The Better Woman (42 page)

As she walked, Sarah glanced intermittently at the shops and eateries that lined the walkway. In the eleven years since she'd first come to New York, most had changed hands, name and frontage a number of times, desperate to keep up with the latest trends, desperate to be the hottest new place. In this city, only a select few got away with age.

Sarah reached the theatre district. Dusk was beginning to fall; she should turn back. Her mouth was dry; she should at least stop for a drink. But something was pushing her on. She didn't understand what until she reached 57
^th
Street.

There was his name. Across the street, all lit up and impossible to miss.

JOHN DELANEY

She stared and stared, oblivious that she was standing smack in the middle of the pavement, a cardinal sin in New York City.

‘Move out of the way, lady,' advised a middle-aged man who bumped against her shoulder.

She hardly heard him. She was back in John's front room, his
slender fingers racing up and down the keys, his head bent, the plush red curtains in the background. It felt like yesterday, not fifteen years ago. The boy was now a man. The front room had become Carnegie Hall, one of the most prestigious stages in the world. The audience was no longer the girl-next-door; it was hundreds of discerning classical music fans.

Sarah crossed the road in a trance.

‘What time is the concert?' she asked the lady at the box office.

‘Eight o'clock,' the woman replied. ‘It's almost fully booked but I do have a seat in the dress circle, if you're prepared to pay that much . . .'

Without enquiring how much was ‘that much', Sarah took her credit card from her purse.

‘I'll take a program too, please.'

The woman rang up the sale and handed Sarah her ticket and the program. Suddenly John's photo was staring her in the face. He looked young, impossibly so, his fair hair a little longer than it used to be, his smile so familiar that it brought an instant ache to her heart. She shoved the booklet into her shoulder bag.

With an hour to kill before the recital, she ordered a glass of water from the café outside the auditorium. The water quenched her thirst but did nothing to steady her nerves. She was shaking all over. She ordered a cocktail, a cosmopolitan. She sipped it slowly whilst the program, and John's photo, burned a hole in her bag.

Finally the bell sounded and people began to move inside. A black grand piano stood centre stage, dramatic against the largely white backdrop. Conversation hummed until the lights dimmed and anticipation commanded quiet. John appeared from backstage. He was the same boy that Sarah once knew, and she felt
a lump in her throat. He raised his arm to greet the audience and acknowledge their applause. He angled himself to the left, then the right, so that each person in the auditorium could see his face. When he sat at the piano his shoulders and head were perfectly straight. Someone along the line had taught him not to hunch over.

John struck the opening chords, strong and rich and noble. Then his right hand raced away, scaling through octave leaps, the melody quite playful.

Sarah finally took the program from her bag.

Franz Schubert: Sonata No. 20 in A Major, D. 959 This sonata was composed in 1828. Schubert, knowing he was fatally ill, wrote the work in a frantic race against time. He died aged thirty-one, but his wondrous lyricism and rich harmonic vocabulary live on and continue to engage audiences today.

John's biography was on the next page. Sarah lifted it closer so she could read in the dim light.

Pianist John Delaney is currently on a world tour and comes to New York after performances in London, Paris, Rome and Vienna. John began his studies with the late Cécile Marcel in Paris and continued them with Philip Brown in Toronto. He has made a number of recordings with Naïve Classique Records and often performs with his wife, the acclaimed violinist, Sophie Devant.

He was married! To a violinist! Before Sarah knew it, or could control it, fifteen years of pent-up emotions exploded in a rush of tears. She cried for the young love that she and John had shared. She cried for the fact he knew nothing about the
abortion and what she had gone through afterwards. And she cried because he was married to a violinist, someone so clearly in his own league.

Eventually she became aware of the odd looks she was getting from the people on either side. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. There was a pause in the music; the first movement was over.

