Putting Out the Stars (19 page)

‘It’ll take at least that long to get an accurate reading of your cycle, Laura, and a clear analysis of Donal’s semen. We need both of those before we can pinpoint any possible
problems.’

Donal had been given his jar and sent to another room; Laura hadn’t looked at him as he’d left. Dr Sloan was about Laura’s age, maybe a bit older, with a wedding ring. Laura
wondered if she had children, but didn’t ask. They chatted quite pleasantly until Donal came back, handing Dr Sloan the jar without a word. He was quiet for the rest of the visit, letting
Laura do most of the talking again. Dr Sloan had given her a special thermometer – she called it a basal body thermometer – and a series of charts to record her temperature
readings.

‘This is the first step, before any blood tests or ultrasounds, just to give us some basic information about your cycle. Remember to take it at roughly the same time every day.’

She shook hands with both of them as they were leaving. ‘I know it’s easily said, but try not to worry. If there’s a problem, we’ll do everything in our power to identify
it and find a solution. Good luck.’

Everyone was wishing them luck. Laura wondered if that was all it took. Maybe every conception was just that – pure luck. One enthusiastic sperm just happening to wriggle away from the
millions of others, and head in exactly the right direction to make contact with the impossibly tiny egg that just happened to be ready and waiting for it. If that was the case, she and Donal had
been pretty unlucky for the last two years.

She sighed and stood up. Better get some work done; it was going to take a bit more than luck to make
that
happen.

‘More tea, dear?’

Cecily materialised by Ruth’s elbow, pot poised. Her insistence on serving breakfast to Ruth, despite her daughter-in-law’s repeated assurances that she could easily do her own,
never failed to make Ruth feel that she was staying in a very formal boarding house, filled with elderly maidens who all looked like Maggie Smith in
Room with a View
, and who managed never
to appear for breakfast at the same time as Ruth. To give Cecily her due, she probably assumed that Ruth secretly enjoyed being waited on – because of course she herself would relish having
her lightly scrambled eggs or perfectly grilled bacon – Cecily never called them ‘rashers’ – handed up to her every morning by a docile servant.

This particular morning, though, Ruth couldn’t have cared less if Cecily had appeared in a French maid’s outfit, complete with fishnet stockings, and pirouetted across the floor,
twirling Ruth’s plate expertly over her head. She felt a sudden urge to giggle, and turned it into a discreet cough. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as Cecily poured her a second cup of
Earl Grey tea – Ruth had come to quite like the delicately scented taste. And in seven more days, unbelievably, she would be pouring her own tea – Barry’s probably, like they
always bought at home – in her own house.

Andrew had come back from a visit to the builders the day before with the news. She just stared at him as it sank in.

Finally she found her voice. ‘A week?’

He laughed at her incredulous expression. ‘Yes; a week. Seven days. Half a fortnight. A quarter –’

‘Stop.’ She put a hand over his mouth. ‘Are you absolutely sure? It’ll be ready for us to move in – no more delays?’

He pulled her hand away and held it. ‘Absolutely sure. John promised faithfully – after I threatened to take his ass to court if he was joking.’ John was the foreman.

‘Andrew, you didn’t.’ Ruth looked half-amused, half-horrified.

Andrew shook his head, laughing. ‘Of course not. But he did promise faithfully – so we’d better start getting our act together. Will you contact your folks about having our
stuff sent down? John says we should be able to start moving things in at the weekend.’

They’d bought some furniture in Dublin before the wedding, which Ruth’s parents were storing in their garage. And Cecily was going to lend them a few things – kitchen utensils,
saucepans, plates – which Ruth was determined would be returned in record time. Laura had a portable telly with a built-in video they could have till they got their own. Everyone was being so
helpful – even Breffni had offered to lend them pillows and blankets.

Laura had phoned Ruth a few days ago and told her she was meeting Breffni for coffee in town the following day.

‘Why don’t you come along? We’re meeting at four in that new place in Thomas Street, opposite Davern and Bell.’

Ruth was torn; she hadn’t seen Laura in a while, and would have welcomed the chance for a chat. But Breffni would be there too, sitting in silent judgement over Laura’s new
sister-in-law –
no; stop it.
Ruth determined she was going to cut out this silly paranoia; she was going to give Breffni the benefit of the doubt.

‘I’d love that, thanks Laura. Why don’t I drop by your studio and we can go there together?’ That way there would be no danger of Ruth being alone with Breffni. Just in
case she wasn’t being paranoid.

She needn’t have worried; Breffni had turned up twenty minutes late, just after Ruth and Laura had decided to go ahead and order their cappuccinos. She looked wonderful, as usual, in
faded-to-grey black jeans and a dark red ribbed top, with her hair pulled back in a tortoiseshell clip.

‘Sorry, I lost track of time in Cruise’s Street. Nearly bought a top in Flax in Bloom, but I need a second opinion. Laur, will you come back with me after, and see what you
think?’ She looked at Ruth and added quickly, ‘And you too, if you’re not rushing off somewhere.’

Before Ruth had a chance to respond, Laura said, ‘I don’t know why you always ask me to advise you when you buy clothes – you’ll make up your own mind in the end. And
anyway, you know everything looks good on you.’

Breffni grinned. ‘Ah but still, come and see it; it’s not something I’d normally go for.’ She watched two frothy cappuccinos appear in front of the others. ‘Yummy,
I’ll have one of those please.’ As the waitress turned to go, Breffni rummaged in her bag. ‘Oh look, I nearly forgot –’ She pulled out what looked to Ruth like three
children’s colouring pencils. ‘They were practically giving these away in Boots, so I got us one each.’

