘What?’ I glower.

  ‘The exit. I’ll show you. If we go this way, we don’t have to go anywhere near the reception.’

  ‘This store only opened last week. How do you know so much about it?’ I demand. Everything about him is starting to irritate me.

  ‘I’ve been helping Greta with this Young Irish Talent thing. She’s my cousin.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I say. ‘I should have known.’

  As I race after him down another corridor, I want him to ask how I should have known, so I can tell him he is even more bossy and opinionated than Greta is. But he doesn’t say anything. He just yanks open a door beside a cement staircase. ‘Freedom!’ he exclaims, as we find ourselves in a small and rather grimy side-street.

  Good. Now I can get away from him. ‘Well, I suppose it’s goodbye, then,’ I say stonily, proffering my hand to make the whole transaction as formal as possible.

  ‘Since I deprived you of a meal with Larry, I think I should buy you one myself,’ Nathaniel says. ‘Come on. I know a fabulous place. You’d love it.’

  How on earth do you know what I like and what I don’t? I think. The cheek of you and your presumptions!

  ‘You look like you could do with a really nice Chinese meal, Sally Adams.’ He is standing far too close.

  ‘I’m married.’ I decide to just announce it.

  ‘Yes, I know you are, and so am I… and so, of course, is Larry.’ He smiles. Does he take anything seriously?

  ‘We shouldn’t even be talking like this,’ I say frostily.

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me before?’ His eyes have darkened. He’s serious now. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me at that party, years ago?’

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me?’ I counter.

  ‘I wanted to, but when I came over to your side of the room you’d dashed off. Someone told me you had gone home. You were in such a rush you even left your coat.’

  I take a deep breath. This is indeed true. Now I wish I had talked to him. I would have seen he wasn’t a beautiful stranger, after all. He was just a great big handsome eejit.

  ‘I’m going now,’ I say firmly. ‘And I assume you’re going, too – going home to your wife.’

  ‘I can’t go home to her. She’s having a torrid affair with a transvestite from the Bronx.’

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just say, ‘Oh,’ and turn on my heel and leave.

  I’m almost back on Grafton Street when my mobile rings. ‘Sally?’ It’s Marie, and she’s sounding very imperious. ‘I’ve decided I have to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’ I demand. If she wants me to apply for another job on Road Haulage Weekly, I may well scream right in her ear.

  ‘DeeDee’s dead.’

  I stop in my tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s dead. I should have told you that.’

  I lean against a wall. I can’t speak for a moment. I look at a plastic bag dancing in the wind. ‘How… how did she die?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some woman phoned me from Rio de Janeiro, fifteen years ago, to tell me she was dead. I was the only relative listed in DeeDee’s address book – we used to be very close when I was a child – and this woman thought I should know.’

  I don’t say anything, so Marie adds, ‘So now you know. I suppose I should have told you before. I didn’t want to upset you, but then you kept going on about wanting to find her… I haven’t told anyone else, Sally – as I’ve said, I think DeeDee is best forgotten – so let’s keep it between ourselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you for… for telling me the truth. Bye.’

  I feel winded. Dazed. Surely this can’t be true. I stare numbly at the pavement. I don’t know why I’m so upset about someone I never met; but I feel I should have met her, I should have learned her story. Tears are coursing down my cheeks, stupid tears for a total stranger – a woman who just walked out on everyone; a woman who shouldn’t be missed.

  I am so lost in my grief that I scarcely notice Nathaniel has caught up with me.

  ‘What is it? What was that phone call about?’

  I don’t reply.

  He lowers his face towards mine. ‘My car is in the next street. Please let me buy you a meal. You can’t go home like that.’ He sounds so concerned, so tender.

  I should say no. I should go home. I should call Diarmuid. But he wouldn’t understand; he would be comforting and kind, but he wouldn’t really get it. He would remind me that I didn’t really know DeeDee, that she wasn’t part of my life. But she was – she is, in some way I can’t even explain to myself. I need someone to talk to. I have needed it for so long.

  Nathaniel offers me a paper hanky. I do not protest as he gently takes my hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  The late-evening sun is scorching. I put my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the glare. It wasn’t this hot when I went into the reception, or when I came out of it; the heat seems to have arrived suddenly from nowhere.

  Nathaniel’s hand is warm too, warm and strong; I can almost feel the blood pulsing through his veins. He is leading me down a series of back streets I have never seen before, narrow alleys full of refuse sacks and the sweet, acrid scent of decay. The doors we pass are fire exits. Scrawny stray cats dart away from us as we approach. The tall buildings at each side shield us from the sun, and there is a blazing brilliance in the gaps. I wonder, vaguely, how long we will be walking – half an hour, ten minutes? I don’t speak.