The second movement, the Andantino, started slowly and sadly. It carried Sarah back in time: their first kiss, the heavy red wine and freshly cut grass; the night of their Leaving Certificate results, seeing him at the doorway of the hall, dancing to ‘Crazy for You', making love in his dad's car. She started to cry again. The tissue was sodden.

The third movement was crisp and sprightly. The fourth started melodically but ended authoritatively, and she knew what she had to do.

During the intermission, Sarah went to the rest rooms and splashed cold water on her face.

‘You need to do it,' she told her reflection. ‘You
must
do it.'

Outside the bathroom, she approached one of the ushers.

‘Is it possible to get a message to John Delaney?'

He nodded and took a pen and a small notepad from his pocket.

‘Write your message down and I'll pass it to Mr Delaney's attendant.'

Sarah thought for a moment. Then she wrote,
Sarah Ryan in tonight's audience and wondering if she can see you after the show.

She handed over the note just as the bell sounded for the end of the intermission.

In the second half John played six piano pieces that were known as ‘Moments Musicaux'. The pieces were songlike and
of varying lengths. The music was probing and touching, and Sarah felt as though he were talking to her. But the fifth piece, angry and argumentative, shattered their rapport. The final piece expressed an array of emotions, from tenderness to outrage, sadness to resignation. Just as when she and John had formalised the end of their relationship. But it hadn't ended that day in the park, which was precisely the problem. John Delaney had stayed in her heart. Him and his baby.

The show ended after two encores. Sarah stood with the rest of the audience and clapped till her hands were stinging. The crowd spilled out to the foyer and her eyes sought out the usher she'd given the message to.

‘Well?'

‘Mr Delaney will see you. Follow me.'

For some reason she hadn't thought it would be that easy. She faltered while the usher strode ahead and unlocked a door that led to a flight of stairs.

‘The maestro's suite is at the top.'

Sarah forced herself forward to face her past. She ascended the stairs and knocked on the door of the dressing-room. John opened the door.

‘Sarah!' He caught her up in a hug. Then, hands on her shoulders, stepped back to look her up and down. ‘I can't believe it's you. Here in New York!'

‘I know,' she smiled waveringly. ‘I was passing by . . .' She looked down at her running clothes. ‘Actually, I was going for a run . . . Then I saw your name . . .'

‘What are you doing here? Do you live here?'

‘No, I live in Dublin. I'm here with work.'

John dropped his hands and she had the opportunity to study him. He looked well, very well. His face was youthful, his body
trim. But then appearances were important in his profession, almost as important as talent.

‘You're married?' he asked, his eyes glancing to her wedding ring.

‘Yes. To Tim.'

‘The boy from college?'

‘Yes. And you?'

‘I'm married to Sophie.' His whole face smiled as he said her name.

Sarah swallowed. ‘Do you have children?'

‘No. This life – the constant touring and antisocial hours – isn't suitable for little ones.'

Sarah took time to absorb that. Children weren't part of his life. They didn't fit. Their baby wouldn't have fitted.

‘How about you?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Kids. Do you have any?'

‘No. Not yet.'

Silence filled the room, creeping along the red carpet and up the beige walls. A sad, sad silence.

‘Do you ever go back?' he asked quietly.

‘To Carrickmore? No, no, I don't.'

‘My mother and father are still there, running the pub. Sophie thinks it's quaint. Mother loves her, of course.'

Yes, his mother would be happy with the violinist. In her eyes, Sarah had never been good enough.

‘Listen, do you want to go for a drink?' he asked suddenly. ‘I have to shower first, but I'd be ready in ten minutes.'

‘I can't,' she replied in a rush. ‘I'm here for business – I've a big day tomorrow.'

They stared at each other.

‘I'm glad you called by, Sarah . . . I often think about you . . .'

‘And me you.' She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Good luck with the rest of the tour.'

She needed air. Quickly. She hurried out of the dressing-room, down the stairs, past the auditorium and down more stairs, until she was finally out on the street. She bent over, hands on her knees, and inhaled big deep gulps of New York's air.

