Aisling Gayle (52 page)

Then, he reached across the bed for the second time. His hands gripping her shoulder and turning her towards him. “Aisling,” he said in a low voice, “is there something wrong?”

Her body became rigid at his touch, and she was grateful she was wearing cotton pyjamas rather than a lighter nightdress. “No, Oliver . . . there’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired . . . very tired.”

“I can understand you being tired,” he said, “the travelling and everything. But you still don’t seem yourself . . . and we’ve not had a chance to have a good chat about America and everything.” He rubbed his hand over her shoulder and back. “As long as you’re OK in yourself . . . I wouldn’t like to think there was something wrong – making us distant with each other like.”

She sighed. “We’ve been distant before, Oliver,” she said, “and it never bothered you to any great extent.” She moved away again.

Oliver sat up and switched on his bedside lamp. “I’m sorry, Aisling . . . but I really wanted to talk to you tonight . . . it’s important.”

Aisling suddenly felt wide-awake, and worried. Did Oliver know something about what happened in America? No – he couldn’t possibly. She hadn’t talked to anyone. She hadn’t made up her mind if she would even broach the subject with Pauline or Carmel. She hadn’t seen Pauline on her own yet since coming back, and she hadn’t seen Carmel at all. Whatever Oliver had to say, it had nothing to do with America.

She desperately hoped it wasn’t anything to do with America – for she wasn’t prepared for that yet. She knew she would have to be soon – but not just yet.

She turned back towards him now and sat up, shielding her eyes against the sudden light. “Well,” she said, “you might as well go on then, since I’m now well and truly awake.”

“I got these today,” he said, lifting an envelope from the bedside table. “I thought they might be worth taking a look at.” He placed it in her lap.

Aisling looked down at the large, brown envelope. “What is it?” she said quietly – all sorts of things running through her mind.

“Open it,” he said in a warm tone, “open it and see.”

Aisling suddenly felt uneasy as she slid the folded papers out from the envelope. She had no idea what to expect, and although Oliver liked to surprise her now and again with presents, the way he was acting now was not his usual style. He had never wakened her late at night before to give her a present.

Then, as she scanned the documents – page by page – she realised that nothing could have prepared her for this. Of all the possibilities that had flitted through her mind, this was the last thing she expected.

“Well?” Oliver had a smile from ear to ear. “What do you think?” There was not the smiling, excited reaction from Aisling that he had hoped for.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said in a low voice. “To be honest, I’m totally confused. What’s it all about?”

“Application forms for us to adopt a child,” he said. “I thought you’d be delighted.”

“But we’ve never discussed adopting a child before, Oliver.”

“Not as
such
,” he said, “but maybe we should have. Maybe things would have been different between us if we’d had a child.” He looked at her now. “You’ve always wanted a child. The first few years when we were married you talked about nothing else.”

Aisling looked down at the papers, and then she took a deep breath. “Perhaps things would have been different if we’d adopted a child then.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not too late now, Aisling . . . we’re still young. We could adopt two or three if we were accepted.”

“No, Oliver.” She shook her head slowly. “It’s much too late . . . the way things are – and have been – between
us for a long time, make it a silly thing to even consider.”

He leaned across the bed, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Aisling . . . I’m the first to admit that I haven’t been a perfect husband – but I want to change all that.” His hand came under her chin, and he looked into her dark, troubled eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all the nonsense I got up to before. But I promise you solemnly, that it’s all over. We have a whole future ahead of us, if only you want it.”

Aisling looked at him, wordlessly. Then, the tears fell. Gently first – building up into torrents. She sobbed and sobbed, still in his arms and rocking backwards and forwards. And he held her, giving her time to get all the sadness out
of her system. And for once it was Oliver who waited.

After a while, the crying and the tears gradually eased. And it was only then, in a quiet and fearful tone, that Oliver asked: “Has something happened that I don’t know about, Aisling?”

Aisling looked up at him, and with the barest nod of her head risked her marriage and the life she’d known for years.

Oliver’s arms fell from her shoulders and rested on the bed-cover. “Is it . . .” he ventured, his brows deepening in disbelief, “is there another man?”

There was a brief moment’s hesitation before she took the final step. “Yes, Oliver,” she heard herself say quietly, “there is another man.”

“Holy Jesus!” There was no disguising the blow that her confession had just dealt him. “
How
? Who is it?”

And when there was no immediate reply, he answered his own question. “
America.
It was in America, wasn’t it? You met someone when you were over in America?”

She looked up at him now, surprised that the roof wasn’t falling in. Surprised that all the paralysing fear had vanished. “Yes. I did meet him in America.” Her look was direct and honest and her voice was strong. “I’m sorry having to tell you all this, Oliver – but I’m not sorry that it happened.”

“
How
,” he croaked, “can you just say that to me?”

“I can say it,” Aisling told him, “because you have spent
years
stupidly messing about with other women – right under my nose. And I’ve been even more stupid – pretending that I
didn’t know – when we were the talk of the town.”

“That’s not true,” Oliver blustered now, his face reddening with denial. “People respect us, Aisling. They just see me as a bit of a
Jack-the-lad
. . . a ladies’ man or whatever. But they know there’s no real harm in it.”

Aisling’s eyes were wide, amazed at his perception of the
situation. “But there
is
real harm in it, Oliver –
very
real harm.” Her voice was icy now and determined. “Anyway,”
she snapped, “there’s no point arguing all this now – we’ve gone far beyond arguing about it.”

