Putting Out the Stars (14 page)

Dr Goode said a lot of things that she thought were probably meant to reassure her. She said she’d think about it.

And since then, a year had passed. She’d never told Donal about her visit to Dr Goode; it was the one thing she simply had no idea how to talk to him about. The one thing she desperately
needed to talk to him about. He never brought up the subject of children, seemed not to notice that they’d been trying for so long. Did he care? Was he secretly hoping it never happened?

Next year, Laura would be thirty.

She put down the leaflet on built-in wardrobes that she was supposed to be redesigning; there was no way she could concentrate on that today. She’d have to talk to Donal.

Maybe tonight, after dinner.

She put a box of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes into the trolley and felt a tap on her shoulder. She swung around. ‘Hey, long time no see. Must be all of what – a
week?’

‘About that.’ He smiled, glancing into her trolley. ‘You’re stocking up.’

She made a face. ‘Yeah, the dreaded weekly shop. I’m seriously thinking of going online.’

He laughed. ‘Come on – it’s not as if you’re feeding the five thousand.’

She grinned back at him. ‘I suppose not . . . it was good the other night, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Great fun. We should make a habit of it.’

It was only when she saw him walking out through the doors a few minutes later without a bag that she wondered why he was in a supermarket if he hadn’t been buying anything.

She watched him walk over to his car. Nice bum.

She looked even better than she had at dinner.

In the supermarket, he watched her choose a melon, reject unripe bananas, press a loaf of brown bread before tossing it into the trolley. Fill a bag with mandarins. Weigh a cauliflower, chewing
on her bottom lip.

He saw her hand reaching up to get the cereal, her multicoloured top pulling away from her low-rise jeans to show him an inch of flat creamy stomach.

Then he went over and touched her shoulder. He hadn’t planned to talk to her, but the sight of her bare skin seemed to propel him over. He had no idea what he’d say, how he’d
explain his presence. Why he wasn’t filling a trolley too – or at least a basket.

He didn’t care what she thought. He knew he should run a mile from this madness that had possessed him since the night of the dinner – the compulsion that had brought him to her
neighbourhood every day since then in the hope of seeing her – but he found he didn’t want to run. Couldn’t run.

He was filled with her. She lived in his head all day, and he pulled her out and dreamt her into his nights.

He would have to have her. There was simply no other way.

Laura looked at Donal reading the paper on the couch and thought:
Now; do it now.
She couldn’t wait till after dinner; she’d be far too nervous by then.

She closed her notebook, full of anxious scribbles that were not helping her wardrobe leaflet in the slightest, and got up from the desk and went to sit next to Donal. From the stereo, Robbie
Williams was asking them to let him entertain them. The aromas of Donal’s special roast chicken – honey, rosemary, lemon – wafted in from the kitchen.

He smiled at her as she sat down – ‘Hey you’ – and went back to reading his paper again.

‘Donal.’ She felt her heartbeat quicken.

‘Mmm?’

She put a hand lightly on his thigh. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Ah.’ He looked up and studied her face for a second, then folded the paper and tossed it on the floor. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes searched his face. Could he possibly be talking about the same thing? Had he been worrying about it too? Her heart jumped at the thought that maybe he
felt exactly the same; maybe he was just as concerned as she was. She willed him to say what she wanted to hear.

He smiled. ‘Oh come on; it’s obvious you’ve something on your mind – you’ve hardly opened your mouth since I got home. I figured you’d tell me what it was
sooner or later.’

So he hadn’t been thinking about it too. He had no idea what she wanted to talk about, what had been eating away at her for what seemed like forever. She inhaled a deep breath and let it
out slowly. There was no going back now.

She took one of his hands and folded her fingers around it. ‘Darling, it’s about starting a family.’ She watched his face anxiously. ‘We’ve been trying for over two
years now and – I’m . . . not getting any younger, and nothing’s happening, and – well, I’m a bit worried . . .’

It was coming out all wrong, all twisted up and muddled – not the way she’d planned it at all. Her eyes stayed fixed on his face; she couldn’t look away. She held his hand in
hers and prayed for him to rescue her.

His smile faded a bit but he said nothing, just nodded slightly and looked back at her, waiting for her to go on. So she tried again. ‘I think – the time has come to take some action
. . . I mean, to see if we can find out if anything’s wrong, if there’s anything we need to do.’

She stopped. Waited. Begged him silently to say something.

He pursed his lips, looked at her fingers, wrapped around his hand. ‘What action are you talking about?’ His voice was neutral, giving her no clue.

She tightened her hold on his hand, wanting to see his eyes. ‘We could have tests done – simple tests, to see if either of us . . . if there’s anything we need to do . .
.’ She’d said that already – she was repeating herself. She trailed off again, watching his face closely.