Laura looked at them in amusement. ‘Lip liners?’

‘Eye pencils, dope.’ Breffni held them out. ‘Here, you two can choose which colours you want; I’d wear any of them. Pick one, Ruth.’

Ruth looked at the pencils: they were identical, except that each had a different coloured stripe near the end; one was dark green, the second was a kind of terracotta and the third a deep
violet. She had never used an eye pencil in her life. Did they go under or over your eyes? How did you know which colour suited you – were you supposed to match it with whatever you were
wearing, or go by your eye colour? And how did you put it on? She’d be sure to stab herself if she went near her eyes with one of them.

And as she sat there, pretending to deliberate, another thought struck her – was this Breffni’s way of hinting that Ruth needed to make up her eyes? It wouldn’t be surprising
– it must be obvious that Ruth hadn’t a clue about make-up, had never been able to wear mascara without looking like a panda at the end of the night. And any colour she stroked onto her
lids just made her clownish. She looked at Laura, willing her to come to the rescue.

And, thank goodness, she did. ‘I’d say the rust one would suit your colouring.’ Laura took it from Breffni’s hand and pulled off the top, then stroked it a few times on
the back of Ruth’s hand. ‘Look, it’s nice and warm, it’d go lovely with your grey eyes.’ She held it out to her. ‘Try it anyway at home, and see what you
think.’

Ruth took the pencil from Laura and smiled stiffly at Breffni. ‘Thanks.’ She put it into her bag, vowing to throw it into the first bin she came to on her way home.

‘And I’ll take the violet one, Bref – thanks.’ Laura turned to the mirrored wall behind her and licked the tip of the pencil before stroking it onto her lower lids.
‘Oh yeah, I like it.’

‘Mmm – suits you.’ Breffni put the green pencil back into her bag as the waitress approached with her cappuccino. ‘So Ruth, what about this house then?’

And they’d talked about the house, and Breffni had offered the pillows and blankets, and promised to come along with Laura to help Ruth when moving day came. And Ruth’s annoyance
faded, and she eventually decided that Breffni was just trying to be friendly, and anyway, it wasn’t as if Ruth didn’t need help with make-up – anyone could see she hadn’t a
clue.

So she hadn’t thrown away the eye pencil; she’d brought it home and gone straight to the bathroom and tried to apply it like Laura had done, even remembering to lick the top
beforehand. It wasn’t that hard really, once you got over the feeling of being so near your eye. In the end, she had to admit that it looked quite nice – not clownish at all. Andrew
didn’t notice anything when he came home from work, but over dinner Cecily told her she was looking very well. The next time she was in town, Ruth went into Boots and bought two more shades,
after stroking a few of them on the back of her hand the way Laura had done. The girl beside her was trying on mascara, sweeping it down her lashes as if she’d done it all her life. Maybe
Ruth would give that another go sometime – her lashes were far too pale.

Now Cecily smiled as she sat opposite Ruth and poured herself a cup of tea. She added a slice of lemon and stirred. ‘You look happy this morning, dear.’

Ruth nodded. ‘I am – I’m going over to the house after breakfast. I want to see for myself that it’s almost ready.’ Then she stopped. ‘Cecily, it’s not
that I’m glad to be leaving here; we’re terribly grateful to –’

‘It’s quite all right, dear, I understand perfectly.’ Cecily’s hair and make-up were immaculate, as usual – her soft lavender lipstick toned in beautifully with the
pale grey sweater that had to be cashmere, it looked so fine. And her eyes were done up too – she’d probably been using eyeliner all her life. ‘Naturally, you and Andrew are
looking forward to your own place.’ She paused. ‘Of course, I hope I’ll see you both often – I’ve already told Andrew that I expect you here for Christmas
dinner.’

He’d never said a word to her. Ruth’s heart plummeted, even though it was what she had expected. She said quickly, ‘Thank you, Cecily, we’d love to.’ They’d
have plenty of Christmases in their own place. Her spirits soared again – their own place. Herself and Andrew – and their children. She tried to imagine Cecily with a grandchild on her
knee, and failed. Ah well, maybe she’d pay for their college education instead.

She felt another giggle waiting to erupt – she was just so happy this morning – and dabbed at her lips with one of Cecily’s linen napkins, managing a furtive glance at her
watch as she did; how soon could she decently leave the table? Then she reminded herself that she had only a week more to go.

One week. Seven days.

One week. Seven days since he’d written the few short sentences that had taken him three hours to get right. He couldn’t believe seven days could seem like such an
eternity, the minutes crawling by with excruciating slowness. Seven days that were only marginally less agonising than the seven nights, when his head was bursting with images of her, snatches of
her laugh, the smell of her.

He would go mad. Unless he could have her, unless he could find a way to quench this craving, this hunger he had for her, he would go stark raving mad, screeching like a possessed hyena in his
straitjacket, thumping his crammed-with-her head against the walls of his padded cell.

He couldn’t understand how he could continue to behave normally, but unbelievably, he did. Some force within him, something stronger than he knew he had, was keeping him from blurting out
his secret and falling to pieces. He went to work like he always had, talked to people as usual, ate his meals, made love to his wife. Made love to his wife with his eyes closed, seeing
her
behind his lids. Called his wife ‘darling’, and ‘love’, and was careful not to say her name, in case he said the wrong one.

He prayed for an end. He prayed for her to contact him.