Putting Out the Stars (9 page)

‘Hello?’

‘Ruth, it’s Laura.’
Because my mother probably didn’t tell you who was calling
. ‘Just confirming the dinner – Thursday night at my house, around half
eight, does that suit? Breffni and Cian are coming.’

‘Lovely.’ She could hear the smile in Ruth’s voice – probably delighted to be escaping the dragon’s lair for a night. ‘Thanks a lot, Laura. What can we
bring?’

‘Oh, a bottle of red would be great, and two big appetites.’

Ruth’s laugh drifted along the line. ‘Fine; we’ll see you then. Say hi to Donal.’

‘I will. Take care, Ruth.’ As she hung up, Laura wondered again how Breffni and Ruth would get on. They were so different – she hoped to God they found some common ground.

Apart from Andrew, of course. She grinned and turned back to her illustration.

‘Darling?’ It still felt funny to her, calling someone darling. And even funnier to have someone call
her
darling. But funny in a really nice way.

‘Yeah?’ He didn’t look up from tying his lace.

‘Is there a special kind of wine Laura likes?’ She reached across the bed and ran her fingers lightly down his back, feeling the knobs of his spine under his blue work shirt. She was
wearing an old pyjama top of his, wide purple and white stripes, sleeves rolled up. Her light blond hair was matted where she’d lain on it, like a child’s; one cheek was slightly
flushed.

He finished tying his lace and stretched a hand over to touch the hot side of her face for a second. ‘You look adorable.’ She smiled, leant briefly into the coolness of his hand.

He began tying the second shoe. ‘Wine . . . she goes for French, I think. Doesn’t really matter; none of us are wine buffs, except maybe Donal.’ He mimed holding a glass,
sticking out his little finger in a mock genteel way, and spoke in a cartoonishly cultured voice. ‘Hello, I’m Donal, and I know about wine – and everything else too.’

Ruth laughed, gave him a playful push. ‘Andrew, that’s mean. I think Donal is lovely; not a bit know-allish.’

He reached around and grabbed her hand. ‘My darling wife –’ She’d never get tired of hearing him call her his wife; it made her want to purr, like a contented cat
‘– you’d think Attila the Hun was lovely; or at least misunderstood. You’d be a character witness for Hitler if he asked you.’ He leant nearer and pecked her cheek.
‘It’s one of the thousand things I love about you. See you tonight.’ As he released her hand and went to get up, she grabbed quickly on to his wrist.

‘Andrew?’

He smiled, half-standing, trapped by her hold. ‘That’s me.’

‘You know how happy you’ve made me, don’t you?’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles gently.

‘My dear, the pleasure has been all mine, I promise you.’ He checked his watch. ‘And now I must fly. Have fun; see you this evening.’ She dropped his hand and he was
gone; she could hear him hurrying down the stairs to the egg that Cecily prepared for him each morning.

If Ruth was honest, it did bother her a tiny bit that Andrew’s mother was still cooking his breakfast for him. She’d far rather be the one getting up in the morning to see him off,
but when she had tentatively offered to do this, the day they came back from honeymoon, Cecily had immediately refused.

‘My dear Ruth, it would be pointless to have both of us up at that hour, and I wake at cockcrow every morning anyway, have done for years. I’m used to seeing Andrew off to work. No,
you stay in bed, I insist; I know how you young people enjoy your lie-ins.’ And Ruth decided that she was imagining the implied criticism; Cecily had been so good to them – of course
she wasn’t implying anything. And anyway, why would she be critical of Ruth for staying in bed, when she clearly preferred her to – at least until after she’d had Andrew all to
herself while he ate his breakfast?

Cecily had been just as adamant about cooking in the evenings, when Ruth had offered to take over some of the meals.

‘Thank you, dear, it’s sweet of you to offer, but you must allow an old lady her foibles.’ Smiling, waiting.

‘Mother, you’ll never be old.’ Andrew’s response was delivered right on cue.

