Less Than Perfect (29 page)

‘No, you don't.' He shakes his head, his expression resolute, immoveable. ‘You tell me as little as you feel you can get away with.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I'm not being ridiculous. You know it's true. I know practically nothing about your family and your upbringing, and you go out of your way to keep me from meeting your flatmate and your friends. God, you don't even answer the phone when I'm with you!'

‘Matthew –' I pause, stuck for words. I was aware that he was watching and, to some degree, forming conclusions, but I'm still stunned by the evidence of my own transparency and the extent of what he's assimilated. There are things I can say in my own defence, explanations, but they involve digging deep into the past and bringing up matters that have no place on this pier where the world appears calm and beautiful and – other than the two of us arguing like this – completely free of conflict.

‘I can't get close to you, and if we aren't close then you have to ask if there's any point to this … to us.'

I move away from the support of the railing. ‘Well, if that's how you feel …'

‘No, that's not all.' He puts a hand on my shoulder, anticipating that I was planning to walk away. ‘I'm not finished with you. You drink more than you should –'

‘I drink way less than most people on a night out!'

‘You're a diabetic, Caitlin. You can't use what other people drink as a yardstick. You won't wear your bracelet – you wear
nothing
that identifies you as a diabetic. If I found you on the side of the road, I wouldn't know how to help you. Such a simple thing – wearing the bracelet, keeping yourself safe – but still you resist.'

‘God, I didn't realise you had such a litany of complaints about me!' I cry.

‘They're not complaints – but there are things,
big things
, between us. This recklessness, this disregard you have for your health and safety really bothers me. The crazy way you ride your bike, how you cross roads without looking … sometimes it feels like you're hell-bent on breaking the rules and putting yourself at unnecessary risk.'

‘Now you sound like my father,' I say accusingly.

Matthew jumps at this mention. ‘Why do you hate him so much, Caitlin? Is it because of the affair? Do you
still
hold that against him?'

There's a bitter taste in my mouth; I wet my lips and swallow, but the bitterness does not go away. ‘The affair – the divorce – they were the last straw …'

‘So something happened before that? Was it to do with the bomb? But he's not part of the IRA, is he?'

‘No, of course he isn't!'

‘From what I can tell from the internet, he's been pivotal in bringing to justice the people who planned the bomb. He seems like an essentially good man …'

I stare at him incredulously. ‘You checked on the internet?'

‘What else could I do?' He shrugs without looking at all apologetic. ‘You certainly won't tell me anything.'

A little belatedly, I realise that I googled Matthew too. But that was different. I hardly knew him then, so I wasn't exactly snooping behind his back. ‘Well, if you search for long enough, the internet should be able to tell you everything you need to know!' I shriek, sounding petulant and childish even to my own ears.

Matthew looks deep into my eyes, past my sarcasm and anger to where I'm at my most vulnerable. ‘What I don't know is who
died that day,' he says in a voice so gentle it could undo me if I'm not careful. ‘All I know is that it was obviously someone important for you to be like this so many years later, still too devastated to talk about it.'

My breath catches in my throat. Does he have any idea that the answer to that question will reveal everything he wants to know about me and more: the core of why I am the way I am, a truth I will never come to terms with.

‘Some things are private, Matthew,' I say brokenly after taking a few moments to gather myself. ‘If you can't respect that, then maybe there is no point to us.'

‘I respect your right to privacy, of course I do,' he insists, his voice still unnervingly soft. ‘But being secretive, as you are, is completely different to being private.'

Quite clearly, he's not going to let it drop. He intends to stay here and badger me until he gets answers, as though I were a criminal.

I push his hands away from my shoulders and step back, almost losing my balance as I do so. ‘Just because you're a police officer doesn't give you the right to know everything. Nor does it give you the right to preach to me! I should have known you'd be like this. I knew at the start that I shouldn't get involved with someone like you, but I stupidly did all the same!'

