Putting Out the Stars (23 page)

‘Hi.’ He looked nervous. ‘I’ve got the key.’

‘Let’s go then.’ She took his arm and they walked through the lobby. She didn’t look towards the reception desk.

Lord, what on earth had possessed her? A dozen times a day since the book-club meeting, Cecily wished fervently that she could pick up the phone and call Frank, make some excuse
– anything; she didn’t need it to sound genuine, for God’s sake – that would get her out of this ridiculous situation. How had it happened, what devil had possessed her,
persuaded her to agree to having dinner with him? Had her head been so easily turned by a few silly compliments? Was she that desperate for male company?

But she couldn’t phone him; she didn’t have his number, and he wouldn’t be in the Limerick phone book yet – and anyway, she couldn’t remember his last name. In a
few hours, she was going to sit into a car beside a man whose last name she didn’t know, and let him take her out to dinner. She would be trapped with him for at least two hours, would have
to talk to him and listen to him, and in the end, thank him.

One thing she was grateful for – no one else knew. She was quite sure that nobody had been near enough to overhear as they’d made the arrangements, and Cecily intended to keep it
that way. When he’d asked her if there was anywhere she would like to go, she’d named a little country hotel, not at all fashionable, almost ten miles outside the city. No chance of
bumping into anyone she knew there, she was certain.

And that would be the end of that. One dinner, and a polite but firm refusal if he asked to see her again. She’d acted impulsively, made a mistake; everyone was entitled to that. But she
would make quite sure not to repeat it.

One dinner. With a sinking heart she went upstairs to change.

For hours afterwards, his whole body burned. He marvelled that his voice, when he spoke, sounded so normal, that his hands could do what he needed them to do without shaking.
That nobody at all noticed the change in him, or the fact that he’d been missing from work for almost three hours. That it had taken just half of a wintry afternoon in an unremarkable hotel
bedroom for him to be certain that nothing would ever be the same.

And in a week’s time, they were going to do it all over again.

Lord, what had she done?

Was she out of her mind? Suddenly she was one of those women who meet men in hotel rooms in the middle of the afternoon. She had gone there knowing what was going to happen, wanting it to
happen.

And did she feel guilty now, did she regret the last few hours, did she wish she could turn the clock back to the moment when he’d closed the bedroom door and stepped towards her? Would
she wipe it all away if she could, and be glad that it had never happened?

She tried to imagine that – if she’d ignored the letter and stayed away from his work, and if they hadn’t spent the last few hours making the kind of love she’d given up
on – and she realised that the thought of it never having happened was unbearable. No, she wouldn’t turn the clock back, given the chance. She’d turn it forward if she could, to
one week from now. Already, she could hardly wait.

And anyway, it wasn’t as if she was married.

Laura opened the bottom drawer – the one Donal never went near, usually full of her winter jumpers – and looked inside. She lifted out the little yellow jumpsuit and
stroked the blue furry teddy stuck onto the front: so cute. And the tiny green padded jacket just under it; she’d had a doll once that it would have fit. She pulled out a woolly patterned hat
with a giant orange pompom and held it against her cheek: adorable.

One by one, she took everything out and laid them all on the carpet, all the doll-sized clothes and hats and shoes that nearly filled the drawer. There were the bootees that she’d bought
the first time. It seemed amazing now, that feeling of guilt she’d had in the street afterwards, as if she’d stolen them. The second time had been easier, when she got the hat. And
after that, she didn’t bat an eyelid – just strode in as if it was the most natural thing in the world, just another item on her shopping list:
clothes for baby.

She was glad now she’d bought nothing too frilly, no pale blues or pinks. She had to be careful not to get anything that wouldn’t suit her baby; she couldn’t put a pink
jumpsuit on a boy – or a blue one on her daughter.
Her daughter
: The words sounded wonderful in her head.

Lately she had started dreaming about her babies. Her little girl in yellow dungarees and cute little pigtails, chuckling when Laura tickled under her chin. Her little boy, rosy cheeked, brown
hair tousled, digging in his sandpit for treasure. She could see their adorable little faces, smell their baby scents. They clambered onto her lap and covered her face with tiny bird kisses and
begged for stories.

After a while, she folded everything carefully again before putting it all back and shutting the drawer quietly. Then she went to her bedside locker and took out her temperature chart. There it
was, plain as day: on Wednesday last, her temperature had risen. The gynaecologist had told her that once this happened, ovulation was over. So she
was
ovulating – her body was
functioning properly, presenting her with an egg every twenty-eight days, just like it was supposed to. They’d made love nearly every night since the consultation – the odd ones they
missed didn’t matter; Dr Sloan had told them that sperm remained active inside the woman’s body for up to three days – and often again before Donal went to work in the
mornings.

And now, Laura was pregnant: she felt certain. And soon she’d be able to prove it, and tell Donal. And Breffni. She imagined how thrilled they’d be, and wished with all her heart
that her father was still alive to rejoice too. What a wonderful grandfather he’d have made.

She put the chart back carefully and closed the locker. She checked her watch: lunch time. She knew she should have something, now that she was eating for two, but she hadn’t felt hungry
for ages. She was too excited.

Cecily stood at the window of the dark sitting room and watched as Frank drove off. When his car had disappeared in the direction of the North Circular Road, she turned and went
into the kitchen. She filled and plugged in the kettle and took her caddy of herbal teas over to the table.

Who would have thought that she would actually have enjoyed herself? She’d been dreading the whole business, not at all relishing the prospect of being in Frank’s company for a whole
evening, unable to imagine them managing to sustain any kind of conversation over that period of time.

And it had turned out fine. He’d been attentive and polite; the conversation hadn’t flagged once. He hadn’t been too intrusive, as she’d feared – any questions
he’d put to her were quite impersonal. And to her vast relief, the subject of his past hadn’t come up once. She’d enjoyed talking about plants with him – he certainly knew
what was what. And he was surprisingly well read; no wonder he’d agreed to come with Dorothy to the book club.

He’d insisted on her having a gin and tonic before the meal, ordering mineral water for himself – he told her that he never took a drink when he was driving, which she heartily
approved of. The dinner had been quite a pleasant surprise too – she hadn’t known what to expect. But her baked cod had been quite tasty, with a well-put-together salad accompanying it
– dressing on the side, as she’d requested.

And Frank hadn’t once tried to take advantage. In fact, he’d been the perfect gentleman all evening. While she wasn’t in the least attracted to him – absolutely not
– Cecily had to admit that she was quite looking forward to their next meal out: same time, same place, this night week. Who would have thought it?

O’Connor. His second name was O’Connor.

The kettle started to sing, and she got up for her cup and saucer.

‘Hello?’

‘Ruth, Laura here.’

‘Hi, Laura, I was going to give you a call later on; we haven’t met for a while.’

‘I know; I was giving you a chance to get settled in. How’s it going?’

Ruth stood in the kitchen and looked out at the rapidly emerging garden; Frank was working wonders. ‘Fine – every day a bit more done. I’m not forgetting about having you all
over for a meal, but I suppose at this stage it’ll have to be in the New Year, with Christmas so close.