Putting Out the Stars (27 page)

Laura smiled as the toddler wrestled with the bright red plastic cube, trying unsuccessfully to force it through the oval-shaped hole in the lid of the sturdy blue bucket. His
face was screwed up with the effort, tiny pink tongue stuck out of the corner of his pursed lips. He suddenly lost his grip on the cube, which shot out of his fat little hand and bounced off
Laura’s shin before landing beside her.

‘Upsadaisy.’ Laura bent to retrieve it, then held it out towards the child. He looked from the cube to her face, then back at the cube, but didn’t move to take it from her. His
face was solemn.

She held it out further. ‘Look.’ He watched her, unsmiling, as she dropped the cube neatly through the square hole in the bucket lid. ‘All gone.’

He looked down at the lid, lifted the bucket and gave it a clumsy shake, patted the top with a podgy palm. Then he picked up a round yellow shape from the collection beside him and banged it
against the lid. He looked questioningly up at Laura, who put a finger on the round hole. ‘There.’ After a few attempts, he pushed the shape through the hole.

‘Yah!’ He grinned triumphantly at Laura. ‘All don.’

She nodded, beaming back at him. ‘All gone, good boy.’ She picked up a green oval. ‘Now, try this one.’ She held it out to him and he grabbed it.

‘Sorry; I’ll take him out of your way.’ The young mother – Laura presumed it was his mother – scooped him up and plonked him into a buggy, whisking the bucket out
of his arms and replacing it on a low shelf. ‘Off we go. Say bye-bye to the lady.’

He flapped cocktail sausage fingers at her and she smiled and waved back. ‘Bye.’ When they were gone, she picked up the bucket and opened the lid, and replaced all the brightly
coloured plastic shapes inside. Then she walked to the checkout desk with it.

‘I’ll take this, please; it’ll be perfect for my little boy. He’s just beginning to handle things.’

‘They’re a great seller – very popular.’ The assistant rang up the total. ‘That’ll be fourteen fifty please.’ She wrapped the bucket as Laura rummaged
in her wallet. ‘Is he your first?’

Why did they always ask that? Laura shook her head. ‘No, I’ve a little girl too, she’s four. She’ll be starting school next September.’ Funny how much easier it got
every time. Details just seemed to add themselves. Her son who’d just had his tonsils out. Her little girl who was going to her first birthday party. Her baby who was growing out of
everything so fast.

It was all very, very easy.

What was more difficult was finding a place to store everything. When the drawer at home was too full for any more, she’d started filling a big cardboard box under her table at work
– quite safe, the girls never went near each other’s spaces – but that was full now too. She had to find more space. She wondered about the attic at home – it wasn’t
big enough to stand up in, no floor on it either, so they really didn’t use it for anything. The only time Donal had been up was when they noticed the damp patch on the bedroom ceiling. A box
up there would be quite safe.

Sometimes she wondered if Donal would understand. Wasn’t she buying them for their baby, who would eventually arrive? Where was the harm in that? If she made up a few stories to amuse
herself when she bought them, so what? That was only a bit of fun.

Only of course she knew that it wasn’t; fun was the last thing it was. And of course she couldn’t tell Donal; there was no way he’d understand that this was the only way she
could deal with the heartbreak and frustration and rage. That every time she bought a tiny pair of woolly tights, or a vinyl read-in-the-bath book, it eased the terrible nagging hunger for a
while.

She decided to forget the attic for the moment, get another cardboard box instead – it would fit under the studio table beside the first one. And she should be ovulating again in a week or
so – maybe this time they’d be lucky. She clutched the bucket in its paper package and made her way back to the studio. She’d already missed the deadline for the first lot of
schoolbook illustrations: better get a move on.

Cecily held the glass out as Frank poured. ‘Not too much; the bubbles go straight to my head.’ She’d already had her usual gin and tonic before dinner, and a
small glass of wine with the food; she wondered if the champagne was overdoing it. But as Frank pointed out, you couldn’t celebrate the New Year without a drop of champagne. It wouldn’t
hurt, just this once.

‘Ten minutes to go; I hope you have your resolutions ready.’ Frank raised his own glass. ‘To friendship.’

‘Friendship.’ Cecily took a tiny sip. It was deliciously cold, and beautifully dry. Frank had produced it unexpectedly after the meal he had cooked for her earlier. She’d been
touched by clear signs that he’d given a lot of thought to the evening; a newly opened bottle of her favourite Gordon’s gin, heavy linen napkins that she was sure he’d bought
specially, Vivaldi on the stereo – she remembered him asking her about music at the last book-club evening. So thoughtful of him . . . what a surprise he was turning out to be.

And how astonishing to discover that she scarcely missed Andrew in the house, after all. If she were to be completely honest, she would have to admit that she quite relished the peace, the
freedom of having the house to herself for the first time ever. Being able to buy the foods she wanted without having to worry about whether others would like them. Coming and going as she pleased,
with no explanations to be given to anyone. No need to justify the evenings she was spending with Frank – two meals already in the little hotel outside the city, the third tonight, in his
house.

She’d been slightly apprehensive at the thought of coming here – what if she bumped into Dorothy or Liam, just next door? Not that she and Frank had anything to hide, of course, but
Cecily preferred to keep her business to herself. No need for anyone to know that they were spending time together, much less how much she was coming to enjoy it. To her relief, she’d met
nobody on her way from the taxi to the door. And it had been dark when she’d arrived, so even if Dorothy or Liam had chanced to look out the window, they’d hardly have been able to
recognise her.

