Putting Out the Stars (4 page)

Reading Breffni’s letters, Laura could see the charming, litter-strewn city again. She could smell the spices wafting from the ethnic restaurants on Mission Street and see the teenage
Mexicans gathered on the corners in their baggy pants and hoodies, even on the hottest days, whistling and calling to the passing females.

She could see herself on top of a hilly street at night, looking down at the city lights surrounding the bay. She could close her eyes and wander through Golden Gate Park in the sunshine,
catching snatches of an open-air jazz concert or hearing the
thwack
of a baseball against a bat. She could jog along the path by Ocean Beach and smell the sea, more often than not
surrounded by the fog that was one of the many quirks of San Francisco. She could walk through streets of pastel-coloured wooden houses and pass beggars wrapped in filthy blankets outside chic
little coffee shops and boutiques.

The summer after Breffni went back to San Francisco, Laura took out a bank loan and flew over to join her for a month. She stayed a week in the tiny two-roomed apartment on Lexington Street that
Breffni shared with another Irish girl, and then they hired a car and drove across to Yosemite National Park, where they hiked through forests of gigantic redwoods and sat by waterfalls to feel the
spray cooling their hot faces.

Back in San Francisco, they went out to dinner with Breffni’s cousins and their friends, and the day before Laura flew back to Ireland, they had a picnic on the same beach where
they’d eaten barbecued salmon two years before.

That autumn, Donal walked into The White House on a night Laura was working there, and the next time she and Breffni met was a year later in Rome, where Laura and Donal went to get married.

Laura phoned Breffni in San Francisco after she got engaged. ‘You’re bridesmaid, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ Breffni might have been in the house down the road, her voice was so clear. ‘Laur, I’m thrilled. But it’s kinda quick, isn’t it? You
haven’t known him that long.’

Laura thought of Donal and closed her eyes to relish the deep happiness that flooded through her. ‘Long enough to know that he’s the one.’

‘Gee, you sound so sure. Tell me again what he’s like.’

‘Gorgeous: you’d love him, dark hair like your Andy Garcia, beautiful smile, very funny. I’ll send a photo. And guess what – he’s a chef, so I’ll never have
to cook.’

‘Hmm – very important consideration when you’re choosing your life partner. And what do the folks think of him?’

Laura groaned. ‘God, I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up. Of course Dad is delighted, over the moon.
She
totally disapproves, thinks he’s too old.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot about the age difference.’

‘It’s only fifteen years; it’s nothing.’

‘You’re right – that’s nothing; old enough to be interesting, not too old to be past it.’

Laura closed her eyes again, smiling. ‘You can say that again; he knows what he’s at in that department.’

Breffni laughed. ‘You lucky woman; hang on to him, don’t mind Mother. I’ve just met someone too actually; I was going to write and tell you.’

‘Hey Bref, that’s great; what’s he like?’

‘Lovely. No oil painting, but lovely and comfortable to be with, you know? His name’s Cian.’

And Laura, who’d been about to ask Breffni if she’d be OK meeting Andrew at the wedding, decided to say nothing. She did wonder, though, if there would be any awkwardness when they
came face to face for the first time since the break-up. It was a few years ago, but still . . . was there a danger of something starting up again, being rekindled in the heady Roman air? Andrew
was unattached, as far as Laura knew; and it sounded like very early days with this new man, Cian. Could Breffni really be so foolish as to risk fresh heartbreak? Laura was fairly certain that
Cecily wouldn’t have changed her mind about Breffni’s suitability for her darling Andrew. She’d got rid of Breffni once before – she could certainly do it again.

But Laura needn’t have worried; there seemed to be no awkwardness when Andrew and Breffni met in the hotel lobby, the evening before the wedding.

‘Hey you.’ Andrew gave Breffni a mock punch in the arm. ‘How’s the States treating you?’

‘Fine, just fine.’ Breffni beamed back at him. ‘And you? Still stuck behind a desk in boring old Limerick?’ She winked at Laura, looking totally relaxed.

