The Truth Club Page 11

  ‘But some people stay.’ It comes out as a whisper, almost a sigh. ‘They stay even though they wanted to go.’

  He says nothing, just waits.

  ‘My mother stayed.’ Why am I telling this to a stranger? ‘She had an affair when we were living in California. She really loved him. She’s never been the same since. She used to be so bright and happy, but now something’s gone from her; she keeps herself busy and cheerful, but she’s hardened inside.’ I stare out the window. ‘Even her mugs are all the same colour.’

  We drive on in silence. Diarmuid would have asked why I mentioned the mugs – he would have wanted to get to the bottom of it, found out why it seemed important; and I would have had to tell him it was just something I said without thinking, a sideways sentence, not one you could understand from standing directly in front of it. But I wouldn’t have said that, because I would have had to explain that too. And those were – are – the moments in which I feel lonely even though Diarmuid is there.

  We haven’t talked for minutes. ‘Why do you keep a map of Manhattan in your car?’ I ask eventually.

  ‘Because I miss it. Jesus, I thought it was closer than this.’

  ‘Manhattan?’

  ‘Yes, Sally. I thought Manhattan was just down the road…’ He looks at me with tender impatience. ‘No, of course not. The Chinese restaurant. I think it’s quite possible that it’s receding. Maybe we’ll be travelling towards it for the rest of our lives.’

  For a weird, stupid moment I think that wouldn’t be such a bad thing – travelling along the coastline in this bumpy old car, talking about anything at all.

  ‘Do you miss California?’ We are stopped at traffic lights again. Dublin traffic has multiplied in recent years.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I mean, I did. I missed it ferociously.’ The heat must be loosening me, making me say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘When we got back to Dublin, it seemed to rain for years. I couldn’t believe how much it rained.’ I prod the chocolate; it does seem to be solidifying slightly. ‘I missed the hummingbirds and the brown hills and the freedom. I missed the Wild West.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘It still has frontier-type people who aren’t… you know… so set in their ways. And I suppose I missed the angels, too.’

  ‘The angels?’

  ‘Yes. I used to believe in them, but then I stopped. It seemed silly. Astrid – my best friend in California – believed in them. She had pictures of them all over her bedroom. I didn’t know anyone in Dublin like that.’

  ‘I believe in angels,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I mean, I like the idea of believing in angels. I don’t see why I shouldn’t, if I want to. After all, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’ He is peering down side roads, muttering under his breath.

  ‘What do you miss about Manhattan?’

  ‘I miss the person I thought I was going to be there,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘I was going to be someone happily married, maybe with kids, a successful social worker. I wasn’t going to be the kind of person who spent his life looking for a Chinese restaurant.’

  ‘Why do you exaggerate so much?’ I can’t help smiling.

  ‘I enjoy it. Tell me more about DeeDee.’

  ‘All I know is that she liked marble cake and hats and Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of woman.’

  I smile; then, as I glance across at the other side of the road, I stiffen.

  Is that Diarmuid? It looks like his car, and it certainly looks like him… It is Diarmuid! And he might look over at any moment. I duck my head so that it’s almost crammed against the gearbox. Prickles of fear dart around me like fireflies.

  ‘What are you doing, Sally?’ Nathaniel enquires. ‘Have you lost something?’

  ‘My husband,’ is all I can manage to mutter. ‘In the car across the road.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Ford Fiesta. Oh, God, do you think he saw me?’

  ‘Would it matter if he had?’

  ‘Of course it would!’ I splutter. ‘He’d jump to conclusions.’

  ‘And you could explain that this was entirely innocent,’ Nathaniel says calmly. ‘Which it is.’ Somehow I can’t entirely agree.

  I raise my head and peer through the bottom of the passenger window. If only the lights would change. Diarmuid is frowning, glancing at his watch. He looks preoccupied; he doesn’t look like a man who thinks he has just seen his wife with her lover. Maybe he hasn’t seen me. Of course he hasn’t. But… but what is he doing on this side of Dublin?

  The lights change, and the car grunts and lurches forwards. Nathaniel pats my arm. ‘He’s gone.’

