Putting Out the Stars (5 page)

So Breffni had said she’d look into it, knowing that she had no choice really, and she’d been amazed by how much she enjoyed trawling through the hundred-odd pages, pouncing on a
clumsy phrase, tweaking a sentence here, removing a rogue apostrophe there and generally knocking the thesis into pretty good shape. When the surprisingly respectable cheque had arrived a few weeks
later, she’d taken the newly-employed Cian out to dinner and put her idea to him.

‘I checked up on Google, and there are courses in England I could do by post, which would fit in perfectly with the baby. And when I got the qualification, I could work from home, whenever
I had a few hours free.’

He’d nodded, placid as ever. ‘Sounds good – I’d say go for it, if you want it.’

And ten months later she finished the course – Polly’s arrival had stretched the original six-month schedule – and now she was a proper proofreader, with enough of an income to
justify her occasional splurge in Brown Thomas. And the regular bottle of Chardonnay. ‘Will you open the wine, love?’ She put the rice on the table as Cian reached for the corkscrew.
‘How was your day?’

‘Grand, the usual.’ Cian never went into detail about what he did in the firm of Chartered Surveyors, and Breffni never pressed him, quite sure that she wouldn’t understand a
word. On the few occasions that she’d come into contact with his workmates, like the recent retirement do, she got the impression that they weren’t what you’d call a barrel of
laughs. Still, it seemed to suit him – he headed off happily every morning, after kissing her and catching Polly up in his arms and twirling her around till she screamed with delight.

Breffni often marvelled at how little Cian needed to keep him happy – a good dinner, a sunny day, a lie-in at the weekend – any of these seemed to give him as much pleasure as the
iPod Breffni had given him when he’d turned thirty last year, or the helicopter ride they’d taken in the States once. It was another of the qualities that had drawn her to him, this
built-in contentment of his.

She sat opposite him now, picked up her fork. ‘Oh, nearly forgot. Laur phoned, wants to know if we’re free for dinner on Thursday night. You’re not planning to whisk me off to
Paris for a long weekend, are you?’

He smiled. ‘No, that’s next month.’ He poured wine into their glasses. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Andrew and his new bride – can’t remember her name – are back from honeymoon. Laur wants us to meet her: and you’ve never met Andrew either, have you?’

‘That’s Laura’s brother, is it?’

She nodded.

‘No, never met him.’ He spooned a helping of rice onto his plate, added a generous dollop of curry. ‘What’s he like?’

Breffni had never told Cian about her fling with Andrew; what would have been the point? ‘Nice. Charming. Looks a bit like Laura, from what I remember. I haven’t laid eyes on him in
years.’

Not since the wedding in Rome, when she’d been all butterflies on the flight over from the States, thinking about the last time they’d met. Her sitting on the plastic seat in the bus
shelter in Limerick, trying desperately not to cry as he stood with his hands in his pockets beside her and said that he didn’t think it was working out.
Why not
? She’d been
dying to ask. What had changed since the week before, when he’d been walking her home after dinner at his parents’ house – all of fifty yards away – and he’d stopped
halfway between the two houses and leant against a garden wall and pulled her against him and kissed her face all over, and told her softly how beautiful she was? What had happened to change all
that?

And how ridiculous it was to be vaguely disappointed when he’d been so casual in Rome, instead of being relieved that he obviously felt no tension between them. Instead of being glad that
they could be friends now, put all that business behind them. Especially when she was just after meeting Cian, who was so different. So lovely and safe.

Looking across at Cian now, mopping up his curry sauce with a chunk of Naan bread, Breffni wondered if things might be about to change a bit. Knowing Laura, she’d be taking care of her new
sister-in-law, making sure she found her feet in Limerick. Including the newlyweds in nights out, all six of them off together. Possibly expecting Breffni to do her bit too, have Andrew and the
wife over here to dinner whenever Laura and Donal came out.

Which was absolutely fine. She picked up her wine. ‘
Sláinte
.’

