The Truth Club Page 3

  ‘You lied to me too!’ I yelled down to the sitting room. And, because he didn’t ask me what I meant – he had just turned on the television – I added, ‘You’re not the person I married. I don’t know you. I don’t know what we’re doing together.’

  Silence. There was just the sound of an English voice discussing some team’s chances in the Premiership. That’s when I started packing. I have never packed so fast in my life.

  I rang Fiona on my mobile and asked her to come and collect me; despite my fury, I could hardly drive off in Diarmuid’s car. When the doorbell rang I almost ran down the stairs, despite the heavy suitcase. And that’s how I ended up staying at Erika’s flat until the tenants had left my cottage.

  But Diarmuid and I are, naturally, not going to talk about any of that now. At this moment, Diarmuid is telling me that he’s just been giving Charlene a driving lesson. Charlene is a colleague of his – she teaches remedial English at the same school where he teaches woodwork – and any time he mentions her, he adds carefully that she is ‘just a friend’ and that her boyfriend tried to teach her to drive but got too impatient; and she needs to be able to drive, because she is divorced and has a son who’s got interested in swimming, karate and football. I believe him. Diarmuid is the kind of man who does that sort of thing. He thinks people should help each other out.

  What we are doing is ‘keeping the lines of communication open’. That’s what the marriage counsellor told us to do. We only visited her once, and I wish she had added something about Diarmuid phoning before he turned up, but she didn’t. Diarmuid visits at least once a week, and he always tells me he is only dropping by for a moment and he hopes he hasn’t called at an inconvenient time. In fact, he has just said this, and I’m wondering if I should mention the article on bathroom accessories and my visit to Aunt Aggie. It’s 5.30 p.m. and I said I’d e-mail the article by the end of the day; this could be construed as meaning 11.55 p.m., but I think that would be stretching the point a little.

  ‘So, Sally, how are you?’ Diarmuid asks. I feel like replying that not much has changed since we spoke on the phone last night; I haven’t, for instance, suddenly decided to be an airline pilot.

  I look him straight in the eye. ‘Diarmuid, it’s lovely to see you,’ I say, which of course doesn’t really answer his question. I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just that… I’m a bit late with an article. I was just trying to finish it.’

  Diarmuid looks at me long and hard.

  ‘They’re real sticklers for deadlines at The Sunday Lunch,’ I continue, apologetically, because I have begun to feel extremely guilty. I am very good at guilt. It’s been my devoted companion since I left my marriage.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Diarmuid replies. ‘I wanted to take you out for dinner.’

  This, of course, is the ideal time to mention that if you want to take someone out to dinner it would be wise to give her advance notice. But I don’t say this. What I say is, ‘Oh, that would have been lovely.’

  ‘It could still be lovely.’ Diarmuid smiles. ‘I can wait here until you’ve finished the article, and then we can head off. There’s a new Thai place in Donnybrook I think you’d like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Diarmuid,’ I say. I have been repeating this sentence at regular intervals for months now, because Diarmuid is being kind – almost unreasonably kind. It frequently occurs to me that he should be far more pissed-off. ‘It’s just that I’ve promised to visit Aunt Aggie.’

  Diarmuid clenches his jaw. ‘Couldn’t you visit her tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I could,’ I agree. ‘But I’d have to phone her, and she’d be disappointed.’

  There is a silence, in which I am sure Diarmuid is thinking that I’ve just admitted something crucial and unflattering: I have just admitted that a woman who thinks her room is full of sheep is more important to me than my own husband, the man I promised to love for ever.

  ‘And then we could go to a film,’ Diarmuid remarks.

  ‘What?’ For the first time in this conversation, I frown at him.

  ‘After dinner, we could go to a film… if you want.’