  I straighten cautiously and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I should go home.’

  ‘But we haven’t eaten.’

  ‘I can eat at home.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be as nice.’

  ‘Seeing Diarmuid like that… it’s frightened me. The coinci-dence of it.’

  ‘Dublin is a small place.’

  ‘Not that small.’ I fidget agitatedly with my wedding ring. Maybe Becky lives on this side of Dublin. Maybe… no. I mustn’t think about Becky. He could have just been visiting his parents. They live out in the countryside past Howth.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Nathaniel glances at me keenly.

  I nod.

  ‘We’re nearly at the restaurant. It’s on this road… Oh, buggery bollocks feck!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The restaurant isn’t open.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I think that “Closed” sign on the door is meant to be a hint.’ We both peer at what seems to be a shabby, forgotten hut wedged between a grocery store and a garage.

  ‘This is terrible,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I don’t think I can bear the disappointment.’

  We both sit there glumly.

  ‘I know!’ Nathaniel suddenly exclaims. ‘We’ll go to Bull Island instead. We’ll get takeaway spring rolls and stuff, and look at the birds and the sunset.’ He must sense my alarm, because he adds, ‘Don’t worry – I won’t even try to kiss you.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, because I am extremely hungry. ‘But I want chips too.’

  ‘Fine, you can have chips… chips and chocolate.’ He reaches for the chocolate on the dashboard. It’s almost solid now; he breaks off a slab and hands it to me. I munch it. We sit for some time without speaking.

  ‘I suppose we’d better go, then, hadn’t we?’ I say eventually. ‘Are there any Chinese takeaways around here?’

  ‘Of course there are. There are Chinese takeaways everywhere. They probably even have them on the moon.’

  ‘We should ask someone where the nearest one is.’

  Nathaniel looks at me reluctantly.

  ‘Oh, no – you’re not that sort of man, are you?’ I sigh.

  ‘What sort of man?’

  ‘The sort who can’t bear to ask people for directions.’

  ‘Not any more!’ He jumps out of the car and stops the first pedestrian he sees, an elderly woman with a poodle and a Harrods shopping bag. ‘Since you are clearly a woman of taste,’ he says to her, ‘I was wondering if you could tell me where to find a Chinese takeway. The best one in the area.’

  The poodle is smelling his brown loafers. It looks like it might cock its leg and pee on them at any minute. ‘Stop that, Binky!’ the woman says commandingly.

  ‘Nice Binky,’ Nathaniel says. ‘Good Binky.’ Binky snarls and bares his teeth, and Nathaniel backs away from him cautiously.

  ‘A Chinese takeaway…’ The woman frowns. ‘It could be at the end of the road, to the right, take the next left and then go past the roundabout. Or maybe that’s a beauty salon now.’ She stops and peers into the distance.

  ‘Thanks.’ Nathaniel smiles.

  ‘It could have moved.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘It has a big sign over it.’

  ‘That’s great. Bye,
Binky.’ He jumps into the car as Binky lunges towards his leg.

  The woman peers into the car. ‘You could ask at the erotic lingerie shop down there. They stay open past eight.’

  ‘Great. We really appreciate your assistance.’ Nathaniel starts up the engine and waves at her. ‘Dear God,’ he says, as we drive off. We are speeding past the erotic lingerie shop when he adds, ‘I can’t remember any of her directions, can you?’

  ‘There was a roundabout.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the roundabout, and something about left and right – but I don’t think I’ve got them in the proper sequence.’

  ‘It could be a beauty parlour anyway.’

  ‘Indeed.’ We drive on, scanning the buildings.

  ‘I’ve been to Rio de Janeiro, like that great-aunt of yours,’ Nathaniel says, as we approach a takeaway of some sort. ‘I lived there for a year. I taught English.’

  The words land softly, almost inevitably. They sound sweet and strange, and for some reason I am not at all surprised.

  ‘I can tell you about it while we eat our…’ He peers at the takeaway. ‘Our fish and chips – sorry, it doesn’t seem to be Chinese.’ He parks the car. ‘I can tell you what DeeDee would have seen – the sights, the smells, the colours. It’s an amazing place.’ I am suddenly excited about the prospect of eating fish and chips and talking about DeeDee’s home.

