Putting Out the Stars Page 4

And how ridiculous it was to be vaguely disappointed when he’d been so casual in Rome, instead of being relieved that he obviously felt no tension between them. Instead of being glad that they could be friends now, put all that business behind them. Especially when she was just after meeting Cian, who was so different. So lovely and safe.

  Looking across at Cian now, mopping up his curry sauce with a chunk of Naan bread, Breffni wondered if things might be about to change a bit. Knowing Laura, she’d be taking care of her new sister-in-law, making sure she found her feet in Limerick. Including the newlyweds in nights out, all six of them off together. Possibly expecting Breffni to do her bit too, have Andrew and the wife over here to dinner whenever Laura and Donal came out.

  Which was absolutely fine. She picked up her wine. ‘Sláinte.’

  ‘Sláinte.’ He looked at her over the edge of his glass. ‘So what else did you get up to today?’

  She took a drink and told him about Polly’s Lego tower.

  ‘Now, Mags, here’s Cecily to talk to you while I get the tea.’ Valerie waved Cecily ahead of her into the sitting room.

  ‘Margaret, hello.’ Cecily smiled across the room at a fragile-looking white-haired woman. Poor Margaret’s ten-year battle with arthritis had aged her terribly; a stranger would have put her at well over eighty, instead of just seventy-three. From her high-backed, fairly solid-looking chair – easier to get out of – she stretched out a tragically swollen-knuckled hand. ‘Cecily dear, elegant as ever. Isn’t all this rain terrible?’

  ‘Shocking.’ Cecily dropped her bag and took the outstretched hand in hers. ‘It’s probably not doing you any favours.’

  Margaret smiled ruefully as Cecily settled into the chair next to her. ‘Not really, dear, no, but I’m not complaining. I’m lucky to have Valerie so near – she’s a great help.’ Valerie was Margaret’s niece, a relatively recent addition to the group, and playing hostess tonight for the first time. Margaret leant towards Cecily and lowered her voice a little. ‘I have the poor girl run off her feet, if the truth be told.’

  ‘Is that me you’re talking about?’ The door was nudged open and Valerie reappeared with a tray.

  Margaret smiled warmly at her. ‘I was telling Cecily how much of a help you are to me, dear. I’d be lost without you.’

  ‘You would not – didn’t you manage fine before I arrived?’ Valerie began unloading the tray. ‘I hope the others will be able to make it; they said on the radio that there are floods out around Corbally.’

  Cecily saw with relief that they were getting cups and saucers; she’d suspected that Valerie, the youngest member by far of the reading group, might use mugs. Cecily had never in her life willingly drunk out of a mug, not even a china one. Horrible, clumsy things: suitable only for tradespeople and children. But these cups, while lacking the delicacy of Cecily’s bone china, were quite acceptable.

  The doorbell rang, and Valerie straightened up. ‘Oh good, there’s someone else.’ She put a plate of fruitcake on the table before leaving with the empty tray.

  Cecily looked at the cake. Shop bought, probably. She couldn’t see Valerie in an apron surrounded by caster sugar and flour. To be honest, Cecily wasn’t sure that Valerie quite fitted into the group. For one thing, there was the age difference. All the other members were over sixty; in fact, before the arrival of Valerie, Cecily had been easily the youngest, by at least three years. Not, of course, that that would have been grounds for refusing entry to Valerie. Indeed not, particularly as she was Margaret’s niece.

  When Margaret had tentatively broached the subject of Valerie’s joining them ‘occasionally’, they’d all agreed straightaway – of course they had. It was just – well, she couldn’t be more than thirty-six or seven; surely she should be mixing with people of her own generation, instead of trying to fit in with a group nearly twice her age? True, she could talk about the books with the best of them, and the couple she’d recommended had been quite popular. But still . . . .

  Cecily became aware of Margaret looking questioningly at her and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, dear, did you say something? I’m afraid I was miles away.’

  ‘Just wondering how the newlyweds are getting on.’

  Cecily had mentioned Andrew’s wedding at the last monthly meeting; reluctant as she usually was to discuss her private life, she never objected to talking about Andrew. She was so proud of him: such a handsome man, and so charming. Always there for her. Always ready to take her advice on board, if she felt the need to offer it.

