The Truth Club (19 page)

‘Red wine… as usual,’ I say. Why is he asking me this? Why is
he behaving as though he doesn’t know me?

He gets up and walks dejectedly to the bar, orders my wine and
crisps and comes back to me. He takes my hand again and looks
into my eyes. ‘Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘About… what?’ I ask. But I already know. He wants a divorce.
He’s seen Becky again. That’s why we haven’t met for so long; it’s
not the studying or Charlene’s driving lessons or his mother’s
tiling. He’s grown tired of waiting for me – and he’s always loved
Becky more, anyway. That’s why he’s contrite when by rights he
should be angry about seeing me with Nathaniel. But that must have only confirmed his opinion that our marriage is over. He’s
not even jealous, because he’s realised he married me when in his
heart he wanted to marry someone else.

‘Can you forgive me?’ he asks. He doesn’t even have to
mention the word ‘divorce’. He must know that I know what he’s
thinking.

Small tears are forming in the corners of my eyes. ‘Well… I did
leave you, Diarmuid,’ I mumble. ‘You have every reason to have… reservations.’

‘But I said I was going to make more of an effort.’

‘You have been,’ I say. ‘You’ve been very sweet and understanding. It’s me who –’

‘But I’ve been so involved in my studies. I told you I was going
to take you to that Thai restaurant weeks ago.’

‘Yes, and you wanted to take me there that evening I was seeing Aggie,’ I remind him. ‘And I was the one who wasn’t available.’

‘I can’t believe I forgot. I didn’t even return your last phone call.’

‘Look, Diarmuid, please stop worrying about the restaurant,’ I
say firmly. This is so typical of us: talking about an exotic meal
we haven’t had, instead of about our marriage and why it’s
ending.

‘I’m not talking about the restaurant.’ Diarmuid looks at me
keenly. ‘You know what I’m talking about… don’t you?’

I sip my wine.

‘Our anniversary.’ There is an edge to his voice now. ‘I forgot
our anniversary.’

‘But it…it isn’t our anniversary,’ I stutter.

And then Diarmuid does something that is totally unlike him.
He raises his hand and bashes it down on the table. Our drinks jump, and drops of Guinness and wine leap out of the glasses. People look at us and then look away. Someone laughs.

‘It’s the anniversary of our
engagement.’
He is leaning towards me, virtually hissing. ‘You said we should always celebrate the anniversary of our engagement – remember?’

I do remember, now that he’s reminded me. But I said that
when I was the other Sally, the Sally who cared about lining her
bedroom curtains. I take a deep breath. I don’t like this Diarmuid
who bashed his hand down on the table, frightening me and
sending wine splashing all over the front of my pink blouse. This
is not the Diarmuid I married.

‘I… I said that before the mice.’ It’s a cheap shot, but I have to d
efend myself somehow. ‘I said it before the arguments about spermicide cream and… and finding out you’d met Becky for lunch.’

He starts to dab up the wine and Guinness with a paper
napkin, very carefully – too carefully.

‘And I said it before you forgot our first wedding anniversary,’
I say. ‘And… and the mice.’

‘You’ve already mentioned the mice,’ Diarmuid replies coldly.
‘And, if you remember, you also said it before you bolted out of
our house without an explanation.’

‘I
did
have an explanation – a sort of explanation, anyway – only you wouldn’t
listen
to it!’ I shout. A number of people are
openly listening to our interchange, as if they’re watching the telly.

‘It wasn’t a proper explanation,’ Diarmuid says, pushing his chair back. Then he adds gruffly, ‘More wine?’

I nod and dig my fingernails into my palms. If I had a loofah,
I would definitely use it on him. This is pointless. I should just get
up and go.

‘You only say it wasn’t a proper explanation because you didn’t understand it,’ I say as soon as he returns. ‘You don’t understand me, Diarmuid. You never have.’

‘And you don’t understand me,’ he says, gulping his Guinness.

I take a large swig of wine and shove a fistful of crisps into my mouth.

‘Why should we celebrate our engagement, anyway?’ I
demand. I’m a bit drunk already; if only he’d phoned
after
I’d
eaten the fish and chips! ‘We’re living in separate houses… and
your mother hates me.’ I hiccup.

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘Well, she doesn’t like me, anyway. She makes that clear.’ I
think of the photo of Becky on her side cabinet. ‘You don’t care
when she’s rude to me.’

‘Of course I would,’ he counters. ‘But she isn’t rude to you.’

‘Yes, she is, but you don’t notice. You don’t care about my feelings.’

‘Of course I do… but do you care about mine?’

‘Yes, of course I care about your feelings,’ I snap. Then we both
just sit there, drinking and scowling, like an old married couple who never got around to leaving each other and can no longer bear to talk about it.

‘We’d better go, anyway,’ Diarmuid says at last.

‘Where to?’

‘That Thai restaurant. I booked a table just before you
arrived.’

‘I don’t want to go out to dinner with you, Diarmuid.’

‘And I don’t particularly want to go to dinner with you at this
moment, Sally,’ he says flatly. ‘But I’m hungry. I assume you are too.’

