Putting Out the Stars (43 page)

‘How’re you feeling?’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

She made a face. ‘Like an elephant who’s been bingeing for about seven months.’

He grinned. ‘Poor you. Not long to go now.’

‘Thank God. The sooner he’s out, the better.’ They’d asked and been told that it was a boy.

‘Right, I’m off for Poll. D’you need anything when I’m out?’ There was a little Spar near Mary’s house.

Breffni shook her head. ‘No, we’re OK till tomorrow.’ Cian had been doing the weekly shop on his way home from work for the past month or so, since Breffni had become too
exhausted to consider it.

As she heard the front door slam behind him – why could he never close a door quietly? – Breffni thrust her feet into her slippers and padded slowly towards the kitchen, wincing
slightly as she felt an enthusiastic kick.
Steady, buster.

She turned the oven up a little, started to lay the table for their dinner. No wine – Cian had assured her that he wasn’t pushed whether they had some or not, and she couldn’t
face even one glass these days.

He was so thoughtful really. Even after everything, still so attentive to her, so considerate. Listening, not interrupting, as she’d told him about Andrew – almost as if he’d
been expecting it. And after, not a word of reproach. Asking her what she wanted to do. What
she
wanted to do.

She’d looked at him, the tears drying on her face. ‘Well, I . . . I assumed that you’d want me to leave.’ Suddenly realising that that was the last thing
she
wanted. Hardly believing when he replied that he’d really prefer if she stayed – if she wanted to stay with him. If it really was over between Andrew and herself. And she’d wept
again as she’d promised that it was.

And then, Cian answering every phone call until Andrew tried again, and the low conversation in the hall that seemed to go on for a long time, but that probably hadn’t. He’d never
told her what had been said, and she’d never asked, and Andrew hadn’t phoned again.

And after a few months had gone by, and she was still struggling with her guilt, and still discovering what she’d so nearly thrown away, she’d nervously suggested that they have
another baby.

Of course she’d lost Laura. That was the worst of all. She’d been afraid to ring her for the longest time, and then one day she’d plucked up her courage and called her mobile,
and Laura had listened without comment to Breffni’s stuttered apologies, and declined politely when Breffni had suggested that they meet, saying sorry, that she was extremely busy with work.
And when Breffni had taken a deep breath and asked how the fertility treatment was going, Laura had paused before answering, ‘I really don’t think that’s any of your
business’, and hanging up.

And Breffni had thought how like Cecily she sounded.

She was still grieving for Laura when her mother told her about Andrew’s move back to his mother’s house.

‘Of course I didn’t hear it from Cecily – that woman would hardly give you the time of day. But his car is there all the time, and there’s no sign of the wife. So sad;
that marriage lasted no time. I’m sure Cecily is pleased to have Andrew back though – they were always very close. Didn’t you two have a thing for a while when you were
teenagers?’

Breffni heard the front door again, and Polly’s quick patter towards the kitchen. ‘Mum?’

‘Hi there.’ She stooped carefully towards her daughter and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. ‘How’s Granny Mary?’

Polly pulled off her summer jacket and handed it to Cian, who hung it on the back of the door. ‘Fine. We made scones, an’ I had two.’

And Cian sat at the table and propped his chin in his hand and watched the light of his life as she chattered with Breffni, and didn’t think beyond the fact that she was
still with him now.

‘More coffee, darling?’ Cecily stood with the cafetière poised.

Andrew shook his head briefly. ‘No thanks.’
She knows I never have more than one cup, and every night she still asks if I want another.
He rustled his newspaper, hoping
she’d take the hint and go back to her book.

‘Don’t forget, Laura’s at eight, if you want to change.’

Right, so she doesn’t consider what I’m wearing suitable. Hear you loud and clear, Mother.
‘Mm-hmm.’ He thought again about seeing Breffni on the street last
month. As beautiful as ever, blooming with pregnancy. Holding Polly by the hand, looking in the window of a toy shop. Pointing to something in the window, turning to Polly with a smile.

He wondered if she was having a boy or a girl.

‘You’re going to see Gerard next week, aren’t you?’

He sighed loudly, lowered the paper just enough to look over it at her. ‘Yes, as usual.’ She knew he went once a month, for God’s sake.

Cecily lowered the cafetière carefully onto its stand, picked up her book, settled herself back down into her armchair again. ‘I was wondering if I might go with you this
time.’ She smiled brightly at him.

Lord, that was all he needed. As if his visits weren’t hard enough. He folded the paper slowly. ‘I’m not sure that that would be a good idea, Mother – not right now. Ruth
is still . . .’ What? Ruth was still what? Still the sweet little creature he’d married? Not a bit of it. ‘Look, leave it another while; I’ll talk to Ruth. She might let me
bring him down here for a night when he’s a bit older. At the moment she’s still . . . a bit mixed up about everything.’

