The Bright Side (45 page)

I had finished my second pot of tea and was contemplating going for a third when my phone rang.
It
might be
Robert
, I allowed myself to hope.
Calling
to
apologise
. But it wasn’t Robert.

“Jackie O,” said a voice so familiar it was like getting a call from myself
.

“Nancy!
”

“None other. Je suis back de Paris depuis about an heure.
”

“How did it go?
”

“Fan-
tas
-tic. That was my fifth trip, and I love it more every time. You have to go, Jackie. You just have to, that’s all there is to it. Light a fire under Gerry and pack a bag tonight.
”

My voice failed me. “Jackie? Are you there?” “Yeah,” I whispered
.

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” “Can I come over?
”

“What’s the matter?
”

“Can I come over?” I repeated
.

“Of course you can, but I’m not home yet, I’m at David’s. I’ll be back at about five. What is it?
”

“Five,” I said and hung up before I set myself off
.

I
had
time
to
kill
now,
but
the
prospect
of
returning
to Melissa’s
–
and
the
“Lar
Lar
Lar”
song
–
was
not
an appealing
one.
Instead,
I
decided
to
go
take
a
walk
on Sandymount
Strand.
I
had
some
vague
idea
at
the
back
of
my mind
about the restorative powers of sea air; the word
“bracing”
figured
in
my
deliberations
somewhere.
The
word “freezing”
did
not,
alas,
but
those
were
the
conditions
I found
when
I
arrived.
Although
I
began
to
regret
my
choice of
time-killer
within
seconds
of
leaving
the
car,
I
did
manage a
quick
stroll
(more
of
a
jog,
really).
I
texted
Melissa
along the
way,
letting
her
know
that
I
wouldn’t
be
home
for
a
while and
would
explain
how
it
went
with
Robert
when
I
saw
her. As
I
added
the
bit
about
my
current
location,
I
imagined
her sympathetic
reaction
–
Poor
old
Jackie,
all
alone
in
the
fading
light
on
a
cold,
deserted
beach
.
A
curious
shiver
ran
through
me, nothing
to
do
with
the
weather.
I
hugged
myself
even
more tightly
and
tried
to
think
about
something
else
.

The walk didn’t last long in any event. I ended up killing most of the time just sitting in the car, staring out to sea – still trying to think about something else
.

When
we
first
met
in
Ashbourne,
Nancy
liked
to
say
that with
her
travelling
days
now
behind
her,
she
would
never again
live
in
a
city.
“Concrete’s
not
for
me,”
she
liked
to
say, as if she lived in a
quaint farmhouse in the middle of nowhere
rather
than
a
large
housing
estate
in
a
fairly
busy commuter
town.
Her
attitude
began
to
change
not
long
after I
moved
in
(coincidence,
I
hoped).
Suddenly,
there
was
a
lot to
be
said
for
city
life.
There
were
theatres
and
clubs
and restaurants,
for
a
start,
and
you
had
a
sense
of
being
at
the centre
of
things.
Why,
anything
could
happen
in
a
city! Nancy
was
pushing
forty
at
the
time,
so
I
didn’t
take
her
very seriously.
Over
the
next
couple
of
years,
she
wheeled
the idea
out
once
in
a
while
and
didn’t
put
up
much
of
a
fight when
I
shot
holes
in
it.
On
that
hot
summer’s
day
in
1994, when
she
announced
that
she
was
finally
going
ahead
and doing
it,
I
simply
didn’t
believe
her.
She’ll
snap
out
of
it soon,
I
thought,
when
the
For
Sale
sign
went
up.
It’s
a
phase, I
told
myself,
when
she
quit
her
job.
I
don’t
think
the
penny dropped
with
me
until
we
were
standing
by
the
kerb,
having our
last
official
hug
as
neighbours,
while
the
removal
men worked
in
the
background.
She
vowed
to
stay
in
touch,
but
I didn’t
believe
that
either.
It
was
one
of
the
happiest
surprises of
my
life
that
she
kept
her
promise.
If
anything,
we
became
even
closer
because
it
required
a
bit
of
an
effort
for
us
to meet
up;
she
seemed
to
appreciate
it
when
I
made
the
trek into
town
and
I
know
I
was
grateful
when
she
came
out
to visit
me
.

The
house
she’d
bought
in
Dublin
was
smack
in
the middle
of
a
terrace
in
Crumlin.
It
wasn’t
much
to
look
at
–
or smell
–
when
she
moved
in,
but
over
the
years
she’d gradually
turned
it
into
one
of
those
small-on-the-outside- surprisingly-spacious-on-the-inside
sort
of
places
for
which young
professionals
were
now
paying
an
arm
and
both
legs. She
achieved
the
transformation
by
more
or
less
gutting
the joint,
knocking
a
wall
down
here,
moving
a
bathroom
there. This
was
another
aspect
of
her
personality
that
I
found admirable
–
her
ability
to
think
long-term.
It
drove
me insane
to
have
a
plumber
in
for
half
an
hour;
Nancy
had every
tradesman
in
Dublin
through
the
house
over
a
period of
several
years,
but
she
was
able
to
keep
her
eye
on
the prize.
And,
I
had
to
admit,
she
had
indeed
made
the
most
of city
life.
Forty-something
(now
fifty-something)
or
not,
she was
out
more
nights
than
she
was
in,
and
the
job
she’d
found shortly
after
the
move
–
she
worked
as
a
doctor’s
receptionist
seemed
to
give
her
real
pleasure.
I
was
glad
for
her, genuinely.
But
I
still
wished
we
were
neighbours
.