  ‘Here it is.’ Nathaniel lets go of my hand and approaches a battered blue car.

  It’s a very old car. I even know the make: it’s a 2CV Citroën. I recall a long-ago student-exchange holiday in a Paris suburb: I was trying to improve my French, and ancient 2CVs seemed to be everywhere, driven by young, laughing tearaways smoking Gauloises.

  ‘Sorry it’s such a mess.’ Nathaniel smiles as he yanks open a do
or, which doesn’t appear to be locked. He starts to shove piles of paper and magazines to the back seat, which contains a large and very dirty cushion covered in dog hair. ‘I’m a messy sort of person, I’m afraid.’ He smiles at me, and for the first time he looks bashful. ‘My apartment looks like a hurricane’s hit it, and my office looks like some modern-art installation called “Chaos”.’

  I must look alarmed, because he laughs. ‘I am exaggerating, just slightly. I’m determined to get more organised. I’ve been throwing piles of stuff away, and buying sleek coloured files in stationery shops.’

  I consider asking him what he does, but I’m facing the challenge of getting into his ancient car. I will, apparently, have to slide over to the passenger seat from the driver’s seat; Nathaniel informs me that the passenger door does open from the inside, but sometimes it almost falls off with the effort. I feel muddled and strange. The fact that his car is almost impossible to get into seems oddly appropriate. I haven’t got into a car like this in years. All my friends have sensible, shiny cars that purr and hum and glide. Every single one of them looks the same to me.

  I twist and squirm my way into the passenger seat and thank Jesus that I am wearing trousers. If I were wearing a skirt, it would probably be up past my thighs.

  ‘They’re not very comfortable seats, I’m afraid,’ Nathaniel says as he climbs in after me. ‘And the suspension is bolloxed… but I love this car, which is just as well, because I can’t afford a new one.’ He yanks a lever and the canvas roof rolls back.

  I sit there numbly. Then new plump tears start to fall down my cheeks.

  Nathaniel looks at me keenly and starts the engine. ‘It’s a weird little place,’ he remarks, ‘but the food is great.’

  ‘What?’ The word seems to rise from my stomach. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Chinese restaurant. And it’s cheap. Don’t be put off by the scowls.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Henry, the owner, scowls at everyone. But his eyes are friendly. He’s a great big teddy bear pretending to be a tiger.’

  I feel panicky suddenly. I don’t do this kind of thing. ‘I think I should get out.’ My voice is quivery.

  ‘And they do really great imported beer.’ The car is chugging forwards erratically, as though it’s complaining about being woken from a pleasant slumber. ‘She’ll heat up in a minute.’ Nathaniel pats the dashboard affectionately. ‘You’ll feel better when you’re having some fat spring rolls. They do great spring rolls.’

  I look at him dubiously.

  ‘And then you can tell me why you’re so sad.’

  ‘You can let me out at the corner,’ I say. ‘I can get a bus home from the quays.’

  ‘What was that phone call about?’

  ‘Do the brakes in this car actually work?’ I have to ask. We’re going quite fast now, and this car may well be held together with Blu-Tack.

  ‘Don’t you ever answer a question, Sally Adams?’ He looks at me with gentle reproach.

  ‘Don’t you ever listen?’ I glower.

  ‘Wow, your scowl looked just like Henry’s then.’ Nathaniel smiles. ‘I’m a very good listener, actually. For seven whole years I did almost nothing else.’

  I might as well accept it: I have no idea what’s going on, except that I am apparently going to have dinner with this man. So I might as well try to find out something about him. ‘Who did you listen to?’ I enquire.

  ‘People talking about how sad they were, and how lost and frightened and hopeless they felt…’ He smiles at me cheerfully. ‘It was like being a bank manager.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Actually, I was a social worker. I wanted to be a really good social worker.’

  ‘And were you?’ I’m getting used to the clanking sounds now. The car seems to be talking to us. It’s probably telling us we should have got a bus.

  ‘No, I think I was a fake social worker – a good fake social worker.’ He is peering at street signs. ‘Have you ever felt like a fake, Sally? Like you’re getting away with stuff, but at any moment everybody will see through you?’

  I gulp.

  ‘Thought so,’ he laughs. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have the most adorable frown? Your nose even crinkles.’

  I decide not to feel flattered. ‘Are you still a social worker?’

  ‘No. I left when I realised I was just as fucked up as most of my clients – more, in some ways, because I was pretending not to be fucked up. It’s a kind of deal: I pretended to be sorted so that my clients could think they were talking to someone wise. People like that idea.’