He saw the quick disappointment, the way she managed to replace it just as rapidly with the same bright smile. She’d just have to wait, that was all; the last thing he needed was Cecily
witnessing his treatment at the hands of Ruth. So cold, so aloof when they met, not even a cup of tea offered, or a drink, in that cramped little flat. No pleasant conversation, no how are you,
how’s life in Limerick.

Which was a bit much, when you thought about it. He’d offered to stand by her and Gerard, after all. Do the decent thing – wasn’t that what it was called? – that awful
night when he’d been so honest with her and come clean about everything.

And it wasn’t as if Ruth knew about the unpleasant phone conversation with Cian the night before, threatening all sorts if Andrew ever tried to make contact with Breffni again. As far as
Ruth was concerned, her husband was confessing his crime and attempting to make amends, end of story.

But Lord, that awful scene, flinging him out of the house, going running back to her parents the very next day, leaving Andrew looking like the big bad wolf. And then insisting that he sell the
house – not that they hadn’t made a fair profit; house prices were still climbing steadily in Limerick. But by the time he’d paid off the mortgage, given Ruth her half, and sorted
out child support – a surprisingly large amount, it seemed to him – there wasn’t a whole lot left over. Certainly not enough for him to consider buying someplace else, not just
yet.

So he was back with Mother, for the time being. And of course it was fine – she’d always looked after him so well. And in time, he’d start looking at places in town – a
small apartment maybe, on the river. But there was no hurry. For the moment he was fine where he was; almost as if he’d never left sometimes. Funny that Mother had never really questioned his
abrupt return to the house; had accepted his tale of Ruth suddenly deciding that she couldn’t settle in Limerick, that she wasn’t happy with him.

Funny that Mother never seemed curious about his future either, never asked him what he planned to do. Which was just as well really, as he didn’t know himself. Play it by ear, that was
the best thing. No hurry.

Would be nice to have a bit of time to himself though, now and again. Since she’d given up the book club, Mother rarely went out in the evenings. Maybe he’d suggest that she give
that friend of hers a call – what was her name again? – and go to a play or a concert sometime.

Maybe he’d get two tickets and present them to her; she’d have to go then.

Cecily watched him over the top of her book. Such a handsome boy still, despite all that he’d had to go through this last year. Who could have possibly imagined that Ruth
would turn out to be so headstrong, so demanding, so unforgiving? Surely a wife should be able to overlook her husband’s weaknesses, put that sort of thing behind her and soldier on? No one
had ever said that marriage was a bed of roses, for goodness’ sake. Women these days didn’t know when they were well off – if Ruth had pulled herself together, instead of running
back to Dublin like a hysterical ninny, she would have realised which side her bread was buttered on. How many women would give their eyeteeth to have Andrew? On reflection, Cecily decided that
they were better off without her: silly creature.

But the yearning to see her grandson had taken her completely by surprise. Ruth had sent photos when he was born, and Cecily’s eyes had filled with tears as she looked down at the tiny
creature. Her flesh and blood, Andrew’s son . . . she found herself thinking about him often in the months that followed, wondering what stage he was at, if he was sleeping through the night,
whether he’d started teething. She’d sent a card to Ruth, which she’d known wouldn’t be acknowledged. And now Andrew seemed against the idea of her going with him to visit
Gerard, which Cecily could half-understand, given Ruth’s ridiculous attitude, but still resented. What a tragedy that she, Cecily, the innocent party, was being denied the pleasure of seeing
her only grandson grow up.

And as much as she loved her other grandchild, it didn’t make her loss of Gerard any less painful . . . Cecily thought about the evening ahead at Laura’s, about seeing Frank again.
She’d been horrified to discover that he was Laura’s father-in-law; stunned when Laura had told her. Somehow, the whole business seemed sordid – humiliating in some way. So of
course Cecily had cut ties with Frank: impossible for them to keep meeting like before.

And naturally Frank had respected her wishes, hadn’t tried to contact her again. They’d already met a few times at Laura and Donal’s, in fact, and Frank had behaved impeccably,
chatting pleasantly as if he and Cecily were simply casual acquaintances. And if she felt a pang when she remembered their evenings out, those very pleasant dinners together, well, that would pass
in time. And who knew? Maybe in the future they could . . . well, it would be perfectly acceptable for them to share an evening together now and again, wouldn’t it? Just as friends, of
course. Perfectly respectable.

Especially now that she had given up the book club too – imagine Emily’s glee when she discovered that Andrew’s marriage had finished. Oh, she would have been all sympathy to
Cecily’s face, but think of the whispers behind her back . . . No, it was entirely out of the question to put herself through that humiliation. This Thursday the club would be meeting –
perhaps she and Andrew could go to see a film instead; he rarely went out these days. Yes, that might be a good idea.

‘Darling,’ she said.

He counted to three, slowly, before looking up.