Andrew grinned. ‘Limerick suits me fine, thanks – no mosquitoes, no earthquakes . . . I’m quite happy.’

‘Hmmm . . . I’m not convinced.’ She jerked a thumb in Donal’s direction. ‘And what do you think of your future brother-in-law?’

And then the elevator doors opened and Brian and Cecily appeared, and they had hardly any time to themselves after that. But it was enough to convince Laura that whatever had been there between
them was a thing of the past. Maybe this Cian was more important than Breffni had been letting on; Laura would find out later.

After the wedding ceremony in a little Pallotine church in the Piazza San Silvestro, the small group had champagne and pasta in a chic little restaurant run by Polish nuns. Laura was radiant in
simple cream raw silk that stopped just above her ankles; Breffni turned heads in a short, deep-coral shift dress. Cecily was politely distant in pale blue linen. Donal the groom, Tom his best man,
Andrew, and Laura’s father Brian, who was to fall off a ladder and break his neck only two years later, all wore light grey suits. Apart from Tom, there were no guests on the groom’s
side: Donal’s parents hadn’t come, and he had no other family close enough to drag all the way to Rome.

And now it was seven years later, and Breffni had moved back home two years ago with Cian at her side, and Polly had arrived a few months after that. And Laura was godmother to Polly, and got on
well with Cian, and was married to the man she adored, and enjoyed her work most of the time.

And every so often, she managed to forget the one thing that stopped her from being completely content.

‘Only me.’

In the sitting room, Breffni pressed the off button on the TV remote control and smiled. Cian’s predictability was one of the things that had decided her, after a few disastrous
roller-coaster romances, that he was the one she needed to make a life with. She couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t let himself into the house with those words:
only
me.

‘Hi – in here.’ She stood and walked towards the door and met him as he came through, shaking off his jacket. He looked tired; she’d run him a bath after dinner. She
leant her head briefly against his chest, pressed her palms into his back, felt the solid bulk of him. He smelt of mint, and the fabric softener she dolloped into the washing. ‘Mmmm. Miss
me?’

‘But of course.’ He dropped a kiss on her blue-black hair. ‘How’s the patient?’

‘Ex-patient – totally back to normal. Sang in the bath, demanded two stories in bed.’

He smiled what Breffni called his Polly smile, his whole round face seeming to blur around the edges. ‘Is she gone up long?’

Breffni shook her head against his shoulder, dropped her arms. ‘She’ll still be awake, just about – and dinner’s in ten minutes.’

‘Thanks, love.’ He turned and headed for the door, and she stood and followed the muffled thud of his steps up the stairs and across the landing to Polly’s room.

In the kitchen she lit the stub of red candle that sat in an eggcup in the middle of the oval table. They always ate in here, even when they had visitors. The cottage didn’t have a dining
room, just a biggish kitchen and a slightly smaller sitting room downstairs.

In winter they practically lived in the kitchen, firing up the wood stove and settling down with their books and mugs of tea into the battered old couch they’d inherited with the house. It
had been left in the sitting room, but they shoved it into the kitchen to make room for the pair of two-seaters and wooden rocking chair they’d bought. They planned to fire it onto the skip
they were waiting for, but somehow it had never made it past the corner near the stove.

It was worn and a bit lumpy, and the cover was threadbare in places, and Breffni would never have chosen a sofa covered in blue and green check, but there was something extremely cosy about
collapsing into its depths after a day at work. When they decided to keep it, she bought a big, woolly, dark blue throw and three fat, cherry-red cushions, and hung on to the receipts for a week
until she was sure they all worked.

Now, when the weather got wintry and everyone complained about the shorter days, she knew it was only a matter of time before they gravitated towards the kitchen and the long, cosy nights by the
stove. Who needed a life full of excitement anyway? That kind of thing only happened on telly, didn’t it? What she and Cian had was worth so much more. And so what if he didn’t make the
earth move, if he wasn’t exactly Brad Pitt? Breffni was willing to bet that Jennifer Aniston never stopped worrying about how to hang on to him. No, she and Cian were the lucky ones –
secure, settled, relaxed with each other. That was what counted – having someone you knew would always be there, no matter what.

