Putting Out the Stars Page 13

  She heard a noise from the kitchen and walked towards it.

  So it had begun.

  Laura sat on the couch and looked at the blank TV screen. Donal had gone to meet some pals for a drink – he’d wanted her to go, but she’d pleaded a heavy workload.

  ‘I need to clear the decks a bit for next week.’ She’d heard yesterday that she’d got the schoolbooks job – not as big as she’d first imagined, but a nice steady little earner all the same for the next few months. She was expecting the first assignment on Monday.

  In a way, she was glad at the prospect of keeping busy for the foreseeable future; it might make the time pass by less unbearably slowly.

  Because today they’d begun what Laura knew was going to be a long, agonising wait. At least three months before they’d have any sort of definite information to work with, according to Dr Sloan, the gynaecologist.

  ‘It’ll take at least that long to get an accurate reading of your cycle, Laura, and a clear analysis of Donal’s semen. We need both of those before we can pinpoint any possible problems.’

  Donal had been given his jar and sent to another room; Laura hadn’t looked at him as he’d left. Dr Sloan was about Laura’s age, maybe a bit older, with a wedding ring. Laura wondered if she had children, but didn’t ask. They chatted quite pleasantly until Donal came back, handing Dr Sloan the jar without a word. He was quiet for the rest of the visit, letting Laura do most of the talking again. Dr Sloan had given her a special thermometer – she called it a basal body thermometer – and a series of charts to record her temperature readings.

  ‘This is the first step, before any blood tests or ultrasounds, just to give us some basic information about your cycle. Remember to take it at roughly the same time every day.’

  She shook hands with both of them as they were leaving. ‘I know it’s easily said, but try not to worry. If there’s a problem, we’ll do everything in our power to identify it and find a solution. Good luck.’

  Everyone was wishing them luck. Laura wondered if that was all it took. Maybe every conception was just that – pure luck. One enthusiastic sperm just happening to wriggle away from the millions of others, and head in exactly the right direction to make contact with the impossibly tiny egg that just happened to be ready and waiting for it. If that was the case, she and Donal had been pretty unlucky for the last two years.

  She sighed and stood up. Better get some work done; it was going to take a bit more than luck to make that happen.

  ‘More tea, dear?’

  Cecily materialised by Ruth’s elbow, pot poised. Her insistence on serving breakfast to Ruth, despite her daughter-in-law’s repeated assurances that she could easily do her own, never failed to make Ruth feel that she was staying in a very formal boarding house, filled with elderly maidens who all looked like Maggie Smith in Room with a View, and who managed never to appear for breakfast at the same time as Ruth. To give Cecily her due, she probably assumed that Ruth secretly enjoyed being waited on – because of course she herself would relish having her lightly scrambled eggs or perfectly grilled bacon – Cecily never called them ‘rashers’ – handed up to her every morning by a docile servant.

  This particular morning, though, Ruth couldn’t have cared less if Cecily had appeared in a French maid’s outfit, complete with fishnet stockings, and pirouetted across the floor, twirling Ruth’s plate expertly over her head. She felt a sudden urge to giggle, and turned it into a discreet cough. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as Cecily poured her a second cup of Earl Grey tea – Ruth had come to quite like the delicately scented taste. And in seven more days, unbelievably, she would be pouring her own tea – Barry’s probably, like they always bought at home – in her own house.

  Andrew had come back from a visit to the builders the day before with the news. She just stared at him as it sank in.

  Finally she found her voice. ‘A week?’

  He laughed at her incredulous expression. ‘Yes; a week. Seven days. Half a fortnight. A quarter –’

  ‘Stop.’ She put a hand over his mouth. ‘Are you absolutely sure? It’ll be ready for us to move in – no more delays?’

  He pulled her hand away and held it. ‘Absolutely sure. John promised faithfully – after I threatened to take his ass to court if he was joking.’ John was the foreman.

  ‘Andrew, you didn’t.’ Ruth looked half-amused, half-horrified.