Cecily pretended to ignore him, continuing to look at Ruth, but her face softened a little. ‘I simply couldn’t countenance anyone else in my kitchen. Andrew will tell you that I
wouldn’t even allow Laura to cook while she lived here.’

Ruth looked obediently at Andrew, who nodded, and Cecily continued smoothly. ‘But my dear, if you really want to help, you could of course clear away afterwards.’ So every evening,
after Andrew and Cecily had moved into the sitting room, Ruth carried the used plates and glasses back into the kitchen and washed them carefully in the sink, terrified of the cut crystal and
wafer-thin china. So far, thank goodness, she’d managed not to break anything. And it gave Andrew a bit of time with his mother; she could see how close they were.

Ruth knew – of course she did – how lucky they were to have Cecily to stay with, but all the same, it would be wonderful when they had their own place. Though she’d never have
admitted it to Andrew, for fear of offending him, she was a little in awe of her mother-in-law – Ruth would never in a million years have Cecily’s confidence and elegance. Sometimes she
agonised about this, thinking that Andrew must surely compare them; how could he not? Cecily so suave and self-assured, and she, Ruth, ridiculously gauche and naïve for someone of thirty.
Surely, the more Ruth and Cecily were living in such close proximity, the greater the chances of Andrew noticing the huge gulf between them – how long before he realised that he’d
chosen a very poor substitute as his wife?

She often wished she could talk to her mother, suddenly so far away in Dublin. Letters or phone calls just weren’t the same – she wanted to have Mam beside her, watch her expression
as she poured out her anxieties, hear her telling Ruth she was just being silly – of course Andrew wasn’t comparing his wife with his mother; anyone could see how much he loved her. She
wanted to watch Mam’s face as she spoke, see from her face that she meant it.

It was the first time she’d been separated from the family; her married sisters, Siobhan and Mairead, were living within walking distance of their parents, and Irene, the youngest, was
still at home. And even when Ruth had moved out of home to share the flat, they all saw each other at least once a week, usually more often. You just dropped in home whenever you were passing, and
more often than not, someone else was there too.

When Ruth told her married sisters that she was going to be moving in with her mother-in-law, Siobhan had shaken her head. ‘Two women in a kitchen – a recipe for disaster.’

Mairead had nodded. ‘And Andrew the only son – you’ve stolen him from her. She’ll make your life hell.’

And then they’d laughed, and newly-engaged Ruth had laughed along with them, knowing they weren’t really serious about the doom and gloom. She knew they’d be full of support
now if she wanted to have a moan, or just look for a bit of reassurance. But in a way, maybe it was as well that they weren’t around – it would give Ruth’s silly notions far too
much importance if she voiced them out loud, make her sisters feel that something was really wrong, when it wasn’t; of course not. She was deliriously happy to be married to Andrew. And it
would be much better when they were settled into their own house, only a few weeks away now hopefully.

And when she managed to make some real friends in Limerick. Ruth wondered if perhaps she and Laura might become close; and maybe this Breffni too, she sounded nice. She kept meaning to ask
Andrew about Breffni – he must have known her quite well growing up – but with Cecily around most evenings, they never seemed to have much time on their own. The one night Cecily went
off to her book club, Andrew had to stay late at work for some audit thing, and he arrived home only a few minutes before his mother.

Not that Ruth had minded too much – she’d actually quite enjoyed the evening on her own, curled up on the living-room couch watching
Coronation Street
and
Fair
City.
Cecily rarely switched on the television, preferring to listen to music in the evenings, and Ruth didn’t like to ask. It was no harm anyway to do without her soaps – a few
weeks wouldn’t kill her.

She heard Andrew’s car starting up and threw back the duvet. Padding to the window, she saw him manoeuvre the car out of the driveway and in the direction of the North Circular Road.
Slowly she walked back and climbed into bed, and picked up her book from the locker; but she didn’t open it.

How on earth had Ruth Tobin ended up married to Andrew O’Neill? Till the day she died, she’d never be able to fathom what he had seen in her. Two years older than him, nothing to
look at, whatever her mother said, beaten to the altar by two younger sisters. Never in what you’d call a serious relationship, not exactly the life and soul of the few parties she’d
been to.