  But my mobile rings just as we’re going into the takeaway. I glance at it. ‘Oh, feck – it’s Diarmuid.’

  ‘Sally…’ His voice squawks and hisses, and there are buzzing sounds. ‘Sally? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am. What is it, Diarmuid?’ I put on my lines-of-communication voice.

  ‘Sally, I need to see you. Now.’ He sounds very upset.

  Chapter Twelve

  Diarmuid has seen me with Nathaniel. He must have. Why else would he be so insistent that we meet now? He must have seen us when we were stopped at those traffic lights. Or – oh, God – maybe he’s been following me! He’s been suspicious that I’m seeing someone else, and now he’ll think he has the proof.

  The rushed journey back to central Dublin in Nathaniel’s car was far from comfortable; the car jerked and spluttered, and the clanging noise got so loud I thought some crucial part was about to fall off. We didn’t even have time to get our fish and chips, but I’m not hungry any more. When Nathaniel dropped me off at the top of Grafton Street, I had to repeat the whole business of sliding over the seats. And when I got out I realised that a big blob of chocolate was decorating the front of my fancy pink blouse.

  Deep breaths. I must remember to take deep breaths. I’ve agreed to meet Diarmuid in a nearby pub, and it’s good that I have to walk there; it gives me a bit of time to think about what to tell him. Nathaniel said I should just tell the truth, but that’s clearly nonsense: the truth is sometimes too far-fetched to be believable, and Diarmuid would find the whole thing highly suspicious. I need some sensible excuse, something more in keeping with the Sally he knows and married.

  I’m so busy thinking about excuses that I suddenly notice I am not actually walking to the pub at all; I’m walking to the bus stop at the bottom of Grafton Street, the one that takes me to my cottage. I could just get on the bus, I think. I could just get on the bus and go home, and not meet Diarmuid at all.

  What am I thinking? Of course I must meet Diarmuid. I take a deep breath and set off back towards the pub. Why on earth am I feeling so guilty? It’s not as if Diarmuid drove by and saw Nathaniel and me kissing…

  Just for the briefest of moments, the image of Mum and her lover in that car comes back to me. Why on earth am I behaving as though I’ve been having an affair too? I don’t complain when Diarmuid drives around with Charlene, so why should Diarmuid reprimand me if I decide to go for a meal with someone I met at the reception?

  That’s it – of course! I’ll tell him Nathaniel is a gay sofa designer who’s heartbroken because his lover has left him for a transvestite from Rio de Janeiro! That’s more like it. I feel more cheerful as I approach the pub. I may even entertain him by telling him about Nathaniel’s excess body hair and breasts.

  The pub is packed. We agreed to meet upstairs, in the room with sofas and soft seats, and Diarmuid is already sitting in our favourite corner. He has a pint of Guinness in front of him, and he looks lost and forlorn. I wasn’t expecting him to look so sad. I thought he’d be angry. He doesn’t even see me looking at him.

  I flee the room and dive into the ladies’. How could I have thought Diarmuid would believe my lie about Nathaniel being gay? He must have been watching us from across the road. He must have seen how easy we are in each other’s company – the quick intense glances, the extraordinary familiarity. But I’ll have to use that excuse anyway, because I haven’t time to come up with another one. I take out my deodorant and squirt under my arms. I splash some water on my face and dry it with toilet paper. Then I spend at least three minutes trying to find my lipstick.

  I prepare a bright smile as I re-enter the room.

  ‘Hello, Diarmuid!’

  He looks up slowly. His eyes are dull and doleful.

  I lean forwards to kiss him on the cheek. ‘So how are you?’ I say brightly. ‘How’s the studying going?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘I’ve just been to a reception,’ I gabble ‘I… I met this really weird gay sofa designer…’

  Diarmuid reaches out and takes my hand. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s behaving as if he wants to break something to me softly. Oh dear God, maybe he’s finally run out of patience. I must have crisps. Immediately. ‘Do they have crisps here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’ll get them now,’ Diarmuid mumbles. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Red wine… as usual,’ I say. Why is he asking me this? Why is he behaving as though he doesn’t know me?