  Cecily smiled happily at Margaret. ‘The newlyweds are fine; they’re staying with me until their house is ready. Ruth is a lovely girl – you’ll meet her when I’m hosting. She’s quite a reader herself actually; I was only saying to her –’

  At that moment, the door opened again.

  ‘In you go – I’ll just get the teapot.’ Valerie’s voice was followed by the appearance in the doorway of Dorothy – ‘Hello, ladies’ – and a man whom Cecily had never seen before.

  He smiled at them as Dorothy said, ‘Margaret, Cecily, this is Frank, my new neighbour. He’s just moved here from Sligo and knows nobody yet. I invited him along to sit in tonight.’ Before either woman could respond, the doorbell rang again. Valerie, just arrived in with the teapot, put it down on the table – ‘Good, that’ll be Emily; we’re all here now’ – and left the room again.

  Cecily put out her hand to shake the one that was stretched towards her; what else could she do? As Frank – such a common name – took it, she hardly heard what he said.

  How dare Dorothy take it on herself to bring a newcomer to the group without having the courtesy to mention it beforehand? And what on earth did ‘sit in’ mean? You couldn’t sit in on a book club – the whole idea was to get together to talk about whatever book they’d all read. He’d be bored silly, just sitting there listening to them. And was he going to be a fixture from now on – or worse, assume he could pop along to a meeting whenever he felt like it? Was he going to turn up in Cecily’s house next month, when it was her turn to host? Of course, if Margaret hadn’t begun it all by foisting that niece on them, this wouldn’t have happened; but at least she’d had the grace to clear it with them first.

  ‘Not a name you hear too often now.’ That man had sat next to her; she couldn’t avoid a conversation without being rude. Dorothy had settled herself across from Margaret, peeling off her gloves and asking about the arthritis as if she’d done nothing wrong in parading into the meeting with a complete stranger; the nerve of the woman.

  Cecily turned her head and gave Frank her coolest look. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘Cecily.’ Either he’d missed her lack of enthusiasm, in which case he was obtuse, or he’d decided to ignore it, which made him insensitive. ‘I had an aunt called Cecily, but apart from that, I don’t remember ever coming across it.’ He smiled wider then, showing small, even teeth. ‘It suits you; genteel, like yourself.’

  She couldn’t believe the familiarity of the man. She decided not to respond to such a silly comment – genteel, like yourself, indeed; he wouldn’t know genteel if it stood in front of him and saluted. She turned slightly away from him; she’d talk to Margaret instead. Let him ‘sit in’ on that if he wanted.

  ‘Tea, anyone?’ He lifted the pot and held it poised over a cup and saucer, smiling at them enquiringly.

  Had the man no manners? Imagine insulting their hostess by helping himself to tea; and dismayingly, there were Margaret and Dorothy smiling and nodding. You’d think Margaret had never set eyes on a man before; she was practically blushing, for goodness’ sake. Cecily wanted to shake her, arthritis or no arthritis.

  Now that man was looking at her again, waving the teapot around like he owned the place. Probably expecting her to dissolve into a simpering teenager too. Well, she wouldn’t please him: she tried another ice-cold stare. ‘I think I’d rather let it draw a bit, thank you.’

  The door opened again and Emily came in – good. Surely she’d s
ay something – she wasn’t afraid to air her opinions.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone.’ She unwound a soft-looking grey scarf as she walked to the vacant chair across from Cecily. ‘The phone rang as I was coming out.’ She noticed Frank just as Dorothy introduced him.

  Cecily watched, waiting for Emily to frown and remind Dorothy gently that bringing a stranger to the book club without clearing it with the members beforehand simply wasn’t done; or if that was a little direct, at least to allow a little disapproval to show on her face. But Emily smiled pleasantly and stretched out her hand. ‘Another new member – how nice. Now we’ll get the male perspective on our books.’