And Andrew so good-looking, he could be on the stage . . . she closed her eyes and remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on him, on the main street of the resort in Crete.

A little taller than her, lightly tanned, thick reddish-brown hair that he pushed carelessly out of his eyes as he punched the buttons on the ATM machine. He wore faded denims, cut off halfway
down his thighs, and battered sandals. Grey t-shirt slung across one smooth golden shoulder. She took up her position behind him and rummaged in her beach bag for her card. He turned at the
noise.

‘Hi. Won’t be long.’ Irish, with green eyes and a great smile. Lovely even teeth, little crinkle in his left cheek. Two small dark freckles – moles? – across his
nose.

‘That’s fine; take your time.’ She wished she’d brushed her hair before she came up from her swim – she must look a holy fright, with it hanging in rat’s
tails on her shoulders. She could never understand when people complimented her hair; it was so poker straight, no body to it at all.

‘But that’s what’s so great about it; it’s like a sheet of gold, the way it falls so perfectly, not a ripple in it. And so shiny; I couldn’t get this lot to shine
if I covered it in Mr Sheen.’ Her flatmate Maura would point at her own ginger curls in despair. ‘I’d swap with you in a minute, Ruth, believe me.’

And Ruth would have swapped too – and she’d have thrown in her God-awful freckles while she was at it. Since she’d arrived in Crete, she’d got twice as many as usual
– the splodgy beige kind, almost merging into each other on her pink-from-the-beach face. She tucked her sarong more tightly around her – at least she wasn’t flaunting her
blue-white thighs.

His cash appeared and he pulled it out of the machine and stepped to one side. ‘All yours.’ He took a wallet from his back pocket and began folding the notes into it.

‘Thanks.’ She put in her card and immediately, before she’d had a chance to key in her password, it came flying back out again. ‘Oh.’

She pushed it in again; again it came straight out. She stood perplexed, wondering what she should do.

‘Problem?’ He was still there.

She held up her card and made a perplexed face. ‘Doesn’t want to go in.’

He shoved his wallet back into his pocket and put out his hand, and she immediately placed her card in his palm. He examined it, turning it over in his hands, feeling round the edges.
‘Doesn’t seem damaged. Let’s give it another go.’ And the minute he pushed it in, it shot out again. ‘Hmm.’ He tried again, and this time, miraculously, it
stayed in. ‘Right, put in your PIN quick, before it changes its mind.’ He stepped aside.

‘Great – thank you so much.’ She beamed with relief, and he bowed deeply, whipping off an imaginary hat. ‘My pleasure, Ruth Tobin.’ And she realised he’d read
her name on the card.

And something – call it too much sun, call it the first moment of madness of her life, she didn’t know what to call it – something made her open her mouth and say,
‘You’ll have to let me buy you a drink . . . or a coffee, or –’

Then her words dried up, and her head filled with
oh my God – he’s sure to have a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere with a
matching bikini and sarong, and a perfect
tan, and not a single freckle.
What had possessed her? And asking him for a drink while it was still blazing sunshine – he’d think she was an alcoholic.

He grinned. ‘Great, I could murder a beer – but you’d better get your money out first; otherwise I’ll be footing the bill.’ And she blushed under her sunburn and
tried not to press the wrong buttons as she withdrew fifty Euro more than she’d intended, shocked at her brazenness.
He’s coming for a drink; I invited a man for a drink and
he’s coming.
God, what on earth would they talk about?

Her money came sliding out of the slot and she turned to see him smiling at her and holding out his hand – ‘Andrew O’Neill’ – and she shook his hand and almost said
her name before she remembered he already knew it.

And that was the start of it all. He had ten days left of his holiday, she had twelve. The first day they stayed in the bar for three hours, before she remembered Maura and Claire on the beach
and hurried back, tipsy, to find them still there, in practically the same positions, idly wondering where she’d got to.