Putting Out the Stars (30 page)

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’ His head and one palm rested on her stomach; she felt the words as well as heard them. ‘I wondered if you’d
change your mind.’

Her hand twined through his hair. ‘I thought about it . . .’ She sighed deeply, and his head rose and fell again. ‘But the thought of finishing it was . . . just not something
I . . . but I wish it didn’t have to be like this – it makes me feel so . . .’ He waited, then he heard her breath catching. He lifted his head, moved up until his face was
touching hers; her cheeks felt hot and wet under his. He kissed her eyelids, stroked her face from forehead to chin, wiped at the tears with his thumbs, whispered against her mouth.

‘Shh . . . don’t . . . don’t be sad . . . you make me so happy . . . shh . . . my love . . . don’t cry, please don’t cry . . . how can it be wrong, when it makes us
feel like this? We’ll never tell, no one ever needs to know.’ And as he spoke, as he said all the things he knew she had to keep hearing, she closed her eyes and lifted her hand to
cradle his head, and after a while her tears stopped, and she whispered ‘shhhh’ and he stopped talking.

In the car park, they stood by her open door. A chilly wind was blowing; her dashboard clock showed five past five. He held her hand, pressed it against his side to keep it warm. ‘Can you
get away for a full night, soon?’

She looked at him in the orange light from the street. ‘I don’t know . . . it might be difficult.’

‘Try. I love you.’ He squeezed her hand and then walked rapidly towards his car.

On her way home, she thought about a whole night with him. Falling asleep beside him. Opening her eyes in the dark and reaching out and finding him there, waking him slowly with her hands and
her mouth. She turned the radio up full blast and joined in when Billy Joel sang about an uptown girl.

Her eyes felt tight; when she rubbed them and licked her finger, she tasted salt.

‘Ruth, my dear, that’s wonderful news.’ Frank beamed at her with such obvious delight that Ruth wanted to hug him. She didn’t, of course – what
would the others think?

She contented herself with an answering smile. ‘I know; I’m thrilled. I start on Monday.’

Valerie came over holding a homemade coffee cake, iced and sprinkled with chopped toasted nuts. ‘Look what Dorothy brought; doesn’t it look yummy? And what do you start on
Monday?’

‘My new hairdressing job.’ Ruth took the cake and put it on the table next to a little dish of wrapped sweets.

Valerie’s face lit up. ‘Ruth, that’s great – count me in for a cut and blow dry; I’m long overdue. Where’s the salon?’

‘On the Ennis Road – on the right as you go out from town, just past the school.’

‘Oh I know that place; isn’t that where you go, Mags?’ Valerie turned to Margaret, just approaching with a small bundle of paper napkins. ‘That hairdressers on the Ennis
Road.’

Margaret nodded. ‘Helen’s place, yes. What about it?’

‘Ruth has just got a job there; isn’t that great?’

Ruth stood and listened, and answered questions, and smiled, and nodded. She felt like pinching herself – still couldn’t quite believe that she was going to be working again. Earning
her own money, meeting new people, going off in the morning like everyone else. Mam and Dad had been thrilled when she’d told them, and Andrew had seemed pleased too, when she broke the news
to him – he said they should go out to dinner to celebrate. They’d have gone tonight only it was the book club.

And getting the new job had been so simple. Helen, her new boss, had been lovely when Ruth had walked in off the street, purely on spec; she didn’t seem to mind chatting away to Ruth in
the middle of putting in highlights.

‘Isn’t that a good one – you come looking for work just when I’m wondering where I can find someone. Here, Sal, give those to Ruth –’ she pointed to the foil
strips the junior was holding for her. ‘She can do that while you make us a coffee, and I can give her the third degree. Milk and sugar, Ruth?’ And just like that, Ruth was having her
second job interview in Limerick. As she fed Helen the foil strips, she answered questions about her experiences in Dublin: the kind of training she’d had, the cutting and colouring
techniques she was familiar with, the type of salon she’d worked in.

‘Actually –’ Ruth glanced around her ‘– it was very like this place.’

Helen laughed. ‘What – you mean full of out-of-date mags and old geriatrics like Chris here?’ She pointed her little brush in the direction of the customer she was working on,
who couldn’t have been more than forty.

Chris caught Ruth’s eye in the mirror. ‘Take my advice – get out while you can. I only come in here because I feel sorry for her. And because she’s my
sister-in-law.’

Ruth smiled at her, then turned back to Helen. ‘I mean it was small and local, like this; everyone coming in knew everyone else, practically. And I knew them all too – I’d
grown up close by. I loved it.’

And after a few more questions, Helen had offered to take her on; she was to start on Monday fortnight, when Carol was due to go out on maternity leave.

