The Bright Side (25 page)

Colm disappeared that evening to attend some golf club do. Niall stayed up until way past his regular bedtime; he was engrossed in a finger-painting session which Melissa was reluctant to disturb on the grounds that it was a creative activity, as opposed to a ruinously destructive one, and made a nice change. He showed me some of his compositions and, in fairness to him, reacted well when I failed to recognise the subject of a single one (“Is that a space-ship?”; “No, it’s a CLOWN!”)
.

After he went to bed, Melissa rose from her chair and asked me if I wanted a drink. I wasn’t sure what she meant; I doubted that she was talking about something alcoholic. We hadn’t shared so much as a glass of wine since Mum and Dad died. I told her I could murder an orange juice and waited to see if she’d try to press something harder upon me. She didn’t – she returned with two OJs and got settled in again. I realised that we were staring down the barrel of our first couple of hours alone in God knew how long and felt a shot of adrenaline course through me
.

For
the
next
hour
or
so,
Melissa’s
attitude
was
like
that
of a
nurse
who’d
been
lumbered
with
an
extra
patient
whom
she
could
have
done
without.
She
was
perfectly
civil
(Was
I warm
enough?
Cool
enough?
Did
I
want
another
glass
of orange
juice?
Another
cushion?
Was
Heartbeat
all
right
or
did I
want
to
watch
something
else?)
but
still,
hardly
chatty.
I wasn’t
exactly
full
of
beans
myself.
Every
time
I
thought
of something
to
say,
I
gave
it
a
trial
run
in
my
head
and
found
it too
frivolous,
too
perky.
I
was
the
wounded
wife,
I
reminded myself;
it
was
not
traditionally
a
speaking
role.
Gradually, however,
Melissa
began
to
open
up.
She
started
small
with observations
about
TV
commercials
and
such-like
but
really
came
to
life
when
she
got
on
to
the
subject
of
her
neighbours.
The
couple
on
their
left
had
lived
there
forever and
were
two
of
the
most
unpleasant
people
she’d
ever
met. He
was
a
retired
civil
servant
and
she
was
a
retired
head- mistress.
They
were
both
desperately
keen
on
capital
punishment
and
managed
to
crowbar
it
into
almost
every conversation,
as
if
it
was
the
burning
issue
of
the
day.
On
Ash
Wednesday
the
previous
year,
they
had
set
upon
Melissa
as she
emerged
from
her
car
and
demanded
to
know
why
her forehead
was
cross-free.
At
first,
she’d
tried
to
explain
that she
hadn’t
made
it
to
mass
yet
–
a
lie,
she
never
went
–
but eventually
she’d
lost
her
cool
and
told
them,
more
or
less,
to piss
off.
They
hadn’t
spoken
to
her
(or
Colm
or
Niall)
since and
she
was
perfectly
happy
with
that.
The
couple
who
lived on
the
right
were
much
more
fun.
He
was
a
director
of television
commercials
and
she
was
a
bigwig
in
the
National Museum.
They
were
middle-aged
but
acted
twenty
years younger.
They
had
no
children
but
plenty
of
parties;
Melissa had
once
spotted
Jeremy
Irons
coming
out
of
one.
One
afternoon
the
previous
summer,
Melissa
had
seen
the
husband
walk
the
length
of
his
back
garden
in
a
miniskirt and
heels,
turn
at
the
bottom,
and
come
straight
back
the way
he
came,
like
a
sentry
on
duty.
He
glanced
up
as
he turned
and
saw
her
at
the
bedroom
window.
She
dived
out
of the
way,
but
it
was
too
late.
Half
an
hour
later,
he
showed
up at
the
front
door
(in
jeans
and
a
T-shirt)
and
told
her everything.
His
wife
knew
and
didn’t
mind,
so
long
as
he didn’t
do
it
in
public.
She’d
kill
him
if
she
knew
about
his occasional
jaunt
down
the
garden
and
back,
which
he
did once
in
a
while
to
“ease
the
tension”.
Melissa
promised
to keep
mum
but
to
this
day
had
a
terrible
urge
to
tell
the neighbours
on
the
other
side,
just
to
see
what
would
happen. I
took
great
delight
in
these
and
other
similar
stories,
but
was saddened
to
think
that
I
hadn’t
heard
them
before.
What
else had
happened
in
her
life
that
I
didn’t
know
about
?

The conversation – or rather, the monologue, for I was careful to restrict my own contributions – went on until well past midnight. It never strayed beyond the trivial, but that was fine by me. I hadn’t missed having deadly serious discussions with my sister. I’d missed talking shite
.

CHAPTER
12

As
soon
as
I
walked
into
the
Arnotts
café
on
Sunday afternoon,
I
realised
that
I
had
made
a
mistake
with
the venue.
I’d
thought
Coffee-Town-Arnotts
,
without
pausing
to consider
how
crowded
it
would
be,
which
was
very.
It
would be
hard
enough
to
talk
Chrissy
down
off
the
ceiling
without doing
it
in
front
of
an
audience.
She
was
there
before
me,
as I’d
expected
–
she
was
one
of
those
people
for
whom
“on time”
meant
“ten minutes
early” –
and had
taken a
table for two
by
the
wall.
I
nodded
and
waved
as
I
approached,
hoping that
she
would
at
least
let
me
get
settled
before
she
started sobbing.
She
rose
to
greet
me
and
squeezed
me
hard,
kissing
me
on
the
cheek
.