Semi-Sweet (36 page)

Every afternoon Alice left Glass Slipper soon after Geraldine arrived at two. They had tea together first, both pretending
that everything was still as it always had been, and when the mugs were washed and put away, Alice left. She’d stopped inventing
reasons for leaving, and thankfully, Geraldine had stopped asking if she’d be back.

She varied her routine. Sometimes she went straight to the cemetery, other days she drove directly to Springwood Gardens.

The flowers were finally gone from the gate of number 37. One day she saw Dave mowing the lawn, up and down, up and down.
Wearing a dark blue hat with a brim, stopping every now and again to pull it off and wipe his brow with a bare forearm.

Once Claire came out and walked right past Alice’s car. Alice sat and watched her until she turned a corner.

She thought of them as Claire and Dave now.

A green plastic rectangular planter had appeared on the grave, about a foot and a half long. It lay on the earth in front
of the wooden cross, filled with real violas and pansies.

She wondered if they were planning to add Jason’s name to the big headstone, or if the cross was going to stay. The oval frame
of his photo was spotted with tarnish that she couldn’t get off, even with Brasso.

She left him flowers every few days. She signed the cards
“A.”

At half past ten Fiona ran her usual evening bath, adding plenty of lavender salts. Lying in the scented water, she read one
chapter of the Gandhi biography and drank a tall glass of warm milk. Afterward she toweled herself dry before applying her
nighttime body lotion.

She cleansed, toned, and moisturized her face, applied hand cream and massaged it in. She adjusted her clock radio so the
display was turned away from the bed; nothing like watching the time pass to encourage insomnia. She pulled on the white cotton
gloves she wore in bed.

And just before she lay back on her down pillows, she felt a sudden impulse to talk to her daughter, after almost a week of
no communication. She lifted the cordless phone off its cradle and reached a gloved finger toward the keypad—but as she was
about to press the first key, she paused to turn the clock radio back to face her.

She saw that it was 11:18, too late. She replaced the phone. She’d call Leah tomorrow afternoon. They had nothing much to
say to each other these days anyway.

Stephen pressed the bell again. After several more seconds had passed, he stepped back from the door and looked up toward
the first-floor windows.

“Tom?” he called. The car was in the driveway. The curtains were drawn back. “Tom?”

He put a hand over the side gate, slid the bolt, and walked around to the back of the house. He rapped loudly on the door,
calling Tom’s name again. There was a plastic bag by the wall. Stephen glanced in and saw empty bottles with the gold labels
of Powers whiskey on them.

He walked up the side passage again, bolting the gate after him. He opened his wallet and found an old receipt. He wrote on
the back of it and posted it through the mail slot. He checked the upstairs windows again before walking down the short driveway
to his car.

He got in and drove back to the dental clinic.

“Hi.”

“Well, hello.” The pleasure in his voice was evident. “What’s up?”

“I got the flowers,” she said. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Sorry; I’ll try not to do it again.”

She smiled. “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

They were big orange daisies, six of them in a long-stemmed bunch. She had no vase in the shop, so she’d filled her tiny sink
with water and propped them in it.

“Thank you for last night,” he said. “Are you tired?”

“A bit,” she admitted, watching a man push open the door. “I have to go.”

“Okay—I’ll call you later.”

He was perfect on paper, he was doing everything right. She loved being in his company, she enjoyed the way he treated her.
Her feelings would deepen, given time. She was sure of it.

She should have said something to Patrick before he left for work. She should have mentioned the ache in her back that had
woken her a couple of times in the night, sliding dully through her and then easing. She should have said something as he
was getting dressed, as she was struggling into the shower, as he was drinking coffee in the kitchen, standing by the window.
As she was dabbing concealer under her eyes, smoothing foundation onto her swollen face.

I have this pain,
she should have told him.
It comes now and again, down my back. It’s a new pain. It’s different.

But she’d said nothing, because Patrick must be sick of her complaints, tired of hearing about her constipation and her heartburn
and her constant need to pee, weary of her indigestion and her nausea and her craving for salt.

So he’d gone to work, kissing her cheek briefly, his aftershave making her want to gag. And that had been three hours ago,
and the pain in her back was worse now, much worse, and she’d rung her two appointments and canceled them until further notice.
And the pain was slicing through her now, easing for a while before returning and making her gasp with its intensity.

She waited until the latest one had passed, and then she picked up the phone and called Patrick’s mobile. When it went straight
to his voice mail, she disconnected and tried again, and when the same thing happened, she waited for the beep and then said
rapidly, “Patrick, it’s me—please ring. It’s urgent.”

She hung up and tried Nora’s mobile, but it rang and rang and remained unanswered. She called directory inquiries and got
the number of the newspaper offices—the first time she’d needed the main number—and the receptionist told her that Patrick
had left for a meeting and no, she didn’t know where. Could she give Leah his mobile number?

“I have that,” Leah said, “but I can’t contact him. I can’t get through to him. Is his PA there?” Surely Nora would have a
number where he could be reached.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist, whom Leah had yet to meet, replied, “but she called in sick this morning. Can I take a message
at all?”

The pain came again then, and Leah hung up and bent double, gritting her teeth. When it faded, she called her mother. “I need
you,” she said, her eyes closed. “I think the baby’s coming.”

As she hung up, she felt a warm gush of wetness between her legs and looked down to see a puddle seeping into the pale green
carpet.

The first thing Alice saw when she opened the front door was a brown envelope on the floor and a scrap of paper lying next
to it. She picked up the envelope and saw Tom’s name, and the government harp above it. She tore it open and pulled out the
page and read that Tom Joyce was summoned to appear at the district court on Friday, the eighteenth of June, at half past
eleven.

She bent and picked up the scrap of paper and saw that it was a receipt from Boots for some toiletries. She turned it over
and read
“Tom, please get in touch—Stephen.”

“Right,” she said aloud in the empty hallway. She walked to the stairs and sat on the third step, holding the letter and the
receipt. After a while she got up and climbed the rest of the stairs to her husband’s bedroom. She walked in and crossed to
the window. She pulled the curtains apart and shoved the window open.

“Tom, get up,” she said, turning to him. “You need to get up now. I have to talk to you.”

As Nora pulled on her top, she heard a soft beep. She turned to see Patrick switching on his phone.

“Well,” she said, “can’t wait to get back to the real world, can you?”

“Shit,” Patrick said, looking at the screen. “Shit.” He jabbed buttons rapidly and raised the phone to his ear.

Nora reached for her skirt. “What’s all the—”

“Shh,” he said, listening, holding up a palm to Nora. After a few seconds he snapped the phone closed and grabbed his briefcase.
“Come on,” he said, “we have to go.”

“What’s the big panic?” Nora asked, zipping up her skirt.

“Leah,” he said, already halfway out of the room. “She’s having the baby.”

“Jesus.” Nora stepped into her shoes, snatched up her bag and jacket, and hurried after him. “I thought it wasn’t due for
a fortnight.”