  Andrew shook his head, laughing. ‘Of course not. But he did promise faithfully – so we’d better start getting our act together. Will you contact your folks about having our stuff sent down? John says we should be able to start moving things in at the weekend.’

  They’d bought some furniture in Dublin before the wedding, which Ruth’s parents were storing in their garage. And Cecily was going to lend them a few things – kitchen utensils, saucepans, plates – which Ruth was determined would be returned in record time. Laura had a portable telly with a built-in video they could have till they got their own. Everyone was being so helpful – even Breffni had offered to lend them pillows and blankets.

  Laura had phoned Ruth a few days ago and told her she was meeting Breffni for coffee in town the following day.

  ‘Why don’t you come along? We’re meeting at four in that new place in Thomas Street, opposite Davern and Bell.’

  Ruth was torn; she hadn’t seen Laura in a while, and would have welcomed the chance for a chat. But Breffni would be there too, sitting in silent judgement over Laura’s new sister-in-law – no; stop it. Ruth determined she was going to cut out this silly paranoia; she was going to give Breffni the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I’d love that, thanks Laura. Why don’t I drop by your studio and we can go there together?’ That way there would be no danger of Ruth being alone with Breffni. Just in case she wasn’t being paranoid.

  She needn’t have worried; Breffni had turned up twenty minutes late, just after Ruth and Laura had decided to go ahead and order their cappuccinos. She looked wonderful, as usual, in faded-to-grey black jeans and a dark red ribbed top, with her hair pulled back in a tortoiseshell clip.

  ‘Sorry, I lost track of time in Cruise’s Street. Nearly bought a top in Flax in Bloom, but I need a second opinion. Laur, will you come back with me after, and see what you think?’ She looked at Ruth and added quickly, ‘And you too, if you’re not rushing off somewhere.’

  Before Ruth had a chance to respond, Laura said, ‘I don’t know why you always ask me to advise you when you buy clothes – you’ll make up your own mind in the end. And anyway, you know everything looks good on you.’

  Breffni grinned. ‘Ah but still, come and see it; it’s not something I’d normally go for.’ She watched two frothy cappuccinos appear in front of the others. ‘Yummy, I’ll have one of those please.’ As the waitress turned to go, Breffni rummaged in her bag. ‘Oh look, I nearly forgot –’ She pulled out what looked to Ruth like three children’s colouring pencils. ‘They were practically giving these away in Boots, so I got us one each.’

  Laura looked at them in amusement. ‘Lip liners?’

  ‘Eye pencils, dope.’ Breffni held them out. ‘Here, you two can choose which colours you want; I’d wear any of them. Pick one, Ruth.’

  Ruth looked at the pencils: they were identical, except that each had a different coloured stripe near the end; one was dark green, the second was a kind of terracotta and the third a deep violet. She had never used an eye pencil in her life. Did they go under or over your eyes? How did you know which colour suited you – were you supposed to match it with whatever you were wearing, or go by your eye colour? And how did you put it on? She’d be sure to stab herself if she went near her eyes with one of them.

  And as she sat there, pretending to deliberate, another thought struck her – was this Breffni’s way of hinting that Ruth needed to make up her eyes? It wouldn’t be surprising – it must be obvious that Ruth hadn’t a clue about make-up, had never been able to wear mascara without looking like a panda at the end of the night. And any
colour she stroked onto her lids just made her clownish. She looked at Laura, willing her to come to the rescue.

  And, thank goodness, she did. ‘I’d say the rust one would suit your colouring.’ Laura took it from Breffni’s hand and pulled off the top, then stroked it a few times on the back of Ruth’s hand. ‘Look, it’s nice and warm, it’d go lovely with your grey eyes.’ She held it out to her. ‘Try it anyway at home, and see what you think.’

  Ruth took the pencil from Laura and smiled stiffly at Breffni. ‘Thanks.’ She put it into her bag, vowing to throw it into the first bin she came to on her way home.

  ‘And I’ll take the violet one, Bref – thanks.’ Laura turned to the mirrored wall behind her and licked the tip of the pencil before stroking it onto her lower lids. ‘Oh yeah, I like it.’