  The sun is blazing through the open roof and my hair is blowing in every direction. It will look like a haystack when I get out of the car.

  ‘And I did offer them a lot of excellent practical suggestions about dealing with life – most of which I naturally don’t follow myself,’ Nathaniel continues, almost absent-mindedly. He is leaning over the steering-wheel as though looking for a turn-off.

  ‘So… you’re not wise.’ I can’t help being curious about him. He really is one of the oddest men I’ve ever met.

  ‘No, not more than most, but I know how to look it. I know what to say and how to nod my head. I know how to look really calm and talk about the importance of seeing the bigger picture. That’s what lots of people need to be reminded of – that there’s a bigger picture.’ There is now a slight smell of petrol in the car. ‘And I got to know some useful theories and techniques. So, if I’m going to be fair to myself, I think I did help some people. I got some nice thank-you cards, anyway. But when Ziggy – that’s my wife – started having her affair, I was a shambles. I couldn’t listen to anyone. She and I were meant to be for ever and ever, and all that sort of thing… You know the story.’

  The car jerks onto a main road. Where on earth are we going?

  ‘There’s a smell of petrol.’

  ‘I know.’ Nathaniel sighs. ‘It’s something to do with some tube or something. I had the garage look at it; they didn’t seem too worried.’

  I think of Diarmuid. He would know the name of the tube, and he would have got it fixed – although there is no way he would be driving a car like this to start with. This all seems very juvenile and messy. I should demand that Nathaniel stop the car now. We appear to be heading for Howth, which is some distance from the city centre. Are we really going to a Chinese restaurant? I think of the can of deodorant in my handbag.

  ‘So was that call from your husband, telling you he’d found himself a transvestite too?’ Nathaniel enquires, glancing at me.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I exclaim. ‘Diarmuid isn’t like that.’

  ‘Or your lover? Was it your lover saying he’d decided to emigrate to Costa Rica and be a go-go dancer?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I snap. ‘I don’t have a lover. And, if I did, he wouldn’t be that sort of person.’

  ‘So you’ve thought about what sort of person he might be?’ His eyes twinkle.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t. I’m married.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but you aren’t living with… Diarmuid, isn’t it?’ I stiffen.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Greta told me. Apparently news of your sudden departure from your marriage has been buzzing around the interior-decoration world… Would you like some chocolate? I think it’s in that side pocket.’

  ‘I don’t want any chocolate at the moment, thank you.’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  I sigh, delve into a mass of papers and sweet wrappers and take out a fistful of street maps. One of them is of Manhattan. Beneath them is a very soft lump of chocolate, which is leaking out of the silver paper. Some of it gets onto my fingers.

  ‘Do you have a tissue?’ I look at Nathaniel frostily.

  ‘No, I don’t think I do… You used up the last one, remember?’ I remember all too clearly – the big, helpless tears after hearing about DeeDee. The disbelief.

  He smiles at me. ‘Lick i
t off.’

  I obey reluctantly. ‘It’s virtually liquid,’ I mumble, pointing at the molten chocolate. I have placed it on the dashboard on top of an old ice-cream wrapper.

  ‘I suppose we’ll just have to leave it there for a while. It’s getting cooler.’

  It doesn’t seem to be getting any cooler to me. I feel that at any moment we may combust.

  ‘My separation from Diarmuid is only temporary,’ I mumble. ‘We just had some things we needed to sort out.’

  ‘And now you have?’

  We’re careering along a coastal road. The sea looks flat and calm. ‘Yes… I mean, sort of. It’s… it’s complicated.’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Someone died. That’s what the phone call was about. A great-aunt I never knew died in Rio de Janeiro. She was called DeeDee.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’ He reaches out and touches my arm. My skin absorbs his touch thirstily. Is it possible to have lonely skin?

  ‘I almost wondered if I should go to Rio and try to find her, but of course now I don’t need to.’ I fiddle with a button on my pink blouse. ‘I feel I should have met her. That’s why I was crying. It was silly.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t silly,’ Nathaniel says. ‘It was important – it is important.’ The words feel like a caress.

  ‘She wasn’t a good person,’ I say slowly. ‘She just left everyone – disappeared one day, without even telling anyone where she was going.’

  ‘And sometimes you’d like to do that too?’ He throws me a bright, piercing glance.

  ‘Of course not!’ I cry indignantly. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I think most people feel that way sometimes. To be honest, I think everyone has a bit of DeeDee in them.’

  For some reason I think of the countless times I returned to our rambling old house in the hills outside San Francisco wondering if my mother would be there or if her wardrobe would be empty, her toothbrush gone. I even imagined the house without the smell of the light, flowery perfume she always wore.