‘
Sláinte
.’ He looked at her over the edge of his glass. ‘So what else did you get up to today?’

She took a drink and told him about Polly’s Lego tower.

‘Now, Mags, here’s Cecily to talk to you while I get the tea.’ Valerie waved Cecily ahead of her into the sitting room.

‘Margaret, hello.’ Cecily smiled across the room at a fragile-looking white-haired woman. Poor Margaret’s ten-year battle with arthritis had aged her terribly; a stranger would
have put her at well over eighty, instead of just seventy-three. From her high-backed, fairly solid-looking chair – easier to get out of – she stretched out a tragically
swollen-knuckled hand. ‘Cecily dear, elegant as ever. Isn’t all this rain terrible?’

‘Shocking.’ Cecily dropped her bag and took the outstretched hand in hers. ‘It’s probably not doing you any favours.’

Margaret smiled ruefully as Cecily settled into the chair next to her. ‘Not really, dear, no, but I’m not complaining. I’m lucky to have Valerie so near – she’s a
great help.’ Valerie was Margaret’s niece, a relatively recent addition to the group, and playing hostess tonight for the first time. Margaret leant towards Cecily and lowered her voice
a little. ‘I have the poor girl run off her feet, if the truth be told.’

‘Is that me you’re talking about?’ The door was nudged open and Valerie reappeared with a tray.

Margaret smiled warmly at her. ‘I was telling Cecily how much of a help you are to me, dear. I’d be lost without you.’

‘You would not – didn’t you manage fine before I arrived?’ Valerie began unloading the tray. ‘I hope the others will be able to make it; they said on the radio that
there are floods out around Corbally.’

Cecily saw with relief that they were getting cups and saucers; she’d suspected that Valerie, the youngest member by far of the reading group, might use mugs. Cecily had never in her life
willingly drunk out of a mug, not even a china one. Horrible, clumsy things: suitable only for tradespeople and children. But these cups, while lacking the delicacy of Cecily’s bone china,
were quite acceptable.

The doorbell rang, and Valerie straightened up. ‘Oh good, there’s someone else.’ She put a plate of fruitcake on the table before leaving with the empty tray.

Cecily looked at the cake. Shop bought, probably. She couldn’t see Valerie in an apron surrounded by caster sugar and flour. To be honest, Cecily wasn’t sure that Valerie quite
fitted into the group. For one thing, there was the age difference. All the other members were over sixty; in fact, before the arrival of Valerie, Cecily had been easily the youngest, by at least
three years. Not, of course, that that would have been grounds for refusing entry to Valerie. Indeed not, particularly as she was Margaret’s niece.

When Margaret had tentatively broached the subject of Valerie’s joining them ‘occasionally’, they’d all agreed straightaway – of course they had. It was just
– well, she couldn’t be more than thirty-six or seven; surely she should be mixing with people of her own generation, instead of trying to fit in with a group nearly twice her age?
True, she could talk about the books with the best of them, and the couple she’d recommended had been quite popular. But still . . . .

Cecily became aware of Margaret looking questioningly at her and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, dear, did you say something? I’m afraid I was miles away.’

‘Just wondering how the newlyweds are getting on.’

Cecily had mentioned Andrew’s wedding at the last monthly meeting; reluctant as she usually was to discuss her private life, she never objected to talking about Andrew. She was so proud of
him: such a handsome man, and so charming. Always there for her. Always ready to take her advice on board, if she felt the need to offer it.

Cecily smiled happily at Margaret. ‘The newlyweds are fine; they’re staying with me until their house is ready. Ruth is a lovely girl – you’ll meet her when I’m
hosting. She’s quite a reader herself actually; I was only saying to her –’

At that moment, the door opened again.

‘In you go – I’ll just get the teapot.’ Valerie’s voice was followed by the appearance in the doorway of Dorothy – ‘Hello, ladies’ – and a
man whom Cecily had never seen before.