He took a deep breath. “Look, Aisling,” he said, calmer now. “Just how serious was the business in America? I mean, it couldn’t have been much more than a holiday fling – now, could it?”

Aisling’s eyebrows shot up as the suggestion. “Yes, Oliver – it could have been more than a holiday fling. And it
was
more than a holiday fling – much more.”

He moved back from her. “What are you saying?”

Aisling had never seen her husband like this before. Completely deflated – the wind taken out of his sails. “I’m saying,” she said quietly, “that I fell in love with another man in America – and that I’m still in love with him now. He’s a man who loves and respects me – and who I know would never betray me in the way that
you
have all through our marriage.”

He shook his head. “Let me get this straight,” he said, his voice incredulous. “Are you telling me . . . that our marriage is over –
finished
?”

Aisling looked up at the ceiling. “I suppose I am.”

“But, Aisling,” he said quietly, “we live in
Ireland
. We’re Catholics . . . and there’s no divorce.”

There was a pause. Long enough for Oliver to detect the slight uncertainty.

“I know all that,” Aisling said in a low voice, “and I know what it all means.”

“What about your mother?” he asked now. “And the rest of your family? Have you stopped to consider the effect all this will have on them?”

Aisling flinched, and he knew he had hit the most vulnerable spot. “You forced all this tonight, Oliver,” she said. “All this business with the adoption forms – you forced all this out of me.”

“Maybe,” he said, “it’s a good thing I did, before you went ahead and did something stupid. Something that could wreck more than
our
lives.” Oliver’s voice had returne
d to being calm and reasonable. “Look, Aisling,” he said, seeking her hand, “I understand how all this has happened. Sure, I take a good part of the blame myself . . .”

“No!” Aisling said, pulling her hand away. “You don’t understand anything about it at all, Oliver. I love Jameson Carroll in a way that I never, ever loved you!” She turned to look at him full on. “It wasn’t just a cheap holiday affair – don’t kid yourself. I really, really love him.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “And is he a married man?”

“No,” she answered defiantly. “He’s been divorced for years.”

“
Divorced?
” Oliver’s brows were deep again, contemplating this new information. “Sure, that’s no help to you, Aisling. No help at all. There’s no future here for either of you. As far as the Catholic Church is concerned, you’re both still married to other people.” He shook his head. “It would kill your mother, Aisling. No two ways around it – it would kill her. Bad enough with what Pauline got up to – how will she face people in the shop every day, if it gets out about you?”

Aisling’s mouth gaped open in shock. “How dare you?” she gasped. “
How dare you?”

“OK – OK!” he said, his hands raised defensively. “But I’m only saying what others will say to you.” Then, his shoulders suddenly slumped. “I suppose I’ve only myself to blame. I’ve brought it all on myself.”

There was a long silence. Then, Aisling said quietly: “I suppose it’s better that it’s all come out. It would have had to come out eventually. At least we both know where we stand now.”

“I can’t believe it, Aisling,” Oliver said, his voice low and wounded. “When I was driving back tonight, all I could think of was us having a child of our own at long last. I thought it would make us really happy.”

“At one time, Oliver,” she told him, “it would have made us happy. But that time has long gone.”

There was another lengthy pause. “It’s late tonight,” he said. “Maybe things will seem different in the morning.”

Aisling looked at him without saying anything. Then, when Oliver could bear it no more, he turned away and switched the bedside lamp off.

Chapter 40

The following morning, Aisling pretended she was still asleep when Oliver was up and moving around, getting ready for work. She also pretended she was asleep when he bent down to kiss her, and whisper ‘I love you,’ in her ear.

Shortly afterwards she came downstairs and phoned her mother.

“You’re surely moving around bright and early this morning,” Maggie said approvingly.

“I thought I might cycle over,” Aisling said, “and see how the rest of the things we brought back fitted Pauline and Bernadette.”

“Do then,” Maggie said. “We’re quiet enough this morning, your father has Charles and Peenie to keep things going in the shop.”

When she arrived, there was some activity going on outside the shop with the men, regarding some burst sacks of flour. After greeting her flustered father and brother, and the ever-amiable, smiling Peenie, Aisling picked her way through the clouds of white dust, and headed through the back of the shop to the house.

Maggie, Pauline and Bernadette were just starting breakfast.

“I kept you some French toast and bacon,” Maggie said cheerfully. “It’s in the oven.”

Aisling joined them at the table, and both she and her mother recounted some of the places they’d seen in America, and the things they had done.

When they were washing up, Maggie turned to Pauline. “Would you go out to the shed and bring in a bucket of turf?”

Pauline looked at her mother. “We have plenty in the basket,” she said, “but I’ll get you more when Aisling has told me all about the wedding.”

“Go now, I want a bucket of small, dry pieces,” Maggie said, “to heat the oven up quick to make some bread. And anyway,” she added, “I want a word with Aisling on my own.”

Aisling’s heart suddenly leapt. Had Oliver rung her mother this morning?

When Pauline closed the door behind her, Maggie turned to Aisling. “What’s going on?” she said in a serious voice. “Don’t try to tell me any different – because I know there’s something wrong.”

Aisling took a deep breath. “It’s Oliver and me . . . we’re not getting on.”

Maggie closed her eyes and sunk down into the big chair beside the fire, the dishtowel clutched in her hands. “You haven’t told him about the American, have you? I warned you – I warned you not to tell him!”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Aisling said quietly. “Things weren’t right long before I went to America.”

“
Aisling,
” her mother said, “don’t try to change the subject! Just answer my question. Have you told him about your carry-on in America?”