Something in Common (39 page)

‘Y
ou don’t have to go,’ Christine said. ‘She’s my mother-in-law – you hardly knew her.’

‘Of course I’ll go – I met Gráinne lots of times, I’d like to go.’

‘Sarah, it’s just that—’

‘I know, but that’s all in the past now.’

Because, of course, Noreen would be at her aunt’s funeral. If Sarah went, they’d be in the church at the same time, and even if they didn’t come face to face it was almost inevitable that the two of them would see one another. It would be the first time since the day of Neil’s confession, so long ago now.

From the sitting room came the tinkle of piano chords. ‘Listen,’ Sarah said, ‘he’s really coming on after only five lessons. He’s much more into it than Martha ever was.’

‘Stop changing the subject. I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go. The doctor said you were to avoid stress.’

‘But it won’t be stressful,’ Sarah insisted. ‘I keep telling you, that’s all behind us now. I’m completely over it, and I’m going, and that’s that.’

The middle of
August, more than six months pregnant, the curve of her growing baby very obvious now, especially when she chose clothes that accentuated her shape. She’d wear her grey jersey dress: she looked twice as big in it. What better way to show fifty-four-year-old Noreen that
she and Neil were happily reunited than by making sure Noreen saw the evidence of their lovemaking?

There was no malice intended, none at all. She just wanted to make a point.

‘More tea?’ she asked, and Christine passed her cup across wordlessly.

H
alfway down
the page the small headline caught her eye:
Former editor’s wife dies.
Just two or three sentences beneath, her life and Breen’s career summed up in a handful of words. Kathleen Breen, who had died aged sixty-four following a short illness. Married to Mark Breen, sixty-five, who had edited the newspaper for twenty-six years before retiring in 1987.

She turned the pages until she got to the death notices, and there it was. Removal that evening, cremation the following day. Family only, no flowers. She wondered what family he had. There’d been nobody, as far as she was aware, at his retirement party, and all it said here was ‘survived by her husband Mark’. No children then, nobody but a few cousins maybe, a sibling or two.

‘More toast?’

She looked up. ‘No, thanks.’

Every morning he asked, and every morning she said no. You’d think he’d know by now. Was he going to ask her every day for the rest of her life, through all the years and years of breakfasts they were going to share? How long before he copped that all she ever wanted first thing in the morning was one damn slice of toast?

She caught herself, and stopped. He was being attentive and solicitous, and all she could do was find fault. Moody cow, the menopause going on forever. Serve her right if he called the whole thing off. Maybe he’d wait till the day itself and leave her sitting in her finery on a chair in the registry office.

‘My
old editor’s wife died,’ she told him, to make amends. ‘Sixty-four.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘No, never met her.’ She let the silence spin out as Frank deposited the lid of his boiled egg into its empty shell. So neat, like a maiden aunt. ‘She had a drink problem, and manic depression.’

He shook his head. ‘Poor woman. Will we go to the funeral?’

‘Family only,’ she told him, smothering another dart of irritation. He wasn’t butting in, he was doing the decent thing like he always did.

Breen was alone now, nobody to look after any more. She hoped there was at least one person in his family or one friend he could turn to. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since the afternoon he’d bought her a brandy – four, or was it five, years ago? She remembered their conversation, how he’d opened up to her when she was practically a stranger to him.

Her new mobile phone rang. She regarded it suspiciously, the brick of squat black plastic that Frank had presented her with the week before.

‘Amazingly, they don’t answer themselves,’ Frank said, and she made a face at him as she picked it up.

‘Mum,’ Alice said, ‘just to let you know I’ve booked my flight home. Grab a pen and I’ll give you the details.’

Alice loved mobile phones. Alice was twenty-four, not an ancient crone of fifty-three who wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be contactable all the time, by anyone. Especially not someone who was calling from Edinburgh, and surely paying a small fortune for the privilege.

‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’ll ring you back on the house phone,’ Helen told her, and hung up before Alice could respond.

