Putting Out the Stars (36 page)

‘Laur? Glass of red?’ Donal’s voice floated in, on top of a spicy smell that was making her mouth water. He was doing his own take on a creamy mushroom
stroganoff, full of spinach and paprika and toasted flaked almonds, and chunks of strong red onions. She loved when he ignored the cookbooks and went with his instincts – so far, they
hadn’t failed him.

She dropped her brush into the pot of green-grey water and picked up a rag. She thought she’d heard the sound of a bottle popping open a while ago; and a glass of full-bodied red would go
down a treat right now. ‘Mmm, yes please.’ Just one more day should finish it; thank goodness she’d made this last deadline – she knew she wouldn’t have got any more
time. It had meant working all hours, bringing stuff home to do in the evenings, which she usually tried to avoid, but it would be worth it.

Donal was being brilliant; insisted on doing all the cooking so she could concentrate on the illustrations. Washed up too, wouldn’t hear of her lending a hand. She thought again of how
close they’d come to disaster, and shuddered. Never again. Whatever happened, she’d never again jeopardise what they had together.

Her period was due any day now. She smiled at the thought that she was actually looking forward to it, instead of hoping against hope that it wouldn’t arrive. But this time was different;
the sooner it started, the sooner they could start calculating, and working towards her first treatment.

‘Half an hour to dinner; hope you’re hungry.’ Donal put a glass of wine on her desk, well away from the paraphernalia, and looked at the almost-completed illustration in front
of her. ‘That’s great.’

She dug him gently in the ribs. ‘You always say that.’

He caught her hand and pulled it around his waist. ‘That’s because it’s always great.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Half an hour, I said.’

‘It smells fantastic.’ She pulled her hand back and reached for the glass, sipped at the wine. ‘Mmm, that’s nice.’ Then she took the brush out of the water, picked
up a tube of yellow paint.

‘That’s thirty minutes we have to wait.’ He was still standing beside her. ‘Everything’s cooking away, no need to keep an eye on it.’

Keeping her eyes on her page, she began to smile slowly. ‘OK, fine.’ She squeezed half an inch of yellow onto her saucer, dipped the brush in, swirled it around.

He began to massage the back of her neck gently with one hand. ‘Yessir, thirty whole minutes. Nothing to do but wait.’ His voice was slow, almost a murmur. He placed his own glass
next to hers and began kneading the sides of her neck with both hands. They felt warm and strong; she turned her head slightly to accommodate his touch. ‘Just wait, that’s all.’
He started to whistle along under his breath to the Coldplay CD on the stereo.

She laughed softly, dabbing yellow into the little girl’s dress. ‘Donal O’Connor, I’m busy here.’ But she didn’t want him to stop – she could feel her
muscles relaxing deliciously.

‘I know.’ He stroked out towards her shoulders now, thumbs circling steadily. ‘You just carry on; don’t mind me.’ Lazy circles, all around her shoulder blades. She
breathed deeply, relishing the sensation.

‘I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.’ She arched her back slightly, allowing him to knead more deeply. ‘You’re not going to distract me.’ She
added yellow dots carefully to the ribbon in the girl’s hair.

‘Me? Distract you? I’ve no intention of it.’ He brought his hands back to the base of her skull and began kneading deeply up under her hairline. Slow, lazy circles.

She took another deep breath, dipped her brush back into the water. ‘Stop it.’ But she was still smiling, her head dropping slightly as he pressed up under her hair in a slow steady
rhythm.

‘Stop what?’ He pushed her hair to one side, then bent and put his mouth to the top of her neck, one hand still massaging her skull. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She felt his tongue lightly on her skin; his free hand dropped down, crept around her waist, began to inch up under her top. His breath was hot on her neck. ‘You just carry on –
don’t let me disturb you.’

She dropped the rag she was holding. ‘Oh God, OK, OK, I give up.’ She stood and turned around to him, laughing. ‘You’re insatiable.’

‘And you’re so easy.’ He pulled her after him, towards the couch. ‘Now, we’ve got twenty-five minutes left; let’s see what we can do.’

‘I’m home.’

Polly looked up, dropped her Lego with a clatter, and slid off her chair. ‘Mama.’ She toddled rapidly towards the kitchen door as Breffni came in and scooped her up.

‘Hi Pollywolly. I missed you.’ She buried her face in the blond curls, and Polly giggled, squirming. ‘Tickle.’

‘Down you go; make me something nice with your Lego.’ Breffni deposited her back on a chair. ‘Hi, Mary – everything go OK?’

‘Fine; but you look tired. Sit down and I’ll get us a cuppa.’ Mary filled the kettle and lit the gas under it.

Breffni stayed standing, watching Polly’s attempts to build a Lego tower. ‘We had a late night – I stayed talking with Mam till all hours.’

‘How’s your Dad?’

‘Fine, really. I was glad to find him as good as I did; the way Mam was talking, I thought he’d be worse. But he was up out of bed when I arrived, talking away.’

Mary smiled. ‘That’s great; he’s on the mend so.’

Breffni nodded. ‘Yeah. He had a fine tea as well, so the appetite is coming back.’