  I can’t think about films and dinner, because I’m thinking about Aunt Aggie. How she’ll say, ‘Oh, well, dear… come when you can.’ How her voice will trail off sadly, despite her attempts to sound as though it doesn’t matter. Despite the sheep who have moved into her bedroom, it is still possible to have fairly normal conversations with her sometimes. I love her. I’ve always loved her. She’s been my ally and my friend for thirty-five years. I spent countless hours at her house when I was younger. She seemed to relish my company; she always made time for me. Now I need to make time for her. She won’t be around that much longer. Diarmuid should know that.

  ‘Have another biscuit.’ I shove the plate towards him, a little too roughly; it almost falls off the table, but he grabs it in time.

  ‘Are you going to phone her, then?’ he enquires. ‘I should probably ring the restaurant and book us a table.’

  I look out the window at the sea moving around, going with the flow of things… changing. Then I turn towards my husband and, without knowing what I am about to say, tell him, ‘No.’

  Diarmuid is clearly shocked. Ever since I left him, I’ve treated him with great civility and slight subservience. It seemed the least I could do for him, in the circumstances.

  What I have come to realise is that this ‘time to think’ I have asked for is, in fact, something I should have asked for before I married. But, the minute the engagement was announced, I somehow got completely caught up in the wedding and the dress and the cake and the violin players. I fretted for days about who should sit beside whom at the top table, when I should have been asking myself if I truly loved Diarmuid – loved him enough to make these big promises to him. Because he is a good man, despite the mice. He is the kind of man many women would be happy to marry. I know this because I went out with a bunch of right bastards before I met him. I can hardly count the number of times I’ve been dumped by men who seemed so nice and sensitive at first. This is one of the many reasons I should run to Diarmuid right now and cling to him like a limpet. But, for some reason I still can’t quite explain to myself, I don’t.

  The ‘No’ silences us both, and I begin to wonder if I should make him more tea. But, since this is clearly not doing much to keep the lines of communication open, I decide to venture onto the topic of advance notification.

  ‘The thing is, Diarmuid,’ I begin slowly, ‘I’d love to go to dinner and a film with you… it’s just that I’ve made other plans.’

  Diarmuid reaches for a biscuit and chomps it solemnly. They’re his favourite brand. I buy them for him specially.

  ‘You see, the thing is’ – I know I’m saying ‘the thing is’ too often – ‘it would really help if you phoned beforehand. Then… then I wouldn’t make other arrangements.’

  ‘But you said you wanted me to be more spontaneous,’ he says, too quickly.

  ‘Yes, but that was when we… we were sharing the same house.’ I decide not to mention all the evenings he spent closeted with the mice and his textbooks in the spare room.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had such a busy social diary, Sally.’ There is a distinct edge to Diarmuid’s voice, and his eyes have narrowed. And I suddenly know what all this is about. These impromptu visits aren’t just him being spontaneous; they are a way of checking up on me. He wants to know if I’m seeing someone else.

  ‘I’m not seeing someone else.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘But you think I might be.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You never said it, but you suspect it. You don’t trust me.’

  His jaw is clenched again, and he’s tapping a finger on the arm of the sofa. ‘I don’t know what to suspect any more,’ he says. ‘Since you ran away, I just don’t know what to think about you.’

  Diarmuid has never said I ‘ran away’ before. I shudder. It mak
es me sound like DeeDee – and I don’t want to be like DeeDee. I don’t want to break people’s hearts without caring, without even an explanation.

  ‘I didn’t run away, Diarmuid,’ I say. ‘I just needed time to think.’

  ‘About what?’ he demands, and I can hear the hidden anger. I suddenly realise what an effort it must be for him to come here and be so nice and civil.

  ‘To think about us. About what it all means.’

  He stands up. ‘Marriage isn’t a philosophy course, Sally.’ He doesn’t even try to hide his weariness. ‘Sometimes I think your sister is right: you analyse things too much. If people love each other, they just love each other.’ He sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

  I feel like crying. He knows how I feel about April. He knows that what he just said will hurt me. I don’t want him to leave like this. I want him to keep wanting me.