Nineteen months since she and Jackie had gone their separate ways, since she’d come home alone for Christmas, thinner and quieter and refusing to talk about it. Helen still had no idea what had happened. Alice lived in Edinburgh now, where she’d moved after the break-up – Cardiff being too small, apparently, for a separated couple to co-exist there.

‘That
was Alice,’ she told Frank, getting up. ‘She’s booked her flight.’

‘Won’t feel it now.’ He put his wedding face on, all soft and goofy.

In four weeks and three days they were getting married. Helen had bought a red dress and black patent shoes, and booked appointments for waxing and a haircut a couple of days before. That was enough; that was all that was needed. She’d had the fuss first time around: she’d worn the white dress and walked up the aisle in front of all their friends and relations, and later she’d danced in the spotlight with her husband of a few hours. This was different.

Alice had wanted her to have a hen night. ‘Come on, Mum, I could do with a bit of excitement. You could fly over here, we could go to a show. Or I could have a dinner party and invite a few friends.’

After six months of waitressing in Edinburgh and knocking on doors with her portfolio she’d secured a commission to illustrate a children’s book. Now she waited tables by day and drew pictures by night. Helen had been to see her studio flat, which was tiny but centrally located, bright and decently furnished.

‘No hen party,’ Helen had told her. ‘No fuss.’

‘Can I at least be bridesmaid?’

‘It’s a registry office. I’m not even sure I’m a bride.’

She hoped Alice was happy, and wished for her to meet someone new. As she dialled her daughter’s landline number she heard Frank running water into the sink, and pictured him bringing the dishes over, clearing away the milk and butter, wiping down the table. Cleaning up more thoroughly than Helen had ever done.

She wasn’t getting a husband, she was getting a wife.

A
quarter to
nine. Sarah lay in bed and listened to Neil’s car starting up. She waited until the sound of it had disappeared completely, and then she threw back the blankets and eased herself out of bed. She felt bad lying to him, but it was her only option. If he knew what she was planning he’d hit the roof. She was sparing them a row, that was all.

He’d been concerned, which had made her feel worse. He’d wanted to call the doctor, but Sarah had managed to persuade him that it was just tiredness after a broken night, that a few hours in bed would take care of it. ‘Don’t ring me,’ she’d said, ‘I’ll probably be asleep.’

She’d told him of Gráinne’s death, but hadn’t made a big thing of it. She was sure the thought of her attending her sister’s mother-in-law’s funeral wouldn’t even have occurred to him.

Of course, there was also the matter of lying to St Sebastian’s, but she reasoned that in all the years of working there she’d never once taken a sick day, so she was well due one, even if it was being claimed under false pretences.

She slipped out of her nightdress and stood under the shower, taking more time than usual to wash and condition her hair, to apply shower gel and rinse it off. She towelled herself dry and dusted talc onto her arms and chest. She sat at the dressing-table in her underwear and regarded her clean forty-four-year-old face.

You
wouldn’t call it pretty. It wasn’t a face that would stay with you. Christine, with her long-lashed dark blue eyes and full lips, was far more striking. Sarah had always thought of herself as the watered-down sister: hair that hovered between blonde and brown, eyes of such a pale blue they morphed to grey on colourless days – even the freckles that still dotted her cheeks, despite her having spent her teenage years trying to scrub them off with lemon juice, were a half-hearted beige. Her nose was disproportionately broad for her face, her mouth unremarkable, her teeth only so-so.

But a man had loved her enough to want to spend the rest of his life with her, and in an hour or so she would be under the same roof as the woman who had betrayed her trust, and almost put paid to all of that.

She gazed at her reflection and thought back to the innocent twenty-four-year-old woman, full of hope, who’d cycled to a job interview all those years ago, little imagining the upheaval that was waiting for her in the years ahead. The utter happiness of falling in love, the misery of losing three babies, the sharp pain of betrayal, the comfort of reconciliation, the thrill of getting published, and witnessing the success of the books – and best of all, the marvel of being pregnant again, the fervently-wanted third child on the way at last.