  Cecily couldn’t believe it. Emily didn’t seem in the least put out by the presence of Dorothy’s neighbour; and it was quite clear that Margaret had no objection either. Was she the only member with any standards? Maybe they should go out into the street and drag in the homeless to discuss the latest Ian McEwan.

  As Cecily fumed silently, Valerie came back in and glanced around the table. ‘Good, you’ve gone ahead and served yourselves. Cecily, you have no tea; let me pour. Emily, give me that gorgeous scarf and I’ll hang it over the radiator. Dorothy, did you try the cake? Thanks so much for the recipe – much more straightforward than my usual one.’

  And the September meeting of the book club was officially in session.

  Laura’s arm had gone to sleep. She often woke lying on her stomach, with her right arm a dead weight under her head. Now she could hardly move it, it was so full of pins and needles. She manoeuvred it awkwardly out from under her head, and waited. After a few seconds she could wriggle her fingers. When the arm was fully back to life she gave it a shake, then pulled Donal’s pillow over to her and snuggled back down with it into the warmth – bliss.

  Donal was convinced that if she could work from her bed she would, and she had to admit that the idea sounded very tempting. She loved this time of the day – still half-asleep, tucked up cosily while the rest of the world hurried out to work. If she heard the rain drumming against the window, so much the better.

  She opened an eye and checked the clock radio: twenty past eight. Donal would be halfway to the university, flying past the queue of cars on his bike. She pictured him pedalling out the Dublin road, jacket that he rarely closed flapping behind him.

  He’d been on the bike the evening they’d met in The White House. When he asked if he could take her home after she finished clearing up, she of course assumed he meant in a car. She was twenty-one; he was clearly a fair bit older. He’d been chatting to her for about an hour, since he’d arrived in on his own and walked to the counter and ordered a pint.

  She gathered in the empty glasses the other barperson was piling onto the counter. ‘You don’t even know where I live; it could be the other side of the city from you.’

  He pretended to consider. ‘Hmm. Yes, that’s true. I may have to go – let’s see now – a whole three miles out of my way.’ He smiled, a lovely crinkly-eyed smile, and picked up his pint. ‘I think I’ll risk it.’

  When she’d finally finished up, they went outside and he walked over to the bike, chained to a pole.

  She laughed, sure he was joking again. ‘OK, where’s the Merc?’

  ‘This is much better than a Merc.’ He fished a key from his pocket and began to unlock the bike, not a bit put out. ‘Like they nearly said in Animal Farm, four wheels bad, two wheels good.’ Then he turned back to her, chain in his hand. ‘Listen, as you know, I’ve had a few pints. Aren’t two wheels safer than four when your chauffeur’s not completely sober?’

  And she had to agree that they probably were. Anyway, to tell the truth, she was charmed – she hadn’t gone home on the bar of a bike for years. He got on and looked over at her questioningly, patted the bar in front of him.

  She walked across and perched up on it, feeling faintly silly, and grabbed onto his jacket as the bike wobbled slightly. ‘Hey, watch it – you’ll have my father to answer to if anything happens to me.’

  ‘Right, I’d better keep Daddy happy then. Hang on tight and you’ll be fine.’ He shifted slightly to accommodate her weight, and she was conscious of his nearness – their faces were inches apart – and the musky scent of him.

  ‘What’s the aftershave?’

  He grinned, raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Essence of Donal. Guaranteed to pull the best-looking girl in the pub. Works every time; even without the Merc.’

  And right from the start, it had been easy between them. She’d always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight, but now she knew that there was such a thing. Maybe it wasn’t love, not straightaway, but certainly something had happened that night, to both of them. She had known, she’d been certain that he’d ask to see her again; and she knew she’d say ‘yes’ without thinking. It was as easy as that.

  And when he asked her to marry him, just four months later and a week before her twenty-second birthday, she wondered what had taken him so long. He’d taken a piece of his spaghetti – they were in the basement of her favourite Italian restaurant – and made a ring out of it and slid it onto her wedding finger, and she’d looked up from it, laughing, and he’d said ‘Will you?’ Not laughing at all, for once. And when she realised that he was really . . . that this was really . . . oh my God – she stopped laughing and started crying, tears pouring down her face and frightening the life out of him until he realised what they meant. When she’d recovered, and everyone had stopped looking over at them, she put a hand up to touch his face. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘Thought you mightn’t have me, with only a spaghetti ring and all.’ He lifted her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm, and she felt the tears threatening again.

