The Bright Side (48 page)

“I’m sorry,” Nancy said. “I knew I shouldn’t have started. I’m just so thrilled with the whole thing.
”

“I know. But maybe we could move on now to –” “Of course. Of course. I apologise, really, I do.
”

“That’s okay. I’ll have to be heading back soon, so I’ll try to be –
”

“Hey, listen, I know – why don’t you stay here tonight?” “Well …
”

“Ah, go on. I’ve no groceries in, but I can nip down to the Spar at the corner. I’ll get some wine too, a bit of dessert. You’ll be on the pull-out, mind.
”

“But I’ve got nothing with me, no clothes or –” “It’s only one night, Jackie. You’ll live.
”

“Suppose so. Yeah. Yeah – all right then. I’ll let Melissa know.
”

“Good girl. I’ll do a quick shopping list.” “Put wine at the top.
”

“Will do.
”

She left to get a pen and a notebook. I got my phone out and started texting
.

* * *

We
opened
a
bottle
of
Rioja
as
soon
as
Nancy
got
back
from the
shop.
I
sat
at
the
kitchen
table
while
she
got
to
work
on a
spag
bol.
From
past
experience
I
knew
that
she
hated
any interference
while
cooking,
so
I
didn’t
offer
to
help.
I
just sipped
my
wine
as
she
chopped
and
stirred,
waiting
for
her to
mention
the
elephant
in
the
room.
But
she
didn’t.
She
got back
on
to
the
subject
of
Parisian
restaurants
and
stayed there
for
quite
a
while.
When
that
topic
had
been
exhausted, she
gave
me
a
detailed
analysis
of
the
many
difficulties facing
the
user
of
Dublin
airport.
From
there,
she
moved
on to
vegetarianism
–
a
good
thing
or
not?
At
that
point
it became
clear
to
me
that
I
would
have
to
do
a
little
subtle prompting
.

“Nancy!” I said. “For fuck’s sake!” She turned to face me. “What?
”

“I’ve been here for two hours and we haven’t talked about Gerry yet.
”

“I was waiting for you to start,” she said. “I didn’t want to be pushy.
”

“Oh. Yeah, I should have … I’m sorry, I just –
”

“Go on. Tell me. I’m all ears.” She turned back to her pots and pans
.

“Right. Friday morning, I got one of my headaches.” “Oh no.
”

“Yeah. It was pretty bad, so I left work and went home. Gerry was out doing a wedding, I thought. But halfway up the garden path, I looked in through the front window and there he was. With Lisa from next door. Hard at it.
”

I paused, anticipating a response. None materialised. Then Nancy half-turned and said, “I’m listening, go on.
”

“Are you nearly done?” I said. “I’d prefer to talk to your face if at all possible.
”

“Sorry, just a tick, I’m nearly there.” She reached into her fridge and grabbed a tub of parmesan. Then she sprinkled some in (far too much, in my opinion), wiped her hands on a tea-towel and finally took a seat across from me
.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I’m all yours.
”

I glugged the remainder of my wine and poured some more. Nancy had barely started hers
.

“Okay,” I said. “So there they were, over the back of the sofa –
”

“But, Jesus, they must have known they could be seen. What were they thinking of?
”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him. Yet.
”

“What did you do? Did you barge in or run away?
”

“I barged in. Or I started to anyway. But I didn’t even get through the front door before she came tearing out and away up the road.
”

“What about Gerry?
”

“Ran upstairs and puked his socks up.” “No!
”

“Yeah. I went in to the bedroom and packed.” “Did you not even talk to him?
”

“A wee bit. Just to say I was off, basically.” “And have you talked to him since?
”

“A few times. I, eh … I wrecked his jeep …” I trailed off, waiting for her astonished reaction
.

She nodded. “What? Took a hammer to it?
”

I’d expected a scream at least. I struggled to keep my disappointment off my face and out of my voice. “No. Scraped it against a pillar.
”

“Least he deserves, isn’t it? What about the twins? Do they know?
”

“Do they ever! Chrissy says she’s never talking to him again. And she means it. Not only that, she put a brick through Lisa’s window and sloshed a bucket of paint over her car.
”

“Doesn’t sound like Chrissy.
”

“There you go. As for the other eejit, he’s on the front page of
The
Sun
today.
”

“What? Why?
”

“He saw Lisa in a night-club, excuse me, a drinking club, with her boyfriend –
”

“Not Gerry? A different boyfriend?
”

I
thought
for
a
moment
that
this
was
a
shockingly
tasteless joke,
but
no,
it
was
a
real
question.
“Not
Gerry,”
I
said through
my
teeth.
“Her
real
boyfriend.
The
point
is,
Robert went
for
her,
made
some
sort
of
smart
comment
and
the
boyfriend
upped
and
lamped
him.
There
was
a
fight,
which Robert
seems
to
have
won
decisively.
Somebody
called
the paper
and
there
he
is:
“Soap
Star’s
Drunken
Shame”.
He could
be
in
serious
trouble
with
RTÉ.
And
if
anything
really bad
comes
of
it,
he
says
he’s
never
speaking
to
his
dad
again either.”
I
took
a
swig
of
wine
and
slumped
in
my
chair.
“It’s such
a
mess,
Nancy.
”

“And
what
about
you?”
she
said.
“How
are
you
coping?” “I
was
doing
all
right,”
I
said,
carefully.
“Until
the
kids
went
crazy.
Now
…
I’m
not
doing
all
right.
At
all.
”

She nodded and had some wine. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s a mess.
”

I waited for her advice. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bit her lower lip, a sure sign that she was thinking hard
.

“Listen,” she sai
d
then. “I’
m
sorry, bu
t I
can’t concentrate. I’ve got something on my mind.
”

Every muscle in my body contracted. In an instant, I convinced myself that she was about to make some horrific revelation about Gerry – that she’d caught him at it herself one day. Or that he’d tried it on with
her
ten minutes after we became neighbours, all those years ago
.

“What is it?” I managed to say
.

“My father’s been dead for twenty years,” she said. “Who should I get to give me away?
”

CHAPTER
20

Dinner
was
nice,
I
had
to
give
her
that.
What
was
even
nicer,
though,
was
the
wine.
We
ended
up
getting
through
two
bottles
before
dessert.
I
drank
way
more
than
my
share.
Frankly,
I
needed
it.
Although
we
did
indeed
have
the
“nice
long
chat”
that
Nancy
had
promised,
not
a
lot
of
it
was
about
Gerry
and
the
twins.
And
the
parts
that
were
delivered
nothing
of
any
significance.
Nancy
told
me
how
sorry
she
was,
several
times,
and
while
she
seemed
to
mean
it
quite
sincerely,
her
condolences
were
of
no
practical
help.
I
kept
finding
myself
frowning
at
the
space
above
her
head,
wondering
where
I’d
gone
wrong.
In
the
end,
I
concluded
that
I
hadn’t
gone
wrong
anywhere.
A
woman
who
had
recently
got
engaged
–
even
a
fifty-two-
year-old
–
was
no
one’s
idea
of
a
great
conversationalist,
and
that
was
all
there
was
to
it.
By
the
time
we
had
decided
not
to
bother
with
coffee
and
open
bottle
number
three
instead,
I
was
finding
it
all
but
funny
–
which
is
not
to
say
that
I
was
in
good
humour.
I
was
troubled
by
so
many
different
negative
emotions
that
I
was
having
a
hard
time
giving
them
all
names.
And
being
categorically
pissed
wasn’t
helping
any
.