  ‘Mmm – suits you.’ Breffni put the green pencil back into her bag as the waitress approached with her cappuccino. ‘So Ruth, what about this house then?’

  And they’d talked about the house, and Breffni had offered the pillows and blankets, and promised to come along with Laura to help Ruth when moving day came. And Ruth’s annoyance faded, and she eventually decided that Breffni was just trying to be friendly, and anyway, it wasn’t as if Ruth didn’t need help with make-up – anyone could see she hadn’t a clue.

  So she hadn’t thrown away the eye pencil; she’d brought it home and gone straight to the bathroom and tried to apply it like Laura had done, even remembering to lick the top beforehand. It wasn’t that hard really, once you got over the feeling of being so near your eye. In the end, she had to admit that it looked quite nice – not clownish at all. Andrew didn’t notice anything when he came home from work, but over dinner Cecily told her she was looking very well. The next time she was in town, Ruth went into Boots and bought two more shades, after stroking a few of them on the back of her hand the way Laura had done. The girl beside her was trying on mascara, sweeping it down her lashes as if she’d done it all her life. Maybe Ruth would give that another go sometime – her lashes were far too pale.

  Now Cecily smiled as she sat opposite Ruth and poured herself a cup of tea. She added a slice of lemon and stirred. ‘You look happy this morning, dear.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘I am – I’m going over to the house after breakfast. I want to see for myself that it’s almost ready.’ Then she stopped. ‘Cecily, it’s not that I’m glad to be leaving here; we’re terribly grateful to –’

  ‘It’s quite all right, dear, I understand perfectly.’ Cecily’s hair and make-up were immaculate, as usual – her soft lavender lipstick toned in beautifully with the pale grey sweater that had to be cashmere, it looked so fine. And her eyes were done up too – she’d probably been using eyeliner all her life. ‘Naturally, you and Andrew are looking forward to your own place.’ She paused. ‘Of course, I hope I’ll see you both often – I’ve already told Andrew that I expect you here for Christmas dinner.’

  He’d never said a word to her. Ruth’s heart plummeted, even though it was what she had expected. She said quickly, ‘Thank you, Cecily, we’d love to.’ They’d have plenty of Christmases in their own place. Her spirits soared again – their own place. Herself and Andrew – and their children. She tried to imagine Cecily with a grandchild on her knee, and failed. Ah well, maybe she’d pay for their college education instead.

  She felt another giggle waiting to erupt – she was just so happy this morning – and dabbed at her lips with one of Cecily’s linen napkins, managing a furtive glance at her watch as she did; how soon could she decently leave the table? Then she reminded herself that she had only a week more to go.

  One week. Seven days.

  One week. Seven days since he’d written the few short sentences that had taken him three hours to get right. He couldn’t believe seven days could seem like such an eternity, the minutes crawling by with excruciating slowness. Seven days that were only marginally less agonising than the seven nights, when his head was bursting with images of her, snatches of her laugh, the smell of her.

  He would go mad. Unless he could have her, unless he could find a way to quench this craving, this hunger he had for her, he would go stark raving mad, screeching like a possessed hyena in his straitjacket, thumping his crammed-with-her head against the walls of his padded cell.

  He couldn’t understand how he could continue to behave normally, but unbelievably, he did. Some force within him, something stronger than he knew he had, was keeping him from blurting out his secret and falling to pieces. He went to work like he always had, talked to people as usual, ate his meals, made love to his wife. Made love to his wife with his eyes closed, seeing her behind his lids. Called his wife ‘darling’, and ‘love’, and was careful not to say her name, in case he said the wrong one.

  He prayed for an end. He prayed for her to contact him.

  Laura stepped through the shop doors, feeling like an intruder. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. You’ve as much right to be here as anyone else.

  She picked a t-shirt from the rail nearest to her. It was blue, with thin white stripes. So tiny; the body was the same length as her hand. She read the label: 0-6 months. She remembered Polly at six months, still pretty bald, just beginning to sit up by herself, dribbling gummily up at Laura when she held her in her lap.