  He gets up and walks dejectedly to the bar, orders my wine and crisps and comes back to me. He takes my hand again and looks into my eyes. ‘Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘About… what?’ I ask. But I already know. He wants a divorce. He’s seen Becky again. That’s why we haven’t met for so long; it’s not the studying or Charlene’s driving lessons or his mother’s tiling. He’s grown tired of waiting for me – and he’s always loved Becky more, anyway. That’s why he’s contrite when by rights he should be angry about seeing me with Nathaniel. But that must have only confirmed his opinion that our marriage is over. He’s not even jealous, because he’s realised he married me when in his heart he wanted to marry someone else.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’ he asks. He doesn’t even have to mention the word ‘divorce’. He must know that I know what he’s thinking.

  Small tears are forming in the corners of my eyes. ‘Well… I did leave you, Diarmuid,’ I mumble. ‘You have every reason to have… reservations.’

  ‘But I said I was going to make more of an effort.’

  ‘You have been,’ I say. ‘You’ve been very sweet and understanding. It’s me who –’

  ‘But I’ve been so involved in my studies. I told you I was going to take you to that Thai restaurant weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, and you wanted to take me there that evening I was seeing Aggie,’ I remind him. ‘And I was the one who wasn’t available.’

  ‘I can’t believe I forgot. I didn’t even return your last phone call.’

  ‘Look, Diarmuid, please stop worrying about the restaurant,’ I say firmly. This is so typical of us: talking about an exotic meal we haven’t had, instead of about our marriage and why it’s ending.

  ‘I’m not talking about the restaurant.’ Diarmuid looks at me keenly. ‘You know what I’m talking about… don’t you?’

  I sip my wine.

  ‘Our anniversary.’ There is an edge to his voice now. ‘I forgot our anniversary.’

  ‘But it…it isn’t our anniversary,’ I stutter.

  And then Diarmuid does something that is tot
ally unlike him. He raises his hand and bashes it down on the table. Our drinks jump, and drops of Guinness and wine leap out of the glasses. People look at us and then look away. Someone laughs.

  ‘It’s the anniversary of our engagement.’ He is leaning towards me, virtually hissing. ‘You said we should always celebrate the anniversary of our engagement – remember?’

  I do remember, now that he’s reminded me. But I said that when I was the other Sally, the Sally who cared about lining her bedroom curtains. I take a deep breath. I don’t like this Diarmuid who bashed his hand down on the table, frightening me and sending wine splashing all over the front of my pink blouse. This is not the Diarmuid I married.

  ‘I… I said that before the mice.’ It’s a cheap shot, but I have to defend myself somehow. ‘I said it before the arguments about spermicide cream and… and finding out you’d met Becky for lunch.’

  He starts to dab up the wine and Guinness with a paper napkin, very carefully – too carefully.

  ‘And I said it before you forgot our first wedding anniversary,’ I say. ‘And… and the mice.’

  ‘You’ve already mentioned the mice,’ Diarmuid replies coldly. ‘And, if you remember, you also said it before you bolted out of our house without an explanation.’

  ‘I did have an explanation – a sort of explanation, anyway – only you wouldn’t listen to it!’ I shout. A number of people are openly listening to our interchange, as if they’re watching the telly.

  ‘It wasn’t a proper explanation,’ Diarmuid says, pushing his chair back. Then he adds gruffly, ‘More wine?’

  I nod and dig my fingernails into my palms. If I had a loofah, I would definitely use it on him. This is pointless. I should just get up and go.

  ‘You only say it wasn’t a proper explanation because you didn’t understand it,’ I say as soon as he returns. ‘You don’t understand me, Diarmuid. You never have.’

  ‘And you don’t understand me,’ he says, gulping his Guinness.

  I take a large swig of wine and shove a fistful of crisps into my mouth.

  ‘Why should we celebrate our engagement, anyway?’ I demand. I’m a bit drunk already; if only he’d phoned after I’d eaten the fish and chips! ‘We’re living in separate houses… and your mother hates me.’ I hiccup.