He smiled at them as Dorothy said, ‘Margaret, Cecily, this is Frank, my new neighbour. He’s just moved here from Sligo and knows nobody yet. I invited him along to sit in
tonight.’ Before either woman could respond, the doorbell rang again. Valerie, just arrived in with the teapot, put it down on the table – ‘Good, that’ll be Emily;
we’re all here now’ – and left the room again.

Cecily put out her hand to shake the one that was stretched towards her; what else could she do? As Frank – such a common name – took it, she hardly heard what he said.

How dare Dorothy take it on herself to bring a newcomer to the group without having the courtesy to mention it beforehand? And what on earth did ‘sit in’ mean? You couldn’t sit
in on a book club – the whole idea was to get together to talk about whatever book they’d all read. He’d be bored silly, just sitting there listening to them. And was he going to
be a fixture from now on – or worse, assume he could pop along to a meeting whenever he felt like it? Was he going to turn up in Cecily’s house next month, when it was her turn to host?
Of course, if Margaret hadn’t begun it all by foisting that niece on them, this wouldn’t have happened; but at least
she’d
had the grace to clear it with them first.

‘Not a name you hear too often now.’ That man had sat next to her; she couldn’t avoid a conversation without being rude. Dorothy had settled herself across from Margaret,
peeling off her gloves and asking about the arthritis as if she’d done nothing wrong in parading into the meeting with a complete stranger; the nerve of the woman.

Cecily turned her head and gave Frank her coolest look. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

‘Cecily.’ Either he’d missed her lack of enthusiasm, in which case he was obtuse, or he’d decided to ignore it, which made him insensitive. ‘I had an aunt called
Cecily, but apart from that, I don’t remember ever coming across it.’ He smiled wider then, showing small, even teeth. ‘It suits you; genteel, like yourself.’

She couldn’t believe the familiarity of the man. She decided not to respond to such a silly comment – genteel, like yourself, indeed; he wouldn’t know genteel if it stood in
front of him and saluted. She turned slightly away from him; she’d talk to Margaret instead. Let him ‘sit in’ on that if he wanted.

‘Tea, anyone?’ He lifted the pot and held it poised over a cup and saucer, smiling at them enquiringly.

Had the man no manners? Imagine insulting their hostess by helping himself to tea; and dismayingly, there were Margaret and Dorothy smiling and nodding. You’d think Margaret had never set
eyes on a man before; she was practically blushing, for goodness’ sake. Cecily wanted to shake her, arthritis or no arthritis.

Now that man was looking at her again, waving the teapot around like he owned the place. Probably expecting her to dissolve into a simpering teenager too. Well, she wouldn’t please him:
she tried another ice-cold stare. ‘I think I’d rather let it draw a bit, thank you.’

The door opened again and Emily came in – good. Surely she’d say something – she wasn’t afraid to air her opinions.

‘Sorry I’m late, everyone.’ She unwound a soft-looking grey scarf as she walked to the vacant chair across from Cecily. ‘The phone rang as I was coming out.’ She
noticed Frank just as Dorothy introduced him.

Cecily watched, waiting for Emily to frown and remind Dorothy gently that bringing a stranger to the book club without clearing it with the members beforehand simply wasn’t done; or if
that was a little direct, at least to allow a little disapproval to show on her face. But Emily smiled pleasantly and stretched out her hand. ‘Another new member – how nice. Now
we’ll get the male perspective on our books.’

Cecily couldn’t believe it. Emily didn’t seem in the least put out by the presence of Dorothy’s neighbour; and it was quite clear that Margaret had no objection either. Was she
the only member with any standards? Maybe they should go out into the street and drag in the homeless to discuss the latest Ian McEwan.

As Cecily fumed silently, Valerie came back in and glanced around the table. ‘Good, you’ve gone ahead and served yourselves. Cecily, you have no tea; let me pour. Emily, give me that
gorgeous scarf and I’ll hang it over the radiator. Dorothy, did you try the cake? Thanks so much for the recipe – much more straightforward than my usual one.’

And the September meeting of the book club was officially in session.