I walk away, my walk becoming a jog, the wind flapping my jacket and stinging my eyes that are humiliatingly full of tears. I don't need to turn around to know that he's watching, forming more conclusions and probably deciding that this is the end for us. Damn him. Damn him and his need to know every single thing about me. Damn his non-stop observing and his ‘genius'
deductions about my personality and my life. Damn him for googling my father on the internet. Damn him.

He's right about one thing, though. I'm too devastated to talk about any of it: the bomb, my father, or the terrible, terrible fact that I didn't just lose my boyfriend that day, but my brother too.

Josh and Liam lost together. It still defies belief.

Later that night, unable to read or sleep, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. There's a cobweb on the cornice by the window and I think, without any real commitment, that I should brush it away when I'm cleaning on the weekend. There are a few small insects trapped inside the light fitting – another thing, I decide vaguely, that should be cleaned. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to clean your life the same way you can clean a room? To mop up the hurtful words that spilled from your mouth. To scrub away the messy arguments. To scour and clean until your stained past is restored to something fresh and more appealing.

The phone rings. I hear Jeanie pick it up, her voice a distant murmur. A few moments later there's a knock on my bedroom door and she sticks her head in. ‘Your mother's on the phone for you.'

‘Okay, I'll pick it up here.' Woodenly, I reach my hand across to the handset on the bedside unit. ‘Hi, Mum. What's up?'

‘Nothing's “up”,' she replies brusquely. ‘Only that I haven't heard from you all week! You weren't there when I called at the weekend …' She pauses, making it apparent that she's waiting for some sort of explanation.

I close my eyes and see myself in bed with Matthew, the tan of his skin against the white bed linen, the dark rash of stubble across his face, the quizzical look in his eyes when I chose not to answer the shrilling phone. Though I felt bad at the time, I'm glad now that I didn't pick up. If I had, Mum would be enquiring about Matthew right now. And I would have to tell her that we had a big argument and that it's probably all off.

‘I went away for the weekend,' I lie.

She must know that I'm not being truthful because she doesn't ask her usual questions: where I went, who with. In fact, she doesn't say anything at all for a few long moments.

‘Are you going to stop taking my calls now as well as your father's?'

‘Mum, don't be ridiculous!'

‘I'm not being ridiculous. I'm just asking. Because you have this black side to you, Caitlin, this unforgiving streak that seems to make it relatively easy for you to cut yourself off from people.'

‘Mum!' I lever myself up in the bed and swing my legs over the side so I'm sitting hunched over. ‘What's wrong with you? Where's all this coming from?'

‘Did you watch the disc Maeve sent?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘Do you have any intention of watching it?'

‘I don't know,' I reply, honest now.

Her sigh is ragged and weary. ‘You know, it's one thing not wanting to talk to him on the phone, it's another altogether not to be able to bring yourself to watch him on the television. That's bitterness in the extreme.'

‘I'm not bitter!'

‘Then what are you? It's a disc, Caitlin, it's only a disc. He can't talk directly to you, he can't touch you or even see you. It's an image of him, a recording, that's all, yet you can't bring yourself to watch it. If that's not bitterness, then what is it?'

I don't answer. I don't know what it is, what the correct label might be, and I'd rather not be having this conversation at all.

‘You know, you're too like him, that's the problem. You're both perfectionists, and that's why it's so hard for you both to deal with what happened. But at least
he
found an outlet, a way to come to terms with it.
You
haven't dealt with it at all.'

‘I'm not like him, Mum!'

‘Yes, you are. That's why you can't forgive him. You're self-righteous, just like him –'

‘I don't want to talk about this. I'm tired.'

‘I can forgive him, but you can't. Why, Caitlin? It's been eleven years. Don't you think it's high time to move on?'

‘Mum, I'm
tired
. I haven't had a good day. I –'

‘
I've
moved on,' she persists. ‘Why can't you? Why, Caitlin?'

