Putting Out the Stars (15 page)

It mightn’t be too bad though; at least Laura would be there. She smiled brightly across the table at Andrew as she passed him the butter.

‘Hello?’

‘Andrew, it’s me.’

‘Hi, Laur. What’s up?’

‘Just wondering about Saturday night, if you and Ruth want to sit in with us to Nenagh . . . it seems daft bringing two cars.’

‘That sounds good – if you’re OK about coming to collect us here.’

Because I might have to talk to my mother.
‘Yeah, that’s no problem. We’ll be there between half seven and eight, OK?’

‘Fine, thanks; I’ll say it to Ruth. Any other news?’

For a second she wondered what he’d say if she told him that she and Donal were going to be tested to see which of them was stopping her from becoming pregnant. ‘Nothing strange
really . . . how’s Ruth?’ Laura hadn’t met her in a week or so, since they’d had lunch in the pub near the studio.

‘Grand – she’s sitting in on Ma’s book club next week.’

Laura groaned. ‘Oh God, the poor thing. I suppose she couldn’t get out of it.’

‘Actually, she seemed quite happy to be asked.’ He sounded mildly annoyed; Laura figured he didn’t like her criticising Mother’s hobby. ‘Ruth’s a real
bookworm anyway; it’ll probably suit her.’

‘Are they not all ancient, though?’ Laura pictured a gaggle of blue rinses sitting around discussing whichever bestseller they’d managed to find with no hint of sex or violence
in it.

‘Couldn’t tell you; never notice them really when they’re around. I suppose we’ll find out from Ruth.’

Laura saw Donal coming up the path, and spoke quickly. ‘Listen, I have to go. See you on Saturday.’

Donal walked in as she hung up, and she went to him and reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, yourself; who was that?’

‘Just Andrew; I said we’d collect them on Saturday night.’

‘Oh, right.’ He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the banisters. He looked tired. She decided to wait a couple of days before she told him about the doctor’s appointment.
She put her arms around him, leant against his chest, head turned up to see his face. ‘Fancy a sexual favour?’ It had been a joke between them since that first time.

He smiled gently down at her, encircled her waist. ‘You know me – never say no. As long as you promise to do all the work; I’m bushed.’

She grinned. ‘Promise.’

Cecily had deliberated for some time before inviting Ruth to the book-club meeting. She wasn’t afraid of offending the others by bringing her along unannounced; certainly
not. Clearly, it didn’t bother anyone except herself when new arrivals turned up at the drop of a hat.

Neither was she concerned that Ruth might not enjoy it; that was for Ruth herself to decide, surely. And as her daughter-in-law seemed to have her head in a book most of the time anyway,
she’d probably fit into the club very well.

No, Cecily had hesitated simply because she was a little –
ashamed
was the wrong word; Ruth was such an inoffensive creature, she couldn’t possibly inspire shame – but
Cecily wished fervently that there was a bit
more
to her. A bit of colour: someone she could engage in a real discussion – an argument, even. Someone who’d give as good as she
got.

But Ruth was so eager to please, so afraid of offending. So . . .
diluted.
She was the perfect wife for Andrew of course, but even so . . .

She imagined Dorothy and Emily exchanging glances behind Ruth’s head, pitying Cecily for having ended up with such an insipid daughter-in-law. Wondering what on earth Andrew had seen in
her – handsome Andrew, who’d opened the door to a few of them once or twice when Cecily had been hosting, and who’d managed to charm them beautifully.

But when it came down to it, Cecily hadn’t had much choice; she’d had to invite Ruth, after having suggested it to Emily in the supermarket. If Ruth didn’t appear, Emily would
be sure to wonder why. And Ruth herself would probably feel slighted if Cecily didn’t include her, seeing as how she’d probably be in the house at the time – she and Andrew seldom
went out at night.

But really, Cecily wasn’t unduly worried about the meeting. Ruth had seemed quite happy to be asked, so maybe it would all turn out for the best. The meeting might liven her up a bit; or
she might talk to Margaret for the night – Cecily felt that Ruth would be very good at listening patiently to accounts of Margaret’s arthritis. Or she might hit it off with Valerie, who
wasn’t that much older than her, after all.

And as for Ruth being able to hold her own when it came to discussing the books, Cecily was confident that any opinion she had was bound to be as worthwhile as those of Frank, who didn’t
strike Cecily as a particularly literary man.

She hadn’t met him since that time in the café, when he had practically forced her to listen to his life story . . . and while of course she sympathised with his losses, she still
resented the way he had chosen her, of all people, as his confidante. Had he somehow got the impression that she would provide a shoulder for him to cry on? True, they’d chatted quite
pleasantly afterwards, when he’d stopped pouring his heart out to her; and she’d been forced to admit that he wasn’t as crass as he’d seemed initially, but still . . . She
determined to avoid him as best she could on Thursday night.

Actually, when Cecily thought about it, Ruth might be quite useful at the meeting; she could be positioned between Frank and Margaret, and she could listen to them both all night. Maybe inviting
her along hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

Cecily opened her notebook and started to write her shopping list. Maybe she’d push the boat out and serve a variety of mixed canapés – the little cheese balls rolled in fresh
herbs that Emily loved, mini spinach quiches, stuffed mushrooms, maybe some of those rather tasty smoked salmon rolls that she’d served at Andrew’s birthday. And afterwards, a selection
of homemade biscuits from that nice delicatessen in the shopping centre.