He stood abruptly, pulling his hand from hers. Walked across the room, turned and stood to face her, hands tucked under his armpits. She suddenly felt as if she was on trial, sitting there on
the couch. He looked – defensive. And so far away.

He said nothing for a minute – she waited, some instinct kept her silent – and then he said, ‘OK.’

She wondered if she’d heard him right. ‘OK?’

He nodded, came back to sit on the arm of the couch. ‘OK.’ He stretched out a hand and ran a finger down her cheek. ‘If it means that much to you.’

If it means that much to you.
She didn’t dare ask what it meant to him. She felt tears of relief threatening to spill out of her, and bit her cheek, hard, and blinked. ‘Are
you sure you’re all right with this?’ Her voice felt tight.

‘Yeah.’ He stood again. ‘I’m going to put the spuds in. Want a beer?’

She nodded, then shook her head. ‘I’d like a little brandy.’

‘OK.’ He turned in the doorway. ‘You make the arrangements, right?’

She nodded again at the space he left behind, full of a fragile hope.

‘Ruth, dear.’ Cecily lifted a sliver of perfectly poached salmon from the serving dish and deposited it on the plate in front of her. ‘I’ve been meaning
to ask you if you’d care to attend the next meeting of the book club, Thursday of next week.’ She added two cherry tomatoes and a wedge of lemon to her plate before looking over at
Ruth. ‘It’s my turn to host.’

‘Thank you, Cecily, I’d be delighted.’ Ruth smiled back placidly at her mother-in-law as she lifted a little square of homemade brown bread to her lips. The thought of sitting
in on a book-club meeting, with a group of people who were mostly a lot older than her, held far fewer terrors for Ruth than dinner at Breffni and Cian’s house this coming weekend.

While she found Cecily’s poise and elegance slightly intimidating, it didn’t really threaten her. She knew she wasn’t under scrutiny, didn’t feel under pressure to be
witty and charming in Cecily’s company. She thought that perhaps her mother-in-law pitied her slightly, knowing that Ruth would never shine, never be confident enough to make an impression in
the way that Cecily herself had probably always done. But Ruth could cope with being pitied, or even dismissed as someone of no importance – Cecily’s indifference didn’t demand
anything of her. And Ruth assumed that the other book-club members would be equally polite and non-threatening. It might even be fun, in a sedate kind of way.

Whereas dinner in the company of Breffni . . . Ruth couldn’t define exactly why she found Laura’s best friend so unnerving; couldn’t put her finger on why she was dreading
Saturday night’s dinner so much. Breffni had been charming and funny all evening at Laura’s; she’d had everyone in stitches more than once, especially after what Ruth privately
thought were far too many glasses of wine. Mind you, Breffni wasn’t the only one – in the taxi on the way home, Ruth had had to practically fight Andrew off; sliding a hand up under her
top, nearly ripping her skirt when he lifted it and pushed his knee in between her thighs to part them, laughing when she whispered that the driver could see them. He’d obviously had too much
to drink too: anyone could see that. But Ruth didn’t mind someone having a few too many once in a while – no harm in that, as long as they didn’t get offensive. And it
wasn’t that Breffni had done, or said, anything at Laura and Donal’s that Ruth could object to: it was just that she was one of Them.

Ruth had gone to school with quite a few of Them. The ones who always had the right kind of shoes and lunchboxes and schoolbags; and later, the best-looking boyfriends and the latest CDs and the
coolest haircuts. The ones who were always first to see the new releases at the cinemas. Who skipped classes and never got caught. The ones who knew someone who could get them backstage passes at
concerts. Who weren’t afraid to bring something back to a shop, or to ask for a discount. Who knew, without anyone showing them, how to wear make-up. Who looked good in a school uniform.

And while Ruth had never been bullied at school, never been laughed at, or teased in any way, she’d always been afraid of Them. Always been waiting for one of Them to turn around and sneer
at her careful essays and boring shoes and timid smiles. Being ignored was so much less terrifying.

And as soon as Ruth met Breffni, all her old stupid schoolday anxieties had come rushing back. And this weekend, she and Andrew were going to dinner at Breffni and Cian’s house in Nenagh.
Compared to that, the book club would be a cakewalk.

Ruth lifted her fork and took a mouthful of salmon and thought about what she’d wear to the night in Nenagh. She’d have to get something new – couldn’t wear the cream
skirt again, and Breffni was sure to look stunning. She’d go shopping in the morning; maybe ask one of the glamorous assistants behind the counters at Brown Thomas for some advice on make-up.
Knew, even as the thought drifted through her head, that she’d never have the nerve.