And this is when I crack. In a matter of moments I go from being relatively disengaged to being infused with a dark, dangerous rage. ‘
I lost my brother.
' God, it hurts to say it. A sharp stabbing hurt that's as fresh as though it happened yesterday. ‘I lost my boyfriend
and
my brother,' I scream at her.

‘I lost my only son,' she shoots back, tit for tat.

‘Dad sent Liam into town that day feeling useless and worthless …'

‘Maybe he did,' she doesn't miss a beat, ‘but that was only one day out of twenty-two years. There were many other days, days when your father cheered him on at his matches, when he taught him how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to drive, when he gave him money to go out …'

‘I don't care.' I can't seem to control the volume of my voice, even though I know Jeanie must be able to hear in the room next door. ‘All I care about is
that day.
How Liam felt. It's bad enough that he died, but to die feeling that he had no value, no worth, because he was unemployed!
Dad
made him feel that way and
that's
what I can't get over. And, while we're at it, I can't brush aside the fact he wasn't there for us afterwards, or that he thought it was a good time to
screw his secretary
!'

‘I know, Caitlin. I know all that happened.' Mum's tone has softened. ‘Instead of pulling together, our family pulled apart. It can happen either way with grief –'

‘You're
always
,
always
,
always
making excuses for him!' I scream over her, tears streaming down my face, fury and hurt swirling inside me.

‘Love, I know how –'

‘Are you happy now? Are you happy that you started this?'

‘Of course I'm not happy.'

‘Our family is broken. Nothing can put it back together, least of all me forgiving Dad. Liam is dead, you and Dad are divorced, Maeve has been in her own little world –'

‘It is not broken. I'm the first to admit it's not perfect –'

‘Jesus, Mum, it's so far from perfect it's laughable.'

‘Caitlin, you can't just –'

‘I'm going to bed, Mum. I'm tired – I told you at the start that I was tired.'

Pressing the ‘end' button on the phone, I cut her off. I sit on the bed, shaking, taking deep breaths to try to expel the anger, the bitterness from my system. It's a long time before I roll beneath the bedcovers, my body feeling weak and tender, the tear-dried skin on my face taut against the softness of the pillow. I leave the light on, needing the warmth and comfort it bestows upon the room.

The morning sun blazes through the kitchen window, intensifying the colours of the gerberas, a reminder of Matthew that I don't want or need. Though I slept surprisingly well, I feel chronically tired as I sit in the over-bright kitchen. My cup of coffee is not reviving in any way; it tastes bitter in my mouth and leaves me feeling thirsty and slightly sick. I pour myself a glass of iced water from the jug in the fridge and I'm sitting down again when Jeanie comes in.

‘Is it just boiled?' She nods at the kettle.

‘Ten minutes ago.'

She flicks the switch and the humming of the kettle fills the kitchen. Barefoot and with tousled hair, she gets herself two slices of bread and pops them in the toaster. Then, while she waits for the kettle to boil and the bread to toast, she leans back against the counter, her arms folded as she looks down on me in my seat. ‘That was quite a spectacular argument you had with your mother last night.'

‘Sorry.' I make a face. ‘I didn't mean to be so loud.'

‘Loud and quite cruel, I'd say.'

‘I wasn't being cruel.' I shrug defensively. ‘I was making a point, that's all.'

‘Mission accomplished. Pity, though, that what you were saying didn't make any sense!'

‘Hey, whose side are you on?' I feel a flare of annoyance.

‘Yours, of course, which is why I tell you when you're being stupid and unreasonable. Last night you were both, by the way.'

I glare at her. ‘Don't you start on me too! I'm
really
not in the mood.'

Jeanie's toast pops and I jump at the sound. God, I'm feeling fraught this morning.

For a while nothing is said. Jeanie butters her toast and makes herself a cup of tea while I finish my glass of water and return to my cup of coffee, which is now cold and even more bitter.