  I say something I know I shouldn’t. ‘I do love you, Diarmuid.’ It’s so easy to say those words; so seductive. ‘It’s just that…’

  He turns away from me. This love I’m talking about no longer impresses him. I almost race to the phone to ring Aunt Aggie, like he wants me to. But his expression is so hard and aloof that it seems pointless trying to soften him. He wants to know why I left him and if I’m going to come back; he wants an explanation, and I can’t give him one.

  ‘Tomorrow, Diarmuid… let’s go to that dinner and film tomorrow. I’d love that.’

  ‘I’ve got a lecture.’

  ‘The night after that, then.’

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow and we can discuss it,’ he says coldly.

  Oh, dear. I just know that now he’ll really get into this advance notice thing; he might just possibly bring around a wall chart. I look anxiously out the window as he gets into his old maroon Ford Fiesta. Diarmuid’s patience is wearing thin. I simply must make up my mind about our marriage soon.

  I return to my advice about how people can transform their bathrooms – not that I really care what they do to their bathrooms. They could all go out and buy tin tubs and I wouldn’t care.

  At last it’s ready, and I press the ‘Send’ button and stretch my arms and lean back in my chair. The ceiling needs to be repainted. There are so many things in this house that need to be repainted or replaced or grouted. I wish builders used less technical words. Talking to them is like trying to explain things to a computer help desk. I just don’t know most of the terminology. Maybe love is like that too. Maybe you have to learn a whole new language.

  I grab a quick supper – watercress and salami, with some tomatoes and low-fat cheese; I feel very virtuous as I race out the door. I feel rather less virtuous after I am lured into the newsagent’s and buy myself a KitKat. I wonder if I should buy one for Aunt Aggie too, but I buy her mints instead. She’s very fond of mints.

  As I wait for the bus, I think of Alex’s wife. I wonder if she knows that her husband has got quite so fond of Erika. Maybe she’s turned to her yoga teacher for solace. Then I think of all the poor women who find their husbands are being unfaithful, and wonder how I could care so much about Diarmuid’s mice and the spermicidal cream and his spurious spontaneity. All husbands and wives must disagree sometimes. Surely the trick is to learn to talk it out.

  Sometimes, when you’re waiting at a bus stop, you get this feeling that the bus may never arrive and that you may be left standing there for ever. I get that feeling now, so I distract myself by thinking about DeeDee. I begin to wonder if DeeDee ran off with another man’s wife. Maybe that’s why no one in the family wants to speak about her. And maybe they’re right. Maybe she is best forgotten. As I begin to eat one of Aggie’s mints, I decide to forget DeeDee as well. After all this time, it would be impossible to find her.

  I remember Diarmuid’s expression as he left the house. Yes, we really will have to visit that marriage counsellor again. As soon as possible.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I want you to find DeeDee.’ These are the first words Aunt Aggie says to me – or seems to say to me; I must have misheard her. I pull up a chair and sit beside her bed.

  ‘I want you to find DeeDee,’ she repeats, her big brown eyes shining. ‘I must see her.’

  ‘Why do you want me to find DeeDee?’ I can’t believe that Aggie is talking about her lost sister – especially now, just when I’ve begun to wonder about DeeDee myself. I sit on the edge of my seat, clutching my handbag, and wait for Aggie’s answer. I haven’t even taken off my navy linen jacket.

  Aggie lies back on her plumped-up pillows. ‘Get those sheep out of here. They’re pissing all over the carpet.’

  I make vague shooing gestures. Then I say, ‘Do you think DeeDee is still in Ireland? Where do you think I should look for her?’

  Aggie looks at me sternly, so I stand up and wave my arms about. This is the routine required whenever the sheep get a bit too boisterous. Then I sit down again and say, ‘If you want me to find DeeDee, you’ll have to tell me more about her.’ I take Aggie’s hand and squeeze it gently.

  ‘Rio de Janeiro,’ Aggie says. ‘She often said she wanted to go there.’

  ‘Oh.’ This is a little farther than I had imagined.

  ‘And hats… she loved hats.’ Aggie’s eyes are too bright. She is going to cry at any moment.

  ‘Anything else?’ I coax.