‘It’ll have to be on a trial basis, just until I’m satisfied that you can provide the goods; but if you’re as experienced as you say you are, I don’t see a problem.
What do you think?’

‘I think that’s great; you won’t be sorry.’ Ruth had practically skipped home, hugging her news to herself. First a new home, now a new job.

All that was missing was a new baby. But that would happen too; she was working on it.

For the past ten minutes, she hadn’t dared to look at Donal. Just kept her eyes fixed on Dr Sloan’s face, watching the gynaecologist’s mouth opening and
closing, searching her expression for clues as to what she was really thinking. The strain of keeping her own face neutral was causing Laura’s whole body to feel rigid; her shoulders ached,
her jaws were clamped together, her hands, so cold, clutched each other tightly in her lap. She wanted to hit something, hard.

She stopped listening to Dr Sloan talking about alternatives and new advances and plenty of options and high success rates. How could they be expected to take anything else in, how on earth
would they ever be able to think logically, behave normally again, after the bombshell that had just been flung at them? Dr Sloan had been as tactful as she could, but every carefully chosen word
had struck Laura with the force of a well-aimed lump hammer.

She forced herself to say it again in her head, feel how it sounded: maybe it wasn’t as bad as she was making it out to be.
Donal’s sperm count is so low as to be practically
non-existent.
She felt her stomach tighten even further; every part of her seemed to be clenched.
Short of a miracle, my husband is never going to make me pregnant. We’ll never have
a child together.
She willed herself to shut up, clutched her hands tighter, wanting to moan out loud. What made it even worse was that there seemed to be no obvious cause – no previous
injury, no heavy drinking, no antidepressants.

‘Nothing that we can point to as the culprit, I’m afraid.’ Dr Sloan’s voice sounded so normal – so . . .
controlled.
As if she was discussing the latest
peace plans in the Middle East, or the rise in prices since the Euro. Not that it mattered really; whatever way she said it, it came down to the same thing – that the only way Laura would
ever get pregnant was with another man’s sperm.

Suddenly Laura couldn’t bear it; couldn’t sit there for another second pretending not to be falling apart. She stood abruptly, almost knocking over her chair, vaguely aware of Donal
looking at her as she turned and fled. Outside, she took huge gulps of air, hanging on to the low railing that bordered the small front garden, feeling her legs like jelly under her.

‘Darling.’ His hands came around her waist from behind, his body pressed tightly against hers. For a second she resisted, then she leant back against him, still breathing in deep,
shuddering breaths. She felt like she’d never get enough air.

‘It’s not the end of the world . . . there are things we can do –’

‘Stop – I can’t. Just stop.’ She pulled away from him and started walking fast, out the gate. ‘I’ll see you at home.’ Her legs, still shaky, propelled
her forward somehow; away from their car, which she’d parked just outside.

She hadn’t a clue where she was going. He didn’t follow her, and she didn’t know how that made her feel.

Frank lowered the menu and took off his glasses. ‘The steak tonight, I think – one of the few dishes I haven’t sampled yet.’ He waited as Cecily closed
her menu. ‘And for you, my dear?’

‘I think I’ll go for the cod again; they do it so well here.’ She watched as he refilled her water glass; she never had wine when they ate out, not wanting to when Frank
didn’t. He filled his own water glass and then lifted it towards her.

‘To our very pleasant nights out; I look forward to them.’

She smiled and raised her glass. Funny, a few weeks ago, she’d have found a remark like that slightly laughable; she’d have scoffed at it. Now, it sounded oddly endearing. Brian
hadn’t been much of a man for compliments, or sweet talk; he’d always been completely silent during their lovemaking. But it had never bothered Cecily; she’d never craved the kind
of talk that she regarded as romantic nonsense – never been that way inclined herself. So it took her by surprise now, how much she enjoyed Frank’s easy way with words. He managed to
make her feel . . . appreciated in some way, without sounding in the least bit corny or sentimental.

She looked forward too to their weekly nights out – always, except for New Year’s Eve, in the same little hotel. They were beginning to be recognised by the waiters; were usually
seated at the same corner table, which afforded them a good view of the main dining area without being easily visible themselves. Not that they were hiding from anyone, of course not. Still, it was
preferable to be . . . discreet. No need to parade their outings, to risk their becoming the talk of the book club.

At the last meeting, Cecily had deliberately seated herself between Emily and Dorothy, with Frank at the far end of Margaret’s big old dining table. For a while, she wondered if he’d
noticed; he chatted animatedly with Ruth when the general discussion had ended. But as she got up to leave, he looked over and smiled a warm farewell.

Tactful. Sensing that she didn’t want their friendship broadcast. On impulse, Cecily reached across the table now and touched Frank’s hand lightly.

‘I look forward to seeing you too.’

And Frank’s face softened as she drew her hand back.