‘Goodbye, John,' she whispered, looking up at his neon-lit name.

She could breathe again. In fact, she could breathe easier than she'd been able to for years.

She threw the program into a nearby rubbish bin and began to run, back towards the hotel. Her legs were fluid, her body buoyant and her lungs full of delicious air. She was free of John Delaney.

Bradley Simons paused for a moment before briefing the board on the second shortlisted candidate.

‘Jodi Tyler originally comes from Sydney but she has worked extensively in London and Singapore. Her background is largely in sales and her strength lies in client relationships. Jodi has been with her current employer, CorpBank, for seven years, testament to both her loyalty and capability. Her most recent role is head of the UK capital investment division. In her interviews, Jodi presented as very professional, and evidently demands the same standards from those around her . . .'

Only the most discerning ear could detect that Bradley favoured the second candidate. In truth, he thought very highly of both women. Sarah Ryan was a trader. She had a sharp mind, faultless instincts, and she was good with people. But in Bradley's considered opinion, Jodi Tyler was the better woman for
the job. She had considerable international experience and knew how to sell across markets and countries. She would revolutionise EquiBank's culture and values, and lead the bank to new levels of growth and success.

Bradley looked around the board table at the directors with their predominantly grey hair and solemn expressions. It was anyone's guess which candidate they would favour tomorrow. And Sarah Ryan did have a formidable ally on her side: the current CEO, Denise Martin.

Jodi knew that she should stay in her room and prepare for the panel interview in the morning, but New York was like a candy jar she couldn't keep her fingers out of. She changed into a knee-length denim skirt and a white singlet top, and took the lift down to the hotel's foyer. Outside dusk was giving way to night and all the billboards were lit up, brazenly competing to catch the eye. The traffic behaved in a similar fashion, revving and hooting, wanting to be noticed.

Jodi walked at a leisurely pace past the shops, restaurants and bars. She drank in the atmosphere. It had much the same effect as alcohol: it made her head spin and her blood pump with excitement and a feeling of invincibility.

On impulse, she went into one of the bars and ordered a Bloody Mary. She had no sooner sat down than her mobile phone began to ring.

‘Hello.'

‘Jodi! It's me.'

It was James. He'd been shell-shocked when she'd told him she was going to New York in pursuit of a new job. There'd been too little time to fully talk it through.

‘Hi. Is everything okay?'

‘Yes . . .' He paused awkwardly. ‘Well, actually, everything isn't okay.
I'm
not okay. I miss you. I love you.'

Her heart squeezed. ‘I love you too, James. But –'

‘Please, Jodi, don't leave me.'

‘Oh, James . . .'

‘I'll have a baby with you.'

‘No, James. You don't want a baby, you just want me.'

‘And I'll live in New York, if that's where you want to be . . .'

His voice was raw and desperate. She didn't feel any sense of victory. Only sadness. Because it was too late. She'd already distanced herself from him. He was part of her past, like Andrew and, in a more unpleasant way, Bob.

She sipped the Bloody Mary and winced at the bitter taste.

‘I'm sorry, James. It was you who said at the start that we shouldn't be together, and I know now that you were right.'

She was in a new place, a new city, where she could make another clean start. There was no going back. To London. Or to James.

Sarah was out of breath when she arrived back at the hotel. She hurried through the foyer, ignoring the curious looks that were being cast her way. When she reached her room, she pounced on the telephone. She called Denise first.

‘I'm pulling out,' she said in a rush. ‘I should never have come here. I don't know what I was trying to prove –' She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Actually, I do know what I was trying to prove, but that's a long story. I'm sorry, Denise. I hope I haven't put you in an awkward predicament with the board . . . and I hope my existing job isn't impacted in any way . . .'

Denise's reaction was calm. ‘Of course your job won't be
affected. Are you sure you're doing the right thing? That you want to stay in Dublin?'

Sarah was very sure. ‘Yes, I am.'