  ‘Marble cake. She liked that too.’ I know about the marble cake. As far as I remember, Aggie has only mentioned DeeDee once before. She had baked a marble cake, and the words just slipped out: ‘This was DeeDee’s favourite.’ Then she stared into the distance, and Mum and Marie said the cake was delicious. I was fifteen and said the cake was delicious too. At the time I was in love with a boy called Roy Bailey, who was the first decent French kisser I had encountered. Absent relatives were of absolutely no interest to me. I’m surprised I even remember these meagre details.

  ‘She told no one where she was going. She just left us. Without even a note.’ Tiny tears are trickling down Aggie’s cheeks.

  I know I can’t press her more on the subject. She won’t be with us for much longer. Every time I visit her, I feel I might be saying goodbye. She’s actually my great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister. Eighty-nine is a good age, of course; but I can’t get used to the idea of Aggie not being around any more.

  ‘I brought you some mints.’ I hand them to her, and she smiles wanly. She is just lying back on her pillows and staring into the distance. Saying DeeDee’s name seems to have exhausted her. Perhaps she won’t mention her again. I wonder if I should start talking about Diarmuid and my happy marriage. That always cheers her up.

  But Aggie has closed her eyes and appears to be dozing. I look around. It’s a very plain room. The curtains are faded aubergine and the carpet is navy. I am sitting on a fake leather armchair the colour of over-boiled cabbage.

  ‘I don’t know where they come from,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The sheep, of course.’ She sighs. I try not to sigh myself. Every time I visit Aggie the sheep turn up. In fact, according to her they’re here all the time. Sometimes they get on her bed and try to eat her duvet. She feels sorry for them because they’d be happier in a field. I’ve tried to tell her there are no sheep, but it makes no difference.

  She closes her eyes again, so I just sit beside her. I’m not here out of duty. I do a lot of things mainly out of duty, but this isn’t one of them. In these silences, while Aggie is dozing and the nurses are laughing about something and the thick smell of stew is drifting from the kitchen, I remember what it was like when we could have proper conversations. How I loved visiting her rambling old house. How her dog, Scamp, used to throw himself on top of me as soon as I was in the hallway, with its gumboots and sensible coats and dog leads. Aggie always had something in her hand – a geranium cutting or a recipe book or a garden trowel. She would lower her head and peer at me warmly over her glasses, and then we would go into her untidy, cheerful kitchen and she would make us both some tea
and give me some freshly baked cake. There was an enveloping sense of welcome and warmth. It was the same whether I was eight or thirty. I’d help her in the garden, and when we were tired she’d make pancakes and we’d watch TV – maybe an afternoon Western. What I knew most about her was that she loved me. ‘If I’d ever had a daughter, Sally, I’d have wanted her to be like you,’ she once told me. It was the biggest compliment I’d ever received in my life.

  Aggie was the happiest person at my wedding. She was beaming – glowing, almost. She always wanted me to settle down and start a family. She didn’t have children herself. She married Great-Uncle Joseph in her mid-forties, though she had known him for years – it must have been the longest engagement in history. I’ve never quite understood why they didn’t marry earlier, since she has often said she would have liked to have children, but naturally this isn’t something I mention – especially now, since Joseph is dead, and so are many of the people who attended their wedding. I remember the wedding photos: Joseph and Aggie standing together outside the church with Aggie’s parents. They were all beaming, of course; beaming so much it looked like they might burst…

  I remember my wedding to Diarmuid, and sigh. It was on the wedding day that my doubts started. I thought they came later, after the mice, but I suddenly remember that as I was about to walk up the aisle I had this really strong feeling that I still had time to make a run for it. But then I got caught up in all the excitement again. My doubts evaporated. I truly thought they had gone for ever.

  What makes people feel alone, when they so clearly aren’t – when they’re surrounded by friends and relatives and husbands? Maybe there is another kind of alone, the kind that your soul feels when it longs for a kindred spirit – someone who understands. Someone who knows what it feels like. Someone whose eyes meet yours across a crowded room.