Listen to her – she sounded like Granny Mary. She smiled as she put out cutlery and glasses, and thought:
I must ask her if she can babysit on Thursday night.
She took a bottle of
Chardonnay from the fridge and left it on the worktop – that’d go fine with the beef curry. She’d never gone along with that nonsense about matching red wine with red meat, and
Cian wasn’t a bit fussy either.

As she lifted the saucepan lid and gave the curry a last stir, she imagined Cecily’s horror at the thought of serving white wine with beef. She thought of Andrew’s new wife –
what was her name again? – having to live with her mother-in-law. Cecily was harmless enough really, but the notion of sharing a home with her was pretty intimidating – all that best
flowery china and Waterford crystal, having to say excuse me when all you did was cough, using a special little fork to eat a slice of cake, for God’s sake. Breffni pictured Cian’s face
if she handed him a fork with his cake – he’d get a great laugh, before he picked up the slice and took a big bite out of it.

She was tipping the rice into a warm bowl as he came into the kitchen, sniffing the air. ‘Mmm – smells fantastic.’ She smiled at him. Such a pet – he loved his food, was
always so appreciative – and God knew she’d had her share of culinary disasters since they started living together. She remembered two thick fish cutlets that were beautifully grilled
on the outside and still perfectly raw in the middle, leathery omelettes, lumpy or cement-thick sauces, and one unforgettable dried-out roast chicken complete with giblets. She was still no Delia
Smith, but at least she’d managed not to poison him while she was getting the hang of a few recipes. Poor Cian.

He went to the sink and washed his hands. ‘Did you manage much work today?’

She nodded. ‘Finished it, finally. I’ll send it off tomorrow.’ She freelanced as a proofreader for a few businesses, including a medium-sized publishing house based in the
midlands. When they’d moved back from San Francisco, and Cian was hunting around for an accountancy job, Breffni had got a call from her mother one day.

‘I’ve some work for you, pet – nice and easy, just up your alley.’

Breffni was half-amused, half-indignant. ‘Ma, I’m not looking for work – have you forgotten I’m heavily pregnant? This is my – what do they call it? – my
confinement. I have to take things easy.’

Her mother’s snort came clearly down the line. ‘Confinement, my foot; you sound like something out of Jane Austen. You’re not even five months gone, and you’re hardly
showing. You’re not sick, your ankles aren’t swollen, you haven’t even got any food cravings.’

‘I like Smarties and salt-and-vinegar Taytos together.’

‘You’ve liked that since you were nine. And have you forgotten, my girl, that you’ve no money coming in, and a baby on the way? Cian hasn’t found a job yet, has
he?’

‘Well no, but he has –’

Her mother sailed on. ‘So you’ve a baby coming and nobody earning. And I know you brought a bit of money home with you from America, but it’ll go fast over here – you
must have noticed how dear everything has got since you left.’

Breffni had to admit the truth of that. ‘But Ma, I can’t start a job now – not when I’d be looking for maternity leave so soon.’

‘Ah, but it’s not a job like that – it’s just a bit of reading really. You know how you always loved English at school? You were great at spellings and grammar and things
like that.’

‘Well, I suppose I liked it, but –’

‘So you know Orla Keyes’ daughter Rebecca – the middle girl – is in her final year in UCG?’ Orla and Breffni’s mother had been close friends for years.
‘She’s just finished her thesis and needs someone to go though it, tidy it up a bit. I told Orla you might have a look at it. And they’d pay; she said they’d insist on
paying.’

Breffni didn’t want to admit that it did sound tempting – something she could do at home, in her own time. ‘What’s the subject?’

‘No idea – give her a ring and find out. Here’s her number.’