Earlier, Frank had shown her his collection of books – rather haphazardly arranged on shelves in his sitting room, but interesting nonetheless. She commented on a few titles that sounded
interesting, and he insisted on lending them to her. As he was packing them into a brown paper bag, Cecily’s attention was caught by a framed photo on the mantelpiece beside the
bookshelves.

‘Was this your wife?’ She was dark, and almost the same height as a younger Frank, arm linked into his, leaning slightly into him. Her other hand was raised to hold windblown hair
away from her eyes.

Frank looked up from the bag and nodded briefly. ‘That was about ten years ago.’

Cecily’s gaze wandered to another framed photo, slightly smaller, yellowing with age. A boy of about ten or eleven held a little girl – eight? nine? – by the hand and beamed
into the camera. She wondered if they were Frank’s children: the daughter who had died and the son he had lost contact with. Better not to mention them – it might upset the evening. She
looked more closely at the boy. Yes, definitely Frank’s son; a strong resemblance there, the same chin, and eyes . . .

‘Right; just time for a drink before dinner. Gin and tonic, I presume?’

She turned, smiled. ‘Lovely.’

He served chicken fillets with a delicious buttery sauce, and stuffed tomatoes. When she complimented him, he admitted that his repertoire was extremely limited. ‘Chicken or chops in the
oven, wrapped in tinfoil, or a bit of grilled fish – that’s about the extent of my culinary expertise. The sauce was the only one I ever mastered, so I serve it with just about
everything.’ Over cheese and grapes – another thoughtful touch; he knew she never bothered with dessert – they talked about gardens. She described her patio and shrubbery to
him.

‘I’m afraid I’m not very imaginative; maybe I could get you to have a look at it sometime?’ She was cross with herself for how shy she suddenly felt; for goodness’
sake, you’d think she was inviting him into her bedroom, instead of looking for a few names of shrubs.

He smiled, nodded. ‘I’d be delighted.’

He told her about the orchard they’d had beside their house just outside Sligo. ‘My father planted it when he built the house, apple and pear trees. It was great for the kids when
they were growing up.’

Except that his daughter had never grown up. The first time he’d mentioned his children since that day in the café, when she’d felt trapped with him as he told her his story.
She cut a piece of brie and wondered whether to pursue the topic – she would have liked to ask about his son – but then she decided that it was none of her business. If Frank wanted to
tell her, he would.

Later, they counted down to midnight, and wished each other a Happy New Year, and Frank leant across and gave Cecily a chaste kiss on the cheek.

And just for a second, she felt disappointed. How ridiculous.

‘Happy New Year, Andrew.’ Laura hugged her brother tightly. ‘Let’s hope it’s a good one.’

‘Without any fear.’ Andrew hugged her back. ‘Are you all right?’ he said into her ear. ‘You’ve been very quiet all night.’

‘Fine.’ She hadn’t time to say any more before she felt someone’s hands around her waist, pulling her gently from Andrew’s embrace.

‘Give me back my wife.’ Donal turned her towards him and held her close. Andrew went to the stereo.

‘You OK?’ Donal spoke softly into her hair.

Why was everyone asking if she was OK? She pulled gently out of his embrace and gave him a bright smile. ‘Fine – just a bit dry.’ She held out her empty champagne glass.
‘Fill her up please, chef.’

‘Bottle’s in the fridge.’ Donal gave her a funny look before leaving the room. Laura shrugged; he was probably wondering if she’d make a fool of herself after too much
bubbly. Burst out crying and tell Ruth and Andrew how much she wanted a baby. As if.

She turned back to her brother. ‘Andrew, how did you escape from Mother tonight? I thought she’d have nabbed you and Ruth for a polite glass of champagne.’

Andrew shrugged, riffling through Laura and Donal’s CD collection. ‘I thought so too, but the last time I was talking to her, she mentioned she had plans.’

‘Mother had plans on New Year’s Eve?’ Laura looked incredulous. ‘What kind of plans could she have?’

Andrew shrugged again. ‘Haven’t a clue; she didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.’ He considered. ‘Maybe some of her book-club buddies were going lap
dancing.’

From her armchair, Ruth giggled: she’d definitely had too much champagne; her cheeks were flushed and the line of blue she’d drawn under her eyes – not a colour Laura would
have chosen for her – was smudged slightly on one side. ‘Or maybe she has a secret lover.’ As soon as the words were out, Ruth put a hand to her mouth and giggled again.

Laura burst out laughing. ‘Doubt it; can you see my mother in a hotel room in the middle of the afternoon with a balding elderly gentleman?’

Donal came in and filled Laura’s glass, then looked at the two giggling women. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing; just some female rubbish.’ Andrew held out his glass. ‘Am I allowed some more?’

‘Coming up.’ Donal poured champagne into Andrew’s glass.

Ruth turned to Laura. ‘My husband is not amused.’ She stood and walked unsteadily over to Andrew. ‘Darling, are you not amused?’ Her words had begun to slur very
slightly. She chucked him under his chin. Laura watched her brother for his reaction. Ruth was definitely a bit more fun after a few glasses of not very expensive champagne, but Andrew had never
enjoyed being teased.

He brushed Ruth’s hand away. ‘You’re pissed, woman; go and sit down.’ He said it mildly, with just the barest trace of annoyance, but Ruth’s smile faded; she
suddenly looked like she might cry.

‘Andrew, lighten up – we were only joking.’ Laura swallowed a mouthful of champagne, thinking:
He’s probably annoyed at having his precious mother made the butt of
our joke; pity about him.
She turned to Ruth; time to come to the rescue, as usual. ‘I was hoping Breffni and Cian would make it in tonight, but Polly’s running a temperature;
Breffni didn’t want to leave her.’