Putting Out the Stars (10 page)

They were agog when she told them what had happened. Claire sat up, pulling her sunglasses down from the top of her head and fixing the straps of her top. ‘Ruth Tobin: you picked up a man
at the bank machine – what are you like? Or rather, what’s
he
like?’

Ruth giggled. ‘Gorgeous, like a film star. He’s from Limerick.’ Her head spun gently and she moved further under the umbrella – the last thing she needed now was
sunstroke. Not when she had just met the most interesting man of her life; and arranged to meet him again in the morning.

The second day, they hired mopeds and drove the ten kilometres into Chania, wandering through the cobbled Venetian streets, dropping in and out of the higgledy-piggledy shops. They had lunch on
the waterfront before heading back, stopping at a little beach to wade into the warm water, fully clothed. When they came out, he gathered up the end of her t-shirt and squeezed the water from it,
and she wished she was brazen enough to take it off.

The third night, after a dinner of calamari washed down with several glasses of rough red wine, he brought her back to his studio apartment – the friend he’d travelled with had met a
couple of Scottish girls the day before and disappeared with them – and from then on, she lost count. Days of beaches and picnics and sleepless siestas flowed into warm nights full of stars
and ouzo and haunting Greek music and moonlit walks by the shore wrapped in each other’s arms, and his hands and his mouth awakening something she hadn’t known was sleeping.

They were a cliché, caricatures of every couple who’ve ever fallen in love, and she didn’t care.

But, of course, it couldn’t last. Waving his airport bus off at two in the morning, she felt all her old self-consciousness come back, and she knew she’d never see him again. It was
a holiday romance – that was how they worked. He went home, she went home, end of story. She should be grateful he’d picked her to pass his two weeks with; he could have had anyone. She
plodded back to her apartment, wondering what he’d tell his friends, knowing he wouldn’t use her phone number – he’d probably thrown it away already – feeling the warm
night air pressing down on her, and she climbed into the bed she hadn’t seen for over a week and cried herself quietly to sleep under the still-crisp sheet.

Two days later, when she stepped through the doors into the arrivals hall at Dublin Airport, hungover and exhausted, he walked up to her and pulled her into him and she clung on, heart racing,
tears of relief spilling down her sunburnt freckled cheeks and onto his shirt.

And now, a year and two months later, they were married. And soon they’d have their own house and she’d find a job and make lots of new friends.

And they’d have lots of children too. She’d always wanted a big family.

She got out of bed and picked up her dressing gown – time to face the day. She had a bottle of wine to buy for Laura; she could take her time looking for that.

Donal pushed through the swing doors and took a white apron from the row of hooks beside the door.

‘Morning.’ Paul nodded as he hurried past carrying a tray of croissants. The smell of coffee was heavy in the air.

‘Paul, how’s it going?’ Donal wrapped the apron strings around his waist and tied them at the front. The kitchen at this time was busy as usual, gearing up to the job of
getting a few hundred continental breakfasts served up within the next hour or so. Freshly baked croissants, Danish pastries and rolls. Four kinds of cereal, bowls of fruit salad and yoghurt, big
jugs of orange and grapefruit juice. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate.

The four chefs split the schedule between them, working one week early, starting at six and finishing at two, and one week late, starting at nine and finishing at five, after the lunches and the
coffee breaks and the final clean-up.

Donal preferred the early shift in the summer, relishing the dawn cycle along deserted streets, out the Dublin road as far as the Castletroy Park Hotel, swinging left for UL. Getting up on a
bright morning, not having to put the light on while he got dressed – that was easy.

But he could do without leaving his bed at five o’clock on a freezing, pitch-black winter’s morning, with a soft and warm Laura still curled up in it. Padding gingerly with his
bundle of clothes across the cold wooden floor to the bathroom, trying to get dressed without waking her. Not to mention having to cycle four miles along icy roads with a biting wind cutting
through even his sheepskin gloves, slicing down between the back of his neck and his scarf.

And coming home, weaving his way through traffic-clogged streets, tasting the grittiness of the fumes in the back of his throat. Yes, he could certainly do without that.

Still, he’d rather be cycling. He remembered Laura’s surprise when she realised he was on a bike the night they met. She never said, but he got the impression that she was slightly
amused by what she probably saw as his little oddity. When she asked him why never drove, he told her that he hated what cars did to the environment, which was quite true.

If not the whole story.

He pushed the thought away abruptly and walked across to the sink to wash his hands.

‘Thank you.’ Cecily turned around to nod to the man who had reached ahead of her and held the door open – and then her heart sank. It couldn’t be.

It was. He smiled at her, palm still splayed against the door. ‘Cecily, how nice; I hate to drink alone – even if it is just tea. Won’t you let me buy you a cup?’

Damn – no point in saying she was meeting someone; he’d find out soon enough that it wasn’t true. What on earth had made her choose the very café he’d decided on,
and at the very same time? She realised that she had no choice but to accept his offer – good manners demanded it.

She smiled stiffly back and inclined her head slightly. ‘Thank you.’ She walked briskly ahead of him to a table at the back – less chance of being seen by anyone she knew. As
she started to take off her jacket, Frank held it for her and hung it carefully over the back of her chair. Not completely without manners, then. And here was a waitress, thank goodness; the sooner
they got this over with, the better.