  She put down the t-shirt and found a creamy dress, all ribbons and frills. ‘6-12 months’. Polly beginning to walk, tottering from Breffni’s hand to the edge of the couch, fat little legs thumping across the floor. Losing her balance and plopping down, only to struggle unsteadily to her feet, padded bottom in the air as her podgy splayed fingers pushed against the floor to right herself.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Laura started, almost dropping the tiny dress. An assistant stood beside her with a polite smile, not looking as if she suspected Laura of being mentally deranged at all.

  ‘Er, no thanks. I’m . . . just looking.’ Laura put the dress back and moved quickly away, certain that the assistant was watching her curiously. Damn. Why hadn’t she said she was getting a present for a friend’s baby, or a niece or something? You didn’t go into a baby shop and just look, did you? It wasn’t like going into a grown-up boutique, where you could wander around all you liked – or was it? She knew so little about babies and children, what was accepted and what wasn’t. How would she ever be able to raise a child, if the miracle ever happened and she got pregnant?

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. The assistant had moved on to another customer, who seemed to be asking her about buggies. Nobody was taking any notice of Laura at all. She relaxed slightly and looked at a row of tiny fleece bootees in lilacs and blues and purples. Polly’s first proper shoes had been shocking-pink baby-sized trainers with lime green laces, with a green and pink striped hat to match. Breffni had brought them back from San Francisco. Polly had looked adorable in them.

  Laura picked up a pair of miniscule purple bootees. They had a blue felt flower on the outside of each one. ‘9-12 months’. She walked rapidly towards the cash register.

  ‘I’ll take these, please.’

  The assistant smiled as she took the bootees. ‘They’re so sweet. Are they a present?’

  ‘No – they’re for my own baby.’ It was out before she had a chance to think about it. Her face flushed; she hadn’t anticipated being asked any questions. Of course it was true; she was preparing for the baby she knew she’d have one day – but imagine if the assistant knew that she wasn’t even pregnant yet . . . she stood, heart hammering, as the bootees were put into a bag and the amount rung up.

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  Oh God – her mind raced. ‘Girl – Emma. She’s just six months.’ She wondered, in a detached way, how she could sound so calm. There was no sign of a tremor in her voice, no indication at all that she was saying the first thing that came into her head.

  The assistant certainly didn’t seem to notice anything. ‘Ah, I remember my nieces at that age. Is she your first?’

  ‘Yes; but
I’ve just found out that I’m pregnant again.’ So calm, as she handed over her debit card. Was her hand shaking slightly? She hoped not.

  The assistant’s plump, good-natured face broke into a wide beam. ‘How wonderful; congratulations.’ She took Laura’s card and slid it through the machine, then pulled the slip out and put it in front of Laura. ‘Just sign there, please.’

  Laura’s mind was blank as she wrote her name. She thanked the assistant, took the bootees and her card and her receipt, and walked calmly from the shop.

  When she was halfway down the street, her legs began to shake.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Frank smiled at Ruth. ‘It’s a fine house; you’ve done great work on it.’

  ‘There was an awful lot to be done; I thought we’d never be in.’ Ruth wanted to burst with happiness. The day before, she’d been assured by John the foreman that yes, they would definitely be finishing up by the middle of the week: ‘Thursday at the very latest.’ He’d taken her through the house room by room, and she’d seen, for the first time, what living here would be like.

  They’d got the builders to paint the walls off-white throughout, so they could take their time with their own colour schemes. As she walked across the wooden floors, Ruth pictured a red rug here, a pale blue one there. The picture her sisters had given them for their wedding over that fireplace. Laura’s telly in that corner. Andrew’s computer in the small room at the top of the stairs – they didn’t need three bedrooms. Yet.

  And this morning Frank had arrived – she’d phoned him and arranged to meet him here, because she was dying to show off the house to someone, and Laura was too busy to come till the afternoon, and she couldn’t get through to Valerie. And somehow she sensed that Cecily would rather wait until the house was more presentable. She’d taken Frank through the rooms just as John had done with her, watching for his reaction in each one.