And that’s how we end up driving to a swanky new restaurant
in Donnybrook. I expect the Corrs to come on the radio, but they
don’t; it’s classical music, resigned and rather sad. We both bathe
in its melancholy. I still don’t know if Diarmuid saw me with Nathaniel, but it seems that he didn’t. I wonder what made him
suddenly remember our anniversary when he was driving back to town from… from where? I feel I should ask where he’s been, but if I do, he’ll ask me what I was doing on the Howth Road.
So this
is how a marriage ends,
I think.
With a sigh and a slap-up meal.

It is a very nice restaurant, large and uncluttered, with candles
on the white tablecloths. The seats are cushioned and com
fortable, and Eastern music tinkles cheerfully in the background.
We order our food and then we eat it. We barely talk. We barely
look at each other. It’s like being alone – alone in a room, though
you know someone else is in the house.

‘You’re looking very pretty this evening,’ Diarmuid suddenly
tells me, as we try to work out what they’ve put in the pudding. It’s very strange – both sour and sweet, and not unpleasant.

‘And you’re looking handsome yourself,’ I reply, because I’m
keeping the lines of communication open, and because he is. I am
also grateful that he isn’t sulking. I hated him an hour ago, but
now he just seems deeply puzzling. ‘This is a lovely meal,’ I add.
‘Thank you, Diarmuid. It was a very kind thought.’

‘I’m sorry I lost my temper earlier. I don’t know what came
over me.’ He pours me some more wine. He isn’t drinking much
himself, because he’s driving. I gaze at his strong jawline, his thick
black eyebrows and wavy dark hair. His eyes seem less distant in
the candlelight, and his smile is broader and more playful. ‘It was
ridiculous, getting so angry because you forgot the anniversary. I
mean, who remembers an engagement anniversary?’

‘You do, Diarmuid,’ I say. ‘And I should have. I made such a
fuss about your forgetting our wedding anniversary, it’s no
wonder you thought I’d be waiting around for you to take me out
somewhere.’

‘Why do we have these silly arguments, Sally?’ He looks lost.
Scared. ‘I’m not like this with other people.’

‘Neither am I.’ I sigh, remembering the crazy night I let his mice loose in the tool shed.

‘We like each other, don’t we?’ He takes my hand. ‘Sometimes
we behave as if we don’t even like each other.’

‘Oh, Diarmuid… of course we like each other.’ I cradle his hand
in mine and stroke his fingers. He looks rugged and kind, just like
a Tool-Belt Man should look. When he gets up to go to the toilet
I watch his departing back with a detached sort of appreciation,
noticing the firmness of him, the trim, sexy look of his bottom in
the faded blue jeans.

When he returns, I decide to cheer him up. I try to entertain
him by telling him about Larry and his breasts, and how he
wanted me to spank him, and how I said I couldn’t because I was married to a very nice man called Diarmuid who never asked me
to do such things.

‘Can you believe that?’ I laugh. ‘Wanting a total stranger to spank you!’

Diarmuid just stares at me, so I look down at my pudding and
wonder if I should have talked about something else. Maybe
Diarmuid thinks this is the kind of conversation I have at
receptions.

I feel his foot rubbing my ankle under the table. Then he leans
f
orwards and stretches out his hand towards my left breast.
‘Diarmuid!’ I splutter, through a mouthful of strange pudding.

‘What’s that on your blouse?’ His eyes have darkened.

‘Wine and… and chocolate.’ Am I actually blushing? One could g
et chocolate on oneself anywhere.

‘I have chocolate cake at home. A lovely big chocolate cake.’
He is holding my left hand now, holding the ring finger, twisting
the ring round and round. ‘A cake with lots of icing.’

He remembers!
The thought comes to me like a kiss.
He remembers that I said I wanted more icing… Maybe this is how you save a marriage,
I think.
Maybe you just go home and eat chocolate cake and stop talking about mice and diaphragms.

There is a warmth between us now, a kind of wary and weary affection. We drink our coffees and leave the restaurant swiftly.
As I get into Diarmuid’s car, I know I will not be spending the night in my cosy, and sometimes very lonely, little cottage.

Chapter
Thirteen

I am naked and
lying next to my husband in our big double bed.
He’s snoring slightly; he’s turned away from me, towards the wall. Our lovemaking, after we ate the cake, was tender, almost
apologetic. We didn’t rip our clothes off. For a while we just lay
on the bed like two bewildered children, clinging to each other, not knowing what to make of all this.

This is another new Diarmuid – vulnerable, needing me to
caress him, to find the special places; needing me to say, ‘Yes. Yes,
I want you,’ before I lifted myself onto him and made love to him
gently. He stared into my eyes as though trying to see the map of
me, trying to pinpoint the place where our love got lost.

And I wanted with all my heart to heal this thing I’ve done to him, this thing that has made him doubt himself. I want him to
know our arguments are about our differences, not about who is
wrong or right. I want him to know that it’s OK that he no longer
trusts me; I wouldn’t trust him either, if he had left like I did. I desperately want him to be happy again, with or without me.