‘What can I get you?’ The girl stood with a pen poised above her pad, and Frank looked questioningly at Cecily.

‘Decaffeinated coffee, please, and a glass of iced water.’
And be quick
, she silently begged the waitress.

He smiled. ‘Nothing to eat? A bun?’ Yes, he
would
call them buns, not cakes. She shook her head.

‘Well then, neither will I.’ Frank smiled up at the waitress. ‘Just a pot of tea for me, please.’ As she turned away, Cecily wondered how on earth they’d manage to
keep a conversation going; she couldn’t think of one thing she wanted to say to him. He put his hands on the table and gave her an eyebrow-raised smile.

‘Decaffeinated coffee? I’d say there’s not too much call for that around Limerick.’ Instantly, she felt a pinprick of irritation. What business was it of his what she
liked to drink? And what did he mean by implying that people in Limerick didn’t drink decaffeinated coffee? Did he think they were all unsophisticated buffoons here? But she had to be
polite.

With an effort, she kept a neutral expression on her face. ‘Actually, given the choice, I always drink decaffeinated; and quite a lot of my friends do too. It may not have made it as far
as Sligo yet, but it’s widely available in Limerick.’ That should put him in his place.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and slowly his smile faded. Then he looked down at his hands and laced his fingers together.

‘Cecily, I’ve offended you.’ He raised his eyes and looked directly at her. ‘I do apologise. It was entirely unintentional; I wouldn’t dream of deliberately saying
anything that might cause offence.’

An apology – well, that was something. And gracefully offered too, without any smart remarks. Showed he had some sensitivity at least. Then the faintest of smiles appeared on his face.
‘To tell you the truth, I’m a little nervous of you.’

Now she was floored: what a thing to say. The idea that anyone should be nervous of her was quite ridiculous. But at least he’d stopped sounding insincere or cocky.

She’d better make some kind of response. ‘There’s no need to be nervous of me, I assure you.’ How silly that sounded; thank goodness nobody was near enough to overhear
them.

He was silent again for a minute, looking back thoughtfully at his hands. She was just beginning, for form’s sake, to cast around for a harmless topic to bring up – she supposed
books would be a safe one – when he said slowly, ‘Cecily, I wonder . . . if I could tell you something?’

Lord, what now? She prayed that he wasn’t going to come out with some horribly personal information. Her eyes searched the café for their waitress – some kind of diversion
might put him off – but there was no sign of the girl. She waited with dread, determined not to encourage him, but unable to find the right words to put him off politely. She could hardly
tell him to keep his private life to himself.

After a few seconds, he started to speak haltingly. ‘I – was married for forty-four years to a wonderful woman.’ Cecily’s heart sank for the second time since bumping
into him. Why had he chosen her of all people to unburden himself to? Why not Dorothy – they seemed to get on fine – or anyone else? Anyone who’d been friendlier to him than
Cecily had, which was probably everyone else he’d met since he moved to Limerick. She clenched her fists under the table, willing their drinks to arrive so she could finish hers quickly and
escape.

Frank was still speaking quietly, not looking at her. ‘We had two children, a boy and a girl. When our daughter was twelve, she – got leukaemia, and we . . . lost her.’
Cecily’s stomach lurched, and again she prayed for some kind of interruption. How dare this man foist his personal tragedies on her? And yet, of course, she felt sympathy – how could
she not? Losing Andrew would be the end of her world. Or Laura.

‘A few years afterwards, our son . . . was estranged from us under – very difficult circumstances.’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘A year ago, Angela, my dear wife,
went to bed one night and never woke up.’

He raised his head for the first time since he’d started speaking; Cecily got the impression that he was forcing himself to look at her. ‘That’s why I moved away from Sligo; I
found it too hard to get over her death there. So many people who knew her . . . and in my grief, I found myself dwelling on our earlier tragedies too –’ He shook his head slowly.
‘It wasn’t doing me any good, staying there on my own. My friends – our friends – tried their best, of course, but nothing seemed to help.’ He met Cecily’s eyes
again. ‘So I deliberately chose a place where I knew no one; thought it might help me to . . . pick myself up and move on.’ He stopped speaking, lifted his shoulders slightly, gave her
a weak smile and let his eyes drift downwards again.

Cecily sat across from him, at a complete loss. Whatever she had expected when they met at the door, it wasn’t this. What on earth was one to do in this situation? Her emotions were
scattered; pity mixed uneasily with irritation, and she struggled to keep her expression neutral. She felt she must speak; if nothing else, good manners demanded some sort of response.

‘I’m very sorry; you’ve had a lot of hardship.’ Her words came out stiffly, sounding insincere to her. She didn’t touch him; kept her hands firmly in her lap. She
still hardly knew him, despite his having forced his life story on her. Again, she wished fervently that she hadn’t chosen this particular café today.

He looked at her and shook his head slowly again. ‘Cecily, I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. God knows I’ve had enough sympathy to last me the rest of
my life.’ His smile was weak, a barely noticeable widening of his lips. ‘I just wanted to explain why I may have come across as a little – brash – when I met you the other
week. I . . . haven’t been out and about for so long, haven’t been in any kind of social setting for . . . quite a while now. I suppose I was out of the habit, and nervous of meeting
you all.’