‘Good.’

Breffni turned towards the hall. ‘I’d better just give Cian a call, tell him I’m back.’

When the door had closed behind her, Mary put two cups and a jug of milk on the table, then opened the press where the biscuits were kept. Breffni was looking a lot more contented this morning;
maybe all she’d needed was a good chat with her Mam. She should go and see her more often, if it cheered her up.

Breffni came back in from the hall and beamed at her. ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ She sat beside Polly and picked up a Lego piece. ‘Now, let’s see what we can make
here.’

When the phone on his desk rang, he knew it was her. His heart leapt.

‘Hello?’

‘Andrew, I’ve got your wife on the line.’ Disappointment flooded his body. As he waited for Ruth’s voice, his grip tightened on the receiver.
Pull yourself
together.

‘Andrew?’

He made a supreme effort to sound cheery. ‘Hi, darling – you’re back then.’

‘Yeah; I just got in the door.’

‘Well, did you enjoy it?’

Her voice was enthusiastic. ‘It was great; and the others loved it too. Thanks so much, darling.’ There was a pause, then she asked, ‘What time are you going to be
home?’

An image of Breffni lying naked beside him the night before flashed into his head. Tonight he would be making small talk with Ruth. ‘Not sure . . . about six, I’d say.’

‘OK – I’ll aim for dinner at seven then. Will you bring a bottle of wine?’

Funny – she didn’t usually look for wine in the middle of the week. ‘If you like, yeah. Red or white?’

‘Red, please. That nice South African one we had at your mother’s the other day, if you can get it.’

‘OK . . . see you later then.’

After he hung up, he dropped his head into his hands and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eye sockets. If anyone saw him, they’d assume he was taking a break from the
screen; they all did that every now and again.

And she was there in the darkness, smiling at him. Bewitching him. All his senses responded; he could smell her, taste her. Stroke her perfect skin. His own skin rose with goose pimples at the
memory of the night. At the sound, still echoing in his head, of her whispering ‘I love you’ for the very first time.

And at his grateful promise, in response, to leave Ruth for her.

How long had Cecily been standing there? If anyone saw her, gazing through the window, they’d probably assume that she was thinking about the garden, maybe searching for
the first petunia bud in the window box. Or wondering if she should prune the shrubs now, or leave them alone till later. No one would guess that she didn’t even see the garden –
wasn’t remotely interested in what was happening out there. It could have shrivelled up and died for all she cared.

She wondered if Frank had noticed anything. He’d probably been slightly surprised when she told him, after he’d practically finished his slice of lemon cheesecake, that she’d
changed her mind – she would like a glass of wine, after all. It must have sounded a little peculiar to him: she never had wine on their nights out – it wouldn’t have felt right,
with Frank not taking a drink – and ordering a glass of wine when she’d already finished her meal was certainly not the done thing. But it was the only thing she could think of that
would delay their leaving. Frank knew she never had tea or coffee that late at night, except for herbal tea, which the hotel didn’t provide. And at all costs they mustn’t leave the
table; she couldn’t face them, not until she had decided how to cope with this shocking discovery.

So she and Frank sat on, presumably having some kind of conversation, although if her life depended on it now, she wouldn’t be able to recall a single word. While she had attempted –
she must have attempted – to behave with a semblance of normality, her thoughts were racing: questions were whirling around in her head.
When did it begin again? Am I the only one who
knows about it? And what in heaven’s name can I do about it this time?

She watched them finally leave the table – mercifully, they hadn’t lingered – and she watched Andrew’s hand reach out and pull Breffni close to him as they walked from
the restaurant. When Cecily and Frank left some time later – she’d drawn her glass of wine out as long as she possibly could – there was no sign of Andrew and . . . that
creature.

Cecily’s mouth curled now at the thought of Breffni. Her daughter’s best friend from the time they could walk, playing in each other’s gardens, going off to school – and
later town – together, disappearing upstairs when they were older, to laugh at Cecily behind her back, you could be sure. Cecily had never trusted that lady, all innocent smiles and flicking
her hair back and ‘
Yes, Mrs O’Neill
’ when you met her, but Cecily had seen her, giggling with Laura at the carefully planned birthday parties, ridiculing her neat little
sandwiches, mimicking Cecily’s polite way of eating when they thought she wasn’t looking. Oh yes, Cecily had known girls like that when she was young – smart madams who thought
they were entitled to whatever they wanted. Hussies who could charm the birds off the trees with a bat of their eyelashes, who imagined the rest of the world existed for their amusement.

Oh yes, Cecily knew the type.

And then, when Laura and her smart-alec friend began to go to the tennis club hops – what rows
that
had caused between Cecily and Brian – it wasn’t long before a
string of young fellows started turning up, sniffing around Laura’s friend like cats in heat, walking her home at some ungodly hour. Cecily had seen her passing the house, wrapped around some
spotty boy, giggling like an imbecile, allowing him to grope her when they stopped at the gate – disgusting. Laura, of course, would have been home at a reasonable hour – Cecily had
managed to ensure that, at least – but there seemed to be no such curfew in the other house.