  And when the bill was paid they’d gone back to his house in Westbury and she’d missed lectures for two days.

  From the start, Donal and Laura’s father had got on fine, were relaxed in each other’s company, even if Donal did most of the talking. But Cecily was adamant in her disapproval of Laura’s choice; in her opinion, fifteen years was too big a gap. Of course, she congratulated them both when they broke the news to her and Brian, shook hands with Donal, offered him a cool cheek to kiss – but she lost no time in voicing her opinion once she had Laura on her own.

  ‘He’ll be fifty-five – well into middle-age – when you’re just out of your thirties. Have you thought of that?’

  Laura had thought of that; she’d thought of everything. She’d pushed away the horrifying fact that he would probably die before her, and she would have to find a way to survive the agony of being without him. But she adored him and so she ignored her mother, whom she did not adore, and married him.

  It was Donal who encouraged her to go freelance as soon as she left the Art College.

  ‘But I’ve no portfolio, apart from the bits and bobs I did in college. I’ve absolutely no experience. Who’d take me on?’ They were sprawled on the couch after a lazy Sunday brunch of soft poached eggs sprinkled with chopped chives, and buttery crumpets. (She’d never tasted a crumpet until she met him; he couldn’t last a weekend without a stack of them, getting up to make the batter while she lay in bed with the paper.)

  They’d been married six months, and she would have walked barefoot to the moon if he’d asked her.

  ‘What do you mean, who’d take you on? Who in their right mind wouldn’t? My darling girl, you’ve got talent coming out of those beautiful ears.’ He took her face in his hands and she gazed back at him, drinking him in. ‘Listen; some of the stuff you did in college is as good as any I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘But you’re prejudiced, because you adore me.’ She pushed her hand through his tousled dark hair, ran her fingertips over the Sunday-morning stubble on his chin, felt her way down along his faded black t-shirt to rest on one blue-jeaned leg thrown over hers. Her stomach flipped; six months after their wedding, he was still making her stomach flip.

  ‘True, I’m totally prejudiced; but I’m right too.’ He traced her
cheekbone with a finger. ‘And you know what? I’d say Tony and Marie might use you.’ Tony was Donal’s friend, a sales rep until the company he worked for relocated to Korea, and now in the process of setting up a wedding planner service with the help of his about-town wife and his redundancy cheque. ‘They’ll need someone to help with the design side of things; that’d be right up your street.’

  She looked at him and thought about creating an image for a totally new business venture. That would be some undertaking; and the idea that she might be capable of doing it took her breath away. But Donal seemed to think she could – and even if he was a bit biased, maybe he was right too. She had got on well in college; her tutors had often praised her work, and she was secretly proud of the various pieces she’d selected for her portfolio. She’d done that kind of stuff all the time in college: why couldn’t she do it for real now?

  Donal’s hand travelled into her hair, twining a single auburn curl around his finger. ‘OK, what about this? If you offered to help them out with an overall look for the business, in return for their showing your designs for wedding invitations, or church booklets or whatever, to prospective clients – they’d probably jump at it.’

  She smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘Donal, it’s great that you have such faith in me, but even if I managed to come up with something they liked, I have no idea about business – I could be taken to the cleaners and not realise it. I mean, I wouldn’t have a clue what to charge for a wedding invitation design, or booklet, or whatever.’

  ‘Then you can learn as you go along, like a lot of people do. Tony’s got a head for business like you wouldn’t believe – I’d hate to have to drive a bargain with him. If you were in his camp you wouldn’t go far wrong.’

  He put a hand on each side of her face, forcing her to look straight at him. ‘Look, love, you have to start somewhere – and you’ve got what it takes to be your own boss; I’m convinced of that. All you need is a bit of confidence. I really think you’d be a fool not to at least give it a try. Couldn’t you get in touch with some freelancers and talk about money? I’m sure the college could give you a few names.’