That should make it clear that they weren’t all savages in Limerick.

Donal chewed the chicken thoughtfully, and swallowed. ‘Marjoram. Or . . . no, oregano. And probably tarragon. And definitely garlic – but not too strong.’

Breffni looked at Cian. ‘Will you tell him, or will I?’

Cian, his mouth full, waved at her to go ahead.

She smiled over at Donal. ‘A pack of “Spices Made Simple for Chicken Provençale”. All I had to do was cut it open and fire it onto the chopped chicken; haven’t a
clue what was in it.’

Andrew laughed loudly, and Donal pushed his half-full plate away with a look of horror. ‘What – you’ve served me convenience food? Sorry – as a gourmet chef, it’s
against my principles to eat anything that comes out of a packet.’ He stood up, looking over at Laura. ‘Get your coat, darling – we’re going home.’

A general burst of laughter then, and from across the table Laura raised her eyes to heaven and pushed his plate back in front of him. ‘Sit down and eat, or you’re in the spare room
for a month.’

‘Oh God no, not the spare room. OK, I’ll be good.’ Donal sat and picked up his fork again, smiling. ‘It’s very tasty, Breffni, whatever you put into it.’ He
looked around the table. ‘Who’s got the rice?’

Andrew passed the bowl across to him. ‘God only knows what she has in there – a sachet of “Easy Peasy Rice”.’

Breffni picked up a half-eaten bread roll and threw it in his direction. ‘No dessert for you, for being disrespectful to your hostess.’

Andrew caught it deftly and put it on his side plate, smiling back at her. ‘Oh please, I’d hate to miss the Instant Whip.’

‘Bloody cheek.’ Breffni turned to Ruth. ‘I don’t know how you put up with him, Ruth – you must have the patience of a saint.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Ruth smiled and looked tenderly across the round table at her husband.

Breffni thought a thicker foundation would do a lot for Ruth – even out her skin tone, hide those freckles. Maybe when they got to know each other a bit better, she could suggest it to
her. If she could manage it without causing offence, which might be easier said than done – Ruth seemed the type that you couldn’t say boo to. Maybe Laura could do it instead; she was
so much better at saying the right thing.

The door to the kitchen was pushed open and Polly stood there, blond curls sticking haphazardly out from her head, a small fist rubbing one eye. A leg of her pale blue pyjamas had ridden up
above her knee. She looked up at the table and yawned. ‘Mama.’

Cian, sitting nearest the door, bent down and scooped her onto his lap. ‘What are you doing out of bed, Missus – and where are your slippers?’ She leant against his chest and
blinked around the table, smiling sleepily when she caught sight of Laura waggling her fingers at her.

Breffni looked at her daughter. ‘Pollywolly Doodle, this is Ruth –’ she pointed ‘– and that’s Andrew. Say hello.’

But Polly just burrowed into Cian and stuck a thumb into her mouth, eyelids drooping. Cian stood, gathering her up into him. ‘I’ll go.’

They all waved at her – Donal blew her a kiss – and she watched them solemnly over Cian’s shoulder, sucking steadily on her thumb, as he carried her out.

‘She’s gorgeous.’ Ruth smiled across at Breffni.

‘I know.’ Breffni picked up her glass and smiled back. ‘But hard work – wait till you have your own.’

‘Stop putting ideas into her head.’ Andrew’s voice made them both look over. ‘We’re only just getting used to being married – give us a chance.’

‘Well, just don’t take as long as these two –’ Breffni indicated Donal and Laura ‘– or Poll will have no one to grow up with.’

Laura stood abruptly. ‘Sorry, need the loo.’ She walked quickly to the door and left. In the small silence that followed, Breffni looked questioningly across at Donal, who shrugged
back at her.

Then he held out his wine glass. ‘Any left in that bottle?’

Later, while Breffni was scooping chocolate ice-cream into bowls at the worktop, Donal collected a few side plates from the table and brought them over. ‘It’s her time of month;
she’s a bit sensitive, that’s all.’ His voice was low enough not to carry over to the table.

‘So you’re not trying to get pregnant?’ Breffni spoke softly too, taking the bundle of plates from him.

Donal spread his hands. ‘If it happens, it happens.’ Then he raised his voice. ‘Let me give you a hand, as the only professional chef here.’

She smiled at him, held out her wine glass. ‘You can start by professionally refilling that – there’s a new bottle over in that press – and then you can make the coffee;
professionally, of course.’ She was in a long off-white dress tonight, splashed with huge red flowers, startling against her dark hair and olive skin. Her cheeks were lightly and beautifully
flushed, from wine and cooking.

When Donal handed her the refilled glass, she glanced over at the table again. ‘So I didn’t put my foot in it.’ She spoke softly again, lifting shortbread fingers from where
they’d been soaking in Bailey’s and adding two to each bowl of ice-cream.

He looked blank. ‘About what?’

‘About you two taking so long to have kids. Donal, is there really nothing I should know? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business, of course.’ She picked up her glass and
took a sip.