The Truth Club (7 page)

I kiss her softly on the cheek, and then I leave, with the word
‘sensible’ ringing in my ears. Diarmuid
is
sensible. He knows what
he wants. He knows who he is. And he wants me to be sensible,
t
oo – sensible in his terms, the only ones he understands. That’s one of the things I find most difficult about my husband: he doesn’t see how different people can be. Maybe that’s why he
likes mice so much. They seldom vary in their desire for cheese.

I creep out of Aggie’s room, and suddenly I don’t know what
to do with all these feelings inside me, popping like popcorn. I
don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to lose her. I walk
down the corridor, past the sitting-room and its blaring television;
the group of residents sitting there, waiting for the stew and the relatives that might just visit. I open the front door and crunch
down the gravel path. The winding road to the bus stop is familiar
now, and even it is tinged with grief.

What, in truth, is there to keep me in Dublin after Aggie is
gone? Of course, Diarmuid and I may get back together; but if we
remain apart, it might be nice to move somewhere new, with no
associations to remind me of my failed marriage. I might even go
back to California…

Just for a moment I feel a burst of lightness in my heart, a blaze
of excitement. My step quickens; and then it slows again, as I realise there is no way I can go back to California. I have a life here in Dublin. People expect things of me. I have a job, and parents who aren’t getting any younger; I have friends and a mortgage. I can’t be like DeeDee and turn my back on it all. I could never just leave without even writing a note. I already nearly hate her and the heartbreak she has caused.

It looks like it might rain. I start to walk more quickly. I want to get home so I can curl up under the duvet with a nice big mug
of hot chocolate and watch the telly. That’s one of the nice things
about being alone: I don’t have to bargain with Diarmuid about whether to watch one of my favourite American sitcoms or one of his sports programmes.

My mobile phone rings, and I grab it from my pocket. It could be Diarmuid. I want to talk to him and apologise. I really want to k
eep the lines of communication open.

‘Hi, how are you?’ Fiona says cheerfully. Fiona is my oldest
friend and a cheerful sort of person. Even if she didn’t own a big tasteful house and have a silver sports car and a garden pond full
of koi carp, she would probably be happy. And she is even
happier now that she and Zak are expecting their first baby.

‘Hi there, Fiona!’ I raise my voice an octave. When I compare
my life to Fiona’s, I can’t help thinking that she seems to know how to be Fiona O’Driscoll so much better than I know how to
be Sally Adams. I’ve known her since secondary school, and she’s
always had this sort of glow and buzz about her. It’s almost
impossible not to like her; but, now that she’s even happier than
ever and I’m frequently far from ecstatic, I have not been seeking
out her company. But Fiona is the kind of person who keeps in touch with her friends, especially friends who have recently separated from almost-brand-new husbands – I’ve only been married to Diarmuid for a year, eight months and four days.

‘Look, why don’t you come round for a nice big glass of wine?’
Fiona says. ‘I know you need a bit of cheering up after visiting Aggie.’

‘How do you know I’ve just visited Aggie?’ I enquire, wondering
if all the people I know are suddenly becoming telepathic.

‘You always visit Aggie on Tuesday evenings between seven
and half-eight,’ Fiona laughs. ‘It’s part of the Sally Adams schedule!’

I frown. Fiona has clearly decided I’m a stickler for routine just
because I like to keep Tuesday evenings – and sometimes Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons – free for Aggie. I hesitate before replying. Do I really feel up to visiting Fiona’s
exquisite house and drinking wine out of one of her huge billowy
hand-blown glasses?

‘Sally? Sally, are you still there?’ Fiona says. ‘I’ll come and collect you if you like. Where are you?’

‘I’m getting on a bus,’ I reply. In fact, the bus nearly sailed by as if it were in a Formula One race, and I had to stick my arm out
and jump up and down to get the driver’s attention. ‘Thanks so much, Fiona. That glass of wine sounds great. I should be with you in…’ At this point I drop the phone, because I have been attempting to extract the
exact
fare from my purse and the driver has been glowering at me. I toss some coins at him and bend to
retrieve my phone before he stampedes off again. Even though I
scurry, the bus lurches off dramatically and I am flung into a seat
and sit there scowling. Do drivers do that on purpose? And why have I said ‘Yes’ to Fiona, when what I really want to do is just go home? Sometimes I really envy April’s ability to say ‘No’
without the slightest trace of doubt or guilt. If I were living in San Francisco, I bet I’d feel I had to fly home for Marie’s big do. I am
the dutiful daughter, the one who turns up and phones and remembers people’s birthdays. That’s why everyone finds it so hard to believe I left Diarmuid. I am just not the sort of person who does that kind of thing.

The only people who don’t seem to be surprised are Fiona and
Erika. Before I got married, I sometimes saw them huddled together in earnest conversations, and I knew they were dis
cussing me because they always said things like ‘So you use
five
carrots’ when I joined them. Erika and Fiona are not the type of
women who sit around discussing casseroles. I assumed they were
talking about wedding presents; but now I suspect they were
wondering how to tell me they didn’t think Diarmuid and I were
suited. Looking back, I can see they gave me little hints, like,
‘They say a sense of humour is crucial for a healthy relationship;
I could never be with a man who didn’t make me laugh.’
Diarmuid is a rather serious person, but I didn’t mind, because life is a serious business. You can’t just go around laughing at everything. There are decisions to be made, practicalities to be attended to. You have to know what’s important.