So much to regret, so much to be thankful for. She was older now, and hopefully wiser. Would she have done it any differently? Impossible to say. But she’d survived, she’d come through it all and she was happy, and looking forward to the future.

Today was necessary, to put the hurt of the past firmly behind her. Wasn’t it?

She applied her makeup with care, patting on the loose powder she rarely bothered to use over her foundation, brushing on blusher and lipstick, stroking on two coats of mascara. She slipped her dress over her head and pulled it down, feeling it cradling her bump, anticipating Noreen’s reaction when she saw it.

She dried her hair and secured her parting with the little diamond clip Neil had bought her when she’d told him he was going to be a father again. When she’d finished, she smiled at the woman in the mirror who had lost and reclaimed her husband.

‘You
look nice,’ Christine said in the car. Brian had gone ahead with the boys, so they were alone. ‘You won’t be cold without a coat?’

‘No.’ Sarah looked out of the window as they drove past the school, imagined Martha and Stephen inside, heads bent over books. She rested a hand on the bulk of her abdomen and thought of their new brother or sister nestled within.

‘How’re you feeling?’ Christine asked.

‘Fine.’

But as they approached the church a creeping uneasiness began to unfurl within her. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. What was to be gained by flaunting her pregnancy to her husband’s ex-mistress? The whole notion seemed childish now: better to have left the past where it belonged.

But it was too late to change her mind, as Christine pulled up between a red Volvo and a dark blue Mini. Sarah got out and scanned the car park, and saw two green cars some distance away, either of which might belong to Noreen. Too late to back out, as they made their way with a scatter of others across the tarmac, as they passed the empty hearse outside the main door of the church.

Just before she walked inside Sarah felt the first spatters of rain – serve her right, leaving her coat at home because it would hide her condition.

The church was half full, people distributed in untidy formation through the pews. Sarah walked up the aisle beside Christine, aware that her heart had begun to thump uncomfortably. Was Noreen here? Had she already seen Sarah? What if they came face to face, what then? She looked straight ahead, conscious of heads turning to observe them, feeling as exposed as if she’d entered the church in her underwear.

Halfway up the aisle she touched Christine’s arm and whispered that she wouldn’t go further. Christine nodded, and Sarah slipped into a pew that was empty, apart from a bald man at the other end who was hunched into a heavy grey overcoat.

She
sat, smoothing her dress over her thighs, wishing now she’d worn something a little less figure-hugging. She didn’t dare look around as people kept arriving and shuffling into nearby pews. Eventually a bell was rung and everyone stood as a priest walked out onto the altar. Sarah dared a quick glance at the mourners in the seats in front of hers, and recognised nobody.

As the funeral service wore on, she began to relax. Noreen might not even be here – or if she was, there were enough other people around to easily avoid her. And, anyway, if anyone felt like remaining anonymous it should be Noreen, not her. For all Sarah knew, she was cowering in a pew hoping not to be spotted.

The service ended, the priest left the altar, and after a minute or two people began to file into the aisle, some making their way to the top to sympathise with the bereaved, others heading for the door. Sarah walked to the far end of the pew – the bald man had already disappeared – and joined the queue that was inching towards the side door. She’d wait by the car for Christine, who hopefully wouldn’t be too long.

But when she reached the door she was dismayed to find that it was raining heavily. If she went outside she’d be soaked: better to sit in a corner somewhere and wait it out. She turned and made her way back against the flow into the main body of the church, murmuring apologies as she edged through.

The church was emptying. At the front, Brian and Christine were still talking with a few others. A woman broke away from the group and began walking down the side aisle, directly towards Sarah – and with a lurch of recognition she realised it was Noreen.

Her mouth went dry, her heart hammering again inside her. The blood rushed to her face as she stood frozen and watched Noreen approach, saw her expression changing, her step faltering.

They stood face to face, about ten feet apart. Sarah put her hand on the pew beside her and leant on it heavily, not sure that her quivering legs would support her. She saw Noreen’s eyes dart downwards, just for an instant.

‘Sarah,’ she said, her voice broken, ‘I’m so sorry.’