Fiona’s large cream house overlooks a well-maintained, tree-lined square in Monkstown, which is an old and grand and very
attractive Dublin suburb. As the bus bumps its way along, I think
that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be on this bus; I would have walked, because of my firm commitment to regular exercise. I
also think that, if I were Fiona, I wouldn’t be wearing jeans with
a zip that opens up stealthily every time I sit down and a pink
cotton jumper with a small rip underneath the right arm. If I were
Fiona, I would still be happily married, because I would have thought about it all long and carefully, before, not after, the
wedding. She and Zak even went to a marriage counsellor
before
they said, ‘I do.’

Fiona’s first question to me as I walk through her front door is, ‘Would you like some lasagne? It’s delicious. We got it from that
swanky new deli. The chef is Italian.’

I naturally say yes, because I am now in comfort-food territory.
Any time I’m with Fiona, I eat far more than I should, while she
pecks at salad and radishes. She and Zak never have large
portions, which is why they haven’t finished the lasagne and greedy plump little Sally has been called upon to finish it. I was nine stone when I married, and now I’m ten.

As I consume Fiona’s lasagne, my eyes are drawn to her large,
luxuriant stomach, which is not caused by chocolate biscuits and
crackers covered in hummus. There is a baby in there.

‘Sally?’ Fiona smiles. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I’m thinking about that lovely little baby that’s in your stomach.’ I smile back. ‘And I’m thinking you’ll make a great
mother because you know how to love people.’ As I say this, I feel
lighter. When I’m not comparing myself to Fiona, but just
appreciating her, I feel more like her. I feel like I’ve been let in on
some secret.

She laughs. ‘I wish I were as sure about that as you are,’ she says. Fiona has a lovely, deeply playful laugh. This is not, of course, the only lovely thing about her. Her blaze of red-blonde
hair frames a soft, thoughtful and extremely pretty oval face. It is the sort of face that manages to be an unexpected combination of
qualities. Her nose, for example, hints at steely determination,
while her full lips regularly curl up into a playful, stunning smile that reveals even, pristine white teeth. Her eyes are grey-blue and
watchful, because she notices things. She is wearing a beautiful,
voluminous woven shirt with buttons in unusual places, including
the elbows. Fiona has those sorts of clothes – clothes that aren’t generally available in ordinary shops.

Fiona gives me one of her looks. ‘Sally, I hate to bring the subject up, but have you thought any more about…’

I know she is referring to Diarmuid. ‘No… I mean, sort of.’

Fiona nods, and I know she wants me to talk about Diarmuid.
If I were Fiona and had left my husband, I would be talking about
it and getting advice and support and perhaps even crying.
Because Fiona doesn’t just know how to be happy; she knows how to be sad. She cries at funerals and she cries at poignant films. She cried buckets when Alfie Armitage went off with Naomi O’Sullivan at that dance when we were fifteen; she was heartbroken for a week, until she met that French exchange student who was the first person to feel inside her bra. When
Fiona has been dumped, she has been known to
howl.
Maybe
that’s why she gets over it so quickly.

But, now that she’s met Zak, her love life seems to be verging
on the idyllic. And the thing is, he’s not even handsome. He’s bald
and has rather small eyes and a plumpish nose. His mouth is too
big; when he smiles, it virtually takes over the lower part of his
face. But there is something about him – a confidence, an aura of
strength and wisdom. His body is compact and muscular and his
movements are lithe and agile, like a dancer’s. I wouldn’t have looked at him twice, so that’s another impressive thing about
Fiona: she looked at Zak twice and saw he was special. And he is s
pecial. He is very kind and thoughtful and sweet and funny. He and Fiona look after each other. Sometimes they feed each other chocolate ice-cream in bed. Somehow I wish she hadn’t told me
that little detail.

Zak isn’t with us this evening because, after he had his lasagne,
he went to the pub with some friends. He isn’t the sort of man who
prefers
being at the pub with his friends; but when the baby
is born he won’t see his friends so often, so he wants to have some
quality time with them now. He is an accountant, but that simply seems to make the whole profession more glamorous. And Fiona
is something very important in software. Sometimes she even gives talks at conferences in London and Paris and Rome.

We sit in silence while Fiona clearly hopes I will say more about Diarmuid. Eventually she says, ‘Would you like some chocolate cake? It’s home-baked. I got it from the deli too.’

I look at her warily.

‘It’s got cream in it, so it has to be eaten soon,’ Fiona coaxes.

‘Oh, all right, then.’ I grin at her. Then I add, and I am not
entirely joking, ‘Sometimes I think you’re trying to fatten me up,
Fiona. I’m going to be like a woman in a Rubens painting if I go
on like this.’

Fiona smiles serenely and pads, barefooted, to her gleaming
kitchen. It has a maple floor and an Aga cooker that she actually
understands. I don’t understand my cooker. It does things I don’t
need it to, and sometimes it makes strange noises.

‘I always find a nice chocolate cake cheers me up when I’m worried,’ Fiona says, as she hands me a large slice on a hand-decorated ceramic plate.

I’m about to protest that this is nonsense, but then I realise that
Fiona does comfort-eat sometimes. I have seen her. But she never
gains an extra pound. For a moment I feel like throwing myself on the hand-woven Persian carpet in outrage.